“Remove the machines,” Isis orders. “Now.”
The medical staff does as she says, while Isis keeps the healing energy pouring into my mom. If someone were monitoring my heartbeat, the needle would be jumping up and down like a seismograph during an earthquake.
The machines get disconnected, but unlike in my dream, Mom’s eyelids stay shut. Isis stops the flow of healing energy and touches Mom’s forehead.
“There’s nothing more to heal,” she says, “but something seems to be wrong. Is she sleeping?”
I try not to panic as Dr. Xipil looks at the brain scan. “It doesn’t look like regular coma activity,” he says. “It is reminiscent of sleep, but something seems off. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Oh, that doesn’t sound good at all. I clench my hands, the nails digging into my palms as Isis says, “How about we wake her up?”
The doctor gently shakes my mom’s shoulder.
Nothing happens.
He shakes her less gently—still nothing.
Isis rolls her eyes and slaps my mom on the cheek. The others gasp, and one man moves to stop her. Dr. Xipil shakes his head in warning.
Mom doesn’t wake up.
I feel like I’m on the verge of a meltdown.
Isis grabs a cup of water from a nearby doctor’s assistant and splashes Mom in the face.
Still nothing.
“Maybe we wait for her to wake up naturally?” Dr. Xipil suggests.
Isis shrugs, so we all wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Each second that passes increases my anxiety. Unable to stand still, I pace around the room, nearly tripping over the doctor’s feet twice. “I’ll be back in a few,” he says after it happens for the third time, and disappears for the next hour.
When he finally reappears, Isis grips me by the shoulder. “I need to go. There’s not much more I can do. Sleeping is more your area of expertise.”
I inhale sharply. “But—”
She turns on her heel and exits.
Dr. Xipil regards me speculatively. “What did she mean about your expertise?”
I push back a frizzy curl with an unsteady hand. “I’m a dreamwalker. If Mom is really sleeping, theoretically I can go into her dreams.”
His eyes narrow. “So do it. Maybe you can wake her up from within.”
“I…” I cast a glance at Mom’s prone figure. Worry for her is like a worm eating me on the inside, but I can’t ignore the heavy weight of my promise. “I can’t,” I say bleakly. “She doesn’t want me in her dreams. Let’s just give her a chance to wake up.”
Dr. Xipil looks exasperated. “You stay here and wait then. Get me when she awakens.”
I can tell he wanted to say if she awakens.
He and the rest of the staff disappear to go about their business, and I take a seat on a low-slung couch near the bed, silently begging Mom to wake up. But she just keeps sleeping. An hour goes by, then another and another. Eventually, exhaustion overcomes me—my four-month sleep debt is still weighing on me—so I ask a nurse to keep an eye on Mom in my stead and close my eyes for a few minutes. I doubt I’ll actually fall asleep; I just need to rest for a little bit…
I wake up to Dr. Xipil’s voice and jackknife to my feet.
“Any progress?” I ask, frantically rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “How long have I—”
“Thirty-six hours asleep—ten for you—and not a single REM cycle,” he says. “I tried giving her stimulants, but it didn’t help. This might be a type of coma I’ve never heard of, one that can only happen when a healer is involved. Your powers may be the thing to try next.”
My breath catches in my throat. They’re going to make me do it. “Dr. Xipil, I don’t know if… I mean—”
“I’m sure your mother didn’t anticipate this situation when she said she doesn’t want you dreamwalking in her.”
My hands begin to tremble. Why is this so hard? I look at Mom’s serene face. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“If you don’t wake her up now, we’ll have to put the feeding tube back in.”
I swallow, staring at Mom, already seeing her with all those tubes poking out of her. Would she rather have that, really? If it were me, I’d want my daughter to do everything in her power to wake me. Maybe Dr. Xipil is right. There’s no way Mom could’ve anticipated this dilemma. It’s one thing to keep me out of her dreams when she’s dealing with depressive episodes; it’s another matter entirely when her life—or at least, her consciousness—is on the line.
I square my shoulders. Screw my promises. I’ll beg Mom’s forgiveness when she wakes. “I’ll do it,” I tell the doctor. “But since she’s not in REM sleep, you need to prepare to subdue me if I start acting weird. You remember that case about a dreamwalker killing people?”
Nodding solemnly, he leaves and comes back a few minutes later with a syringe and several burly security guys. They form a semicircle around me, hard faces reflecting equal parts curiosity and concern. I ignore them, mentally steeling myself to survive yet another subdream.