Whisper to Me(47)

Mom’s … Mom’s death made him that way.

The voice said,

“No bacon for you if you don’t clean your ******* room.”

“It’s clean!”

“Clean it again. And then clean your bathroom.”

I took a deep breath and thought about the steps. “Hello,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t greet you properly. How are you?”

Silence.

“Are you okay? I didn’t hear you last night, and I worried about you.”

Silence.

“It’s good to hear you again anyway.”

Silence. But a pregnant one. I could sense the voice there, invisibly breathing.

“Clean,” it said finally.

“With pleasure,” I said.

Then I thought: negotiation.

“If I clean extra well, can I read some of my book?”

“What book?”

“The novel.”

“The one the ***** gave you.”

I held my tongue. “She is a *****, we have established that. But if I clean, can I read a chapter?”

Silence.

“Can I?”

“No.”

“It’s just a book.”

“Yeah, and that boy in the apartment just broke your heart when he turned his sights on that ****** ***** ******.”

“He didn’t break my heart. Please. I’m not some princess in a story. I’m not, like, in love with him or anything. I barely know him.” Though even then, another voice in my head, not the voice but a little, quiet fantasizing voice, said, He dreamed about you.

“Yes. You are. I saw you looking at his arms. It’s pathetic.”

I tried to keep calm. “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the book. You want me to clean the bathroom. Fine. But then I want a chapter of my book.”

“No.”

“Please.”

And then …

And then I WOULD LIKE YOU TO TAKE A MOMENT TO APPRECIATE THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS: “Okay,” said the voice. “But not a chapter. Ten pages.”

“Fine,” I said. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

THE VOICE: silence.





Unimportant lowercase spoiler:



Dad’s bacon was awesome. So were his pancakes. His bacon and pancakes are always awesome. This is, to be honest, a good reason on its own to forgive me, and to forgive him.

You do not want to miss out on his breakfasts.





4. SCHEDULE. Allot a regular time at which the voice can speak to you. Refuse to engage if the voice tries to speak at any other time.



I was surprised by how well this one worked.

This is what I did:

Every time the voice came to me, I followed a script in my head, like a telesales operative.

Here’s an example from the shore:



EXT. DAY. A SOUTH NEW JERSEY BEACH. THE SUN IS HIGH IN THE SKY. THERE IS THE BARNACLED AND SEAWEED-FESTOONED PILLAR OF A PIER TO THE LEFT OF OUR HEROINE, WHO IS STRIPPING OFF HER T-SHIRT AND JEANS TO REVEAL A SWIMSUIT. IT IS THE FIRST TIME SHE HAS BEEN DOWN TO THE BEACH SINCE SHE FOUND A HUMAN FOOT THERE. IT IS ANOTHER WARM DAY, THOUGH THERE ARE CLOUDS GATHERING IN THE SKY, AND LATER IT WILL RAIN. THE SEAGULLS ARE CALLING, CALLING, CALLING THE GIRL’S NAME.

TAUNTING HER.

SHE IS IGNORING THEM. WHAT SHE FINDS HARDER TO IGNORE IS THE VOICE. THE VOICE BELONGS TO A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN WITH AN INDETERMINATE NEW JERSEY ACCENT.

A DOG RACES PAST, CHASING A FRISBEE; A SMALL YAPPY DOG, IT THROWS ITSELF INTO THE AIR, SPARKLING WATER FALLING FROM IT, AND TIME SEEMS TO STAND STILL, THE DOG HANGING AT THE TOP OF ITS LEAP, JAWS CLOSING ON THE FRISBEE.

THE VOICE: You even think about swimming in that ocean and I’ll—

ME: Oh, hi! How are you?

THE VOICE: (silence)

ME: I was wondering where you were. It’s nice to hear from you.

THE VOICE: Swimming is enjoyment. You are not allowed to enjoy yourself.

ME: I’m sorry you feel that way.

THE VOICE: (silence)

ME: (checking the G-Shock Dad gave me for my sixteenth) It’s two o’clock. I would prefer you to speak to me only after six p.m.

THE VOICE: You dare to—

ME: After six p.m., please.

THE VOICE: Put your clothes back on. Go home. People can see your body. Your ******* fat body.

ME: Okay. Okay, boss.

I pull on my Levis and T-shirt. Then I turn away from the ocean, which keeps whispering to me when my back is turned, the surf hissing onto the sand, a Greek chorus behind the calling of the gulls.

THE VOICE: Good. Now you’re not making anyone sick with your flab.

ME: Thank you. But please, don’t speak to me again till six p.m.

THE VOICE: (silence)

I never meant to swim, of course. It was a tactic. Not something the Doc taught me either.

But hey: if your father runs a restaurant, one thing you learn is how to negotiate.

So:

Same script, on repeat. My lines, every time the voice said anything to me: Oh, hi!

Every time:

I would prefer you to speak to me only after six p.m.

And it must have worked, because a few days after that, Dad came home for dinner and it was only then I realized I hadn’t heard the voice all day. In fact, I had read like ten chapters of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and I hadn’t even thought about it.