Voices
The first time I heard a voice was while I stood in line at the grocery store.
The self-checkout is much faster, it said. The voice was deep, like Mufasa from the Lion King. I looked behind me but only saw a tiny old lady putting a bag of oranges on the conveyor belt.
Now you have to wait for that guy to figure out how to tap his credit card, said Mufasa.
“I don’t like the self-checkout,” I said.
The cashier glanced over to me while the guy continued trying to use the credit card reader. She smiled, but it was one of those trying-to-hold-in-a-laugh smiles and not a glad-to-see-you smile.
But Mufasa wasn’t the only one. And they weren’t always there. They popped in to give me little pieces of advice, which would be nice if you could ignore the condescension.
I wouldn’t cut the pomegranate like that, said a high-pitched, shaky voice. I imagined a cartoon ghost; big sheet with two black cut-out eyes swaying above empty space where feet should be.
Don’t you think it’s time to clip those toenails? someone asked between deep, gasping breaths.
Most of the time I didn’t mind, to be honest. Voices in your head get a bad wrap. They’re blamed for serial killers and suicides, but maybe we just don’t hear about the nice ones. People differ wildly from each other. Why wouldn’t their extra voices be different, too?
And then one day, I heard a much higher, thinner voice that I recognized immediately. I stood in my backyard watering the planter box. My sugar baby watermelons had grown some pretty long vines but no actual watermelons. The voice popped into my head and I dropped the hose.
They’re planted too close together. They need room to spread out.
“Bryan?” The overgrown yard looked a bit swimmy as tears filled my eyes. My neighbor stopped throwing the tennis ball to his huge dogs for a moment and looked over.
“Ah, shit man. I can’t imagine what it’s like,” he said.
I didn’t realize I’d said anything out loud. “What?”
He walked over to the little, white fence. His dogs stood rigid with no idea I said the name of my dead son out of nowhere.
“He’s going to pop into your head like that forever. Must be hella tough,” said my neighbor.
They need more water, too, said Bryan in my head. Like a ton of water.
My hands shook. Breaths disappeared. “Where’s Mufasa?” I asked, but didn’t mean to.
My neighbor knocked his knuckles on the fence a couple times and took his dogs inside.
I didn’t move. The hose continued making a puddle in the lawn but I worried I’d lose him if I took a step, like a radio tuned to a station just outside the broadcast area.
I’m okay, Dad.
I felt something on the crown of my head there in the backyard with the hose gurgling at my feet. It was warm. It tingled. And it slowly spread down my neck to my arms and torso and eventually my legs.
I didn’t hear him again after that. Bryan. But I didn’t need to. I still hadn’t gone to one of those grief groups but I stopped feeling bad about it. Mufasa came back a couple days later to tell me to check the air pressure in my car tires, but instead of being annoyed, I smiled and thanked him.
Josh Rank is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee and lives in Appleton, WI with his wife and two dogs. His novel THE PRESENT IS PAST was published by Unsolicited Press in 2023. A story collection titled CHANCE TO FADE & OTHER STORIES will be published in 2025 by Running Wild Press. He keeps himself busy putting together ugly woodworking projects, cooking for his wife, and wishing his dogs were better behaved. Find him online at www.joshrank.com.