At some point, the exhaustion and pain grow completely unbearable. Then, just like last time, I get a second wind. I swim and swim until I see a distant shore on the horizon.
Yes!
My lungs begin to work overtime as I kick harder. I slice through the black water like an orca until my feet finally touch the sand—which is when the water and the boat disappear.
We’re in a familiar clearing in the woods with trees that look like a mix of coral reefs and baobabs. The sky is that of Soma—two counter-rotating cylinders of an O’Neill colony.
A younger Maxwell is sitting on the grass with my mom, who looks to be in her late teens.
“So, Max, what did you want to do?” she asks teasingly.
Max, huh? I guess that’s short and sweet. Max doesn’t yet have any gray in his hair, and his skin is more bronze than Maxwell’s—probably from spending time outside like this.
Seeing my parents together makes my whole body feel tingly and warm—that is, until they begin kissing, much too passionately for my comfort.
Maxwell gapes at them, blinking rapidly.
I clear my throat.
Maxwell rounds on me. “I can’t believe I forgot Lidia.”
There’s a dullness in my chest. “You forgot more than just her.”
“Still, you shouldn’t have done what you did.” He rakes his hands through his hair. “There’s got to be a reason I gave up something so wonderful.”
“I know what happened,” I tell him. “All is not as it seems.”
He’s not listening, though. He’s staring at Mom, his gaze unfocused. She, in the meanwhile, is sucking on the neck of his younger self with an enthusiasm a vampire might envy.
Has my father just recalled being given a major hickey?
“I hope you’re right,” he says after a moment. “I never want to forget Lidia again.”
I sigh. So he was listening. “No hope necessary. I know I’m right.”
The memory changes.
Something I’ve experienced in Mom’s black window begins to play out.
Three people are in a spacious room, with Mom in a bathtub made of crystal.
Like in Mom’s memory, she’s pregnant and in the process of birthing me and my twin.
Maxwell’s mouth slackens as he stares at his younger self, who’s holding Mom’s hand like his life depends on it.
“Push, honey.” Max kisses the back of Mom’s hand. “That’s it. I love you.”
Maxwell looks at me, his eyes widening beyond what’s possible outside the dream world. “I had two daughters!”
I feel a burn behind my eyelids. “You still have them.”
His mouth opens and closes, like that of a fish.
“Push!” the midwife orders in the memory.
The crowning baby’s head shows up.
Maxwell stares at me unblinkingly.
“You’re doing good,” says my grandmother in the memory. “Almost there.”
The newborn starts screaming.
Maxwell steps toward me, his eyes darting between me and the baby. “Are you…?”
The midwife hands over the gooey newborn to his younger self with a wide grin.
“It’s a girl,” Max says, his eyes shining with joy. “A baby girl.”
The stinging behind my eyes intensifies. “I am.”
“Keep pushing!” the midwife orders.
“Which one?” Maxwell asks achingly as the second baby crowns.
“Bailey,” I say through the knot in my throat.
“Bailey?” It’s as if he’s tasting the name.
The second baby screams, and the midwife gives the newborn to my mom.
“Do you know what you’re going to call them?” my grandmother asks.
Max gestures at the baby in Mom’s arms. “Asha, for my late mother.” He looks at the other newborn. “And Bailey, after her grandmother.”
With that, Max beams at my namesake-grandmother and lifts baby-me proudly, à la Lion King.
My current-day father finally snaps out of his stupor and closes the distance between us, enveloping me in a hug that’s decades overdue.
A tension I’ve carried since I was a child eases, the hollow ache inside my chest receding. My heart feels full and tingly, expanding until it threatens to burst out of my ribcage.
My father.
I’ve found him.
Maxwell squeezes me tighter. It’s a good thing I don’t need to worry about my ribs in the dream world.
In the distance, my grandmother coos at the infants.
“Let me hold one,” Mom says hoarsely, and the memory shifts.
An all-too-familiar scenario starts, playing out a little faster than the prior memories—the beginning of the speedup.
Maxwell, the one I brought with me, wipes away the moisture on his face and shifts his gaze from me to the clearing in the woods where the memory is taking place.
His eyes widen again, and he turns ashen.
My sister and I look to be about seven. We’re screaming in terror because our parents are chasing after us with machetes.
“This didn’t happen,” I tell Maxwell quickly. “You’ve got to keep that in mind.”
But he’s already reeling. “No. I was Overtaken. I remember that now.” He points at the magma-like fire in the eyes of his younger self.
“Okay, that part happened. But not everything you’re about to see did.”
He pivots on me, eyes full of old horror and disbelief. “What are you talking about?”