The Voiceover Artist Read Online Free PDF Page A

better than you do.”
    It was true. Insofar as my being able to speak had changed me, Connor hardly knew me anymore.
    Brittany’s body seemed to soften a little, but she said nothing. Her eyes were pointed somewhere beneath the dark television set, her lower jaw thrust out. There was no talking her out of her inward-aimed fury. She would take it to bed with her.
    Because of my gaffe, the last reasonable moment I had to ask Brittany to change her plans for the following afternoon, so that we could make the most of Connor’s brief visit, was also the least favorable. But I tried anyway.
    â€œConnor gets here around four tomorrow,” I said, softly.
    â€œI’m at the hospital then.”
    I knew this, of course. Brittany volunteered every Tuesday afternoon in the neo-natal intensive care unit of the university hospital—in the two years I had known her, she had missed one shift, on account of stomach flu. Her job was to hold and feed incompatible-with-life newborns whose parents were gone, already mourning an imminent death that simply hadn’t happened yet. It was an unlikely fit for a woman who sought daily refuge from human interaction in the windowless, climate-controlled rooms that housed the leather-bound books she studied. Brittany did not stop to coo over babies in strollers and, outside of my apartment, did not so much as stroke my head or hold my hand. I’d always wanted to watch Brittany cradling the infants, to see that soft part of her even through glass, but she would not allow it—the hospital would not allow it, she said—so I was left with imagined glimpses of her standing stiff-legged, holding other people’s dying children, loving them as she loved me: as much and as little as she could.
    â€œAs it stands, we’ll be asleep about half the time Connor is here.” Feeling my throat tighten, I waggled twice. “So could you find a substitute for your shift tomorrow?”
    She shook her head. “No.”
    â€œIt’s still almost a full day’s notice. I can make the calls for you.”
    Brittany met my eyes. “No.”
    â€œWe can say you’re sick.”
    â€œNo, Simon!”
    She stared at me, driving home her refusal with her cold gaze, then turned her face toward the television again. I said nothing more.
    She had never admitted as much to me, but Brittany seemed to bear the burden of a responsibility to me that was similar to her sense of responsibility to them, as if she was certain that I—like the babies—would have no one if not for her. As I sat silently beside her, I reminded myself that even if Brittany were to leave me—and the thought of her leaving made me sick to my stomach—I would still have someone the other motherless children did not: I would have Connor.
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    WHEN CONNOR CALLED  from the road and said he’d be later than expected, I was relieved that Brittany hadn’t missed her shift at the hospital just to wait around for my brother. My relief evaporated when she returned home crying.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I asked.
    There were pouches beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were bright red. She stalked past me without a word and shut herself in the bedroom.
    I walked slowly to the bedroom door and cracked it. Brittany was in bed, everything but the crown of her head buried under the covers.
    â€œWhat is it?” I whispered.
    Her only reply was a sniffle. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave her alone—not without knowing why she was crying.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    Brittany made a guttural sound from beneath the blankets and rolled over to face the far wall.
    Taking a waggle, I pushed the door and let the heavy brass handle hit the wall. “I’m trying to help!”
    Brittany threw the covers down to her waist and yelled, “You can’t help!”
    She waited another minute for me to leave. I didn’t. I