The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asks.

  I turn my attention back to the family.

  “Oxygen saturation levels are low,” Michelle replies. “Not good.”

  “It’s because I’m excited!” Violet takes off the sensor and hands it to Michelle.

  Michelle shakes her head. “Low O2 is not caused by excitement, Violet. O2 sat was above ninety this morning. Now it’s dipped drastically. Let me increase the amount of oxygen.”

  “Good God, Michelle,” Violet snaps. “If you want to be a doctor so bad maybe you should’ve went to medical school.”

  Whoa. Alfred and I exchange befuddled looks. Violet acting...mean?

  Michelle winces. You can tell she’s a bit stung by Violet’s strange temper since Violet never snaps at anyone, especially Michelle. But despite being visibly wounded, Michelle stands her ground. “I need to increase your oxygen. It’s not a question.”

  Violet groans while Michelle fiddles with the gauge on her oxygen tank.

  “I’m about to fulfill a lifelong dream. I’m gonna finish a marathon and you’re being crazy paranoid.”

  “It’s not finishing if you’re cheating,” Brandon cuts in.

  “She’s not cheating, Brandon.” Jedidiah’s head is still peeking through the hanging blankets, face red, forehead slick with sweat, looking like all the Spirit guides he chats with have left the building for sure. “She’s been running this race for a long time. It’s about time she crossed the finish line.”

  “See? Thank you, Pastor.” Michelle finishes with the tank and Violet slides into her leather Frye boots. “Very well said.”

  Jedidiah whimpers in pain and disappears behind the blankets once again.

  I step into the aisle and sling my camera over my shoulder.

  “I’m not trying to rain on Violet’s parade or anything,” Michelle explains. “I’m really not. But my advice is that she rest and let’s see how the increase in oxygen affects the O2 sat.” She places a hand on Violet’s knee. “You need to relax. I think the trip’s taken its toll on you.”

  “Drew, you sure you and Alfred can carry me across the finish line?” Violet’s using a new tactic to completely ignore Michelle.

  Drew flexes his nonexistent muscles. “Sis, you weigh about a hundred pounds. I bench-press that in my sleep.”

  I look at Drew’s belly, slightly protruding over his black jeans, his pale, skinny arms poking through his Star Wars T-shirt. The only things Drew bench-presses are Seattle’s Top Pot doughnuts. Or maybe he does biceps curls with them, lifting apple fritters into his mouth while he stares at his computer screen.

  “Oh, yeah, Vee. We got you. You good.” Now Alfred’s flexing his nonexistent muscles. At six-one, Alfred might be tall, but he’s only about a hundred thirty pounds. Between the two of them, Violet might be in better hands if Brandon and Nam carried her across the finish line.

  “Hop on.” Drew steps in front of Michelle so Violet can climb onto his back.

  As Mom pulls the lever to open the doors, Michelle throws her hands up, giving in to Violet the way she always does. “Y’all be careful. Get my sister back in one piece, please.”

  “As opposed to bringing her back in pieces?” Alfred grins.

  Drew moves down the stairs and we all follow.

  I hop onto the pavement and let warm rays of sun soak deep into my skin, stretching out my legs, observing the festivities through the lens of my camera. The crowd control gates are set up on both sides of the street, providing the runners with a safe and clear path to the finish line.

  Click-click.

  “I’ll fill ’er up, hon.” Dad moves to the pump.

  “And I’ll take the boys to the bathroom.” Mom turns to Brandon and Nam. “You boys need to tinkle?”

  “Grandma, I’m not three.” Nam rolls his eyes.

  Mom places a hand on her hip. “Next time, I’ll ask if you need to urinate. Or how about this? Do you and Brandon need to have a bowel movement or defecate?”

  Alfred laughs. “Do you and Brandon need to excrete fecal matter through your air-locked buttholes?”

  Dad elbows Alfred. “Alfred, manners, son.”

  “You want me to come with you guys?” Michelle seems to be making one last-ditch effort to reach Violet. “I can supervise.”

  I cringe, imagining Michelle at the finish line checking Violet’s blood pressure and running diagnostic tests.

  “No.” Violet wraps her arms tightly around Drew’s shoulders. “It’s a silly wish of mine.” She waves as Drew takes off toward the race. “Take a break, Chelle!”

  “Yeah. We got her. We’ll take good care of her.” Alfred’s walking backward, slathering on ChapStick. His lips look like he just ate a bucket of greasy fried chicken from Fat’s Chicken and Waffles.

  “Alfred,” I start. “Walking backward like that, you’re gonna—”

  He trips over the curb and tumbles onto the street.

  “Yep.” I nod. “You’re gonna do that.”

  “Alfred, boy, you can barely walk forward!” Dad bellows. “Make better choices, son.”

  He shoots up off the ground. “I’m okay, everybody!”

  I follow after them, the roar of the crowd energizing our simple sojourn. Up ahead, rows and rows of spectators are lined around the gates that block off the street. I’m not confident we’ll be able to push through to the front.

  “Don’t worry,” Alfred says as if reading my mind. He cracks his knuckles. “I got this.” He steps in front of us and taps a lady on her shoulder.

  She turns. “Yeah?”

  “Are black widow spiders the ones that are poisonous?”

  She shrugs. “I dunno. Why?”

  “Because,” Alfred explains, “I saw one crawling in your hair.”

  “What?” she screams, shaking her long chestnut-brown tresses wildly. “Spider!”

  “Where?” The friend beside her screams, too.

  “Help me!” The lady drops to her knees and the crowd parts to make room for her tantrum.

  Alfred looks back at me and pops an imaginary collar.

  “Clever,” I whisper as I step around the screeching woman, throwing her hair back and forth like a headbanger at a rock concert.

  Thanks to Alfred’s blatant lie, there is now a clear path and we easily make it to the front. Drew’s face is a little red and, yeah, he does look a bit winded with Violet on his back, but he doesn’t complain. Taking one for the team. He’s such a good brother-in-law. I’m gonna miss him. Or maybe we can keep him and send Michelle away after their divorce.

  Click-click.

  I snap shots of Violet and Drew.

  “What do we do now?” You can barely hear Violet’s tiny, winded voice over the roar of the crowd.

  Alfred hops over the barricade.

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” someone yells.

  “Funny, ’cuz I just did.” Alfred taps his shoulders. “Hop on, Violet.”

  Violet stretches out her arms and Drew carefully guides her over the barrier and onto Alfred’s back. A few people stare, but now that Violet is involved, no one else says a word. There’s something that happens when people observe a young person wearing a cannula with an oxygen tank strapped to their back. They dare not ask questions. You could be doing the Milly Rock at a baby christening. They wouldn’t even look twice. Perhaps they figure if you need a travel pack of oxygen to get through the day, the least they can do is get the hell out of your way and let you do whatever you want.

  Click-click.

  Drew jumps over the crowd control gate.

  I peek down the runners’ path. The end is only about a hundred yards away. It’s the perfect distance for a hijacked marathon dash for the finish line. Violet wraps one arm around Drew, another around Alfred, and they each hold one of her legs.

  “Ind
igo...look at us.” Violet laughs. “We’re six-legged racers.”

  Click-click.

  “Ready, set, go!” I cry. “Go, go, go!”

  Drew and Alfred take off as fast as they can walk, what with each being responsible for one half of Violet. She throws her head back. Her expression is a mixture of exhilaration, poise and confidence: basically Violet in a nutshell.

  Click-click.

  “Giddy up, boys!” She squeezes their shoulders.

  I shuffle along the barrier gate, sneaking through openings in the crowd, following as they move Violet toward her goal.

  “Excuse you!” a lady says as I ram into her. She protectively pulls a small child out of my way.

  “I’m so sorry.” And I am. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t miss this moment ’cuz I’m trying to be polite to strangers. I push past her and her kid, keeping my focus on Violet. She’s radiant.

  Click-click.

  Drew holds up one of his hands in victory.

  Click-click.

  “You can do it, you guys!” I call out.

  Click-click.

  They’re inches from the finish line. I’m snapping pictures so quickly, I worry I might run out of memory on this card. But I can’t stop to check. Capturing this for Violet is everything. In Lynsey Addario’s book, she said that when she’s taking pictures, she’s doing her work. And when she’s doing her work she is alive. “‘I’m sure there are other versions of happiness,’” I whisper, staring at them through the lens of my camera while quoting my favorite excerpt from Lynsey’s book. “‘But this one is mine.’”

  They’re now inches from the finish line.

  Click-click-click-click.

  “Go, Violet!” I scream, scooting in front of another group of annoyed people. “Sorry. Excuse me.”

  Click-click.

  I’m certain I’m imagining it, but the roar of the crowd seems to intensify when they move under the canvas banner and step onto bold painted letters that say FINISH. Or maybe I’m not imagining it. Perhaps the roar of the crowd is louder. The sky certainly seems bluer. The sun...shinier. Maybe on some level, the entire universe understands how important this is to Violet, and every atom, molecule and ion has awakened to cheer her on, too.

  Click-click-click.

  Drew and Alfred raise Violet’s hands in the air. She turns to me. “We did it!”

  “I know!” My eyes well with tears. “You did it, Violet!”

  “Woot-woot!” She pumps her fist.

  They move away from the path of oncoming runners to a patch of grass beside the sidewalk. I rush to meet them as they gently set Violet down on her feet.

  “That was crazy!” Alfred exclaims excitedly.

  “Such a high,” Drew agrees, running a hand through his hair. “Much easier on my back than running the whole marathon.”

  “We set a world record!” Alfred offers. “First six-legged racers to cross a finish line in a marathon they didn’t actually run.”

  Violet coughs. “We were the best...six-legged racers ever! You two are my new heroes.”

  I scroll through the photos on my camera, each one more vivid than the one before. Such light and life on Violet’s face. Something I haven’t seen in so long. Something I haven’t captured...ever...to be honest. I’m always trying so hard to be as good as Violet when it comes to taking photographs that tell a story. It’s not often I’ve looked at her through the lens of my camera. It’s like seeing...

  “You?”

  I look up at the sky.

  “It’s like seeing you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” I smile. “I guess you’re right. Like an extension of me, for sure.”

  When I lift the camera to take a few more shots, Violet’s coughing pretty violently again.

  “Vee? You good?” I can’t help myself. I just need her to say, I’m fine. She can even yell at me like she did Michelle. Anything to calm my nerves. Something doesn’t feel right. Only she doesn’t yell in reply. She only looks at me, her eyes narrowed in confusion. I take a step forward. “Violet?”

  “Where am I?” she asks as she methodically rubs her chest.

  “You’re joking, right?” Alfred and I exchange worried looks.

  Violet looks around, eyes still narrowed in confusion. “Seriously! Where am I?”

  Her speech seems slurred.

  “Indigo, go get Michelle. Hurry.”

  I’ve never heard The Voice sound anything but relaxed...almost taunting. Like he’s on a perpetual quest to fuck with me, rather than actually guide and assist. But this time, The Voice sounds serious.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me!” Violet screams as she turns to Drew. “Don’t touch me, man!”

  “Indigo, go get Michelle! Now!”

  It happens so suddenly, I jerk back in response. Violet clutches at her chest and falls to her knees, pulling at her shirt like she’s trying to rip it off.

  “Violet?” Alfred kneels beside her.

  She pounds her fists into the grass, chest heaving, thrashing her head around like she’s got rabies.

  “Indigo, get Michelle!” Drew scoops her up. “Go!”

  In my entire life, I’ve never run so fast. My camera bounces against my chest as I race across the pavement. “Michelle!!!” I scream. “Michelle!”

  Michelle is coming out of the convenience store with Brandon and Nam. When she sees me, she literally drops the plastic bag she’s holding in her hands. The sound of glass bottles breaking on the hard concrete rings louder than the noise of the marathon.

  “Where is she?” Michelle cries.

  I turn and point. Drew is approaching, expression pained, racing with Violet in his arms, trying his hardest to keep a good hold on her as she continues to flail about.

  “Jesus! Get her on the bus!” Michelle exclaims. “Hurry!”

  Drew rushes up the stairs with Michelle and me at his heels. He lays Violet across a pair of seats and swiftly steps out of the way. Mom, Dad and the boys climb onto the bus.

  “What’s happening?” Mom screams.

  Pastor Jedidiah scoots down the aisle. “Is she okay?”

  “She will be.” Michelle grabs a medical bag. “I want everyone off this bus except Mom and Indigo!”

  Michelle means business and the family knows it. Dad assists Pastor as everyone disembarks, leaving us three girls alone.

  “Indigo, grab her feet. Mom, you grab her hands.”

  Violet’s body is convulsing. She’s using her fist to pound on the seat. Kicking her legs and tossing her head about like a scene out of The Exorcist.

  I clutch on to her legs, but I barely have enough strength to contain her—she’s freakishly strong in this moment.

  “What’s happening, Michelle?” Mom wails.

  “She’s hypoxic.” Michelle takes scissors and cuts Violet’s T-shirt down the middle, exposing her chest. “It means her body isn’t getting enough oxygen.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom replies.

  “I’m mostly sure.” Now Michelle holds a needle in one hand; with the other hand she uses her fingers to push around on Violet’s chest. “But I like to cover all bases.”

  “What’s that?” Mom cries.

  “If she’s not hypoxic, her throat’s closed and she can’t breathe.” Michelle thrusts the needle into the spot where her fingers rest on Violet’s chest. Violet’s body jerks in response.

  “Indigo,” Michelle says sternly. “In my suitcase, under the seat, grab my other medical bag. Hurry up!”

  I rush to the suitcase and easily spot the red medical bag. I grab it and push it forward, observing as all that Michelle is not gets pushed to the side to present all that she is—and that’s one hell of a nurse. When Michelle works, she’s like a machine. She’s precise, her attention
to detail like nothing I’ve ever seen. Her focus overpowers her emotions. She’s in tune, rapt and determined to carry out her mission. And her mission in this moment is clear: keep Violet alive. She places a face mask over Violet’s mouth and nose and pushes a button on a portable machine that revs up as loud as a motorcycle engine. As a vapor emits from the mask, Violet begins to calm. Her body seems to relax. Fists unclench. The color slowly returns to her face.

  “Mom.” Michelle wipes her forehead, dripping with sweat at this point. “I need you to set the timer on your phone.”

  “Timer? I don’t know where—”

  “Forget it! Indigo, start the damn stopwatch. Hurry.”

  I whip out my phone and press the buttons to start the stopwatch app. The seconds fly past on the screen. “It’s going.”

  Michelle preps another needle, carefully inserting it into Violet’s arm. I recognize this one, as I had something like it protruding from my arm not too long ago in the hospital. Michelle connects tubing to an IV bag. She stands, handing the bag to Mom. “Hold this.”

  Mom holds it as high as she can while Michelle studies numbers on a device now connected to Violet’s finger. After a few moments, she exhales with relief. “Stop the time, Indigo.”

  I press the red button on the screen to stop my phone timer.

  “What’s it say?” Michelle asks fearfully.

  My hands are trembling. “Fifty-three seconds.”

  “We need to get her to a hospital. Mom, call for an ambulance.”

  Violet’s eyes are open but she seems far away, staring up at the ceiling of the bus like she’s not exactly in her body. “No,” she whispers through her plastic mask. “I won’t go.”

  The machine that’s emitting the vapor seems to churn and percolate like a defunct coffeepot. Michelle turns to Mom.

  “Her sat measurement was reading under eighty-five for at least fifty-three seconds. God only knows when it started. Too much time has passed. Hypoxemia longer than a minute is dangerous. Deadly. Other organs can start shutting down. She needs more than what I can offer on this bus.”

  “An ambulance?” Mom is full-on hysterically sobbing. “But maybe she’s okay now.”