The Voice in My Head Read online

  She can feel sorry for herself.

  Or she can listen...to the voice in her head.

  For Indigo Phillips, life has always been about basking in the shadow of her identical twin, Violet—the perfectly dressed, gentle, popular sister. The only problem the girls had in their lives was the occasional chaos that came with being part of the Phillips family brood. But when Violet becomes terminally ill and plans to die on her own terms via medically assisted death, Indigo spirals into desperation in her efforts to cope. That’s when she begins to hear a mysterious voice—a voice claiming to be God. The Voice insists that if she takes Violet to a remote rock formation in the Arizona desert, her sister will live.

  Incredibly, Violet agrees to go—if their dysfunctional family tags along for the ride. With all nine members stuffed into a wonky old paratransit bus, including their controlling older sister and distant mother, Indigo must find a way to face insecurities she’s spent a lifetime masking and step up to lead the trip. As she deals with outrageous mishaps, strange lodgings and even stranger folks along the way, Indigo will figure out how to come to terms with her sister, her family...and the voice in her head.

  Praise for The Voice in My Head

  “A moving tale of faith and sisterly love. Booktalk this with friends and family!”

  —Tiffany D. Jackson, author of Allegedly and Monday’s Not Coming

  “Fun, catharsis, a bit of endearing strangeness amidst heartfelt familial drama. It’s everything you want out of a road trip novel.”

  —Adi Alsaid, author of Brief Chronicle of Another Stupid Heartbreak

  “An endearing and compelling coming-of-age story. Dana L. Davis captures the messy, complicated love of family in a road trip novel that redefines what it means to truly live.”

  —Nancy Richardson Fischer, author of When Elephants Fly

  Books by Dana L. Davis

  Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

  The Voice in My Head

  The Voice in My Head

  Dana L. Davis

  Dana L. Davis is an actress who lives and works in LA. She has starred in Heroes, Prom Night, Franklin & Bash and 10 Things I Hate About You. Dana is a classically trained violist and the founder of the Los Angeles–based nonprofit Culture for Kids LA, which provides inner-city children with free tickets and transportation to attend performing-arts shows around LA County. She currently stars in the following animated series: Star vs. the Forces of Evil, Craig of the Creek and She-Ra and the Princesses of Power.

  This book is all about family. So of course...I dedicate it to mine.

  Mom, Dad, Shona, James, Mikey, Kiki and Cameron.

  Love you guys.

  And also...for Misty.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  Questions for Discussion

  Resources

  Excerpt from Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now by Dana L. Davis

  chapter one

  My hands tighten around rusted metal scaffolding as I pull myself up onto a pair of wooden planks near the rooftop of an old industrial warehouse. I pause to catch my breath, using one hand to wipe away tears turned into tiny crystals of ice, making the skin around my eyes sting. In the distance, glimmering city lights weave through streams of heavy falling rain. It’s almost beautiful.

  Climbing this high was the easy part. Buildings under construction always have something to grab on to. Now comes the real challenge. I take a deep breath and stand, attempting to steady my sneakers on the slippery slats of wood. I’m not wearing a hat, or gloves, or even a coat, which might seem odd considering it’s December...in Seattle, but I don’t need to be warm. At least not tonight, since tonight, I’m about to die. And people who are committing a mortal sin don’t deserve to be warm.

  I glance up. I’m only a couple of stories from the rooftop, but I can’t climb any higher. Thin sheets of ice are forming on the wooden beams and my hands are bitterly cold. I peer over the edge and swallow. It’s certainly a long way down. Perhaps this height will do.

  I climb under the wobbly guardrail and reposition myself so that my feet are turned sideways and both arms are wrapped around the scaffolding. The way I’m standing isn’t exactly ideal for a graceful, death-compliant leap. I’ll have to jump at a slant, but once I’m airborne, I can shift my body and fall backward like a stuntwoman, screaming all the way down until...

  My chest tightens at the thought. Will it hurt? Can I handle it? Should I reconsider? I heave a heavy sigh. Only, the sigh turns into a sequence of shivers that reach all the way to my internal organs, causing my heart to skip a beat.

  I’m crying. Again. Now the city lights in the distance are blurring and twirling like a Van Gogh painting come to life. I’m also soaked. My thick black hair is both wet and icy and scratching my face like dead pine needles. And the wind is snapping my loose T-shirt in all imaginable directions, sending cold rain up my abdomen and chest, convincing me that if I don’t die from this fall, surely I’ll die tomorrow, from pneumonia. I think of my sister Violet. As if I think of anything else these days? Even though she’s smarter, a little bit prettier, a whole lot nicer and in general...better, I’ve never been jealous. Instead, she’s everything I aspire to be. She is my best friend. Or at least she was.

  I squint up at the Seattle sky, covered with dense clouds, and imagine God can see through the mass of darkness and sheets of heavy rainfall and is watching. Taking notes. Waiting for me to leap, so he can put me on the eternal naughty list and cast me away. I’ve often pondered: When people kill themselves, is there any part of them that wants to live? Now I know the answer. There is. At least for me. There is this tiny part of me that wants nothing more than to climb down this scaffolding, get my feet planted on solid ground and live. But then what would happen? My parents would still look through me, as if I didn’t exist, the kids at school would still pity me, while simultaneously longing for Violet’s return, and pain would continue to embody every part of me. Of course I want to live. But not like this.

  “Help me, God...” My barely audible voice catches in my throat as a gust of wind slams into my chest, causing me to almost lose my balance. Shit! I attempt to stabilize, though ice has formed around the railing, burning the tips of my fingers. With each labored breath I take, I suck in cold air. It fills my lungs like a sledgehammer to the rib cage. Doesn’t help that I’m full-on sobbing at this point. Perhaps it doesn’t matter how I fall, just so long as it gets done. It’s not like anyone cares if I die dramatically anyway. It’s not like anyone cares if I live either. I am simply a sad reminder of the person who will be lost. A haunting reminder of Violet.

  “Help me...” I sob. “Please, God, help me.” My shoulders shake, both from the sobs and uncontrollable shivering. “I beg you.”

  I’m not exactly great at talking to God. This used to be one of Violet’s strong points. We’d hold hands at night and she’d say all these eloquent prayers with words like humbly and forthwith. But when it was my turn, I’d mumble something like, God, thanks for another day. Keep u
s safe. Amen. Violet never criticized or tried to get me to be more like her. She’d only nod in full acceptance of my pitiful prayer and repeat Amen. This is the Violet way—one of many traits that makes it so easy to love her.

  “God! If you can hear me,” I cry out into the darkness. “I...beseech you!”

  I don’t know what that means. Beseech? I remember Violet said it once in prayer. Sounded a lot less like a brand of hard candies coming from her than it does from me.

  “I...” I pause.

  Who am I kidding? I got nothin’. Seriously nothing to plead to God right before I die. Besides, no matter what I say or do, tomorrow will come, and against the desperate pleas of our family, Violet will take a fatal dose of barbiturates prescribed by our very own family doctor. Ending a yearlong battle with a rare lung condition. There is no cure. The doctors try to comfort us. Reminding our family that Violet is terminal regardless. Let her go, they advise us. Though it’s not as if we have a choice in the matter. Violet and I recently turned eighteen, and as a legal adult, she’s decided she no longer wants to suffer. She’s choosing “death with dignity.” Exercising her right, to the right-to-die law. Well, it’s my right, too. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand, puff out my aching chest and prepare to mimic my twin’s bravery...die with dignity. A final moment of Earth glory. My very last fail.

  I close my eyes and wipe at another frozen tear, that tiny piece of me that wants to live gnawing at my innards, creeping to the surface, begging the question: Why am I up here sobbing? And why am I gripping this icy beam as if I really don’t want to die? I suck air through my teeth as the realization settles within me. It’s because I don’t want to die. It’s because I won’t. Not on this night. Not when Violet still lives. It’s because even though all hope is lost...I cling to it still.

  “Help me,” I whisper. “That’s what I need, God. Please. Why won’t you help me? Why won’t you help her?”

  And the most bizarre thing transpires. A voice pierces through the noise of the pounding rain and answers back...

  “Um... Why won’t you?”

  I twist my body, terrified to think someone could be standing right beside me. But the sudden movement causes both feet to slip off the planks.

  I lose my grip and fall.

  chapter two

  “Indigo, can you hear me?”

  “Hmm?” I mumble sleepily. “That you, Mom?” I snuggle under thin covers. “I had the craziest dream.”

  “Did you dream you jumped off a building?” a deeper voice, which matches my dad’s, replies.

  I pop one eye open to see my parents’ sullen faces as they stand beside a hospital bed. Correction—my hospital bed? They stare at me. I stare at them. They stare at me some more.

  “How are you feeling?” Dad asks with a raised eyebrow.

  “Pain,” I grumble, since pain is what I’m feeling. Like extreme physical pain. My head is pounding as if my skull needs to expand to make more room for my brain, and my arm feels odd. I look down. A cast? Holy hell, I broke my arm. And my legs? I can’t feel them! “Am I paralyzed?” I choke.

  “With stupidity.”

  I turn. My brother, Alfred, leans up against the wall on the other side of the room, eyes down, fiddling with his phone.

  He goes on, “Paralyzed with extreme stupidity.”

  I wiggle my toes. Okay, I’m not paralyzed.

  “Indigo, what were you thinking?” Mom wails. I know this is not a rhetorical question. Mom will literally wait, glaring at you, daring you not to answer one of her infamous nonrhetorical rhetorical questions.

  “I’m not sure what I was thinking, Mom.” But that’s not the truth. I don’t remember everything. But one thing is clear. Yesterday I wanted to die. Like Violet. With Violet.

  “Oh, you’re not sure?” Mom’s silver hair is pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, accentuating the angry veins pulsing around her hairline. “And without a coat? You realize you could’ve caught pneumonia!”

  Surprisingly, yes. I did realize that.

  Dad crosses his arms across his chest. At sixty, Dad’s hair should be silvery like Mom’s, but he dyes it black. What’s left of it, that is. “Helen. The girl jumped off a building and you’re mad because she forgot her damn coat?”

  Mom ignores Dad and continues, “You had hypothermia, dislocated your shoulder, broke your arm and have a grade-two concussion. You could’ve died!”

  “Well, duh, Mom,” Alfred pipes in. “Wasn’t that the point?”

  Mom snaps her fingers at Alfred. “You be quiet. Nobody’s even talking to you.” She cocks her head to one side as she speaks. “So that’s what this is about? Death was your brilliant plan?! What exactly would that have solved?”

  What would death have solved? It would’ve leveled the playing field. Righted a wrong...

  “Indigo?” Mom snaps, interrupting my thoughts. “Do you hear me talking to you?”

  Another nonrhetorical rhetorical. Must. Find. Answer.

  “I do hear you, Mom.” Wait... I’m starting to remember more details. I snuck out of the house... I was headed to catch the train...

  “Your cell phone survived the fall.” Alfred’s still not looking up from his own phone. “The paramedics used your thumbprint to unlock it and dialed Mom.”

  Alfred’s sixteen years old and attends a “twice-exceptional” high school for kids who struggle in a normal school setting, but nothing’s really wrong with them...and they’re super smart. Or...something like that. In truth, I don’t know what a twice-exceptional high school is. All I know is that twice-exceptional schools welcome kids with learning disabilities, and Mom and Dad have had Alfred diagnosed with every learning disability known to mankind. And are probably currently writing letters to the president of the United States to have new labels invented so they can have him diagnosed with those as well. ADHD, dyslexia, dyscalculia (where your brain doesn’t make sense of numbers), auditory processing disorder (where your brain doesn’t make sense of speech) and, my personal favorite, distractibiliphilia. I imagine that’s where your brain sends signals to your hands to never put your phone down.

  “I can’t believe you, Indigo!” Mom cries, tears brimming to the surface. “How could you be so selfish? Were you honestly trying to kill yourself?”

  I was. Though, I still can’t remember much about it. Okay, I took the train and...

  “Are they gonna put her on a 5150 hold?” Alfred yawns, slides his phone into his back pocket and flips his lime-green Seahawks cap forward.

  “I’m not crazy,” I snap, struggling to force the details to the surface. When I got off the train it was cold... I walked to the Amgen campus... I crossed a bridge...

  “Indi. No offense...” Alfred starts many sentences with no offense followed by something intensely offensive. I wait for it. “You jumped off a building in a random, nondescript industrial zone. You’re batshit.”

  “Watch your language, boy!” Dad bellows, as the brown skin on the bald portion of his head shines under the fluorescent lighting in the hospital room.

  “I didn’t jump! I fell.” Technically, that’s not a lie. Obviously I fell. But did I jump? Was I brave enough to actually do that?

  “You were climbing for fun?” Mom asks.

  “Helen, why on God’s green Earth would she be climbing a building, in the freezing rain, at 11:00 p.m., for fun?”

  Mom shrugs in response to Dad’s question. “I don’t know, Isaiah. I see people climbing buildings all the time.”

  Alfred chimes in, “Construction workers don’t really count.”

  Mom frowns. “I meant on TV.”

  “Oh.” Alfred scratches his forehead. “Like...Spider-Man?”

  “It was for Vee,” I blurt. “She always wanted a photo of the Amgen bridge at night, in the rain.” Of course I’m lying but continue, grabbing my phone from the side
table for emphasis. It’s dead, so all I see is my reflection in the glass. My eyes are black-and-blue, as if I got punched in the face more than a few times. My normally flawless light brown skin has all sorts of nicks, scrapes and contusions. And my long hair is matted to my head. Yikes.

  “The Amgen pedestrian bridge?” Mom asks.

  I nod and say softly, “I thought it might help somehow. I thought it might change her mind.”

  Violet is a student at a Big Picture high school. I mean, I go there too, but I think they let me in only because of Violet and the whole twin thing, since I don’t exactly fit the Big Picture student profile: motivated, unique and prepared for career advancement. I’m more...unmotivated, common (the perfect antonym for unique) and interested in career advancement only if it means I get to stay glued to Violet’s side for the rest of our live-long days. Anyway, at Big Picture high schools, students have internships and work closely with career mentors. Since Violet and I are aspiring photojournalists, last semester we were with Aaron Wade, one of National Geographic’s top photojournalists. Aaron always had us hiking and climbing to get good photos. So this lie of mine, of taking a photo at 11:00 p.m. from the top of an under-construction building, across from the Amgen campus and their beautiful helix-shaped pedestrian bridge, is an awesome one.

  But, awesome lie aside, Mom is crying now. Dad places a hand on her shoulder while she fishes around in her purse for a tissue. I can’t stand to see my mom cry, so I turn to face Alfred, who mouths, “You dumbass.”

  “Could you all please...?” I want to say leave, but I know that will never fly with my family. Mom would go into a rage that I dare disrespect her with such insolent language. Alfred would murmur one of his signature acronyms, like L-O-L. His never-ending attempt at making text-speech an actual way of speaking. Dad would bellow a patronizing, Are you the one paying for this doctor bill? No? I didn’t think so. Leave that! Instead, I ask as politely as I can, “Could you all excuse me? I need to go to the bathroom.” I add, “Number two.” Just to make sure they all get out.