“Then perhaps you can keep your comments to yourself? I’m not used to being observed, assisted or interrupted.”
Michelle shrugs innocently. “As a doctor constantly surrounded by nursing staff? I imagine you would be used to being interrupted, observed and assisted. In every way.”
Uh-oh. Game on.
“As chief of staff—” Dr. Doheny places my arm back inside its sling and gently Velcros the straps in place “—I’m rarely interrupted, only observed when I ask to be and assisted only when needed.”
Chief of staff? Like, the boss of the whole hospital? Dang! My gaze darts to Michelle. How do you clapback to that? She swallows, clears her throat and, for the first time in maybe her whole life, accepts being one-upped.
Chief of staff for the win!
Dr. Doheny stands. “I can get those AMA papers signed for you now. Sound good?”
Michelle nods without making eye contact. Dr. Doheny smiles and exits the room. The door slams shut with a reverberating thud.
“See that?” Michelle points at the door.
“See what?”
“What do you mean, see what? You saw how he talked to me. We nurses get verbally abused by doctors all the time. I’m so sorry you had to witness that, Indigo.”
“I’m sorry I had to witness that.”
Shit, shit, shit! I cover my ear with my hand again.
“Are we back to this?” Michelle stretches her eyes wide.
“Covering your ears like that is kinda odd. You should consider stopping.”
My brand-new, fresh-out-of-the-box bag of insanity is talking to me again. If I acknowledge it, will it go away? Like, Hello, Voice? How are you today?
“Not too shabby. Thank you for asking.”
Oh my God! “Michelle, do you hear this?” I gasp. “I mean, did you just hear that?”
“Did I hear what?”
“A voice.”
Her eyes narrow as she slowly stands. “You’re hearing voices?”
“Not voices. A voice. One voice.”
“Indi, are you serious? What does the voice sound like?”
I pause, thinking. “A little bit like Dave Chappelle.”
“Dave Chappelle?” Michelle folds her arms across her chest. “That’s why you’ve been covering your ears? To block out the voice of Dave Chappelle? First we try to kill ourselves and now we’re tuned in to Comedy Central!? What’s next, Indigo?”
“Michelle, it’s not—”
“No, I get it. You’re trying to pretend you’re losin’ it. This is your sad attempt to stop Violet from dying. You do realize she’s dying regardless, right? Dave Chappelle in your head or not.”
“It’s not actually Dave Chappelle. It sounds like him. I’m not making it up! I’m hearing a voice. I swear to God!”
“You shouldn’t be swearing to me. That’s somewhat taboo. Uncouth. Uncivilized. Rude—”
“Shut up!” I scream. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Wow.” Michelle shakes her head and, with what seems like overexaggerated, condescending calm, says, “Indigo. I’m going to see if the AMA papers are ready. When I return, you better be dressed and not on the bathroom floor or doing something bizarre like talking to Kevin Hart. Okay?” She snatches her purse off a chair near my bed and quickly exits.
“I like her.”
I slide off the bed, feeling beads of sweat form around my hairline. “You’re not real,” I whisper. “This isn’t real.”
“What isn’t real?”
“You!” I’ve officially gone full volume. Screaming out into an empty hospital room. “I reject you, Voice! In the name of Jesus, I reject you!”
“What does that mean?”
I take tiny steps backward until I find myself pressed against the wall in a corner of the room. “I guess it means like...I’m using the power of Jesus to declare the voice I’m hearing isn’t real? You’re not real.”
“Ahhh. I get it. I mean, I don’t get it. But I see what you’re trying to say. So now it’s my turn. I reject your declaration and declare instead that I am real. In the name of all things with a name. Including Geez luss.”
“Geez luss?”
“There’s this cool little second-grader dude. Lives in south Georgia. Always prays in the name of ‘Geez luss.’ You know...little kid accent, ’cuz he’s missing about eight teeth. Has no clue what he’s even talking about. I kinda like it, so I’m runnin’ with it.”
I frown. “I’m sorry. What is this? Why is this happening to me?”
“What do you mean, why? You asked for me. You called on me. People would kill to talk to me like this. To hear my voice. Geez luss, Indigo! Be more grateful.”
I push myself off the wall. “Okay. Let me get this straight. Are you really trying to say that you’re God? This is the voice of God I’m hearing?”
“I’m not a big fan of the name. Honestly, I’m not. There are other names I tend to take more of a liking to. Like Emmanuel, the Most High, Yahweh. Lord is...eh...not my favorite either. I like Elohim. That’s got a nice ring to it. El for short. Elly.”
This is insane. I am losing it. That’s what’s happening here. Like the homeless man shouting on the street. That’s me. Talking in a room. To nobody.
“Okay, fine. I can prove I’m God so you can stop self-deprecating. Ask me anything.”
I take a seat on the edge of the bed and grab my phone from off the stand. “Ask you anything? Like...quiz God?”
“Yeah, yeah. Ask me.”
“Okay. What’s 742 times 988?”
The voice laughs. Really. It’s laughing.
“That’s what you want to know? A smorgasbord of information is now available to you and you want to know that?”
“You’re stalling, Voice,” I state simply. “What’s the answer?”
“Turn on your phone.”
“Why? It’s dead.”
“Jack the Ripper is dead. Your phone, on the other hand, is turned off.”
“But...” I look at my phone and press the button to power it on. Sure enough, the screen brightens as it springs to life. Why did I think it was dead? Now I’m transfixed. Staring at the screen, eager to see how many calls I’ve missed. How many red notifications will be waiting for me from Violet? Perhaps the thought of losing me has jolted her back to life. Reminded her of the connection we once had. The bond that, before scarring lung tissue took center stage in our lives, was unbreakable. Only there are no red icons that await me. No missed calls. No messages. I swallow away the lump starting to form in my throat.
“Hello? Is this thing on? 733,096.”
“What?” I’m compelled to look at the ceiling. As if that’s where this voice is currently residing.
“You asked what’s 742 times 988. It’s 733,096. Your phone’s on now. Fact-check me on Google.”
“Is that right?”
“This is boring. Challenge me. I’m Almighty God, for crying out loud. I can do basic math. Ask me something cool, like who built the pyramids.”
“Fine.” I set my cell beside me on the bed and ask, with very little enthusiasm, “Who built the pyramids?”
“The Egyptians.”
I roll my eyes. “A five-year-old could tell me that. I thought you were gonna say aliens or something.”
“First of all, have you talked to a five-year-old lately? Trust me. They know nothing about the pyramids. Second, what makes somebody an alien?”
“They’re from outer space.”
“This is outer space.”
“You know what I mean. I’m an Earthling. Any living thing not from Earth is an alien.”
“Then I shalt correct my original answer. Egyptian Earthlings built the pyramids.”
I lean back on my uninjured arm as a thought occurs to me. “I have a better question. If you’re
who you say you are, if you really are God, why won’t you let my sister live? She hasn’t done anything to anybody. If you really are oopsGod, then you’re well aware that Violet’s been talking to you her whole life. Lavishing you with words like ‘omnipotent’ and ‘Mighty King.’ She literally worships you. And now she’s...” I quiet for a moment, eager to compose myself. Talking to a voice is one thing. But crying to one? Not gonna happen. I exhale. “You’re all-powerful. Right?”
“Tru dat. Tru dat.”
“Why won’t you let her live?” I whisper.
No response.
I wait. “God? You got nothing to say to that, do you?” I hold up my middle finger and stick out my tongue, grateful the voice-in-my-head-madness is over.
I see a duffel bag on the couch, move toward it and reach inside to find a change of clothes from home, toiletries and hair supplies. I slip out of my hospital gown and struggle into an oversize, long-sleeved T-shirt. It’s tough with only one properly working arm, but I manage, though I can’t stick my cast through the sleeve, so it sorta hangs limply at my left side. I step easily into my sweatpants and slip on brown Uggs, then take the brush Mom packed and awkwardly force it through my hair. I don’t need to see my reflection to know I need more than a brush. I need a hat. I collapse onto the couch and lower my head into my hand.
“Here’s the thing. She can live. But only if you help. Think you can do that?”
“Voice?” I moan. “I thought I got rid of you.”
“You were about to get dressed. I wanted to give you privacy. Duh.”
“God would never say duh, Voice.”
“I invented language. I can say whatever I want. Who’s gonna criticize my speech? I’m sorta unimpeachable.”
I close my eyes. “What can I do to make you go away?”
“Help Violet and I’ll leave. I promise. And I’m God. I never break a promise.”
I pop open an eye. “What am I supposed to do? She’s taking medicine to kill herself today. Because she’s suffering.”
“Get her to agree to travel to Coyote Buttes. If she can make the three-mile trek across the open desert to a rock formation called the Wave, she will live.”
I sit up. “The Wave? In Arizona?”
“Mmm-hmm. That’s the Wave I’m talking about.”
“You mean...” I stand. Too fast, though, and I start to feel the room spinning. God, I don’t wanna pass out again.
“Don’t worry. You won’t pass out again.”
“How would you know?”
“I’m God. I know everything.”
“You’re not God! You’re a series of synaptic misfires! Easily fixed with the proper medication.”
“Care to make a wager?”
“Now you’re God, gambling?” I throw up my hands. “Unbelievable.”
“Again. I get to do whatever I want. God perk. So are you in? You get Violet to the Wire Pass Trailhead. Make the hike to the Wave. You see that I’m right. She will live. It’ll prove I’m God.”
I pace around the room. Or something pace-like. The concussion approach to pacing. I take one tiny step. Stop. Another tiny step. Another stop.
“Are you killing ants?”
“What? No, I’m pacing. So I can think.”
“Oh. Looks weird.”
“Listen. Hiking the Wave? That would be literally impossible.” I know all about the Wave. Our career mentor, Aaron Wade, told Violet and me about it. It’s an ancient granite formation with gorgeous red sandstone that swirls and twirls with waves of color. In pictures it’s breathtaking. Like something you’d expect to see in a Dr. Seuss book or on another planet. To preserve the formation and to accommodate the massive amounts of people desperate to visit the “painted desert,” the Bureau of Land Management issues only a few permits a day to hikers. The permits must be won through an online lottery. “First off, you can’t just show up and hike to the Wave. You need a permit.”
“Duh. I know.”
“We don’t have one! You have to apply months in advance to enter a lottery.”
“Or you can arrive the day of and win a walk-in permit. They give away ten a day. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
“What are the odds we’d win one of those? I imagine hundreds line up every day. People wait years and years to get a permit to hike that trailhead.”
“Is this thing on? Can you hear the words that are coming out of my celestial, cosmic mouth? I’m God. I don’t normally like to brag, but I’m super psychic. Just get there. Those walk-in permits are as good as yours. God’s honor.”
“Okay. Second thing. And this is somewhat of a big deal.” I sit on the arm of the couch. “Let’s say we make it and, by some strange voodoo magic, win walk-in permits. Violet couldn’t make that hike. People die making that hike.”
“Take Michelle.”
“Not happening. Michelle hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“Then why is she always so mean to me? She’s never mean to Violet.”
“That’s because Violet doesn’t challenge her. You do. She’s not used to being challenged.”
“Well, if I tell her a voice—”
“God.”
“I’m not calling you that.”
“No bigs. Call me Voice, then. It’s growing on me.”
“Great. So if I tell her a voice told me to take Violet and her failing lungs to Coyote Buttes to take a five-mile hike—”
“It’s only two-point-five miles, to be exact.”
“Two-point-five miles to get to the Wave. Two-point-five miles back. That’s five miles total.”
“Oh, look at you with your fancy addition.”
“Anyway. It doesn’t matter if it was one mile. Michelle won’t be down for it. Plus, she has my nephews, and her husband, Drew. Not to mention she’s super pregnant.”
“They can come with. The whole family can come if they want.”
“Like a family road trip? You’re crazy!”
“Of course I’m crazy! I’m the Alpha and the Omega. The up and the down. The left and the right. The sane and the insane. The roota to tha tooda. All things exist because I am all things.”
The door is pushed open. Michelle motions for me. “Dr. Dolittle signed the papers. You’re okay to be released. You’ll have to come back sometime tomorrow for an MRI and follow-up exam. C’mon. Drew’s downstairs waiting with the van.”
I look at Michelle. Like, really look at her. The frown lines on her forehead. The fatigue in her eyes. The aura of misery that looms around her head like a halo of Amityville-style horror.
She extends an arm. “Indigo? Are you coming?”
Perhaps what the family needs really is a good old-fashioned intervention. A message from the beyond. A direct path to the light. I grab my duffel bag from the couch, my soul strangely rejuvenated. It’s official. I’m not going home to watch my sister die. Today, I’m off to find a way to let her live.
This according to the voice in my head.
chapter four
It’s a frequent occurrence for people to ask me fun twin questions:
“What it’s like?”
“It must be so cool!”
“Can you read each other’s minds?”
When they ask, their eyes are alive with wonder, eager to discover some of the ins and outs of twindom:
“Do you think one another’s thoughts?”
“Sense when the other is in some sort of peril?”
“Feel the other’s pain?”
I’ve never had quick, go-to responses for what it’s like to be one half of the Indigo and Violet experience. I get that twins can be seen as somewhat of a phenomenon. But imagine being inside the phenomenon. Like...okay...imagine you’re the Sun. A million Earths could fit inside you. You’re nine thousand degrees on your coolest day. You ar
e a perfect sphere. You’re the giant thing that keeps other giant things in place. Yet to think the Sun sits there reflecting on all these amazing facts about itself is absurd, right? It doesn’t think. It just is. The Sun not being able to verbalize why it’s so hot, or how it manages to be figuratively cool at the same time, is the best, albeit strangest, way to explain what it’s like having an identical you.
But ever since Violet’s been sick, and no longer attending school, there aren’t so many of the fun twin questions like, “Do you guys know Tia and Tamera?” The questions have dwindled down to only a few. Or rather, the same question delivered in a multitude of ways. Some variation of: “How are you, Indigo?” Like that day on the bus...
* * *
“So happy to see you.” Our student body president, Susie Prouty, slid into the seat beside me on the city bus, set down her overstuffed hunter-green JanSport backpack, placed her hand on top of mine and said, “How you must be feeling. I can’t even imagine.”
“I can help you,” I answered quickly. “Imagine, I mean.”
“Oh...um,” she started.
“Go with me if you will. Imagine being the Sun.”
“Uh...the Sun?” She looked over her shoulder, clearly searching for another seat to escape to.
“Yeah,” I continued. “But pretend it’s four billion years from now and you’re all outta fuel. A sun with no hydrogen—cooling. Your sun days are almost over. Do you bow out gracefully and simply explode?”
“I...” She scratched her head.
“Or should you search for another thing to be?”
* * *
“Indigo?”
“Hmm?” Michelle snaps me back to the confines of the musty hospital elevator, saving me from a memory I wish I could dispose of somehow. Pull it from the deep recesses of my mind and dump it into a bowl of other unwanted memories like Dumbledore could. Poor Susie Prouty. She hasn’t talked to me since.
“Let’s keep this voice thing to yourself,” Michelle whispers surreptitiously even though we’re alone, as if there are elevator cameras with mics and she doesn’t want anyone else to know her sister is a bit touched.
The Voice in My Head Page 3
