The Voiceover Artist Read Online Free PDF

couldn’t. I still had no idea why she was crying.
    With her back to me, Brittany wiped her eyes with her palms. Then she closed a nostril with her wrist and sniffed. “I was holding a baby girl today,” she said.
    I waggled again and whispered, “Yeah.”
    â€œAnd she died.”
    So far as I knew, this was the first time, in the hundreds of hours Brittany had spent holding doomed infants, that a child had died in her arms.
    I wanted to crawl into the bed and hold her but knew it was the wrong thing to do.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” I said.
    I watched her, trying to come up with some comfort apart from the loving words she would not accept. I waited another moment in the hopes that she would roll toward me and wave me into the bed beside her. But Brittany’s only movements were the still irregular swelling and shrinking of her rib cage.
    So I backed out of the bedroom and pulled the door closed, watching her for any last-second change of heart even as I admitted to myself that the most helpful thing I could do for Brittany was leave her alone.
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    SHE WAS ASLEEP —or still in bed, anyway—when Connor arrived that day.
    I met my brother at the back door with an index finger over my lips, led him out the French doors that opened from the living room onto my unit’s section of the wraparound porch and asked him to wait there. I returned to the kitchen to pour my brother his drink of choice, bourbon neat, and opened a bottle of light beer for myself. Drinking, like high emotion, hindered my management of my stutter, so I was determined to drink slowly that night. I wasn’t about to risk having a fit in front of Connor.
    I handed the glass of bourbon to Connor and closed the French doors.
    â€œShould I come back later?” Connor whispered.
    â€œNo, you’re fine,” I said. “Brittany is sleeping. She volunteers at the hospital in the neo-natal intensive care unit, and a baby died while she was holding it.”
    â€œToday?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œJesus,” Connor said. “Is she in trouble?”
    â€œNo, no. None of the babies she works with have more than a few weeks to live.”
    â€œOh,” Connor said, seeming baffled. “Okay.”
    â€œShe’ll be up soon,” I said. “If she isn’t, you’ll meet her in the morning.”
    I unfolded an aluminum lawn chair for him, not so much hiding the little waggle I took as drawing attention away from it, like a magician showing an empty palm during a card trick.
    â€œHow was the drive?”
    â€œLong,” Connor said. “Longer than it had to be. I got a late start.”
    â€œDid you have an audition or something?”
    Connor shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of my cheap bourbon without wincing. “I went on for a friend of mine in a late show last night. The pay was free drinks, and I was very well paid.”
    I smiled and took a sip of my beer.
    â€œThen I overslept and got caught in some rush-hour traffic south of Chicago,” he said.
    â€œHow long were you driving?”
    â€œWhat is it? Ten?”
    â€œAlmost.”
    â€œSix and a half hours.”
    â€œOuch.”
    â€œYeah.”
    I waggled. “If you want to stay another night to make it worth the drive, you’re welcome to.”
    Connor shook his head and sat up in his seat. “Nah. I want to be back onstage tomorrow night.”
    He took a deep sip of his bourbon and swallowed, and I poured more beer between my lips.
    â€œSo you’re moving to Chicago,” Connor said.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œAnd your girlfriend is coming with you?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd you’re living together?”
    â€œYes.”
    Connor nodded, the edges of his lips curled downward and his eyes smiling.
    â€œYou think that’s a bad idea.”
    â€œNo, no,” Connor said. “It sounds fantastic.”
    By which he