The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  “But Mom said you were trying to take a picture for me.”

  “Lies. I was planning to jump but then I chickened out and fell on accident. I wanted to die, too.”

  “Indigo? I don’t understand.”

  “It was to even the playing field! To right this terrible wrong. You shouldn’t be dying. It should be me. I know that’s what you were going to say and it’s okay. I’m not mad at you for thinking it.”

  “Indigo, that’s not what I was going to say. Are you insane? You think I want you to die?”

  “If there was a choice to be made. Yeah.”

  “Indigo?” She pauses to take a deep breath. “Why do you think I work so hard to be better than you?”

  My eyes squint in confusion. “You don’t. You’re just better.”

  “You’re wrong. I study all day and night. Take extra classes. Read massive amounts of books...and all you do is lift your camera, and click-click, it’s perfect. You intuitively know. You don’t have to work at being brilliant. I do.”

  “I’m not brilliant.”

  She laughs again. “Indigo. You are.”

  “But you get better grades than me.”

  “That’s because I study. You never crack open a book. If this trip...were under different circumstances...and... I saw you capture the night sky so vividly the way you just did...wanna know what I would have done? I would...have found a class online or...somewhere. I would have learned how to take a better photo of the sky than you.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe it, Indigo. You always think I’m one step ahead of you. But the truth is... I...always worked hard to catch up. You’re the leader. You always have been.”

  I hear the words she’s saying. But they’re not quite sinking in. Me? The leader? Impossible.

  “If there was a choice, Indigo, I don’t think either one of us should die.”

  “Then why were you going to kill yourself?”

  “Indigo, death with dignity isn’t suicide. It’s physician-assisted dying.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  She takes another pained breath. “If you were in pain...and a doctor had medicine that could end your suffering...wouldn’t you want to take it?”

  I lean my head back on the patio chair and study the thousands of stars I can see lighting the night sky. All those suns in faraway galaxies. Suns whose light will someday dim. What a waste. “I do get what you’re saying, Vee. I guess I just believe in waiting on miracles.”

  “Me too, Indigo. Why do you think I’m here? Because when you told me about the voice...suddenly living...seemed like the best idea ever.”

  “So you do want to live?”

  “Of course I do.” She starts to cry again. “It would’ve been so unfair. With so much space between us. I was gonna die.”

  She was gonna die. Without a proper goodbye. With us more disconnected than we’ve ever been. “I’m sorry I’m living and you’re dying. Violet, I would give anything to switch places with you. You know I would.”

  Tears spill onto her lap. She pulls the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her hands in her delicate Violet way. “But would I do the same for you? You’re so selfless. I have always envied you.” She turns to me. “That’s what I was going to say. Not that I wish you were the one dying. But that... I’d give anything to be just like you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Her words leave me speechless.

  “Promise me something. If this doesn’t work out and—”

  I shake my head. “No. This will work out. You’re going to live and we’re going to have our whole lives together. We’re gonna travel the world. Me and you, Vee.”

  “But...if something should ever happen to me, I want one thing from you. One promise.”

  “Anything,” I whisper.

  “Forgive me.”

  The door to the back patio slides open and Mom sticks her head out. “You girls come eat because Nam and Bran are snarfin’ down pizza slices faster than I can blink. Better hurry before it’s all gone and nothing’s left but rabbit stew.” Mom gasps. “Look at that.” She points.

  The herd of wild horses race back across the plain. Violet grabs my camera off her lap, fidgets with the settings and takes a few quick snapshots of the animals. She stops to scroll through the photos. “Ahh, it’s too dark. And they’re moving so fast. You can’t really see the detail.”

  “Try setting the shutter speed to freeze motion.”

  Violet makes the adjustment.

  “It’s better if you’re moving with the camera,” I add. “But if you blur it, you might get something cool.”

  Click-click-click-click.

  Violet reviews her photos. “Ahh, so nice.” She hands the camera to Mom. “Look at these, Mom. Indigo was right.”

  Mom looks at the pictures over Violet’s shoulder and nods. “Stunning, Violet. You’re an amazing photographer.” She squeezes her shoulder. “You two come eat. I’m heading back in. It’s freezing out here. Violet, you’ll catch pneumonia. You don’t even have a coat on.”

  She moves back into the house, sliding the patio door shut with a soft click.

  “See that?” I say, when I’m sure she’s out of earshot. “She said that to get to me.”

  “Said what?”

  “‘Violet, you’re an amazing photographer.’ I mean, you are. But that was a dig. Trust me.”

  “Mom may be set in her ways, but she’s not...diabolical. She doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  “I think she does.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her? Tell her how you feel.”

  “Right. How would that conversation go? ‘Hey, Mom, I think you secretly hate me and wish I was the one dying.’”

  “Indigo.”

  “You know it’s true. If she could make a deal with the devil she would, and I’d be the one in that wheelchair.”

  “I disagree. I think Mom...is afraid of you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s...not equipped to be Lynsey Addario’s mom. She doesn’t think she’s good enough. Your destiny...it scares her.”

  “She told you that?”

  “No. I just...know.”

  “But we have the same destiny. Why doesn’t your destiny scare her, too?”

  “Because you’re the leader, that’s why.” Violet shivers. “It’s cold. I’d like to go in...if you don’t mind. That okay, Indigo?”

  “Don’t mind at all, sis.”

  I stand, slide open the patio door and push her back inside.

  chapter fifteen

  Michelle was right. Night shift with Violet is rough. It’s beyond rough. It’s indescribable. To think this has been Michelle’s life each and every night. How could I not have known?

  If Violet’s not throwing up, she’s crying out in pain. If she’s not crying in pain, she’s shivering from chills. I massage her legs. I wipe her head. Rub her temples to ease her migraine. Sing to her. Read her books I download on my phone. In between tending to her, I try to sleep. But the sleep isn’t deep and doesn’t last for long. Violet is always in need.

  “Doesn’t seem fair,” Violet whispers to me while I slather Chestix Rub on her frail back. “That so many people in the world are suffering. It’s the same moon, but one man dances under it, another man dies. It’s the same day, but one girl hugs her loved ones so tight. Another girl has no one to hold. She is all alone.”

  “Yeah,” I say softly as she drifts back to sleep. “Doesn’t seem fair at all.”

  In addition to the swelling in Violet’s legs, her belly is swollen, too. She looks like she’s as pregnant as Michelle. I know I should take the five steps to Michelle’s room. Ask for help. But Violet is adamant:

  “It’s nothing a sweatshirt can’t hide,” Violet murmurs as the digital clock on
the nightstand switches to 3:00 a.m.

  A sweatshirt can cover up her swollen abdomen. Sweatpants can hide her swollen legs. But the little O2 sat monitor Michelle taught me to use won’t lie. And thankfully the number hasn’t dipped again.

  I watch Violet’s chest heave up and down as she drifts into a deep sleep for the first time all night. I decide to shower and get dressed for the hike. We need to be loaded up on the bus in an hour to make the long drive to the station in Kanab. I write a note and tape it to the wall across from the bed, telling Violet to text me if she wakes and needs anything. But I hope she doesn’t wake soon. I hope she sleeps. She needs it.

  * * *

  I’m munching on cold pizza in the dark kitchen when the lights are flipped on and Mom enters. She’s dressed in jeans, sneakers and a black sweater. Judging by how red her eyes are, she looks like she may have pulled an all-nighter as well.

  “Good morning, Indigo,” Mom says with a yawn as she peels off the lid from the canister of coffee on the counter and scoops it into a small coffeepot. “You want some coffee?”

  “Sure. I’ll take some.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes. I slept good,” I lie.

  “I’m glad somebody slept.” She pours bottled water into the pot and presses a button on the base. “Your father and I are in a room dedicated to the Great Depression. Giant photo, right in front of the bed—a line of malnourished children waiting for food at a soup kitchen or...ration coupons. I don’t know. It looks sad, though.” Mom sits across the table from me as the machine starts to percolate and the strong scent of coffee warms the chill in the drafty kitchen. “Pastor says he’s good to drive today. Think I’ll have him take us through a drive-through for breakfast.”

  I take another bite of pizza. The cheese has almost solidified since it’s been sitting in the fridge, so my jaw is throbbing from having to chew so hard.

  “What’s going on with your hair today, Indigo? I swear you make a point for it to look bad.”

  I zip up my dark blue Lucky Jeans hoodie. “It’s pulled up into a bun. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Did you use gel? It’s all fuzzy. The trick is to use hairpins. Wrap it around, hairpin, repeat. And then you need to slick down the baby hairs with that Eco styling gel I bought you so it doesn’t look all nappy around the edges.”

  “Mom, nobody says nappy anymore. It’s like calling Asian people Oriental. I know you slept in a Great Depression room but it’s not the Great Depression. We’ve evolved. Nappy is dead.”

  Mom cocks her head to the side. “Are you getting smart with me, Indigo Phillips? I don’t care if you are hearing the voice of God. Show me respect.”

  I extract a pepperoni from underneath hardened cheese. “Right. Sorry. I’ll remember to gel my nappy edges. Thanks for those wise words. Namaste.”

  Mom leans across the table and says pointedly, “I feel like I can’t win with you.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious. You always have an attitude.”

  “You told me my hair looked a mess and I need to gel my nappy edges and it’s not even 4:00 a.m.”

  “So?”

  “So, Mom, that’s rude. I’m sorry but I do have an attitude when someone insults me.”

  “I’m not insulting you, Indi. I’m trying to help you. Don’t you want to get a boyfriend?”

  “Here? In Hodell?”

  “At some point. You’ve never had one. Are you gay?”

  I stuff the pepperoni in my mouth and swallow. Not only is it tasteless, it lands in my stomach like a stack of hot stones. Heartburn rushes up my chest. I try to swallow it away. “No, Mother. I’m not gay.”

  “’Cuz if you were, I’d be okay with it. Your father and I—”

  “I’m not gay!” I stand.

  “Jesus, Indigo. Calm down. You’ll wake up the whole house.”

  “Considering we need to go soon, that’s a good thing.” I slam down into my seat.

  Mom folds her arms across her chest. “Is there something bothering you, Indigo? Something you need to talk to me about?”

  “Yeah. Now that you mention it. You could’ve turned off Game of Thrones.”

  “What on Earth?”

  “That day I told you about the photography award. You could’ve read my article and looked at my photo.”

  “I read that article.”

  “You could’ve read it then.” My eyes well with tears. “You could’ve hugged me, told me I did a good job. Why didn’t you? Why don’t you?”

  “Why don’t I what?”

  “Hug me.”

  “Indigo, you have got to be kidding me.” Mom rubs both temples, something she does when she’s trying hard to ward off a screech-and-scream. “Is this a plea for help because you’re not hugged enough?”

  “No. I guess I sometimes feel like you don’t like me.”

  Mom’s silent. In fact, it’s the first time I’ve actually observed her speechless.

  “You like Violet. That’s obvious. And I know you love all of us. But you act like you don’t like me.”

  Another long moment of silence passes before she says, “You honestly feel that way?”

  I nod.

  “Indigo Phillips.” Mom leans back in her chair. “Of course I like you.”

  I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt. “It doesn’t show.”

  Mom nods in understanding and we sit in yet another awkward silence. This one lasts for a minute or two. Finally she speaks.

  “What can I do to be better, Indigo? What can I do so you know I like you?”

  What can she do? She can hug me. Say nice things about me. Show more interest in the things I like. Look at me the way she looks at Violet—with adoration and respect. But I only shrug in response and mumble, “I dunno, Mom.” Because for some reason I feel like it should come from her. Telling my mom ways she can show me love would be like going to see a comedy show and explaining to the comedian all the ways he or she can make you laugh. It wouldn’t be the same.

  Mom stands, moves to the counter and pours coffee into two mugs. Both are decorated with Jacqueline Kennedy’s face. She takes a sip from one of the cups and sighs. “When I was eight years old,” Mom starts, her back still to me, “my mom decided parenting was overrated, I suppose. She checked out and checked in to the local taverns around town. I was home alone. A lot. I slept in the hall closet because I’d be so afraid.” She finally turns around. Her eyes are red and welling with tears. “In the mornings I’d dig in the dirty clothes hamper for clothes to wear to school. I wasn’t clean. I smelled. The teachers at my school thought I was nothing. Just some wayward, dirty, smelly black kid who wasn’t gonna amount to much of nothing. Hardly ever ate a good meal. If I was thirsty, there was water from the sink or a fridge full of beer. On the rare occasion Mama did come home, all she did was rage and hit me.” Tears spill down her cheeks. Tears spill down mine as well. I wipe them away as she moves to take the seat across from me once again. She slides the other Jacqueline Kennedy cup across the table. I grip on to it like it’s a security blanket, barely bothered that the heat from the porcelain is almost burning my fingertips.

  “I hated being alone. But I wasn’t sure which was worse. Being alone or being with her. I promised myself if I ever made it out of that house alive and had kids of my own I would be there. I would really be there.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee. Her hands visibly shaking. “I put a roof over your head. I keep you in nice clothes, eating good food. My life has been about nothing but you. About all my kids.”

  “But, Mom—”

  She holds out a hand to silence me. “I’m trying my hardest to wrap my mind around Violet’s illness. You say you’re talking to God? I talk to him all the damn time. And every day I wake up to the same situation, so what does that tell you? Nothing ever changes. I
n fact, it gets worse. Every day she’s lost more weight. Or something else has gone wrong. I hear her crying out in the night. I know she’s in pain and there’s nothing I can do to fix it.” Mom sobs. “The reality is—” more tears spill down her cheeks “—I may have to bury my child. And that is the worst pain for a parent. So I’m sorry if I don’t have the answers you seek right now. All I can say is that I do love you. I do like you. I care. God knows I care. You talk to him, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well then, ask him and he’ll tell you.” She stands, pushes her chair in, tries to steady her shaking hands as she holds on tight to the former first lady’s face. “I’m here, aren’t I, Indigo?”

  Her cheeks are soaked with tears. Her eyes red and pained. Making your mom cry has got to make you eligible for some sort of corporal punishment. “Please don’t cry, Mom. I’m sorry I even brought it up.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Indigo. Just know that I’m here. I’m here. That’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it? Please, let it count for something.”

  “It counts, Mom.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She exits the kitchen.

  * * *

  When I move back into the bedroom, Violet is sitting on the edge of the bed, her nightgown sticking to her skin from sweat.

  “You okay, sis?”

  “I’m good.”

  She doesn’t sound good. Her voice is strained and groggy and she’s coughing a lot. Somehow she looks frailer than the night before. Her sunken cheeks now present a ghastly shadow. If death had a face...it would be Violet’s.

  “Indi, can you help me to the bathroom?”

  I help her up. When she stands, there are deep red bloodstains on the white bedsheets.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” She turns and sees the blood. “Oh, no.”

  Our cycles have been synced our entire teenage life. It’s not that time of the month for me. “Is it that time of the month for you?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  “Um...okay...don’t worry,” I say even though I’m worried. I rush to her wheelchair and push it forward. “Have a seat. Maybe your cycle came early. That’s all.”