Denali in Hiding

August 30-Very Early

I was just stirred out of a semi-restful sleep scrunched between two armrests in the waiting room. The voice woke me. The voice has never woken me up before. And it has never said anything so disturbing.

I think the voice is the weirdest part of my overactive mind. I can get my head around moving objects without touching them and seeing places that are far away, but I don't get the voice. It sounds like whispers, cascading echoes washing down my brain that tell me something every few months.

When I first heard it, I was too young to know I shouldn't be hearing It's just a scratch, you'll be okay after falling down trying to put a ladybug on a high tree branch with another ladybug (I assumed they must be long-lost friends). I was too young to be concerned about being labeled crazy. But I was not too young to be curious, so I asked my mom about it. She turned from washing the dishes and said, "Oh, that's just your father, checking in on you." She gave me a wink as she brushed my hair out of my eyes with a wet hand that smelled of lemony soap.

I loved that.

Since then, every few months, the voice chimes into my life with warnings, advice, and encouragement.

Things a dad would say.

I know every kid needs to grow out of believing in Santa Claus and every crazy-voices-hearing girl needs to grow out of believing she's getting messages from her absent father. But when I can move a toaster across the room with just a thought, is it so insane to think I have a telepathic dad watching over me?

Three weeks into middle school, when I was the odd new girl and others talked about me mercilessly, the thought of sitting alone again in the cafeteria made my chest tight. I snuck out back. Leaning against the brick wall, I took in the vast school field. As I munched on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had made with Eli that morning, I heard there are worse things than solitude. I didn't mind being alone; I minded that my soul felt lonely, scrubbed of even minimal acceptance. Still, the whispers helped.

The last whisper, well, before the one I just heard, was over a year ago. I rarely get swooped up in a fit of rage but my mom had been gone all night and into the morning with no notice. She wasn't bartending that night. The hospitals didn't contain anyone with her description. Eli and I had nothing to do but munch on stale caramel popcorn and race horrific scenes through our heads. I imagined her crushed truck deep in a ditch or her terrified eyes confronting the wrong man in the wrong back alley.

After a sleepless night, I heard the creaking at the back door. I remember the way the sunrise made everything behind my mom light, but her face was dark, in shadows. My pent up fury exploded. I shouted at her till my throat was raw. And then, the whispers: Stop. You don't realize how much she's given up for you. It was the first time I was angry at the voice.

And just now, I had another first. This is the first time I am afraid of the voice, or at least what it said.

It is time to be brave.

I always look around when I hear the voice. Maybe he doesn't even have to be close to use it, but if he does...well, I always look. There are only two people in the waiting room with me: a well-dressed man reading TIME and a younger guy with a tattoo along his forearm who's sleeping. I'm impressed he is able to sleep in that position. The armrest encroaches upon his back and his neck seems strained by hanging on to the weight of his head. He must be really tired.

Anyway, neither man is my mom's type. Not that she has a type, but she has non-types.

Maybe it is time I got over this whole dad-voice thing.

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