The Voices - Final Edit

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The Voices

Karla Cruz

         He knows I am afraid of heights, which is why he planned my surprise birthday party at the Space Needle. He pushed me in my wheelchair, blindfolded, through the parking lot, to the elevator and into the hushed restaurant. I could feel the panic rising in me as the elevator shot up, but I could do nothing.

         He knows I can’t protest because I am mute. When he took my blindfold off, they were all there shouting “surprise!" The confetti flew, the hired combo struck up Happy Days Are Here Again.

         Everyone was celebrating my birthday and my release from the coma.

         He is afraid I am really me inside, even though the doctors say I have amnesia and cannot remember my own name. I will not let him know that I know who I am.

         The senator is powerful and has many friends. He has the charisma of Kennedy and the looks of George Clooney, and all the women gush over him and all the men rush to be the first to shake his hand. He’s been on CNN, Letterman and Leno because he is the man to see, to hear, to learn from. More astute than Dr. Phil, shrewd enough to broker deals with foreign corporations that other powerful entities have failed at time and again. They say our country’s economy depends on this man -- J.J. Carter, my husband.

         He knew a major change was coming in my life and poisoned me before I could get to my lawyers.

         I lay in a drug-induced coma for days. My husband told them I had tried to commit suicide.

         "Poor Christina. She has bravely battled her depression, her schizophrenia for years. She heard voices all the time. No one fought harder than she did.” He shed tears for the cameras as he said these words.

         It’s true I heard voices. But they always told me the truth. J.J. always said I heard demons. J.J. was what everyone called my boyish husband, he of the perfect white teeth. J.J. didn’t believe that the voices I heard were truthful.

         So? I looked into the mirror and I heard them. It was me talking back at me, he said. Well, that much was true. There was something inside, fighting for my sanity.

         “He means to kill you,” the voices said.

         I brushed my hair and listened. But I didn’t believe them at the time.

         “Why should he?” I asked my reflection.

         “You know why,” the voices said. “Stop playing dumb. The only reason he married you was for your fortune.”

         “But I have no fortune,” I told the girl in the mirror. The girl who looked back at me.

         “You don’t yet, but believe us, believe us. We know.”

         “He has enough money,“ I protested.

         “He will never have enough money,” they said to me.

         The voices were right. I didn’t know, but I was about to receive a huge inheritance on my 30th birthday from my Aunt Beatrice. At the time I didn’t even know I had an Aunt Beatrice. But my husband knew. He knew things about me I never dreamed of. And me – so gullible, so naïve. I thought I was crazy because J.J. said it often enough, and I didn’t heed the voices.

         But the day I received the letter from Beatrice’s lawyer, was the day J.J. mixed my evening drink for me. And I didn’t wake up. Too bad for him I didn’t die, but I didn’t yet know that was the intention. I thought something had gone horribly wrong with my medication.

         I heard him as he talked to me. He thought I couldn’t hear, while the respirator breathed for me and the IV fed me.

         “In time Christina, in time,” he whispered, as he dared stroke my lifeless hand. "Aunt Beatrice has set me up for life. Oh yes. And maybe I failed you this time, but I won’t next time. I promise,” he said as he grinned.

         But the voices spoke to me, too. “We will get you out of this. All of us.”

         “How can there be so many of you inside me? Am I really crazy?” I argued with my voices.

         “There are many of us inside you, because there are many of you. Aren’t you the poet? Aren’t you the violinist? Do you not have a passion for gardening? You give cold, homeless creatures hot chocolate on winter days. You do laundry. You make cookies. You volunteer at the Food Bank. You pray. You sing.”

         “But—, “ I argued soundlessly.

         “You have been taught not to trust yourself, your own voices. Christina, you must fight for yourself. We are here for you.”

         And one day I woke from my coma. A miracle the doctors said. “But she will suffer amnesia and it may be irreversible.”

         They were wrong. I did not suffer amnesia, but I could not speak and I could not use my legs. I could not use my arms. I could move my fingers a tiny bit, but that was it.

         My husband had to feed me, but he quickly grew weary of it and hired a nurse. I was glad. I didn’t like him spooning me Jell-O and whispering, “Wonder what I put in this, Christina?”

         My 30th birthday was upon me and I knew I was about to become very rich. J.J. had not shown me the letter. But he had mentioned it. He was granted power of attorney over my affairs when I went into the coma.

         As I looked blankly at my birthday guests, I heard one of my voices in my head. “Look for the girl with the red hair.”

         I couldn’t turn my head, but as J.J. wheeled me around, I saw her. She was sipping champagne and was quite alone. J.J. wheeled me over to her.

         "Simone, this is Christina,” he introduced us. “Simone is my right hand.”

         Simone smiled at me. “J.J., your wife is so beautiful,” she said warmly.

         “Too bad it’s wasted, isn’t it?” he quipped.

         “That remark is unbecoming of you,“ Simone chided, frowning.

         Simone grasped my still hands gently. “You are very lovely, Christina, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

         “You realize she can’t hear any of this, don’t you?” J.J. said.

         "You’re completely wrong, J.J. Hearing is the last thing to go, and becomes heightened when other senses fail,” said Simone.

         J.J. must have looked panicked because Simone said, “What’s the matter, J.J.? You look like a ghost walked over your grave.”

         The voices said, “Trust her.”

         I tried very hard to look at Simone, to send a message with my eyes, but I failed. Her countenance registered no change.

         “I work with your husband, Christina. He’s quite the mover and shaker. Why, what’s wrong? You look like you’re about to cry.”

         She had seen it! She had seen my face! I tried so hard to move my mouth, but nothing but drool slipped past my lips.

* * *
He knew I was afraid of wild animals because the next weekend he took me to the zoo. He parked my wheelchair right next to the Siberian Tiger cage and he left me. He left me!

A park attendant came by and spoke to me. Of course I couldn’t answer. He saw my ID and used his walkie to radio in a lost visitor.

“Oh, there you are!” J.J. mimicked relief when he showed up. “She just wheels herself off and then I can’t find her,” he claimed, clearly exasperated to the park attendant. “She thinks it’s a game, but it nearly gives me a heart attack!”

I cried then. A real tear slipped out of my eye. I could actually feel it! Feel it course down my cheek. I didn’t want him to see. I didn’t want him to think I was coming back. Even if it was in tiny increments. No. I could not let him know!

Simone told me, assuming either I knew or didn’t care, that J.J. had bought a beachfront cottage. She fell into the habit of coming by to visit every Monday and she was kind enough to bring me fresh flowers every time.

J.J. wasted no time spending my money. Along with the cottage, he bought a boat. He bought not one Jaguar, but two. He bought expensive jewelry and took delight in showing them to me, explaining that one was for Tiffany, one was for Leticia, another for Simone.

Simone brought back the emerald necklace. She gave it to me one Monday.

“Look, I know you’re trapped in there, but you’re still beautiful, and you deserve to be ornamented, my dear. Jewels really aren’t my thing. You look like you’re going to cry again. Oh my god, you are crying!”

She whisked a tissue out and dabbed my cheeks. “I wish you could tell me what is hurting you, Christina.”

I wish too, oh how I wish.

“Do you even know you’re Christina? Oh, now I’ve frightened you. Enough. I’m sorry.”

* * *

My wheelchair was in the library the next time Simone visited me. It wasn’t J.J. who’d had the decency to move me, it was the nurse. Simone brought me gardenias.

“I can tell you like these,” she said as she placed the luscious smelling bouquet in front of me.

“You know,” she mused. “People can come out of these things all at once or a little at a time. I wouldn’t give up hope, Christina. And yes I know you’re in there -- I had a dream. A group of ladies came to me in my dream and they said you were still Christina and that I was to help you and well, I’m a fierce believer in dreams." Here, she wrapped her warm fingers around my cold hands.

"And so I will help you in any way I can.”

Don’ t tell J.J. Don’t tell J.J. Please.

“What’s the matter? You look concerned. You and I have to figure out a way to communicate. I know you can cry . . . hmm. Can you move your eyelids? Your eyes?”

I tried.

“You did! You moved them. You crinkled them, like you’re mad or something.” Simone was excited. “Okay, we’ve got something here. Crinkle means no. No crinkle means yes.”

“Do you know who you are?” she asked.

No crinkle. Yes.

“Does anyone else know you know who you are?”

Crinkle. No.

“Not even J.J.?”

Crinkle.

“We should tell J.J.”

Crinkle. No!

“No? You don’t want him to know?”

Crinkle.

“Jesus, Christina. You seem terrified. I wish you could tell me why.”

Me, too. No Crinkle.

“You wish you could tell me?”

No crinkle. I tried to move my eyes.

“You moved your eyes! Oh my god, you moved your eyes to the right! Christina, do you know what this means? You’re regaining your muscle control. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“What’s going on in here,” J.J.’s voice boomed.

“She moved her -–, “ but Christina’s voice stopped when she saw me crinkle my eyes. “Well, I thought she moved a finger, but I think it was just me twitching,“ said Simone, recovering brilliantly. She looked at me with true concern, but she knew an exit when she saw it. “I have to get going. Good to see you again, J.J.”

* * *

He knew I was afraid of snakes, so he brought home a huge one in a large cage.

“I’ve always wanted a snake, but you were always so paranoid of them. You certainly don’t need to be afraid anymore, since you don’t even know who you are,” he chuckled.

He sat the cage on the floor of the library and deliberately left the door to the cage open. “I have a business meeting with Leticia, but I’ll be back, Christina. Oh, for certain I’ll be back. Don’t worry, you have only a few days left of this madness. You’ll stop hearing those voices for sure.” And he left.

The huge spotted snake slithered out of its cage. It must have been six feet long. I could feel my breath failing me. I would die of fear, I thought.

The voices came. “You have nothing to fear from this snake. It is not poisonous, it is not dangerous. It is looking for a dark place to hide.” The snake slithered under a couch placed under the bay window across the room from me, and I sighed with relief. At least I thought I sighed.

In my fear, I noticed a change in my fingers. They were clutching the arms of my wheel chair. I had moved my fingers!

* * *
The next Monday Simone came again. This time with Gerbera daisies.

“Okay, let’s talk,” she began. “It’ll be good for you. Do you know how lucky you are to be married to J.J. Carter? That man is hell on wheels.” She sighed.

“You’re crinkling your eyes – why? Oh my god, your hands! Your hands are clutching the wheel chair! Christina stop! You’re going to give yourself cardiac arrest!” Simone's eyes were wide with concern.

“I’d better call an ambulance. I don’t want anything to happen to you. You’re crinkling your eyes again. No?”

Trust me, I willed her to hear. Trust me.

“Okay, let’s calm down. Why are you sliding your eyes to the right again? Is there something over there?”

Yes.

“There is! Good girl! Let’s play hot and cold. I’ll wander about and you tell me yes or no with your eyes. This will be a good game. Good exercise.”

It took a dozen times before Simone found the cigar box. She was thrilled when she finally got the “no crinkle” sign from me. She opened it and extracted a two-page folded letter.

“You want me to read this,” she stated.

Yes.

As Simone's eyes scanned the document, I could see the change on her face. She knew. “Your Aunt Beatrice left you everything . . .” she trailed off as she continued to read. She carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the box. The box J.J. thought I knew nothing about.

“And you can’t spend it can you?” Simone asked.

No.

“What happened, Christina? Did you really try to commit suicide?”

No!

“Oh, Jesus,” she held her head in her hands as the full impact hit her.

”What . . . um, what were you given?” she asked.

My eyes slid to the left. She saw the medications. The Valium. The Seconal.

Just then we heard J. J. motor up in his posh, new Jaguar.

“Look. Christina, let me think about this. There’s no way I can let on that I know. It’s dangerous.”

I heard the voices in my head chorusing, “Yes! Yes!”

”Simone,” J.J. called to her, as he entered the room. “I’ve got tickets to a play I thought you might want to see.”

“Not in front of Christina, J.J. You know she can hear!” Simone protested.

“Simone, you might as well face facts. For all practical purposes, she’s got Alzheimer’s,” J.J. said without feeling.

“Just the same, J.J., I’d feel a lot better if you took Christina to the play. The stimulation would be good for her. And by the way, do you think she really needs that much sedation. I saw her medication -– “

J.J. raised a hand to stop her. “You’re not a doctor, Simone. I’m just following orders. But I do appreciate what a good friend you are to her.” J.J. turned to look at me, taking in my frail, pathetic, useless form.

“I just hope she doesn’t slip back into that coma.”

The voices came suddenly. “He’s setting you up. He’s going to do it again and he’s setting the stage.”

I knew I didn’t have much time. If he could just wait one more week, I just needed to see Simone one more time.

And then my miracle happened. The very next day I could really move my hands. I mean really. I could make a fist. I could move my lower arms. I could move the switches on my wheel chair. The voices urged me on, “Do it, Christina. Do it, if it’s the last thing you do!”

One dose at a time. J.J. didn’t notice the amount of pills missing from my vials. He assumed the nurse gave them to me as he’d instructed, but as she popped them in my mouth, I was able to slide them under my tongue and when she turned her back, I let them fall out of my mouth onto my lap. When she left the room, I ground each one with a spoon at a low desk in the library, scraped the tiny granules of each, and dropped them in my robe pocket.

The next Monday, Simone visited me again, bringing me yellow roses.

No.

“What are you saying 'no' for?” she asked. “Oh, you think yellow roses are for a funeral don’t you?”

Yes.

“Christina, I need to be frank with you.” Simone drew a chair close and whispered. “I am afraid for you, but I don’t know what to do and I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Just do what I ask you to do.

I slid my eyes to the right.

“The cigar box?”

No.

Simone looked in the direction of the cigar box, her eyes finally resting on the bar in the library.

“The bar? You want a drink?”

Yes.

“What do you want to drink -- water, juice?”

No. My arms gripped the armrests and I moved the wheelchair.

“You can move your wheelchair! You really are coming around!’

Simone was overjoyed, but then she noticed the pleading look I tried so hard to convey.

“You want me to help you.”

Yes.

“What do you want me to do?”

"Bring her the glass, Simone. Bring her the glass," the voices chanted.

Simone brought an empty glass to me. She set it on my tray. I took the powder out of my pocket, fumbling clumsily. But I got quite a handful and sprinkled it into the glass.

“Wait, Christina, I will not let you try to take your life!” Simone took the glass from me.

No!

“No,” she said with certainty. Then her eyes widened. She knew. She carried the glass to the bar.

“Which is it? Tell me.”

With my eyes, I told her.

J.J. had a nightly habit of vodka and grapefruit juice, and I knew where he kept it and I knew which glass he used. Simone poured the vodka and the juice.

“I’m home!” J.J.’s voice boomed. He bounced into the library and looked at Simone. “Simone, you are such a gem to keep my lovely wife company. And you poured me a drink! What a sweetheart.” He bent to kiss her cheek.

“I’ve got to go,” she stammered, looking at her watch. “I’m already late for a date.”

“I hope you’re not replacing me,” J.J. had the nerve to say in front of me.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that, J.J.” Simone threw her sweater over her shoulders and left.

J.J. studied me intently, his drink in his hands. He looked into his glass. “Murky looking this time.“ He turned to the sink to throw it out.

"No!" the voices shrieked. No, I mouthed.

“You didn’t just say something, did you?” J.J. looked at me curiously. “No, you couldn’t, you’re so pathetic. This drink needs ice cubes.“ He turned to the tiny fridge kept under the bar.

I would have glared at him if I could. I would have rushed him with my wheel chair, but I didn’t want him to know that I could move. That I could save my life.

“Well, I’ve got a gift for you tonight, Christina. Tonight, I put you out of your misery. For once and for all. But first, I need my little evening pick-me-up.”

* * *

End

Notes:

1. Spelling of jewelry: I looked it up and it is spelled this way.
2. I left out the very last line of the story: And he downed the vodka and grapefruit juice.
I'm thinking that this makes a better ending, BUT if you, as the editor, think that it needs that line, feel free to put it back in.