The elevator dings and the doors slide open. I follow Michelle as she moves through the vestibule, her high-heeled boots click-clacking on the shiny marble flooring of the hospital lobby. Across a carpeted seating area, through thick panes of floor-to-ceiling windows, I see Michelle’s husband, Drew, pulling up alongside the curb in their silver Ford minivan.
“I just don’t want anything taking away from Violet. This is her time to say goodbye. Nothing should ruin her moment. You understand.”
I dare not ask the obvious question: Won’t, like, her dying ruin her moment?
As we step in front of the automatic doors, the panes of glass glide along their aluminum tracks, allowing ice-cold Seattle winds to rush inside. My breath catches. Frosty air sneaks its way up my sleeves, down my collar and through every imaginable opening of my jacket as we step outside. The memory of being up on that scaffolding returns to me, chilling me more than the Washington breeze.
Michelle turns, lays a heavy hand on my shoulder. I resist the overwhelming urge to push it off. “Indigo? We’re clear, right? The voice thing?”
“I’m not hearing a voice.” I’m not lying. I’m not hearing a voice. At least not right now.
“Okay?”
“I was only kidding. Ha.” All right, that was a lie.
Michelle doesn’t exactly look convinced or amused but nods anyway. She moves toward the front of the van, and I slide open the back door, step up and toss my bag onto the seat beside me. I’m thrilled to find the heat cranked up to a boil, not so thrilled to see my nephews, Brandon and Nam, in the back playing what appears to be their favorite game of I’m-going-to-hit-you-as-hard-as-I-can.
“Take the 90, honey?” Michelle’s using her sweet wife voice. The voice she uses whenever Drew’s around so he doesn’t have to be continuously reminded he married a lunatic. As he speeds off toward the exit of the hospital parking lot, into the hustle and bustle of downtown Seattle traffic, she murmurs, “I’ll be so relieved when this is all over. It’s literally killing me.”
“Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.”
She spins around. “What did you say, Indigo?”
“We’re studying fallacies in school. Nothing’s literally killing you. Except time itself. So your statement is a fallacy. I’m not sure which one. Maybe illogical conclusion is a better choice than post hoc. Yeah. Post hoc is wrong.”
“Indigo.” She groans. “If you’re gonna ramble weird facts, at least know what you’re talking about, okay?”
I shrug, pull the hood from my jacket over my eyes and lay my head back against the seat, hoping the warmth of the van will ease the mounting pressure and pain permeating through every cell of my skull. Literally killing her? Violet is the one dying.
I feel hot breath on my neck and twist to see my nephew Brandon leaned over my seat. “I heard you jumped off a building. Aunt Indiana Jones. Get it?” He pushes his bright orange glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “Was it fun?”
“I didn’t jump. I fell. Much like you would fall, Brandon—through the windshield. If you don’t put your seat belt back on.”
He climbs over the seat, shoves my bag onto the floor and buckles in beside me. “Wanna hear my letter to Aunt Vee?”
“Letter?”
“Yeah.” He unfolds a crumpled piece of lined notebook paper, attempts to smooth it out on his lap and adjusts his glasses. “We have to write letters.” He smiles, exposing his brand-new adult front teeth that are about four sizes too big for his mouth. With his spirals of dark brown, curly hair shooting out in every imaginable direction, my nephew looks a lot like a seven-year-old Einstein. Or maybe he looks like an animation escaped from the Disney channel. “You know, before she kicks the bucket.”
“Don’t say kicks the bucket!” Nam leans over the seat and slaps Brandon across the head, causing his glasses to shoot off his face like a bottle rocket. “It’s insensitive, beaver teeth.”
“My glasses!” Brandon screeches. “You break my glasses, I break your face!” He quickly unfastens his seat belt, hops onto his knees and reaches toward the back, slapping Nam across the neck with a loud thwack. “Game over!”
“Esophaguses don’t regenerate!” Nam wails. “You forfeit all hits when you break rules.”
Though Nam is two years older than Brandon, he’s small for his age, so they stand at about the same height and, coincidentally, have the same level of seven-year-old maturity. But while Brandon looks like his dad with his thin frame, high cheekbones and round face, Nam is a carbon copy of Michelle, right down to his dark brown skin and kinky-curly hair. Interesting how the gestational gene explosion can create so many interesting variations of human. You wouldn’t even guess Nam is biracial, while Brandon has the lighter skin and softer hair to suggest he could be.
Brandon grins, slides his glasses back on and clicks his seat belt over his shoulder. “Whatever. I quit anyway.”
“Mom!” Nam howls. “Brandon hit me in the esophagus.”
Michelle spins around, tosses the boys a wide-eyed, maniacal glare that could rival Medusa’s. “Another hit and so help me God you will both lose your iPads for the rest of the decade. Have some freakin’ decorum. Violet’s laid up in bed and you two actin’ like you’re inbred!” She twists back around as Drew merges onto the freeway, driving like we’re racing in the Daytona 500. Sweet. The faster he drives the better.
It’s quiet in the car for a good eight seconds before Brandon says, “So? You wanna hear my letter?”
“I’m sure it’s great. I have a bit of a headache, though, Bran.”
He ignores me and reads, “‘Dear Auntie Violet. I think you’re really cool and brave and I will miss you when you’re dead.’” He looks up. “That’s all I have so far.”
“That’s beautiful, honey,” Michelle calls from the front seat. “Maybe say why you’ll miss her, though.” She turns to me. “You might wanna think about what you’re going to say too, Indi. Everybody gets a chance to say goodbye. Jedidiah is already at the house waiting.” The expression on my face must read something close to who the hell is that and why is he at our house because Michelle adds, “From New Faith International Church?”
Oh. That guy. Pastor Jedidiah Barnabas. Which simply cannot be the man’s real name. No parent is that cruel. He’s the pastor of the megachurch Mom and Dad force us to attend every so often. The nondenominational church of everything. A church that takes religious ambiguity to such a level, you could be worshipping Satan, for all you know. It’s also held in an amphitheater so gigantic you can’t even see Pastor Jedidiah when he races across the stage calling forth the archangels from all corners of the universe to infuse their energies or synergies or...whatever. Were it not for the flat-screen monitors stretched from corner to corner, I wouldn’t even know what he looks like. “Why is he at our house?”
“To facilitate Violet’s passing. Read her last rites. That sorta thing,” Michelle explains.
“Last rites! You guys are Catholic now?”
Aaaaand The Voice returns. “We are not Catholic,” I reply nonchalantly, as if this voice booming from nowhere is now a normal thing. “We don’t even go to church really.”
Michelle turns to face me again. “What does that have to do with anything, Indigo?”
“I was only... Nothing. Never mind.”
“You don’t have to speak,” The Voice explains. “I can read your thoughts.”
“Please don’t do that,” I whisper.
“We do so go to church.” Brandon scribbles onto his sheet of paper. “On Easter. That’s Jesus’s birthday.”
“No, it’s not, bacon bits for brains,” Nam calls from the back of the van. “Christmas is Jesus’s birthday. Easter is the Easter Bunny’s birthday.”
“Oh, yeah. Hey, Indi, how is this?” Brandon reads. “‘I’m gonna miss you when you’re dead, because you’re nice, and pretty, and smart, an
d fun, and good, and awesome, and cool.’”
“Better,” Michelle calls out. “What do you think, babe?” She reaches across the seat and brushes strands of Drew’s long black hair off his shoulder. Drew’s Native—from the Colville tribe, I think. He and Michelle started dating in high school and have been together pretty much ever since.
He pulls an Apple EarPod out of his ear. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Brandon’s letter?” Michelle forces a smile. She’s irritated Drew’s not paying any attention to the subject at hand, but working hard to dial back her crazy. I wonder if Drew can see it in her eyes. Sense it.
“It’s... Yeah. For sure.” Drew places the EarPod back into his ear as he continues speed-racing across the freeway.
“You like it too, Auntie Indigo?” Brandon adjusts his glasses for the twelfth time since I’ve gotten in the van.
“Why don’t you have the strap for your glasses, Bran?” I ask. “Those things are never gonna stay in place.”
“It makes me look like a nerd.” Brandon buttons the top button on his blue polo. “And I have an image to uphold.”
“What about your giant teeth and little head?” Nam asks seriously. “That makes you look like a nerd.”
I pretend my phone is ringing. “Sorry, kids, I have to take this.” I hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello? Oh, yes. I can talk.”
“Pretending to be on the phone? Good one.”
I hunker down and whisper into the receiver, hoping the sound of the loud freeway traffic and Brandon and Nam arguing drowns out my conversation. “I just don’t feel like talking to them.”
“So say that.”
“What’s the point? They don’t listen to me. Nobody listens to me. Speaking of. How exactly is this supposed to work? I show up at home and shout, ‘Hey, everybody, God says we should pack up the cars and head to Arizona. I’m driving’?”
“I’ve seen you drive. Not a good opener.”
“Are you going to help me at some point? If you’re who you claim to be, you know my family. They won’t entertain this. Not for one second. I need some intervention here. Shine a bright light or arch a rainbow across the sky or something.”
“You’ve been watching way too many Hallmark movies. I don’t do any of that.”
“Then what do you actually do?” I sigh.
“I set things in motion. I’m the architect. You guys are the ones that make things happen. That’s why you have to get her to the Wave.”
“So you’re seriously not going to help me?”
“What do you think I’m doing now? Think of these conversations as a cheat sheet. I’m giving you the answers to the test, but you still gotta take the test.”
I scratch my head. “I’m terrible at tests.”
“Okay. I’ll give you another answer. A riddle, if you will.”
I like riddles. Violet and I are actually pretty good at them. “All right. I’m listening.”
“Solve it and you’ll know where to start.” The voice clears its throat. “Roses are red. Violets are not blue. Start with Violet.”
I wait. Careful not to even breathe for fear I’ll miss the rest. A long moment passes.
“Hello!” Is he gone? Will the riddle never be fully stated? The answer never revealed to me?
“Yes? I’m here.”
I exhale. “Oh, thank God.”
“You’re welcome.”
“No, I meant... Just...what’s the rest?”
“What do you mean? That’s the whole thing.”
“What? That’s not a riddle! Doesn’t even make sense.”
“Violets aren’t blue. They’re purple. Makes sense to me.”
I groan. “This is madness. You’re madness.”
“Talk to Violet. Get her to listen. She’s your ticket to winning the group over. There. The great Oz has spoken.”
Talk to Violet. Something that used to be as reflexive as blinking. Indigo and Violet Phillips. Identical twin sisters and best friends since birth. We both stand exactly five feet four inches tall. Both have thick black hair that hangs past our shoulders, both weigh in at 117 pounds. At least, we used to. Violet’s lost quite a bit of weight since the Fates decided to be unkind to an unsuspecting soul, snatching the very breath of life from her. We’re both the exact shade of brown as the oldest Obama girl, Malia, a fact discovered when we all inadvertently got on the same elevator at the Columbia Center and her Secret Service agent was kind enough to let us take a selfie. Our Facebook pic got shared over eight thousand times. And Mediatakeout.com ran the photo on its website with an article titled, “Obama Has Secret Love Children Twins, Y’all! Picture Proof!” I have a mole under my left eye and Violet a mole under her right. A trait that reveals we are what’s referred to as mirror twins. While some people find it fascinating that our reverse, asymmetrical features make Violet right-handed and me left, I was always more concerned with the reality that if she committed a heinous crime, I could easily go to jail for it, since we share the same DNA. We do think the same thoughts. Sometimes at least. Finish each other’s sentences. Oftentimes. Definitely sense when the other is in some sort of peril. If perilous events occur. We are your stereotypical twin best friends. My shoulders slump. Or at least we used to be.
“What if she won’t listen to me? She doesn’t talk to me.” I speak quietly into the receiver. “At least not anymore.”
“Then you’ll have to find a way to make her listen. Think outside of the box. Be bold. Be brave. I believe you can do it, Indigo. I know you can.”
chapter five
Our tranquil street in the Columbia City section of Seattle always appears gloomy after a heavy rain in the winter. Most of the trees have completely disposed of their vibrant orange-, brown-and auburn-tinted fall leaves, leaving bare, spindly branches that hang ominously over wet gray pavement.
Drew pulls into our tiny driveway and yanks the key out of the ignition. A terrible quiet blares louder than the pop-pop of pyrotechnics at a rock concert. Here we all are. Ready to walk into our traditional Craftsman-style house to watch a real-life horror show. Death seems to loom in the air, thick and impenetrable. Our house certainly appears foreboding. I mean, it’s always been the worst-looking house on the block anyway, with its red-painted door peeling around the edges, and faded yellow siding in desperate need of patchwork and repair. Not to mention every house in the neighborhood but ours is decorated for the holidays with glittering lights, Nativity scenes, illuminated menorahs or tacky holiday inflatables. To add to our home’s appeal, or lack thereof, Mom fired the gardener because she said he wasn’t doing anything but blowing leaves around, so, ironically, our front lawn is littered with wet leaves turning to mulch. I feel like people can sense there is something deeply troubling going on here. I focus on the one evergreen that stands beside the house like a beacon of hope. Don’t worry. Some things never die, it seems to say, its pine needles blowing ever so gently in the wind.
“Indigo, Drew and I need to speak with the boys. Explain things a bit. We’ll be in soon.”
I clumsily snatch my bag off the floor, already over this whole one-armed Indigo situation. I pull open the van door and mumble, “See you inside,” before cutting across the grass, my Uggs sloshing and sinking down into the scatters of wet leaves as I walk.
I climb up onto the porch, push open our large front door and trudge inside. Getting in and out of the house is a lot simpler now. We used to have to leave a change of clothes in a large trash bag and change in the foyer closet before we could enter the house—Michelle’s orders to keep Violet’s lungs free from possible infection. But ever since Vee’s decided to bow out gracefully from life, the rules aren’t so much enforced anymore.
I toss my bag onto the floor, kick the door shut with my foot and notice Pastor Jedidiah Barnabas sitting on the couch beside Alfred in our dimly lit den. I’ve only ever seen the pa
stor on a giant screen murmuring about energetic downloads or some other spiritual mumbo jumbo, so it’s sort of surreal to see him this close. He’s a short Caucasian man, with pale blue eyes and sparse strands of dark brown hair. He wears jeans, open-toed Birkenstock sandals and a tan corduroy jacket over a crisp white dress shirt.
“Indigo?” He stands respectfully. “Honored to officially meet you.” When he speaks it’s slow and overly articulated. He steps toward me with arms outstretched, swiftly enveloping me in a tight hug.
“Hi.” I cough into his shoulder as I get a mouthful of corduroy.
He pulls away and looks me squarely in the eye since we’re about the same height. “How you must be feeling.”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I bet you can’t even imagine.” I think of giving him the sun analogy but remember Susie Prouty almost falling down a flight of stairs at school to get away from me last week and decide against it.
“Since you attend New Faith International Church of Love and Light, you’re aware I receive messages from the beyond.” He takes a deep breath and exhales so forcibly, a blast of his breath blows into my eyeballs. I blink in surprise. “Energetic messages that are transmuted from the higher planes and downloaded into my alignment.”
“That...makes sense.”
“As a result, I can see into the spirit realm. I communicate with guides, ascended masters and archangels and am here to help direct Violet as she transitions. Does that sound good to you, Indigo?”
The door is pushed open. Drew, Michelle and the boys enter from outside.
“Pastor Jedidiah.” Michelle slides in between us. I step aside, relieved to let her take center stage. “Can we get you something to drink? Coffee? We feel so honored and deeply blessed to have you—” she covers her mouth “—here to...to...” Tears erupt and flow like hot lava. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see it coming. Michelle bursting into a fit of tears is pretty common these days.
Pastor Jedidiah envelops Michelle in a warm embrace similar to the one I just received. Drew follows suit, wrapping one arm around Michelle while the other hand waves angrily at the boys. Understanding the signal, they too step forward and wrap their arms around their weeping mom.
The Voice in My Head Page 4
