The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  I’d join in, but group hugs aren’t really my thing. Besides, this is a perfect opportunity to make my escape. I surreptitiously step around them and move through the den, scooting past Alfred.

  “Indigo?” Alfred holds up a sheet of typing paper. “Letter? You write it yet?”

  “Not now, Alfred.” I literally run down the narrow hallway across the old and fraying carpet runner that lies over our fifty-year-old hardwood floors. I make it to the end of the hall in record time, but just as I lay my hand on the antique brass knob of the guest room door, it swings open and Mom steps into the hallway, lips tightly pursed, eyes void of emotion.

  “Indigo.” She shuts the door before I can even see inside.

  “Mother,” I reply.

  “How are you feeling?” She’s asking the question but there is a distance and coldness to her voice. As if she’s not really present. Or doesn’t care either way. Or both.

  “Fine, Mom. How’s Vee?”

  “As well as can be expected.” She glances up at my mess of hair. “I packed you a brush and hair gel, Indigo. Did you not think to use them? You could’ve put your hair into a high ponytail.”

  Did she forget that my arm is kinda broke? “I did the best I could. Sorry.”

  “Did the pastor see you looking like this?”

  “Well...he saw me. So, I guess.”

  She heaves the heaviest of sighs. “I want everyone in the den so we can discuss how this is going to work.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  “Mom, you guys aren’t seriously going to let her do this, are you?”

  “Indigo, I’m not in the mood.” Her voice cracks. I sense she’s approximately three seconds from one of her classic screech-and-screams. “Do what I asked you to do!”

  I yank on strands of my matted hair. I don’t want to push Mom to her limits or anything. And God forbid my concussion has to endure a screech-and-scream. I just want... “Okay. Let me talk to Violet super quick.” I try to move around her but she blocks my path with an outstretched arm.

  “You can’t go in there. This is precious time for Violet and Dad.”

  “Oh. Okay. I won’t go in.” I wait. Hoping she moves because she thinks I’m about to move. Then I can bum-rush Violet’s room and tell her all about the voice. Mom might scream after me but who really cares. My sister’s life is on the line. But Mom doesn’t budge, standing like Heimdall guarding the entrance into Asgard.

  “Indigo, have you lost your natural mind?” she whispers. “So help me God, child, if you don’t do what I asked you to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m going.” Geez luss! I shuffle back into the den, where Pastor Jedidiah now sits on the love seat beside Michelle. She’s downgraded from a Category 5 cry to a tiny tropical-storm whimper. Drew hovers over the boys, who sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, looking lost, dazed, confused and...quiet—certainly a first for them. I’m sure Michelle threatened their lives before they came in.

  Alfred dangles his letter when he sees me and mouths, “Write it, Indigo!”

  I look away.

  “I have a message that’s currently downloading from the higher realms.” Jedidiah inhales dramatically and holds his breath for so long I start to wonder if he’s gonna black out and hit the floor like I did earlier this morning. Michelle must be wondering something similar, because she stops whimpering and stares into Jedidiah’s face, eyebrows raised.

  “Pastor? Are you okay?” Michelle asks.

  He exhales at last. Slowly. Painfully slow. When I begin to contemplate if he’ll ever speak again, he murmurs, “Life is a stage and we are all players in the game of life. Acting out scenes, if you will, which were chosen specifically on the other side. We are lining up gems in the best possible order. In an attempt to move on to the next level.”

  Alfred looks up. “That sounds like Bejeweled.”

  Michelle glares at Alfred.

  He shrugs. “What? It does.”

  Jedidiah opens a shoebox on the coffee table, with a bunch of items stuffed inside. He removes what looks to be bound sticks of wood. “These are Palo Santo Holy Sticks. Palo Santo has been used for thousands of years for healing.” He ignites the sticks of wood with a lighter from the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Wisps of smoke swirl up toward the ceiling.

  Alfred coughs. “You sure that stuff’s safe to ingest?”

  “Is it like medical marijuana?” Nam asks.

  Michelle moves to open a window. Cold air blows into the den.

  “Babe?” Drew asks. “Can you close that? It’s freezing outside.”

  “But this smoke could irritate the boys.” Michelle rubs her belly. “And the baby.”

  “No, no.” Jedidiah places the bundle of sticks under his nose and inhales deeply. “See? Smoke from this species of Palo Santo is better for you than oxygen.”

  As the boys gaze wide-eyed at Jedidiah while he waves the sticks of Palo Santo back and forth like an aircraft marshaller, I stare at Drew as he struggles to force the window shut, recalling the year when our Christmas tree fell and smashed straight through it. Though Mom and Dad quickly got the window fixed, they never did replace the screen. I stare at the open space, thinking about the dense bushes that surround our house like a moat...a thick moat of bushes...and leaves. Hundreds and hundreds of leaves.

  The voice said to do something drastic. Take control. Be bold. Be daring.

  A thought occurs to me. A glorious thought to rival all the thoughts I’ve ever thunk. I race up the steep, creaky wooden stairs that lead to the second floor of our house and tear off down the hallway.

  chapter six

  “What are you doing?”

  I’m furiously pulling books from off my bedroom shelves, tossing them into a pile on the floor. “Looking for something. A book.”

  “Won’t any of these you’ve thrown on the floor do?”

  “It’s a book Violet and I used to read when we were kids. It was her favorite.”

  “See Spot Run?”

  “What? No.” I crawl over Violet’s bed. She hasn’t slept here in months, so the sheets and bedding have been stripped from it. I move to our desk and start yanking drawers open, searching among the mess of papers, hair accessories and schoolbooks. “I know it’s in here. I saw it not too long ago. At least I think I did.”

  “Um. Hello?”

  I look up at the ceiling, exasperated. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”

  “You do know I know everything, right? Since I’m God and all.”

  “Stop saying that! It’s sacrilegious. Besides, if you were God, Jedidiah would be able to hear you too, since he collects energy from beast masters.”

  “Ascended masters.”

  “Yeah. Those guys.”

  “Well, suit yourself. Don’t mind me. I’ll be here. Knowing exactly what you’re looking for aaaaand exactly where it is.”

  I sit on the edge of my bed. “Fine. It’s called—”

  “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? I know.”

  Right. Okay, maybe this isn’t a voice after all. It’s only me. I’m talking to myself. Of course I would know what book I’m looking for because... I’m me.

  “Would you like to know where it is? Because if you really are talking to yourself, you’d know.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to read my thoughts?”

  “What? I can’t help it.”

  A knock at the door startles me. I jump up. “Yeah?”

  “Indigo!” It’s Alfred. “Everyone is downstairs waiting for you.”

  “I’m finishing up my letter. Be down in five minutes.”

  “Mom said, ‘If you don’t come back with Indigo, I’m gonna go straight postal up in here, so help me God.’ End quote.”

  “Straight postal?” I scratch my head. “What doe
s that even mean?”

  “I don’t know, Indigo! Just hurry the eff up!” Alfred replies.

  I glance at the ceiling. “Tell me where it is. Quick.”

  “Oh, now you wanna know? Now you trust me?”

  “Tell me. Please.”

  “Closet. Top shelf. Cardboard box.”

  “Why would it be up there?”

  “Your mom. Cleaning in here a few years ago. Put a bunch of books up there. Wanted to donate them and never got around to it. Typical Mom stuff.” The voice snorts. “You know how she is.”

  I rush to the closet and pull the long string that turns on the light. It’s a cluttered mess, clothes on the floor, shoes strewn about, school papers and old boxes crammed into corners. I carefully climb on top of a dresser rammed inside.

  “If you fall, you’ll break your other arm. Maybe dislocate your other shoulder.”

  “Don’t jinx me.”

  “No such thing.”

  Another loud bang on the door. Alfred’s muffled voice is more agitated than ever. “Indigo!”

  “I’m coming! Geez luss!”

  The dresser wobbles. Considering it’s from a cheap chain store, cost $19.99 and me and Vee put it together with one of those disposable offset screwdrivers, I should be very afraid right now. I grab on to the top shelf to steady myself, stand up on my tiptoes and peek over the edge. Pushed to the far back, up against the wall, is an old, sunk-in packing box I’ve never seen before. I pull it forward, blow dust off the top, rip open the flaps and tip the box forward to examine the contents. Inside is a large stack of old books. I dig around until I see the weathered copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

  “Told ya. Now do you believe I’m God?”

  “Arch a rainbow across the sky or something and I might.” I jump down from the dresser, fling off my shirt, tug open one of the drawers and grab a tank top. I stare at my mesh sling. “Do I really even need this thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “I disagree.” I peel up the Velcro straps, freeing my broken arm, and throw the sling onto the floor. I groan with sweet relief.

  “You shouldn’t have taken that off.”

  I move my arm slowly back and forth, trying to get used to the weight of the cast. The movement makes my shoulder throb. “I can’t function with one arm stuffed inside a shirt, inside a sling.” I clumsily pull the tank over my head and rush from the closet to my desk, grab a pen and begin writing furiously.

  “Whatcha writin’?”

  “Don’t you know everything?”

  “Well...yeah, but I do enjoy a good conversation.”

  “I’m writing my letter to Violet.”

  “Saying goodbye?”

  “No. It’s not really even a letter but you already know that. It’s part of my plan. I’m thinking outside of the box like you told me to.”

  “You’re listening to me! This is so exciting!”

  I write more feverishly than I’ve ever written in my life. Just as Alfred kicks the door, hard, I finish.

  “Indigo!”

  I rush to the door and jerk it open. Alfred’s baby face and gentle features are forced into a scowl. He looks down at my arm.

  “What happened to your sling?”

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Indigo, your arm is broken.”

  “Yeah, but not in half.”

  “But your shoulder.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  His expression softens. “Do you think—” he pauses, flips his Seahawks cap backward “—she’ll go to hell for this? And us too, for letting her do it? We could be seen as accomplices. I don’t wanna go to hell, Indi.”

  “Tell him there’s no such place.”

  I lurch forward and wrap my arm around him, hugging Alfred closely for the first time in like...ever. “There’s no such place, little brother.”

  He seems a bit shocked by the burst of affection but doesn’t pull away. Lays his head gently on my shoulder instead and sighs.

  * * *

  As Alfred and I make our way down the stairs, the smell of burning wood sticks wafts up to my nose, singeing my throat. I notice Violet. Her wheelchair is locked in place in front of the fireplace, facing the family. Her hair has been perfectly straightened, the long, freshly pressed strands pulled neatly over her shoulder. She wears a gorgeous burnt-orange sweater dress that must be new since I’ve never seen it. Thankfully, Violet and I aren’t the type of twins who wear matching clothes and hairstyles. We always found it to be a bit...horror movie–ish, so we made sure to stick to our own distinctive vibe. I’m more of a jeans, T-shirt and ponytail kind of a girl, while Violet is the prim and proper fashionista who spends at least an hour a day fixing her hair.

  The rich color of the dress makes her light brown skin glow like the beacon of light she is. Even though her face is a bit swollen from all the steroids and she has her signature cannula wrapped around her ears with nasal prongs stuck up her nose, she doesn’t look like she’s dying. She looks like a princess. Both hands rest in her lap on top of her prescription. The petrifying bottle holding medicine that could painlessly end her life today. I cringe at the sight of it. Because her skin is a bit paler than mine now, the mole under her eye is more accentuated, making her look like a demure runway model. I know I have the same mole, but there’s no denying it looks better on Vee. Everything looks better on Vee—my face included.

  She glances up as Alfred and I descend the stairs and our eyes meet for the first time in weeks. She gives me a polite wave. It’s the only communication I’ve had from her in at least a week. It makes my heart ache and want to burst with happiness all at the same time. She talked to me! Maybe not with actual words, but still! I wave back.

  “So, what’s your master plan?”

  “Shh,” I whisper as I settle into the cushy La-Z-Boy chair that’s so old and raggedy it squeaks whenever it moves. “I need you quiet so I can do this properly.”

  “Oh. Gotcha. My nonexistent lips are sealed.”

  I look over at Mom, seated on the couch beside Dad, as Alfred settles in next to her. She gives me a perturbed stare. Did she see me talking to myself? I smile awkwardly in return.

  Michelle, Drew and the boys are all squished onto the love seat. Jedidiah sits on the arm of the couch beside Alfred.

  Violet passes the prescription bottle back and forth between her hands. “I—” she takes a deep breath “—love you guys.”

  Hearing her voice makes my eyes well. It’s been so long since I’ve heard her speak. Speaking has proved difficult for Violet in the end stage of pulmonary fibrosis. The air sacs in her lungs are rapidly forming new scar tissue every day. Usually when a person breathes, oxygen moves through the air sacs to their bloodstream. But for people with Violet’s condition, the scar tissue forming is so thick, oxygen cannot pass through properly. There’s no known cure, and the causes vary from genetic to environmental...to no cause at all. In the end stages of the disease, you suffocate to death. A lung transplant could extend life. But Violet’s not a candidate for a transplant. As a result of an experimental drug called Nathaxopril, a drug that effectively slowed the progression of Vee’s pulmonary fibrosis, her kidneys are failing. So on top of her lung struggles, she now needs dialysis once a week. People with other failing organs don’t really qualify for lung transplants. And besides, she’s in the final stage of the disease now. Weeks away from her imminent death. I quickly dab at my eyes before tears can fall. Dad wraps an arm around Mom.

  Violet adjusts her cannula, continues. “This isn’t suicide. Please don’t think that. This is a chance—” she takes another deep, pained breath “—to end my suffering. I’m going to be with God.” Another deep breath. She pauses.

  “Take your time, baby,” Mom says encouragingly.

  Violet sniffs. “After I hear your letters, I’ll take my medicin
e, lie comfortably in bed and...go to sleep. The medicine takes a few hours to work but I’ll sleep the whole time. No pain involved.” She looks over to Jedidiah. “Right?”

  “I’ll be beside you the entire time, Violet.” Jedidiah stands and turns to speak to the family. “I’ll be communicating with her guides as she transitions into the higher realms. The more family in the room the better. Your loving energies will work as a force to direct Violet. Transitioning isn’t always easy. Spirits have been known to get lost.”

  “Like in The Conjuring?” Nam asks.

  “That movie was scary,” Brandon adds.

  Drew frowns. “You two watched The Conjuring?”

  Nam points at Alfred. “Uncle Alfred let us.”

  Drew turns to Alfred. “Really? The Conjuring? No wonder they’ve been having nightmares.”

  “Go ahead, honey,” Mom urges Violet, tossing Drew an evil glare. “We’re listening.”

  Violet continues, “I will watch over you guys from the other...side.” She places a hand over her chest to gently massage it. I’ve never seen her do that before. Maybe this speech is causing her physical pain. “I’ll be your guardian angel now. I promise.” She transfers the prescription bottle back and forth between her hands again. “That’s all I...wanted to say.”

  There is a long stretch of silence. Everyone sits with dejected looks on their faces. As if maybe they thought she was gonna say, Just kidding, y’all. I’m not killing myself today! Gotcha!

  Alfred flips his Seahawks cap backward and forward, his new nervous tic. Michelle blows her nose and wipes tears. Drew looks despondently at the floor. The boys stare at Violet with wide-eyed fascination, as if waiting for her to drop dead at any moment. All those two need is a bag of popcorn and they’d be good as gold.

  “Can I go first?” Alfred jumps from the couch like it’s on fire.

  Violet smiles sweetly. Nods in agreement.

  Crap. I wanted to go first. I need to go first. But Alfred’s already moving to stand front and center. He takes a knee beside Violet’s wheelchair.