The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  “A better time would’ve been tonight at dinner, or while she was cooking. You could’ve said ‘Mom, can I help?’ And then told her.”

  “Good to know. Next time I achieve something great, I’ll check her TV schedule, then consult with you on what’s the best way to approach conversation.”

  “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

  “Vee, I was being sarcastic.” I lay back onto the bed. Violet lay beside me and rested her head on my shoulder.

  “Some people are set in their ways, Indigo. Finding a way to reach people is important. You gotta get on Mom’s level. Learn her love language.”

  “I try to talk to her. I really do.”

  “About photojournalism, shutter speed and... I dunno...apertures. She can’t connect to that. Talk to her about what she likes.”

  “And what about me, Violet? Why doesn’t she find a way to reach me? To connect with me? She’s the adult in this scenario.”

  “Like I said...she’s set in her ways. But if you take the first step, I know she’ll come around.”

  * * *

  I remove my camera from the bag at my feet, snatch off the lens cap and load up a new battery, taking snapshots of Dad and Violet as fast as my shutter speed will allow.

  Click-click.

  Violet smiles when Dad seems to get excited.

  Click-click-click.

  Nods when he pauses.

  Click.

  I stretch my neck to see if I can hear what Dad is talking about.

  “And boy oh boy, when Al Jarreau got on stage, you ain’t seen nothing like it.” Dad leans forward. “Helen, am I right or am I right?”

  Mom nods as she crawls through traffic like we’re in a funeral procession. “Oh, Violet, Al Jarreau was our Justin Bieber.”

  “Helen, you can’t mention Justin Bieber in the same sentence with Al Jarreau! Justin Bieber’s toe can’t compete with Al Jarreau.”

  I frown. Al Jarreau and Justin Bieber really shouldn’t be mentioned in the same sentence. I lower my camera and study Violet’s expression. She seems completely engaged. Appears to be hanging on to every word as our parents ramble incessantly about the legendary jazz musician. Could I endure a convo with Mom and Dad about Al Jarreau? Is Violet right about me? Have I not taken the time to really get to know them? Am I not invested in them? Am I the one with the problem?

  “Iceberg, right ahead.”

  My eyes shoot up. “Sorry?”

  “There’s an accident up ahead. Y’all are gonna be in traffic for hours.” The voice snorts. “Sucks to be you.”

  “Not if I can help it.” I stuff my Canon back into its bag and scoot down the aisle. Michelle is playing sudoku across from Violet and Dad. I sit beside her and lean forward.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, Indigo?”

  “There’s an accident up ahead. I think we should exit the highway and take the streets to get around it.”

  “An accident?” Mom looks over her shoulder at Dad. “Isaiah, is that true? Check Google Maps.”

  Dad checks his phone. “I’ll be. It’s about ten miles down. Looks like traffic is bad already. It’s all red on the map. Long delay, it’s sayin’.”

  Mom switches on her blinkers. “Thank you for checking that, Indigo. You saved us.”

  “A couple of hours at least.” Dad smiles at me. I smile back.

  We all sit in a peaceful silence as Mom inches off the highway and down a ramp. I clear my throat as we round a corner, crawling deeper and deeper through a quaint Idaho town with well-kept lawns, historical houses and old, rustic, redbrick office buildings.

  “You know what I really like?” I declare boldly. “Buses.”

  Dad tosses me a side eye. “What do you mean you like buses? What kind of buses?”

  “All kinds. Especially the Seattle City Bus Company. It is so on point. It’s particularly...adept at getting people around the city.”

  Dad stretches his eyes wide. “O-kay.”

  “With all the hills and stuff. Seattle is a mess. And those buses be workin’!” I slap my knee and laugh. Violet stretches her eyes as wide as Dad’s. She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. But why is she looking at me like that? I’m taking her advice! “If I wasn’t going to be a photojournalist, and travel the world, I’d definitely drive a bus like you guys did.”

  Dad twists his body so that his legs are in the aisle. “Let me get this straight. You wanna drive a bus?”

  “I mean, I think it would be cool because buses are the way of the world. Name a country. I bet there’s a bus in it.”

  “Indigo, you have got to be kidding me.” Mom looks at me through the rearview mirror. “All that money we paid for cameras and photography classes. All the research we did to get you and Violet into Silver Line, and now you want to drive a bus!”

  “Indigo, your mother and I worked hard. We sacrificed a lot to give you kids a better life. Driving a bus isn’t as glamorous as you might think.”

  “I don’t think it’s glamorous! I...don’t even want to drive a bus!”

  “Then why did you say you did?” Dad asks.

  “I dunno. Just forget it.” I take a deep breath. Yeah, that was a fail. Let’s try another, nonbus route. “I was listening to Al Jarreau this morning.”

  Michelle laughs as she flips a page in her sudoku book. “Indigo, girl, you need to stop. You were not listening to Al Jarreau.”

  “I was. And his music—” I place a hand over my chest “—it spoke to my heart. I was like...dang, this man can sing!”

  “What song was it?” Michelle smirks. “That touched you so.”

  Dad looks at me, waiting. Violet, too. Even Mom perks up.

  “It was... You know, now that I think about it, I can’t remember the name.”

  “How did it go?” Dad asks. “I know everything Jarreau.”

  “It...um...it went like... Ba-da-ba-ba-ba—”

  “I’m lovin’ it,” Michelle sings. “That’s the McDonald’s theme song, Indigo.”

  “I wasn’t done. It was like da-da-bi-di-bum-bum. And then it was melodic after that. With a crooner...harmony riff.”

  Violet stares at me, concerned. Dad smirks. Mom’s lookin’ perturbed through the rearview mirror. Michelle just shakes her head.

  “Anyway, I’m...gonna go back to my seat now.”

  I stand and rush back to my seat, slumping down so no one can see me.

  “Wow. That was crazy awkward, yo.”

  “Which part?” I put my head in my hands.

  “The whole thing really. Da-da-bi-di-bum-bum was probably the highlight.”

  “See? Admit it. I’m a mess. I suck. I can’t even have a normal conversation with my parents.”

  “Of course you can have a normal conversation. I mean, that one wasn’t normal.”

  “So embarrassing.”

  “Why didn’t you say, ‘Hey, Dad, tell me what it was like being a bus driver’? Or, ‘I heard you talking about Al Jarreau. What’s your favorite song? Play it for me.’”

  “Oh. That would’ve made more sense. See? Loser alert. I have the social skills of a four-year-old.”

  “There you go, self-deprecating again. Your name shouldn’t be Indigo. It should be Selfina Depricana.”

  “It’s not self-deprecating if it’s true.”

  “Look through the contacts on your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Fine.” I take out my phone and scroll through the contacts. “What am I looking for?”

  “Fourth name in the A section.”

  In that exact spot: Lynsey Addario. I smile at the memory of her and me chatting it up like old friends. We talked for so long, the restaurant started closing around us. The waiter finally had to politely ask us to leave. “What about her?”r />
  “She didn’t give the other two winners her number. She didn’t tell them to look her up if they were ever in New Delhi. She didn’t tell them to keep in touch. She liked you.”

  “Maybe she likes weird people.”

  “Or maybe she likes people who are awe-inspiring, formidable, impressive, wondrous and wonderful. All synonyms for awesome. Thesaurus much, Indigo?”

  “I thesaurus more than anybody. You know that.”

  “Then pick a word for loved, respected and adored by her family.”

  “Adored is a stretch. Respected is laughable. If anything, I feel like I’m letting everybody down.”

  “And how exactly are you doing that?”

  “I’m living.” I sigh. “And she’s dying.”

  “Look at Violet. Look at her right now.”

  I do. She’s laughing so hard she’s bent over. Mom and Dad crack up, too.

  “Looks like she’s the one livin’, if you ask me.”

  chapter thirteen

  I’m not sure what part of Idaho we’re in now, but the rugged hills that have been our landscape for the past few hours have morphed into full-on mountain ranges. They’re dazzling against the horizon. I opt to take a mental picture instead of reaching for my camera, soaking it all in I-R-L, as Alfred would say. To think, all this magnificent land exists for the world to enjoy. Here it is on full display and...well...not a soul in sight to bask in its glory. Aside from the cars zipping by on the highway, it’s a barren wasteland of unimaginable beauty.

  “Doesn’t bother me.”

  “Hmm.”

  “People ignoring all the amazing stuff I created. Girl, I don’t even trip.”

  “I don’t think God would necessarily be bothered. But at least annoyed. It’s like taking all seven Harry Potter books and using them as fire logs. J. K. Rowling would be majorly offended.”

  “Nah. I know Jo Jo. She ain’t like that. Jo Jo wouldn’t care if you sprinkled Harry Potter books with salt and ate them for dinner. People don’t create something great so that other people can stand over it and gawk. True greatness isn’t concerned with being admired. True greatness is great, because it’s got nothing else to be.”

  Pastor Jedidiah’s moaning and groaning interrupts my conversation with The Voice. Even though the sounds are muffled by the blanket cubicle, it’s still like nails on a chalkboard. Doesn’t seem fair that a man as nice as he is is suffering inside a den of hanging blanket torture on a stuffy paratransit bus.

  I scope out the rest of the family.

  Brandon, Nam and Drew are all playing Uno. Only instead of yelling “Uno” when they get down to one card, they shout, “Butt-meister-meister-butt.” Which... I don’t get it.

  Alfred is on his iPad. Hopefully he’s Googling schools in the Seattle area that take kids with as many learning disabilities as he’s accumulated over the years.

  Dad’s sitting in a new seat, legs stretched out, earbuds in, swaying, listening to music. I wonder who he’s listening to. Al Jarreau, I bet.

  “Maybe Al Green.”

  “Or Al Sharpton?”

  “Oh, you got jokes?”

  I laugh. “Says a voice who’s always got jokes.”

  Violet is sleeping, head pressed up against the window. Michelle sits beside her, engaged in a deep discussion about politics with Mom. Or maybe it’s an argument.

  “Mom, I don’t wanna be labeled. Why is that a bad thing? I don’t wanna fit into any political categories. I’m not completely conservative. I’m not completely liberal. I’m somewhere in between.”

  “Oh, pish tosh, Michelle. You sound like those people who get together and bang drums at the park.”

  “How do I sound like someone at a drum circle?”

  “Because a bunch of people banging drums together at a park is senseless and so is what you’re talking about. You’ve got views. Everybody’s got views. Pick a party. It’s easy.”

  “But, Mom, my views are all over the place. Not to mention, I have Native children.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “America was founded on bloodshed. I don’t want to be a part of any party.”

  “Then move to Canada, Michelle. I’m done talking about this. You’re a Democrat and we need gas. Eye of the Tiger’s running a little low.”

  Eye of the Tiger is what everyone’s been calling the Eye Mobile. I whip out Violet’s schedule from my back pocket. We’re not set to stop again for another hour. Vee won’t exactly be thrilled with another deviation. Especially since the last time we deviated from the schedule, we got held up at paintball gunpoint. The one before that, I committed a felony with a fork. But I guess Mom isn’t asking for permission to stop, since Eye of the Tiger is already moving down an off-ramp. The bus turns a corner and crawls past a Shell station.

  “Mom, why didn’t you stop there?” Michelle asks. “That was a perfectly nice gas station. It was right off the highway.”

  “I don’t do brand-name gas—you know that. The oil industry is one of the most corrupt in the world. Corporate thugs. Most of those CEOs and higher-ups should be in prison, you hear me? I stick to off-brand.”

  As we move through the small town, hundreds of locals crowd a city street that’s blocked off and lined with those metal crowd control gates.

  “What do you think’s going on here?” Alfred asks with a yawn as he sits up and gazes out the window.

  “A parade?” I say more to myself than anyone.

  “Nope. A marathon.”

  “It’s a marathon!” Nam points. “Look, Dad, I see runners!”

  Sure enough, a large group of runners are rounding a corner, approaching a finish line decorated with a high standing aluminum truss. The truss has a green-and-red sign stretched from one side of the street to the other that reads, 26-MILE WINTER FUN RUN. Family and friends, photographers, coaches, even newscasters with their camera crews in tow huddle around runners as they cross under the colorful canvas banner.

  “What’s fun about running twenty-six miles?” Brandon asks.

  “A marathon?” Violet’s waking and rubbing her eyes. “Where?”

  Mom pulls into a local gas station right across the street from the action, and everyone rushes to the windows to peek out, observing as the next group of runners approaches.

  “I’ve always wanted to run in a marathon.” Violet yawns as she stares dreamily out the window. “Crossing a marathon finish line is one of my dreams.”

  It’s true. As if Violet couldn’t find more ways to be different from me, she had to go and take up running and biking as extracurricular activities. She was actually planning to register for the Seattle Marathon before she got sick. I watch as more runners cross under the banner. Their exhausted excitement is infectious. I wouldn’t run a marathon if somebody paid me, but crossing a finish line would be amazing...

  “You know, y’all are pretty dang close. If Violet wants to cross a finish line...let her cross it.”

  We are close to the actual finish line. If we jumped over the barrier, it would be only about a hundred yards before we “finished” the race.

  “But wouldn’t that be against the rules?”

  “Geez luss, Indi-Pindy. Rules are made up. You don’t actually have to follow them. Everybody knows that.”

  I stand. “Cross this one, Violet! You can’t run a marathon, but you can certainly cross a finish line.”

  Everyone turns to me. I expect bewildered and confused looks, like the way my family typically looks at me, but this time, their expressions are receiving the words that are coming out of my mouth. Even Pastor Jedidiah’s blanket tent parts, and he peeks his head out to nod in agreement.

  “Yeah!” Nam squeals. “Cross this one, Auntie!”

  “But...” Violet covers her mouth as she coughs. “I’m not...registered. Couldn’t we get i
n trouble?”

  “How so?” Alfred asks. “Ever heard of somebody gettin’ arrested ’cuz they snuck into a marathon?”

  “No duh, no one’s ever heard of that, Uncle Alfred,” Brandon chides him. “Because no one sneaks into marathons.”

  Violet peers out the window. “I can’t do it. It’s...too many people. Plus, I don’t see any wheelchairs. Mine...would be in the way.”

  “Alfred and I can carry you,” Drew offers.

  Alfred cracks his knuckles. “Yeah, man. I can do that, for sure, for sure.”

  Violet claps her hands together. “Really? Mom, Dad...can I do it?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Mom says.

  “Yeah,” Dad agrees. “Do it. Have some fun, honey. You’ve earned it.”

  Violet coughs into her sleeve for a long moment before clapping her hands together excitedly.

  I know her coughing is “normal.” I mean, I guess it is. I know that if I asked her if she’s okay, she’d probably get annoyed. But the coughing does not sound good. It must be worrying for Michelle too, because she says, “I dunno, Vee. Let me check a few things. You coughin’ a lot. I think you need to rest.” Michelle reaches under the seat to retrieve one of her medical bags.

  “Michelle, I’m going to be carried across a finish line. You don’t need to check my vitals for that.”

  “I’m not checking your vitals. I’m making sure your blood is getting enough oxygen. In other words, doing my job. If you’re fine, you’re fine, and all is well.”

  Violet taps her feet while Michelle places a sensor on her finger, watching a screen on a tiny medical device that looks like a cross between a tablet and a walkie-talkie.

  When I peek back out the window, a female runner with a long blond ponytail catches my eye. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a giant pink ribbon attached to the back. I grab my camera and zoom in as she runs into the arms of a man. They embrace and kiss. Lettering underneath the ribbon on her shirt reads, “I run because I lived.”

  Click-click.

  That will be Violet and me someday. She’ll be finishing a race she ran the whole way through. I’ll be waiting, cheering her on. Because she will live. She will.