The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  Mom blinks. “Do you need help?”

  “Um...” I swing my legs around the side of the bed. A movement that reminds me every muscle, joint and bone hurts like hell. And the arm that’s apparently broken, and encased within this itchy cast, also rests inside a sling. Not to mention my other arm is hooked up to an IV. “I think I do. Yeah.”

  “I’ll go get the nurse.” Mom grabs her purse off the chair beside the bed and pulls the straps over her shoulder. “Besides, I need to talk to a nurse anyway. I can’t have the hospital thinking you’re suicidal. They need to know you fell, not jumped. Right?”

  I swallow, nod and mumble, “Right.”

  “Okay, good. I’m not gonna be dealing with Social Services or CPS or whatever they’re calling it these days. I won’t have it.”

  “Suicide is the second leading cause of death among teens I-R-L, Mom,” Alfred states.

  “Boy, stop with the acronyms,” Dad retorts. “Nobody knows what I-R-L means.”

  “In real life?” Alfred smirks as if Dad not knowing what I-R-L means is the ultimate fail. “Multiple attempts are common. Maybe having her assessed isn’t such a bad idea. They could give us some steps to follow at home. For prevention.”

  In rare moments, Alfred makes a lot of sense. However, these rare moments of Alfred genius are typically followed by our parents stating something like...

  “Alfred, have you lost your damn mind?” Dad barks.

  Yep. Something like that.

  “I have a ‘step’ Indigo can follow,” Mom adds, rage climbing like a shuttle launching off toward outer space. “Stop scaling buildings in the middle of the damn night! Alfred, stay here with your sister in case she needs anything. Dad and I are going to find the doctor.”

  “Actually, Alfred?” I want to say, Can you get the hell out, too? Instead I ask politely, “Could you grab me a cranberry juice from the cafeteria?”

  Alfred shakes his head. “Call a nurse.”

  “Alfred!” Dad shouts. “Get your sister something to drink from the cafeteria. What is wrong with you?”

  “Geez.” Alfred pushes off the wall. “I’m going. Calm yourself. B-R-B.”

  Mom’s phone chimes. “It’s Michelle.” Her eyes widen. “It’s almost four in the morning. Why would she be calling?”

  “Not sure.” Dad sounds worried. “Maybe she just wants to see if it’s okay to tell Violet Indigo is in the hospital.”

  Since I’m older than Violet by two and a half minutes, I like to think of myself as big sis. But since Michelle is older than us both by fifteen years, she’s the real big sister. She’s also a chief nurse practitioner who has taken a leave of absence from her position at Mercy Hospital to be Violet’s in-home caretaker.

  Mom only stares at her ringing phone until Dad snatches it out of her hand. He slides his finger across the screen to answer it. “What’s up, hon?”

  Dad’s expression is hard to read. He stands, listening, barely breathing.

  “What is it?” Mom almost screams, covering her mouth with her trembling hands as Alfred moves to stand at her side.

  Dad holds out a hand, a signal for quiet as he continues to listen to whatever my sister Michelle is saying to make his rich brown skin look somehow drained of color. “Thank you, hon,” he chokes. “We’ll get there as fast as we can. We’ll get the okay to bring Indigo. Discharged against medical advice? Okay. I will ask.” He hangs up.

  “What?” Mom asks frantically. “What’s wrong?”

  “Almost an entire minute.” Dad’s eyes well with tears. “One minute where she couldn’t breathe. Longest episode yet. Violet wants to take the medication. She’s in a lot of pain. She’s scared. She’s ready to go.”

  “No!” Mom wails, flinging herself into Dad’s arms. “God, no.” She weeps onto Dad’s chest. “We have to stop this, Isaiah.” Her voice is pained and muffled. “We can hire a lawyer. Declare her incompetent to think on her own. We have to do something!”

  Dad rubs Mom’s back, lays his head on top of hers and whispers, “God, please help our baby. Please help her.”

  Help her?

  My bare feet slam onto the cold tile of the hospital floor as I stand. The cord to my IV pulls at my skin. Blood rushes to my head, intensifying my headache and making the room spin as the memories flood to the forefront of my mind:

  The climb.

  The freezing rain.

  The conversation with God.

  The...voice.

  I remember. I remember it all.

  “Indigo Phillips, what are you doing?” Dad takes a protective step toward me.

  I place a hand on my forehead, as if doing that can make the room cease to spin and give me the strength I need to unhook from all these stupid wires, get out of this room and make it to Violet. To plead with her. Beg her to reconsider. Tell her about my miracle. I heard a voice. That’s got to mean something, right? That’ll make her change her mind and choose to stay.

  Only, my plan of hospital escape doesn’t get me too far, because my knees buckle, and just as I feel Dad’s strong arms wrap around my waist, everything goes dark.

  chapter three

  I feel a light. And the light is glowing. It’s a bright light. So warm. So comforting.

  “God?” I moan.

  “Yes, my child.”

  I open my eyes. A middle-aged doctor is sitting on a stool beside the bed, shining a tiny flashlight into my eyes. “Kidding.” He grins. “Eyes wide for me?”

  I stretch out my eyes. He points the beam directly into each of my eyeballs. I blink a few times. “Where’s my family?”

  He pockets the flashlight. I see him clearly now. Prominent nose, strawberry-blond hair graying at the temples, hazel eyes highlighted by the hospital room fluorescent lighting. “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. Where specifically?” He leans back and takes a peek under the bed. “I can tell you this. They’re not hiding under the bed.” He winks, pleased with his lame joke.

  “Listen. I actually need to leave. I mean, I have to go. To get to my sister. It’s extremely important.”

  “Duly noted. Hey, quick question before you take off. Do you know where you are?”

  “You mean like the name of the hospital?”

  “General location. Name of our planet. Galaxy.”

  “Seattle, Washington. Planet Earth. The Milky Way.”

  “Nice. Wow. Impressive.” He cracks his knuckles. “Now for the tough questions. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  He holds up two fingers on each hand.

  “Four. Doctor, listen—”

  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  Hearing a voice in my head? “I slipped. I fell. I don’t remember falling, though. The next thing I remember is waking up here.”

  “Any particular reason you were climbing a building in twenty-eight-degree weather, during a storm, without a—”

  “Coat? I didn’t want it getting in the way of my climb.”

  “Helmet. I was gonna say, without a helmet.”

  We’re interrupted by a knock at the door; a blonde nurse peeks her head into the room. “Dr. Doheny, may I speak with you privately? It’ll only take a minute.”

  He stands. “Be right back.”

  “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  “Are you feeling dizzy?”

  Yes, very. “No.”

  He removes the IV cord from the chunk of plastic protruding from my arm, freeing me from the bag of hanging saline, then quietly slips outside the door.

  I stand, slowly this time, and shuffle toward the bathroom. Once inside, I click the door shut, careful not to make noise, as I’m suddenly aware noise intensifies the pain in my head. I step toward the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m like a warrior returned home from battle. The skin under both of my brown eyes is p
urple. My bottom lip is split down the center and swollen, making it appear twice its normal size. My hair—well, it’s a disaster, quite frankly. I stick a hand under the faucet, activating a stream of cold water that I graciously splash onto my face. The cool liquid seeps into the scrapes on my skin and stings. I wince.

  “Hey. Remember me? I’m still here.” A voice echoes in the sterile bathroom.

  I back away from the mirror and slam against the door, covering my ear with my hand. Schizophrenia. That’s what it’s called when you hear voices in your head. Right? I don’t want to add a mental illness with a name to my list of problems. I don’t want this voice.

  I glance up at the vents in the restroom. What if it’s an actual person? Stalking me? “Who’s there?” I turn toward the shower. Someone could be playing a terrible trick. A twisted game. They could’ve followed me to the building last night. Could somehow be here in the hospital. I reach out and yank back the curtain, revealing an empty stall.

  “Hiding behind a shower curtain? How weird would that be?”

  I spin around fast and stumble, yelping as I jerk the curtain off the rod. Crying out as my injured shoulder slams onto the floor of the shower stall.

  “Indigo?”

  Oh no. It’s Michelle.

  “Indi, are you okay?” she calls out.

  No. “Yeah. I’m okay!”

  I twist, struggling to put my weight on my uninjured arm so I can push myself off the floor. Only I’m wrapped in five feet of shower curtain. I hear the bathroom door creak open, followed by a loud gasp as Michelle rushes toward me, cautiously unraveling me from the cloth.

  “Indigo?” She helps me to my feet. “I’m gone for a few minutes and this happens? What are you doing?”

  “How’s Violet? She didn’t take the medicine yet, did she?”

  “Do you really think she’s that selfish? Of course she didn’t take it yet! She’s waiting for you!”

  “She said that? She mentioned me?”

  Michelle dramatically rolls her eyes and guides me out of the bathroom. I carefully crawl back into bed.

  “Is she asking for me? Is she worried about what happened? Did you tell her I was okay? That I fell? That it was an accident?”

  Michelle takes a seat on a chair across from my bed. Her black jeans and long-sleeved white T-shirt are wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. Her ebony shoulder-length straightened hair hangs limp and lifeless, while her face is scrubbed free of any trace of makeup. My older sister is thirty-three and married to a video game developer named Drew Delacroix. Drew’s not so bad; in fact, I feel kinda sorry for the guy, what with having to put up with her on a minute-by-minute basis. My gripe is with their two terrible kids. Not to mention the future demon seed that’s on the way.

  “Indigo, Vee’s not thinking about this madness you’ve created. It’s your fault she can’t pass right now the way she wants to.”

  “You act like you want her to kill herself.”

  “This isn’t suicide. She’s dying with dignity. It’s the law...” She trails off, shakes her head. “Imagine trying to breathe underwater, Indi. That’s what it feels like for her. She doesn’t want to suffer anymore. I don’t blame her.”

  “But God can save her. She just has to give him time.”

  “Sadly—” Michelle rubs her temples “—we’re all outta time.”

  “No we’re not. Violet can live. I promise you she can. You can help her.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and lower my head, covering one ear with my hand. The stupid voice. It’s back.

  “What’s with the covering of your ear? Why are you all hunkered down like a bomb’s about to explode?”

  “My ears are ringing, that’s all.”

  She shrugs. “Ringing in your ears is normal. You have a concussion. Stop.”

  I look up. “Stop what?”

  “Stop actin’ like this! Stop being weird. Stop covering your ears. Stop jumping off buildings.”

  “I didn’t jump. I fell.”

  “I don’t believe you, Indigo. In fact, you know what I really think?” Her eyes narrow. “I think you climbed that building to kill your fool self. Chickened out and then fell somehow.”

  I blink. She’s good. I can’t think of a clever enough retort, so I toss out the classic, “Whatever,” and shrug.

  “We need to get you released so we can get back home. You’re driving Mom and Dad nuts.”

  Michelle has a lot of nerve saying such a thing to me. If anybody’s driving Mom and Dad nuts, it’s her. From the constant wake-ups in the middle of the night with pointless updates about Violet’s condition, to daily complaints about her soon-to-be juvenile delinquent boys, to her all-around rotten attitude and total lack of self-restraint and decorum. She’s the underlying strife that keeps our family on the brink of insanity.

  The door is pushed open and the doctor steps back into the room. “Sorry about that. No more interruptions.” He notices Michelle. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Doheny. I’m the surgeon who operated on Indigo’s arm. It was a pretty bad fracture. But she’ll be good as new in no time. You’re her mother?”

  Michelle plasters a fake smile across her face. I’m certain it’s a fake smile because Michelle hates when people think she’s my mother. Even though, age-wise, she certainly could be. “No teenagers yet, thank God.” She places a hand over her tiny baby bump, a strategic move meant to emphasize youth.

  As a nurse practitioner, Michelle tends to despise doctors, referring to them as overpaid medical assistants. She also loathes being outranked, so any opportunity she has to throw around her nursing credentials and expertise, she takes.

  “I’m the sister. Michelle Delacroix, NP. I imagine you’ve ordered an MRI?”

  “She’s had a CAT scan. It was normal.”

  “Well, I found her on the bathroom floor and she fainted earlier when my parents were here. I’m surprised scheduling an MRI’s been overlooked. An oversight like this would never happen at the hospital I work at.”

  Not surprisingly, the doctor seems troubled by my sister’s ice-cold persona. “I came in on my morning off specifically to check on Indigo. That being said, I didn’t know about the fainting. Nor the recent fall. I can order an MRI, if you feel it’s necessary.”

  “I do.” Michelle raises both hands high. Like Dr. Doheny is holding a gun and she’s lifting her arms in surrender. “But you’re the doctor. So...” She leaves that so hanging in the air. Michelle ends a lot of sentences with so... It can mean many things, depending on the situation. In this case, I’m guessing it means, Doctor, you’re an incompetent fool.

  “I’ll put the order in myself,” he replies curtly.

  “Oh wonderful,” Michelle says with overexaggerated enthusiasm. “I think that’s a wise move.”

  He scowls and grunts some unintelligible response.

  “Also, we need to have Indigo discharged against medical advice. Our sister is ill and about to pass. We’d like Indigo home so our entire family can be there to say goodbye. It’s somewhat urgent. She can return for the MRI.”

  “Very sorry to hear that.” Dr. Doheny massages his chin. “But my medical advice is Indigo stay under observation for at least twenty-four hours.”

  Michelle smiles and replies, “That’s why they call it against medical advice.”

  He scoffs. “You know, I’m surprised, what with you being in the medical field, that you’d insist on something so incredibly dangerous.”

  “I’m surprised that you’re surprised.” Michelle places a hand on her hip and a tense moment of silence passes between the two.

  “If you insist on such reckless action, may I at least finish my exam?” Without waiting for an answer, he repositions himself on the stool beside my bed. Michelle hovers, arms crossed, looking over the doctor’s shoulder.

  I lean my head back against the pillow. I want to say,
My bad about her. Nobody likes her except my parents. Instead I mumble, “I was trying to take a picture of the Amgen pedestrian bridge with my phone.”

  “I’m sorry?” he replies.

  “Before you left, you asked why was I climbing. That’s why.”

  “I see.” He drums his fingers on his knee. “Then perhaps you fell when you realized that the Amgen pedestrian bridge is east of that particular building and not visible from where you were?”

  Uh-oh. I swallow. “Yeah. That’s...basically what happened.”

  Thankfully Dr. Doheny doesn’t drill in the point that I’m the world’s worst liar. He moves on, unhooking my sling and carefully holding my casted arm. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me?”

  I do it.

  “Good. And how does that feel?”

  “Fine.” I’m lying again. It hurts. I rub my forehead with my free hand and feel a cut, rough under my fingertips.

  “You’ll be tempted not to wear the sling.” He squeezes the palm of my hand. “But the nerves around your shoulder joint were badly damaged in the fall. The sling is essential.” Now he’s pushing my hand back. What is he, a masochist? I grind my teeth to prevent screaming out in pain. “How’s that feel, Indigo?”

  How do you think it feels, genius?

  “No numbness or tingling?” he asks calmly. “How’s the pain level?”

  “Everything feels great.” More lies. But if I admit I’m numb, tingly and hurting like I’ve landed in the seventh circle of hell, can I still be discharged against medicine’s advocacy, or whatever Michelle said? “Since I’m feeling so amazing, that means I get to go, right?”

  “Indigo, you’re being released against medical advice.” Michelle sighs, exasperated. “You could be howling in pain and it wouldn’t matter.”

  I sit up. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Excuse me?” Dr. Doheny turns to Michelle. “Any chance you’d mind waiting in the reception area?”

  I gulp. Dr. Doheny has no idea who he’s messing with.

  Michelle takes a seat on the couch. Carefully crosses her legs. “Actually, I do mind.”