The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  I can hear someone calling my name. Screaming for me. Maybe it’s Drew. Perhaps it’s Clint. I wave goodbye to my reflection and somehow it seems as if Violet waves back, urging me along. Blessing my simple sojourn. I shuffle past the water, traveling through the crevices, deeper and deeper into the twists and turns of the Wave.

  “Indigo...”

  “Yes...” I reply softly.

  “They’re looking for you.”

  “I know.” My fingertips slide across swirling rings of color. There are so many working together to create this miraculous masterpiece: red, brown, orange, white, yellow...even a little violet. Yes. I can see violet, too. “You said if I brought her here she would live.”

  “I said that. Yeah.”

  “You were right. She lived. She really did.” I stop walking and close my eyes. And suddenly I’m transported. Back to Seattle. Back to the top of the old industrial warehouse. Holding on to the rusted scaffolding in the dead of night. The icy rain beating down on me. The wind roaring. My fingertips burning from cold as I hold on. The anguish. The hurt. The complete desperation. Tears slide down my cheeks. Being up on that building never really was about dying for me. I can see that now.

  “Then what was it about?”

  I open my eyes. The details of that nearly fateful night seem to float away like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind. Impossible to hold on to while the brilliant Wave spirals and coils around, as if welcoming me into a new dimension—or I’m falling deep down into the rabbit hole at last. “Didn’t I tell you not to read my thoughts?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Right. Because you’re God?”

  “Right. Because I am God. I am.”

  “Not just the voice in my head?”

  “Well...” The Voice pauses. “Maybe they’re one and the same.”

  “Yeah.” I glide my hand along the striped sandstone as I continue on. “Maybe they are.”

  “It’s your turn now.”

  “My turn?”

  “To live.”

  I think back to what Violet said last night at the Airbnb. Doesn’t seem fair. It’s the same moon, but one man dances under it, another man dies.

  She’s right. It doesn’t seem fair. And yet the fact remains. For every one who dies...there is another who lives on.

  “My turn, huh?”

  “But you have to want it. You have to want to live.”

  “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. You’re here.”

  “That’s gotta count for something. Please, let it count for something.”

  “It counts, Indigo.”

  “Glad to hear it.” I round a corner. The rocks bend with me, beckoning me even farther. I raise my arms and point my face toward the sky as if I am a bird, ready to catch a passing breeze...spread her wings...and fly.

  * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now by Dana L. Davis.

  Acknowledgments

  Before I give my sincere thanks to all the amazing people who deserve it, I’d like to point out a few things.

  Nathaxopril is not a real drug.

  Hodell is not a real city.

  Neither is Urlington.

  In addition, I took some creative liberties with the Wave lottery process. In real life, should you be lucky enough to win walk-in lottery permits, you have to wait until the following day to use them.

  Okay. Now that we’ve got all that technical stuff out of the way.

  This book is about family. So I’d like to start my acknowledgments by thanking mine.

  Mom. I have so many stories inside of me, and you have always encouraged me to pursue my passions and follow my dreams. And when those dreams seemed impossible...you encouraged me to dream even bigger. Thank you.

  Thank you, Dad—my fellow Libra and kindred Spirit. My siblings. James, Shona, Adaryl and Tammy. My nephew and niece, Michael and Kiara. And of course my daughter/best friend, Cameron. Thank you ALL for believing in my writing and loving me unconditionally.

  I’d like to thank my oh so amazing team of editors: T. S. Ferguson, Natashya Wilson, Libby Sternberg and Jennifer Stimson. Thank you for believing in this story and for all the hard work you put in to make it sparkle and shine. Extra special thanks to T. S. Ferguson and Natashya Wilson for guidance I’ve grown to depend on.

  My awesome agents at Triada US. Dr. Uwe Stender, Brent Taylor, Lauren Spieller and Laura Crockett. Extra special thanks to Dr. Uwe Stender, who works harder than anyone I know. And never gives up fighting for what he believes in.

  Thank you Laura Gianino and Linette Kim for all the hard work you do. I appreciate you both. And Carmen Price, nurse extraordinaire, for offering your guidance and medical expertise. The early drafts depended on you. All mistakes my own.

  My beautiful beta readers: Kevyn Richmond, Sarah Skilton, Ravyn not Raven Willuweit and Michael Willuweit. Additional thanks to Michael Willuweit—for your beautiful additions to the discussion questions

  Also big thanks to my cover design team, Erin Craig and Elita Sidiropoulou. In addition, big thanks to Tiffany Jackson, Adi Alsaid and Nancy Richardson Fischer. I admire and respect your work so very much. So to have you endorse mine? It brings tears to my eyes. Thank you so much.

  A heartfelt thanks to the family of Brittany Maynard and to her widow, Dan Diaz. Thank you all for being so passionate and generous in sharing her story, which inspired this novel.

  Last, thanks to my readers. You guys are the reason I spend hour after hour, month after month, year after year dedicated to words. I hope they inspire you the way you all inspire me.

  Until next time!

  Dana L. Davis

  Questions for Discussion

  For many of us, our first experience with euthanasia is when a family pet is “put to sleep” to end pain and suffering. In the novel, Violet defends her decision for medically assisted suicide by stating, “I’m only assisting the plan that’s been laid out for me. It’s dying with dignity. It’s the law. And it’s my right.” (Page 147) Euthanasia and “death with dignity” laws have been controversial. When might doctor-assisted death be permissible and when do you think it’s not permissible? Should the decision be solely that of the individual, or should other people be involved?

  The novel begins with Indigo attempting suicide. What are her reasons for attempting suicide? Do you think her reasons are valid? Is there ever a valid reason to end one’s life? While we don’t know too much about Indigo’s life beforehand, what are some things she could have done before attempting to take her own life? What are some things we can do when friends or family members are in emotional distress and contemplating suicide?

  Violet is diagnosed with a terminal illness. While some people may think finding out they will die relatively soon is terrible, it does allow an individual to put their life in order and do things that they’ve always wanted to do before they die. For children with a terminal illness, the Make-A-Wish Foundation pays for an individual and their family to make a dream come true. What are some things you’d like to do or see before dying? What prevents us from doing what we most want to do?

  Though Violet admits envy drove her away from her sister, she also admits it was envy that pushed her to work hard to achieve her goals. What are some examples where envy positively affected your life? What are some examples where envy negatively affected your life? What is the difference between envy and jealousy? Or is there a difference?

  In the novel, Michelle and Drew are making some sacrifices in order for Michelle to pursue her dreams of going to medical school and becoming a doctor. In our country, some families can afford expensive schooling for their children while others cannot, leaving some students to have to take on large amounts of debt to earn a higher education degree. Should the price of college be free or reduced at public universities?
What benefits or problems might arise from free college?

  We have become a society that demands justice. But “right” and “wrong” can be relative terms. After the Phillips family is almost robbed, Pastor Jedidiah not only insists on letting the young man who attempted to rob them go, but also gives him money and offers him help and counseling at his church. Should we have alternative punishments for certain crimes? Should mental health and life circumstance be a determining factor when implementing appropriate punishments for criminal offenses?In the novel, Indigo hears a voice that is not hers. Do you think it’s possible for us to receive messages through a voice in our head? Have you ever felt intuition or guidance from an outside source that you couldn’t see or identify?

  While thinking about life without her sister, Indigo tells a classmate, “Imagine being the sun. But pretend it’s four billion years from now and you’re all outta fuel. A sun with no hydrogen—cooling. Your sun days are almost over. Do you bow out gracefully and simply explode? Or should you search for another thing to be?” (Page 41) What do you think Indigo is attempting to convey with this statement?

  Indigo wonders if she really hears the voice of God or whether it’s just the voice in her head that we all tend to hear. “‘Well...’ The Voice pauses. ‘Maybe they’re one and the same.’” (Page 307) Do you think Indigo was actually hearing the voice of a higher power? Or do you think Indigo was being guided by nothing more than her own intuition? What about the story made you feel one way or the other?

  Resources

  It is your right to live.

  If you or someone you know is in emotional distress, crisis centers across the country can offer assistance 24/7 via call or live chat.

  Suicide Prevention Lifeline:

  (800) 273-8255

  https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

  Society for the Prevention of Teen Suicide:

  http://www.sptsusa.org/you-are-not-alone/

  American Foundation for Suicide Prevention:

  https://afsp.org

  Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

  by Dana L. Davis

  Chapter One

  “You did good, miss. You can open your eyes. We’re landing.”

  I nod, eyes sealed shut. We’ve landed. That’s what I’m waiting to hear. I tighten my grip on the armrests, as if somehow this plane landing safely is contingent upon the act. The man beside me gives my shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

  “It’s so loud,” I whisper. “Is that normal?”

  “Perfectly.” His voice is calm and composed despite the fact that we’re defying gravity, soaring through the air in a fancy-shaped tin can with wings. “I never did catch your name.”

  “It’s Tiffany,” I mumble, lowering my head, bracing myself for impact. “Tiffany Sly.” What if the plane skids off the runway and catches fire? That happens. I saw it once on CNN. A commuter plane skidded off the runway, rammed into a chain-link fence and struck a tree. The tree ripped off the propeller. The propeller...exploded. I should’ve listened to the captain’s speech. Now I don’t know what to do in case our propeller explodes.

  “How old are you, Tiffany?”

  “I’m—” I pause. The plane’s vibrating and shaking now. “Did you feel that? Is that normal?”

  The gentleman’s heavy hand rests on my shoulder just long enough to give it another comforting squeeze. “Completely. We’re landing. Only a minute more.”

  “But I think something’s wrong.” I contemplate opening my eyes. I need to see the looks of terror on the other people’s faces. Then it would all make sense—this intense foreboding bubbling inside my chest, in rhythm with the beat of my heart.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump: We’re not landing.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump: We’re crashing!

  “How old are you?”

  “I’m...fifteen. I mean, sixteen. Today’s my birthday.”

  “How wonderful. Happy birthday, Tiffany. First time flying?”

  “Yes... I mean, no. I flew once...when I was a kid. But... I don’t remember. I was with my mom then.”

  “And where’s your mom today?”

  “Omigosh! Shouldn’t we be slowing down? It feels like we’re going faster. Is that normal, too?”

  “It only feels that way.” His voice is so serene. Like he’s totally unaware that if I let go of these two armrests, this plane would essentially veer off course and explode. “In a few seconds, the wheels of the plane are going to make contact with the ground. Have you ever been on a roller coaster, Tiffany?”

  “I hate roller coasters.” I lurch forward. “What just happened?” I plant my feet in front of me and push back so that I’m pressed firmly against the seat.

  “Tiffany, we’re on the ground. Seconds more and you can breathe easy.”

  The whooshing sound of the airplane as it speeds across the runway pavement both comforts and terrifies me. Only a moment more and I can stop desperately clutching these armrests and all these people will owe me a big fat thank-you.

  Thank you, Tiffany, they’ll all exclaim. If you hadn’t kept your eyes shut this entire flight and squeezed those armrests the way you did, we would never have made it into Los Angeles.

  “Open your eyes,” the man says softly. I hear the captain’s voice through the airplane speakers over the rustle of passengers shifting about. “We’re here.”

  I open my eyes and sigh inwardly. The plane is still moving but slowly. We’re on the ground—alive. None of us will be on tomorrow’s news as the unlucky bunch aboard the doomed 747 from Chicago to Los Angeles. There won’t be an article with photos of smiling people and short descriptions of lives tragically cut too short trending on Facebook.

  I turn to the man who was gracious enough to relinquish his armrest for our four hours together, truly seeing his face for the first time. His bright blue eyes are an alarming contrast to the tiny portion of night sky I can see through the small plane window. And his face matches the tone of his voice, warm and wise.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Hope I didn’t ruin your flight.”

  He smiles. “You did very good, Tiffany. Now, better call your mom and let her know you arrived safely.”

  I nod graciously as the plane comes to a halt, standing to gather my carry-on luggage from the overhead space, feeling so damned lucky to be alive.

  * * *

  “Grams, I’m here. I’m in LA.” I clutch my cell in one hand as I weave through the hundreds of travelers moving through LAX, my well-worn guitar case decorated with old ’80s rock band stickers slung over my shoulder, dragging my small carry-on behind me.

  “See? God is good. I was praying for you the whole time, Tiff.”

  I’m glad Grams can’t see me roll my eyes.

  “How was the flight?”

  Awful. “Nice.”

  “I bet it was. How did you like first class?”

  Not sure. My eyes were closed the whole time. “Classy.”

  “Don’t be intimidated by all that class. Just be yourself.”

  “Grams, who else would I be?”

  “The Tiffany I know is funny and brave and...”

  While Grams drones on and on about how awesome she thinks I am, I imagine my new dad standing at the base of the elevator. He’ll be waiting with a bouquet of roses to whisk me away so we can do father-daughter things like, um, whatever it is that fathers and daughters do, I guess.

  My phone vibrates and I see My New Dad scroll across the caller ID. I nearly jump out of my Converse sneakers. “Shoot. It’s him. Grams, I’ll call you when I get to the house.” I tap the button to switch calls before Grams has a chance to respond. “Hey!” I hop onto the escalator, my stomach an epicenter of nervous energy, butterflies dancing wildly. “Are you here?”

  “Tiffany. I—I’m so sorry. I have to make an emergency run.” His voice is deep and hus
ky just like I remember from our last phone conversation. Such a dad voice.

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.”

  At the base of the stairs, I notice men in black suits holding up strips of cardboard or iPads with names on them. One of the men holds a strip of paper with my name. We make eye contact and he smiles.

  “It would be too long. I had to send a driver,” he explains. “I feel terrible.”

  “No, no. It’s okay. Not a big deal.” I try to focus on happy thoughts like my therapist told me to do when disappointment arises.

  Skittles.

  Rainbows.

  Care Bears.

  Popsicles dipped in sugar.

  “This shouldn’t take long, Tiffany. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me, too...” I pause. Why can’t I say it yet? Dad. The word sounds so foreign rolling off my tongue, like an exotic language I’ve learned but haven’t earned the right to speak yet. “I can’t wait.”

  “It’s a long drive to Simi Valley from LAX. I’ll definitely make it home before you get there.”

  “It’s long?” I swallow. “How long?”

  “I’d say about an hour at least. Depending on traffic, maybe two.”

  Two hours?

  “Tiffany, is that okay? Because if it’s not I can—”

  “No, it’s fine,” I lie. “Not a problem at all.”

  “Great. See you soon.”