I wave dismissively. “No, you can call me a parasite if you want. I was just hoping to finish the job.” I eye Bernard’s empty bed in disappointment.
“Oh, yeah, he’s no longer sleeping,” Pom says. “Check back in a few hours. I’m sure he’ll be back later.”
I do my best to suppress a thought along the lines of assuming I have a later. No need to worry the little guy.
Pom cocks his head at me. Did he catch that worry, after all?
Before he can question me and because I need to soothe myself, I take to the air, heading to an adjacent part of the palace.
Pom’s fur brightens to golden as he realizes where I’m going. “Which memory will you relive this time?” he eagerly asks, flitting around me.
“Not sure yet.”
My memory gallery serves a purpose similar to photo albums on Earth and VR videos on Gomorrah, making it easier to put myself into a dream that’s based on a treasured recollection. Each plasma-framed painting hanging in the cavernous, museum-like space depicts an important snapshot of my life.
I float along the walls, scanning the various images until I settle on one.
“This?” Pom asks when I stop next to my choice.
“It’s my earliest memory.”
The tips of his ears turn light orange. “How old were you when that happened?”
“Seven, I think.”
“And that’s your earliest memory?” His ears are now a hodgepodge of colors. “Don’t most people recall events before that age?”
I try not to show how much his innocent question bothers me. “I think it varies for everyone. I’ve always felt like there were parts of my childhood I couldn’t recall—and Mom wasn’t helpful when I asked her to fill in the blanks.”
An understatement. Most fights between us over the years boiled down to her snapping at me for asking something about the past, like “who was my father?” or “where is he?”
Pom clasps his little paws together. “Well, then, do what you came here to do.”
“Be back soon,” I say and jump into the painting.
Chapter Seven
I’m shorter than usual. My body is that of my seven-year-old self, as are my emotions—unless I stop the replay and reflect as my adult self, which I rarely do.
Mommy’s in the bathroom, and I’m bored. Spying an interesting object on Mommy’s dresser, I climb onto a chair and rise on tiptoes to reach it.
It’s coarse to the touch, unlike any other material I’ve ever handled. Is it clay? I don’t know where I know that word from, but I’m pretty sure the object—a vase—is made of that.
Even more interesting are the handprints on it. There are four of them, and they belong to two smaller children. Or one child who put their prints onto the vase twice.
I strain my memory to figure out if they’re mine.
Nothing.
“What are you doing?”
Mommy’s voice startles me, and I drop the vase.
It hits the floor and shatters, clay bits flying everywhere as her eyes widen in horror.
I climb off the chair, head hanging low.
Mommy drops to her knees, pawing through the pieces as her face turns red and blotchy and her eyes fill with moisture.
I don’t want her to cry. “Mommy, I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”
Blinking rapidly, she envelops me in a hug. “It’s okay, darling—it was just a material object. We can get another.” But her voice is strained, and a wet drop falls on my forehead.
I begin to sob.
“No, no, darling, hush.” She rocks me back and forth. “We can always make another vase.”
I pull back, my mood lifting. “Can I put my handprints on it?”
She smiles, though her eyes continue to glisten wetly. “Of course.”
The memory-dream ends, and I’m back outside the painting, my emotions in turmoil.
Maybe I shouldn’t have chosen that specific memory. When I relived it before, prior to Mom’s accident, it’d made me feel comforted, soothed, like Mom’s arms were still around me. But today, it only intensified the hollow ache in my chest. I miss Mom so much it hurts. For all our fights, she’s my only family, the only person in the world who loves me unconditionally. I’d give anything to turn back the clock and—
“Did you end up making another vase?” Pom bops around me, the happy purple of his fur proving that he’s staying out of my head, as promised.
I shove away the gloomy thoughts, just in case, and paste on a smile. Now’s not the time to dwell on my family or lack thereof. “Sort of,” I reply as I take flight, heading back to the tower of sleepers. “The next day, Mom got me a VR headset so I could make hundreds of vases—and those never broke.”
Pom speeds up to hover in front of me. “Whose handprints were those on the vase?”
I raise my hands and picture them tiny. “Mine, maybe. Could also be Mom’s when she was small. She said she didn’t remember.” That was her response to most of my questions, in fact—a response I hated because it made no sense.
Why get so upset over a broken vase if you don’t remember anything about it?
Pom must’ve gleaned that last thought. “She didn’t yell at you for breaking it,” he points out helpfully.
“No, she didn’t.” I sigh as the hollow ache returns. “She never yelled at me—unless I asked about the past.”
Thinking about all this generates an overwhelming desire to check on Mom at the hospital. If I get lucky, there might be a way—but I need to deal with Bernard first.
Only Bernard is still not in his bed when Pom and I reach the tower.
Sounds like I have time to check on Mom, after all.
I fly over to another nook. Score. The dreamer I need is there. I’m lucky today—being taken to my possible death aside.
“Who’s that?” Pom lands on the bed and examines the gargoyle female from wingtip to pointy tail.
“She’s a nurse I found sleeping on the job when Mom was first admitted to the hospital. I made a sneaky connection to her, in case I wanted to check on Mom via dreams.”
“Ah.” Pom leaps onto my shoulder. “I want to go with you.”
I scratch behind his ear, make both of us invisible, and enter the nurse’s dreams.
The gargoyle is dreaming of the hospital—another bit of luck. She’s doing data entry at the nursing station, her head down.
Catching a moment when her attention is on the screen, I change the surroundings to match Mom’s room.
It’s a room I’ve grown to loathe. There, machines do everything Mom’s brain refuses to, from breathing to nourishment.
Pom’s feet reassuringly squeeze my shoulder.
When the nurse looks up from the screen, her subconscious mind fills in the details of the dream—using her memories, which is a boon for me.
“Hi, Lidia,” the nurse says, approaching Mom’s bed.
Mom doesn’t reply. With her lack of brain activity, it’s a philosophical question whether she actually heard what the nurse said.
The nurse lifts Mom’s leg. “How about we do a little exercise?” She proceeds to move Mom like a doll.