The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  “Violet? You down for this?” I shut my laptop computer and stuffed it inside my desk drawer. “Preventing pet obesity is an important issue in this country.”

  “We don’t have pets.” Violet lay across my bed, her feet dangling over the side, staring up at the ceiling, kicking the metal frame to the rhythm of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies.”

  “I know. But if we ever do get one, we don’t want it to get fat.”

  She laughed and rolled over onto her stomach. “You just wanna annoy Mr. Guyere.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You Googled ‘dumb groups you can join.’”

  I grinned. “I really do care about pet obesity, though.”

  “You do not.” She howled with laughter.

  Mr. Guyere was our guidance counselor and the man responsible for making sure all students satisfactorily met Silver Line requirements. He micromanaged and dictated so much of my school experience that I truly was looking forward to seeing the look on his face when I told him about my new after-school commitment. And what a look it was:

  “Pet obesity prevention?” Mr. Guyere lowered his head and glared at me over the rims of his glasses. “Miss Phillips, need I remind you that organized off-campus groups must fit into the category of academic, charity or hobby.” He scanned his file folder, flipping through loose-leaf sheets of paper. “To review, Violet is a member of UNICEF, National Honor Society, National Beta Club, Future Business Leaders of America, Phi Beta Lambda...” He slid off his glasses and set them on his desk. “The list goes on, quite honestly. But you—” he held up one sheet of paper “—are a member of the Seattle division of Pet Obesity Prevention?”

  “Yes, sir.” I folded my hands in my lap. “That’s correct.”

  Violet covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Precisely how does preventing pet obesity fit into one of our recommended categories?”

  “It’s a hobby, Mr. Gruyère.”

  He frowned. “It’s Gu-yere.”

  “Oh. Right. Gruyère is cheese. Sorry about that.” I slid the signed forms across his desk. “Anyway, a hobby is defined as an activity done regularly in one’s leisure time for pleasure. Watching people discover ways to correct their pet’s oversizeness? I find that pleasing. That’s the very definition of a hobby, sir. Dictionary.com it, and you’ll see.”

  He glowered and angrily stamped a sheet that said I’d met my club requirements for the semester.

  Only my original plan of signing in to meetings and then sneaking across the street to stuff myself silly at Ezell’s Famous Fried Chicken got dramatically foiled. Because the veterinarian who headed the Seattle division of Pet Obesity Prevention had a seventeen-year-old son named Troy Richmond, and Troy didn’t have an obese pet, but boy oh boy did he fall hard for Violet. So I was stuck sitting through each and every meeting. What dumb luck.

  * * *

  “Is that what you’re eating for breakfast?”

  It’s still dark outside as I stand, slumped over the Formica kitchen counter, tearing open a new box of strawberry frosted toaster pastries. I clumsily peel off the foil wrapping, slide both of the pastries into the toaster and rest my aching head in my hand.

  “Why? Is it bad for me or something?” I grumble.

  “It does have TBHQ in it. Which is made from butane. Which isn’t so bad. If you’re a diesel engine.” The voice laughs.

  I place a hand over my chest and rub it the way Violet did yesterday. Maybe this will be my new nervous tic. Alfred has a few dozen. I’ve earned the right to have a nervous tic.

  “Indigo?”

  I turn, surprised to see Violet standing at the entrance to the kitchen sans wheelchair. She’s dressed in leggings, with an olive-green shirt hanging off one shoulder and calf-high leather Frye boots, and her oxygen tank is strapped to her back like a backpack in a pretty purple canvas cover. Only Violet could make an oxygen tank look like the newest, most coveted accessory. Her hair hangs in soft waves, like she woke up an hour ago to style it, which... I’m pretty sure she did. I woke up an hour ago too, and certainly didn’t bother fancying up my hair. Though Mom will be thrilled to know I managed the high ponytail she was pushing on me yesterday. The pastries pop up from the toaster with a loud snap. I grab one and present it to Violet.

  “Would you like a smoking hot pastry?” I blurt awkwardly.

  “I’m not hungry.” She steps forward to flip on the kitchen light. A warm, luminescent glow floods the room. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Oh.” I transfer the food to a paper plate. “Just myself.”

  “It’s okay if you were talking to...God.”

  “You don’t think it’s weird?”

  “You kidding? I wish...God would talk to me.”

  “The Voice.”

  “Huh?”

  “He says it’s okay if I call him Voice. You can call him that, too.” She slides into the bench at our kitchen table and it suddenly occurs to me... “You’re walking?”

  “I feel so good today. Michelle...gave me three shots of Nathaxopril.”

  “Nathaxopril?” I move to the table and plop into the seat across from her. “Isn’t that the stuff that made you even sicker?”

  “It helps me breathe. Yesterday was...bad.” She clears her throat. “Worst day, honestly. Today, I feel normal. Almost, I mean.”

  “But it’s the reason your kidneys are failing.”

  “It...has some side effects. To say the least.” She tenses. “I don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind. I want to enjoy feeling good.” She pulls at the yellow plastic tablecloth Mom bought to hide the scorch marks from when Brandon and Nam were trying some sort of DIY YouTube science experiment. An experiment that ended up with the Seattle Fire Department sending arson investigators to the house to interview Mom and Dad.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” I stare down at my nonmatching socks, one blue, the other black with green stripes. A tense moment passes between us. Now there are secrets, something that never used to be. I never had to think about saying the right thing when it came to my twin sister. I knew the ins and outs of how she felt, understood her moods and behaviors. These past few months she seems to hold back from me. She keeps her distance. Has strange walls up. Did I do something wrong? Have I offended her in some way? I take a bite of my butane-infused breakfast treat. It somehow manages to be hot, chewy, crumbly, delicious and disgusting all at the same time. Violet places a folder on the table and pulls it open.

  “I mapped out a course for us.” She spreads out sheets of paper.

  “You did what?”

  “Seattle to Coyote Buttes? It’s a nineteen-hour drive. I broke it up into two days. I included best-reviewed rest stops and restaurants...” She pauses. Rubs her chest. I rub mine as well. “I thought we could stay at an Airbnb in Hodell. A lodge near the trail for the second. I booked everything already. The flights out the next morning are—”

  “Flights?” I interrupt.

  She rubs her chest again. I rub mine, too. “Sorry. I meant when we drive out, it should be early to avoid traffic. Does this all sound good, Indigo?”

  A twinge of guilt rises up my throat like the heartburn I get after eating cheesy crust pizza. Violet mapped out a course for us. Booked hotels? Yelped rest stops? And what did I do last night? Watched Key & Peele comedy skits on my iPhone until I fell asleep.

  “It wasn’t a ton of work or anything,” Violet says as if reading my mind. “I used Kayak. And the Airbnb is a little remote. But everything is cheap. Mom and Dad will appreciate that.”

  “They do appreciate cheap things.”

  Mom and Dad are retired. Both worked as Seattle City bus drivers for over thirty years. Retirement has made them...frugal. Putting it mildly. Mom prints online coupons like those extreme couponers on TLC. We currently have a garage stocked to the
brim with paper towels, toothpaste, bars of soap, and tiny bottles of Herbal Essences shampoo and conditioner. If a zombie apocalypse struck, we’d be the cleanest family in the new Seattle dystopia. And Dad seems to be on a mission to stick it to Skyway Water and Sewer. He spent six months building a water-recycling shower in the upstairs bathroom. A shower that cuts off after three minutes and shuts down for ten minutes after each shower. More than once, I’ve had to finish washing up in the sink so I wouldn’t be late for my internship. Still, it lowered our water bill. So the Phillips family might be dirty, but at least we can be proud of our water footprint.

  Violet fiddles with her cell phone, heaves a sigh. We’re not as connected as we once were, but I know something’s off with her.

  “What’s wrong, Vee?” As soon as the question escapes my lips, I shake my head. “I mean...that was a dumb question.” Of course something seems off with her. She’s dying. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  “It’s okay.” She sets her phone on the table. “Why do you think he doesn’t call?”

  “You mean Troy?” Of course she means Troy.

  She drums her nails on the table and I notice they’re painted green to match her olive-colored shirt. It’s the color of the day but I don’t bring it up. Color of the day is a phrase Violet and I came up with when we have one of those twin accidents where we dress alike. I’m wearing a green T-shirt and leggings, too. Painting my nails would’ve been a nice touch. Certainly looks good on Violet.

  “Not one call?” she murmurs in disbelief. “Not even a message? No one could be that cruel. Could they?”

  “He’s a good guy, Violet.” I bite the dead skin around my thumbnail. I do this when I’m lying. Violet knows this. But since she’s not paying me much attention these days, she doesn’t seem to notice. “Everyone deals with grief in their own way. Disconnecting is his way of dealing with it.” I close my eyes and imagine Troy strapped to a train track with a local Amtrak approaching at a high speed. The thought makes me smile. But when I open my eyes, I see Violet’s are red and her bottom lip is quivering. “Violet?”

  A tear slides down her cheek. She wipes it away in her delicate manner.

  “Please don’t cry, sis.”

  “It’s pathetic, right? Thinking about a boy at a time like this? I really miss him.”

  Here Violet is near death, and the main thing on her mind is stupid ass Troy Richmond. I’d shove him off a cliff if it wasn’t morally irresponsible.

  I remember knocking on the door of his posh Lincoln Tower condo in downtown Bellevue. A condo gifted from his dad when Troy graduated from Seattle U. He pulled open the door and stared at me with a horrified look on his face. Troy was classically handsome: dark brown skin, tall and lean, deep dimples, hazel eyes. The dream boy for sure. But dreams can take a drastic turn. Dreams can go bad. Fast.

  “It’s Indigo.”

  He shrugged, like duh, I know that, but I could tell for a second he thought I was Violet. Sure, I have the mole under my left eye, and she her right. And yeah, her nails are always done, her hair typically straightened to perfection—but it’s still hard for people to tell us apart. Plus, I was wearing my North Face bomber jacket that covered up a T-shirt that had EVERYONE POOPS in bold letters across the front. Would’ve been a dead giveaway to my identity.

  “What do you want?” Troy asked. He was wearing True Religion jeans and a light brown button-up shirt that matched his light eyes.

  “Oh, you’re here.” I looked over his shoulder. You could see the Seattle skyline from his floor-to-ceiling windows, Mount Rainier, the waterfront. It was a stunning view. He didn’t deserve it. “I thought you died.”

  He frowned. “Why would you think that?”

  “Did you lose all your dad’s money and your cell phone got cut off?”

  “What?”

  “Are all your fingers broken?”

  “Indigo—”

  “You in the early stages of dementia?”

  “Indigo. Why are you here?”

  “If you’re not dead, your fingers aren’t broken, you still have your dad’s money to pay your phone bill and buy five-hundred-dollar True Religion jeans and you’re not displaying warning signs of early dementia, why haven’t you called my sister?”

  He moved to shut the door. I stuck out my foot so he couldn’t.

  “How’d you even get up here? We have security. You have to be on the list.”

  “The security guard thought I was Violet. We’re identical twins, dumbass.”

  “Look. We broke up. I don’t have an obligation to her.”

  “Funny. I don’t have an obligation to do the Hokey Pokey. But I do it anyway. Because my seven-year-old nephew thinks it’s fun.”

  “This isn’t the Hokey Pokey, sweetheart. I’m not cut out for bedpans and bedside vomiting, okay. I pray she’s well. I really do. I want only the best for Violet. She’s a good person.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m—”

  “An imbecilic addlepated mongrel?”

  “A what?”

  “Half-wit. Lame brain. Loser. Dope. Dolt. All synonyms for moron. Thesaurus much, Troy?”

  He was standing so straight and poised. Damn him and his perfect posture.

  “I’m consciously choosing to move on with my life. Trying to absorb all the happiness I can. I want to be happy. One day, I’ll be on my own deathbed. And I can look back on my life and say I had a good one.” His cell chimed in his pocket. He grabbed it and looked at the screen. “Look, you gotta go.”

  “So you’re seriously not even gonna call her? Just to say you care? Doing that will mean everything to her. Please, Troy.” I was pathetically begging to one of Seattle’s biggest piles. I didn’t care. I only wanted to see the look of pure joy on Violet’s face when Troy Richmond’s name scrolled across the screen on her cell. “Please call her. She needs to hear your voice. I have no idea why, but she loves you.”

  “Troy?”

  I turned. There was a female standing behind me in the hallway. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question.” She was drop-dead gorgeous. Long black hair that hung to her waist. Curves that stood out even though she was dressed in a fancy Burberry coat and matching rain boots. I mean, Violet and I...we’re cute, for sure, but standing next to her, I looked like a homeless waif.

  “I’m Indigo. Your turn.”

  “I’m Corina,” she said with a dramatically rolled r as she moved around me, entered the apartment and kissed Troy right on the mouth.

  My jaw dropped. “You’re Troy’s girlfriend?” I asked breathlessly.

  She raised a concerned eyebrow. “Obviously.”

  “How long?” My heart was racing.

  She laughed. “I’m sorry?”

  “I wanna know how long you and Troy have been together.”

  She turned to Troy. “What is going on?”

  Troy said nothing. Only stared at me. His eyes begged me to leave. Say nothing. Go. Adios. Sayonara. Arrivederci, sister. You don’t have to go home but get the hell out of my hallway.

  “I’m...with the Department of Health and Homeland Security,” I started slowly. “Letting you know the inspectors will be here later today to check the pipes. Troy’s are full of shit. The smell is permeating through all the units and making the residents puke.”

  Corina grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You said it, girl.” And with that, I turned and walked away.

  * * *

  “Violet,” I start. “I got to know Troy during the time you two were together. He’s probably so heartbroken.” I chew more of the dead skin around my thumbnail. “He doesn’t know what to say.” I down my entire glass of milk. “What to do.” I stuff half a pastry in my mouth and mumble, “Or how to even feel.” I swallow. “I know he loves you, though.
I know this is killing him.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Indigo.”

  Violet and I are more distant than I thought if she believed that load of crap. I choke on a pastry crumble.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I nod and clear my throat. “Crumb went down the wrong pipe. My bad.”

  She rubs her chest again. I resist the urge to ask her if she’s okay. But then she starts to cough. And it’s not your average cough. It’s more like a series of coughs that won’t stop. She covers her mouth with both hands. I can resist no more.

  “Violet, are you okay?”

  “It’s fine.” When she moves her hands, they’re covered in splatters of crimson red blood.

  “God,” I breathe.

  “Don’t worry.” She rubs her hands on her pants, smearing blood and dirtying her leggings. “Side effect.”

  I move to the sink, wet a paper towel and pump soap onto it. I rush back to the table.

  “It’s not a big deal, Indigo.”

  I wash off the blood with the soapy paper towel. Her hands are shaking, so I squeeze them in mine. “You’re so cold, Violet. Maybe you’re not getting enough oxygen. You need your wheelchair.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.”

  “Indigo.” She pulls her hands away, adjusts her cannula and stands. “I’m fine, okay.” She hands me a sheet of paper. It’s a spreadsheet with my name on the top, a breakdown of our trip with scheduled stops, hotel name and Airbnb info... She even included the Yelp star rating next to every restaurant we’re planning to eat at. It looks like something a CEO would hand out to his staff.