There are moments when looking like my mom royally sucks.
“Dad . . .”
My phone beeps. Dad and I both turn our eyes to my pocket, where the light of my screen penetrates my jeans. It beeps again.
“That your boyfriend?”
“It’s probably Kaylee. We’re supposed to—”
“Bet it’s your boyfriend.”
I yank the phone from my pocket intending to prove him wrong, but when I look up again, he’s trundling away. He falls into his La-Z-Boy, his eyes unfocused. My phone beeps again—the call going to voice mail—but I power off the phone, watching instead as the strongest man I’ve ever known opens another bottle of beer.
It’s still light, but the sky is streaked with pink and orange, the sun finally going down on this long summer day. So I slide into an old tank top and a pair of boxers and give myself permission to call it a night.
Turns out it was Jake on the phone earlier. I text him, promising to see him tomorrow, and crawl into bed far too aware that a nightmare is waiting for me. It doesn’t matter. I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.
The halo won’t prevent the nightmare, but I slide it under my pillow anyway. I think it eases the transition, and it certainly makes drifting off more pleasant. Warm, soft. I close my eyes as the celestial heat of the halo spreads down my back, my hamstrings, my calves, even my heels. Color assaults my mind, and I surrender to it. How pleasant this used to be before the nightmares. As sleep takes me, I pray for a reprieve.
Instead, the nightmare changes.
It’s the girl again, her face emerging from the colors. But I’m closer and I get a better look this time. She has large, dark eyes and raven hair that frames her face. She’s young, younger than she was the last time I saw her. I ponder the impossibility of that as my ears prick at a sound.
She’s talking to me. “Are you sick?”
I blink, looking around. It’s bright here. Much brighter than the marble hallway. We’re in a waiting room. At a hospital, I think.
“You look sick.”
“Do I?”
She nods, scribbling away at the coloring book in her lap. I feel my face stretch as I offer her a smile.
“Daddy looked like you before he died.”
My smile falls away. I feel that too. My stomach is sick, but I don’t know if it’s the child’s words that have done that or if it’s part of my illness.
“The doctors think the medicine will make me better,” I say.
“I hope so.”
“Me too.” My voice is weak and crackles with phlegm. I want to clear my throat, but I don’t seem to have any control over my body. “Are you here to see the doctor too?”
She shakes her head and points her red crayon at the woman in scrubs manning the reception counter. “Mama has to work. She helps people.”
“That’s nice. Maybe she’ll help me.”
“Maybe.”
I watch her coloring the picture of a unicorn. A red unicorn. “I have a little girl,” I say.
Her eyes light up. “Is she here?”
“No, she’s home with a friend. Sleeping, I hope.”
“Will you bring her next time?” she asks. “It’d be nice to have someone to play with.”
“Maybe,” I say, trying and failing to produce a smile. “She’s younger than you. Would that be okay?”
“Sure,” she tells me, coloring the unicorn’s tail blue. “I can be her babysitter. Like Amy. That would be okay.”
I’m tired. My arms are heavy and my neck is weak. “Do you always come to work with your mom?”
“Not always. Just when Amy can’t watch me. She’s pretty. She has a boyfriend with a motorcycle.”
I let my head fall sideways on my shoulder. “My husband has a motorcycle.”
Her large eyes get even bigger. “Does he let you ride it?”
“Sometimes.” My eyelids are heavy. The girl’s face swims before me. Her eyes. Her necklace, so pretty with the beaded rope and the charm. Is it . . . is it a flower?
I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick and it’s so very, very dark.
“Mama! Mama! The lady’s dying. She’s dying like daddy.”
Her voice bounces around the darkness, tugging at my consciousness. It’s not me, not my body that’s dying. I know that, but the fear of death is suffocating.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t want to die!
“You’re not dying, Brielle. Sit up. You’re not dying. You’re dreaming.”