Fine. I’ll swim.
Stroke after stroke, I edge closer to the nearest shore. I focus only on swimming. And swimming. And swimming. My breathing grows labored, yet the shore is still far away.
After what feels like hours, my every muscle starts to ache.
The shore is still a mile away.
I can’t sink. If I do, I’ll be kicked out of the dream world with my powers depleted. At least, that’s what happened the last time I drowned under similar circumstances.
Desperately gulping in air, I swing my arms and kick with my legs, letting the motions become my only reality.
When a stray thought arises—like the one about the black windows I saw in Valerian’s dreams—I banish it and refocus on the swim. When I’m about to give up, I meditate on a simple truth: My muscles are not really tearing into bits. It’s not oxygen that I lack. This is just a dream.
This seems to help for a while, and eventually, I spot the shore nearby.
Harnessing all my willpower, I speed up so much Michael Phelps would be jealous.
As soon as my hand touches the dirt of the shore, the lake and the muscle spasms in my legs vanish without a trace.
Mom is in a spacious room with three other people. There’s a bathtub made of crystal in the middle, and she’s floating in it.
Oh, and she’s pregnant. More than pregnant—she’s in the process of pushing the baby out.
Wow. Since this is a black-window memory, that means Mom doesn’t remember giving birth to me. That must be odd.
Greedy for all the info, I examine the man holding Mom’s hand. He’s got bronzed skin, amber eyes, and my chin.
My breath hitches.
Can it be?
“Push, honey.” He kisses the back of Mom’s hand. “That’s it. I love you.”
It has to be him. My father. The man I don’t know anything about.
“Push!” the second person in the tub, the midwife, orders, staring intently at the crowning baby head.
Wait a second. The language they speak—I don’t remember hearing it before, yet I understand perfectly.
“You’re doing good,” says an older woman holding Mom’s other hand. “Almost there.”
She looks just like Mom. A grandmother or an older sister, maybe—as in, my aunt?
The baby screams.
The midwife hands the gooey newborn to my father with a wide grin.
“It’s a girl,” he says, his eyes shining with joy. “A baby girl.”
To my surprise, the midwife tells Mom, “Keep pushing.”
Pushing after giving birth? Is it to get the placenta or something?
A second baby crowns.
Wait, what? I stare uncomprehendingly as the midwife goes through all the motions.
The second baby screams.
The midwife gives the second newborn to my mom.
What. Is. Happening?
“Do you know what you’re going to call them?” the aunt/grandmother asks my father, taking the first infant from him.
He beams at her. “Asha, for my late mother.” He looks at the baby in Mom’s arms. “And Bailey, after her grandmother.” He winks at the older woman—who must be the grandmother in question—and lifts the baby dubbed Bailey as if he were the monkey shaman presenting the new lion king.
My grandmother grins in delight and coos at the infants, but I don’t register what she says.
My mind is spinning, my invisible mouth wide open.
A sister.
A twin.
Where is she? How come I don’t remember anything about her? For that matter, where is my father? Or this namesake grandmother? Why don’t I know anything about them either?
“Let me hold one,” Mom says hoarsely, reaching for the baby-me when the memory transforms into another one.
Mom and a much older me—around seven—are walking through the hub on Gomorrah.
Since the hub is on top of the skyscraper, there’s a great view down below, and both Mom and little me are staring at it as if they’ve never seen it before.
In fact, they look as though they’ve never seen a skyscraper before.
“This will be our new home,” Mom says to little me, gesturing at the picturesque view.
“Our textile?” little me asks, eyes glued to the skyline.
“The word is exile. And we’re never to speak of what happened before we came here.”
Little me gives Mom a somber glance. “We’re not?”
Mom crouches so our eyes are at the same level. “We’ve always lived here. Our lives before today were just a dream that we created using our powers.”
The little me nods, her chin quivering.
I stare at them, stunned.
Could what Mom says be true?
Was the birth of two girls a memory of a dream?
No. My powers knew it was a real memory. Just as this one is.
“Let’s go.” Mom grabs little me by the hand, and the dream jumps to another memory.
We’re in a room covered from floor to ceiling with pottery paraphernalia, everything from wheel to kiln. Bailey, my grandmother, is molding a vase on the wheel. Looking on with a serene expression is Mom, who’s holding two little girls by their hands.
Both resemble me, and I realize that my twin is of the identical variety—and that we were still together at this age, which must’ve been four or five.