A Divided Mind Read online

  I smiled. Camden’s giggle was the best start to my day.

  I closed my eyes and saw Branson and Aaron when they were Camden’s age. Toe-headed blonds with blue-green eyes that still favored blue; their eyes didn’t turn hazel until their second birthday. In the memory, they were fair-faced and bright, blue-eyed little boys. My God, they’re beautiful. My chest swelled.

  Beneath the warmth of my blankets, I took a long, deep breath, hoping the smell of Cheerios and baby shampoo would find me. Hoping the familiar scent of my twins’ childhood would return. Instead, Camden giggled, I grinned, and again I returned to my little boys in the morning as I prepared to go to work.

  “More?” I said to Branson and Aaron, who held their Scooby-Doo bowls toward me for cereal. “You want more?”

  “Yes, Momma!” they said in tandem. “More, peas, more!”

  I dropped to the kitchen floor beside them, and four little arms wrapped around my neck. “Squeezy hugs,” I said as they tickled my neck with kisses. I was enveloped by twin love, and I was over the moon. I was kissing them all over and my boys were giggling and happy. We were enraptured with love.

  “Enough!”

  His voice startled all three of us. Immediately the morning shifted and we all froze.

  Ed walked into the kitchen in his suit and tie. Angry eyes. Irritated tone. Frustrated stare.

  I popped to my feet and tucked my boys behind me.

  “Tara, you can’t rile them up like this in the morning. It makes the job at the daycare center more difficult.”

  I nodded.

  “More, peas?” Branson stepped out from behind me, holding up his Scooby-Doo bowl.

  I curtly shook my head and tried to shield him from his father.

  “Goddamn it, Tara. If you keep feeding them every time they’re hungry, they’ll end up overweight. America already has an obesity problem. We don’t need to add to it.”

  He snatched the bowl away from Branson and sternly pointed his finger at him. “Listen, fella, I’m just looking out for you. You don’t know what’s good for you.” He pointed to himself. “But I do.”

  Branson nodded because he was too young to understand, but he was already old enough to know better than to cross his father.

  Tears streamed down my face as I jumped out of bed and started to close the side window in my bedroom. I knew how Lance and Pam’s morning ended. Their routine would seem monotonous, possibly mundane and downright boring to many, but to me, it represented something I never had in either of my marriages—normalcy. It was daily proof that it existed.

  With the blinds drawn, I stood in the shadows with the window still open. No matter how often I listened to their morning unfold—and I listened religiously—I never heard cupboards slam, raised voices, or harsh words exchanged. I never saw Jan leave her house lowering her head, avoiding eye contact out of shame, or to mask a bruise on the side of her face from being pressed too hard against the refrigerator by the palm of a man's hand.

  Every morning I woke to CNN and toddler Camden talking and saying, “No,” to his oatmeal or fried eggs or whatever Lance cooked. I never once heard Lance humiliate his son or create fear in him. What I heard was what I imagined happened when two working executives seemed to balance their work life with their home life.

  I slipped away from the window and my neighbors, out of my pajamas and into my workout gear. When winter hit, I’d be at the gym, but until that happened, I hit the pavement.

  I placed three boxes of cereal on the kitchen table beside cereal bowls my boys had long outgrown, texted my kids that I was running, and locked the door behind me. I’d be home before they ever knew I had left, but I always let them know just in case.

  The wind was strong, but I was stronger. I had to be. I tucked my head and braved the Wyoming wind that pushed against me. The pressure was familiar. Ed. Work. Finances.

  I looked at the hills on Fifteenth Street. Instead of one long, slow, steady incline, it was a series of rolling hills that dipped, curved, and varied in size. In a word, it was torture.

  You got this.

  Every morning it felt like these hills would kill me, and my shinbones would probably agree. They ached, throbbed and called out in agony for me to stop, but I never did. Each morning when I crested the first hill and burst over the other side, I felt like Rocky. By the time I hit the peak of the next hill, I felt like a Rocky sequel. And when I reached the third hill, hell, I was ready to tackle anything. Or anyone.

  Gonna fly now.

  It didn’t hurt that by the time the fourth and final hill was in my sights, so too was a fire station. The firemen were usually buffing the engine or whatever the heck they did, and no matter how tired I was, I would kick it up a notch until I was out of their line of sight. Motivation took many forms, and something about saving face was mine.

  Then I’d fall back into my slow, steady pace. My morning routine wasn’t nearly as idealistic as my neighbors’—hell, my life wasn’t anywhere near theirs—but it worked. I was feeling good about the day and my run, a strong kick and stride to my step when I turned the corner to my street.

  In the distance, I saw him, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. Lance was heading toward me, pushing a baby stroller with Camden tucked inside. Rocket, his red corgi, trotted beside them. In a pair of khakis, denim shirt, and loafers, Lance seemed like he belonged in a lecture hall, not on an oil field surveying the soil. He hardly looked like a geologist, but I knew better than anyone how looks were deceiving. Camden had on a little navy windbreaker and a baseball cap, his feet bouncing against the bottom of the stroller.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”

  His voice echoed toward me. My eyes stung and my throat tightened.

  Branson.

  I no longer felt like Rocky. My feet were stuck in cement. I couldn’t find my rhythm, couldn’t catch my breath. I could barely see.

  I wiped my eyes aggressively. My boys never had that. They never had a chance.

  Rocket ambled along, his white collar of fur a startling contrast to his red coat. His bobbed tail wagged when he spotted me, but I didn’t call his name, or Lance's, or even Camden's.

  I just waved goodbye.

  7

  Branson

  Fifth block. Last class of the day. Biology. I was exhausted from staying up late to beat my new Pokémon game and text Dakota, but it was worth it. One more block and I’m outta here.

  I concealed my cell phone under my desk, carefully looking between it and my teacher. All signs go. I scrolled through my phone and her name popped up.

  Hey, Dakota. Had my appt yesterday w/Clive. I hit Send, and within seconds my phone vibrated with her incoming text.

  How was it?

  Well, I’m still crazy.

  My girlfriend wasn’t convinced. You're not crazy. A winky-face emoticon made me smile.

  I immediately texted in return. Want to hang out after school? So we can talk about it?

  Sounds good. sys

  The sudden spark of what resembled happiness made the rest of dissecting frogs manageable. For everyone’s concern about me hurting myself or someone, cutting into a frozen frog didn’t prompt any crazed thoughts. Now the kid next to me who kept tapping me on the shoulder like he had a nervous tick, he deserved a beatdown just for annoying me.

  “Branson, help me out. What is this?” He pointed to a part of the frog.

  “For the hundredth time, it’s the liver.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.”

  No shit.

  I was identifying the other parts of Kermit’s anatomy when tick boy tapped me again on the shoulder.

  “What?” I glared at him and he backed away. That sudden jolt of anger triggered the shadow people. I shook my head, but it was still there. I saw a shadow of a person pick up the scalpel and attack tick boy with exact precision, cutting him across the throat. The only color I could see was red.

  I scanned the room and made eye contact with the teacher. “May I use the restroom?”r />
  Mrs. Markentelle was the only teacher who didn’t question someone when they had to take a leak. She handed me a hall pass, and I quickly ran to the bathroom, needing to make it stop before I hurt someone. The bathroom was vacant. Alone, I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. I hadn’t told anyone about the shadow people. I knew they weren't real, but the sight of them scared me.

  What the fuck’s wrong with me?

  I grabbed my phone and texted my mom. Can you excuse me from 5th block? I paced the filthy, disgusting boys’ room and waited. Come on, Mom. Pick up the fucking phone.

  What? Why do I need to excuse you?

  I shouldn’t have to explain this shit.

  Just hurry up and excuse me.

  Her response was instant. Why?

  I’m just going through some stuff right now. I’d gotten good at avoiding the conversation. If I didn't want to talk about it, I didn't. It'd been my secret, my shame. They didn't need to understand because they wouldn’t. Just excuse me from class before something bad happens. Why can’t anyone get it?

  Okay.

  Her text was all I needed.

  I went back to the classroom and grabbed my backpack before the teacher even noticed I had returned. I hefted it over my shoulder, the weight of too many AP textbooks digging into me. The pain was a welcome relief, and for a moment my mind wasn’t trying to kill everything it saw.

  I texted Aaron. I’m going home. Taking the car. Get Chelsea to drive you.

  Dude, you have to pick me up later. Chelsea has basketball practice.

  I wanted to text back that my lazy identical twin could walk home—we only lived two blocks from the high school—but I knew he’d say the same thing about me. And I wasn’t in the mood to fight, too busy trying to avoid what the shadow people did daily in my mind.

  I drove the short distance from school to my house in record time. Cookie-cutter houses blurred past me. We had the ugliest one on the block. A white ranch-style home with one sad tree in the front yard, our house stuck out among all the log-built homes with green-tiled roofs. Despite its lack of “curb appeal,” as my father the douchebag had commented when he first saw our house, I liked it. I liked that we didn’t look like everyone else. Fuck 'em.

  I opened the front door and Bandit, our black-and-white boxer, greeted me.

  “Hey, girl.” I patted the top of her head.

  Other than Bandit, the house was empty. Just the way I liked it. No one to bother me or ask stupid questions.

  I texted Dakota. Outta school. Come over.

  While I waited for her, I opened the freezer and palmed four frozen waffles, dropping them into our four-slice toaster and tapping my foot on the kitchen floor. It was also a relic from owning an older house, but the linoleum made a cool sound against the heel of my boot. I tapped some random tune and increased my speed as the coils on the toaster reddened, snapping my fingers to the beat when the waffles popped up golden crispy. Reaching into the refrigerator for the tub of butter, I grabbed a knife out of the drawer, slathered the waffles in butter and then flipped the lid to the syrup, filling every deep pocket and causing the butter to slide off the stack.

  “Hells yes.” I grabbed a fork out of the kitchen drawer and pierced the top waffle, sinking my teeth into the fluffy deliciousness.

  Lately food had become more important to me. There was something about chasing the next good snack. The anticipation, the excitement, the mystery of what new treat would become my next favorite indulgence had sparked something that wasn’t macabre.

  I glanced down at my stomach and lifted my shirt. My stomach was still flat, my six-pack visible without flexing. Thanks to P90X and Coach Walker’s workouts, I could eat anything and not gain a pound. I had a sick body, and this stack of waffles was my reward.

  I glanced out the large front window in the living room, seeing Dakota’s silver Jetta in front of our house. She was on her way up the walk, and another momentary surge of happiness helped me forget that I was insane.

  I choked down the rest of the waffles, tossed the paper plate into the trash, and put the fork in the dishwasher. Don’t need Mom bitching about the dishes. I wiped off my mouth and opened the front door just as Dakota reached it.

  She gently kissed me. Her touch was the only thing that could calm me down.

  Our kissing intensified until I looked at her and asked, “Do you want to have sex?”

  “Duh.” Her brown eyes and dimpled smile reflected an assurance that I was wanted.

  I took her hand and led her downstairs.

  My bedroom was a windowless mess of ski gear, track shoes, and clothes. Kinda embarrassing, but then Dakota’s room wasn’t any better. And her mom was always home. Mine wasn’t.

  I kissed her again, harder and with more passion. Our clothes were off within minutes, and I was on top of her. I reached for the box of condoms I hid on the side of my bed and slipped one on.

  “I’m always afraid I’m going to crush you,” I said as she guided me into her.

  “You won’t, don’t worry.”

  Dakota had been my first, but I wasn’t hers. Still, we seemed to fit. She was tall and I was tall. We both liked sex because of the relief it provided, and we had fun doing it. Better yet, the shadow people never appeared when I was having sex. They were a guaranteed no-show. If only I could fuck all day long.

  It always seemed to end too quickly, putting me back in the real world once more. I rolled off her and we laid in bed without any clothes.

  “So, how was school?” My tone was meant to be as sarcastic as it sounded. Dakota whacked me on the shoulder and laughed. “Same old thing.”

  “How many classes do you have at Kennedy?” The advantage of dating someone who went to our rival high school was that I really didn’t know much about her day or what a typical day was like, so my interest was genuine. It wasn’t just after-sex talk to be polite.

  “Only one, so I get to spend a little bit more time with you,” she said with a wink.

  The thing I liked about Dakota was that she was a flirt. It was one of the first things I noticed about her when I met her during a round of night games, our version of hide-and-seek played late at night and in a park.

  The other thing I noticed that night was that Dakota was hot. She wore a white tank top without a bra, and her brown nipples showed right through. She looked like her native ancestors from the tribe she was named after. The Dakota Indians were as rare in Wyoming as my Dakota. I knew when I first saw her that she was one of a kind and I was hooked, so I asked her out. I also knew she had dated other guys, some of them my friends, but she always made it seem like I was her first and only boyfriend.

  “How is it that you only have one class?” I asked.

  “Most of my courses are at college. I only have to endure one last high school class before they release me.”

  “Lucky.”

  She shrugged, and her long dark hair fell over her naked shoulder.

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t talk yesterday. I had soccer practice, and then I came home and fell asleep. How’d your appointment go?” she asked.

  “It went all right. I think they’re going to start asking me to take more medication. What are you on?”

  “They always change my dosage and medication. Right now I’m on Prozac.”

  “And that’s for your depression,” I stated rather than asked. I knew Dakota had suffered from depression and had turned to self-harm. Scars from cutting her hip riddled her athletically toned body.

  “Yeah, the Prozac’s supposed to help with my mood, but I think a Butterfinger and a Mountain Dew do a better job.”

  I laughed. “We should go hit the Loaf 'n’ Jug. I just got paid, my treat.”

  “What about your mom? Won’t she be home soon?”

  I rolled my eyes. “She won’t care.”

  “Your mom cares.”

  “I know she cares. I just meant she won’t be home anytime soon, so we can go get our treats, come back and go to sleep.”<
br />
  Dakota leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Sounds like a plan.”

  The world stopped. Being with Dakota calmed me, but sleeping beside her relieved me. It felt good to know I had someone there. And Dakota was the only person who made the static, the shadow people, everything that was wrong with me go away.

  When we were together, I felt normal.

  8

  Tara

  “What are we doing about this?”

  My back was turned, but I knew from the sound of his voice that it was Aaron. The weekend had finally arrived, and I was actually making dinner, not nuking leftover takeout. I stirred the unnaturally orange-tinted chunk of cheese, which was slowly melting in the pot, and looked over my shoulder at him.

  The only physical difference between Aaron and Branson was the shapes of their heads, or so Aaron believed. According to my firstborn, his head was coconut-shaped while his identical half was more elongated, “like a horse,” as he once described. It was an awful comparison, but it made me look at Aaron’s head differently. If anything, Aaron’s head was more ball-shaped like the volleyball named Wilson that Tom Hanks hung onto in the movie Cast Away. Now anytime I looked at Aaron, I noticed his rounder, ball-shaped noggin and wanted to yell out, “Wilson!” I never saw the horse shape on Branson, but lately I questioned everything I thought I knew about my son.

  “Did you see this?” Aaron gripped a white piece of paper with the blue-and-gold United States Naval Academy insignia. The paper was so crisp, the creases where the letter had been folded for the envelope were perfectly pleated. “What are we going to do about this?”

  I took a deep breath. “We aren’t going to do anything about this. I will handle it.”

  “Mom, the Navy is still pursuing Branson.”

  I nodded.

  “They don’t accept kids who are basket cases.”

  “Hey!” I startled both of us. “That’s not fair.” I lowered the heat on the stove and set the spatula on the spoon rest. “And it’s not nice. Branson isn’t….” Familiar sorrow settled into my heart. “Don’t say that about him.” My eyes brimmed with tears. “Don’t.”