Sleeping Awake

I heard my mom’s footsteps enter the cold, stuffy room and my heart fluttered with joy. She sat down in the chair next to my bed and it creaked under her weight. It creaked under any weight. It wasn’t a very good chair. Her foot tapped over and over on the floor. She cleared her throat.

“Good morning, bubba. Ready to finish the story?” she asked. Something in her voice sounded off. Like maybe her nose was stuffed or her throat was sore. I hoped she wasn’t getting sick. Her legendary chicken noodle soup was a universal cure-all, so if she was sick, I knew she’d bounce back faster than anyone. My mom was a tough cookie.

The binding of the book crunched as she opened the cover. Pages rustled as she carefully held the tome in her hands, making sure none of the well-read pages fell out. Years of reading and re-reading had loosened some pages from their binding. 

I don’t even know how many times I had read those books cover to cover, and once again we were wrapping up the saga of ‘the boy who lived’. Even though I knew every word, I couldn’t wait to hear her read it to me. I looked forward to it every day.

My mom always attempted to breathe extra life into the characters with her interpretation of their voices. Many people picture and hear the voices of the actors from the movies, but not me. My mom’s characterization held a special place in my heart. She used different voices for each character, creating a vivid image in my mind. She lowered her voice for the giant, made a shrill falsetto voices for the elves, and everything in between. 

Today was different.

She put some effort into her reading, but ultimately it was subdued. Her pacing was off, her voices had less ‘umph’. She must be getting sick. There’s no other explanation. Regardless, my mind latched on to her words and reveled in them. A world of magic and wonder quickly assembled in my mind’s eye, and all the players in that world populated instantly.

Nevertheless, my mind wandered. It did that a lot lately. Partially because I was so familiar with the story I could recite it back to her, but also because my brain just did that sometimes. I would check out and visit another planet for a while before returning to Earth. I think the doctors have a term for it, but I forgot.

A climactic spell-slinging battle erupted from the pages and I placed myself in the center, dodging each spell and casting my own to thwart the forces of evil. I threw lightning bolts, rolled under gouts of fire, deflected fatal curses and more while she read. Many times I thought of what I’d do with real magic.

If I’m honest, I’d totally use it to annoy my sisters. My older sister, Shawna, spent most of her time in front of the mirror messing with her hair and makeup. I guess for girls that’s fun. It would be even more fun to cast a spell that gives her a big fat pimple on the tip of her nose or one that makes her hair all frizzy. She hated when her hair frizzed up. She said it made her look like a Pomeranian after being blow dried.

Maybe I could cast a spell that made a rain cloud follow her around like in a cartoon. That would be pretty funny. My younger sister, Aaliyah, always wanted to do anything I was doing. If I was playing a game, she wanted to be player two. If I was doing homework, she tugged at my elbow, wanting to help. If my friends were over, she wanted to be the center of attention.

Maybe I could send her to another dimension, or make a copy of myself for her to follow. I’d tell him to walk to the next city over or something, so she’d be far, far away. That way should wouldn’t bother me or embarrass me in front of my friends all the time. 

Don’t get me wrong, I love my sisters. I’d go up to bat for them any day of the week. I’ve even got my butt kicked by more than a few bullies on their behalf, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. It’s just that sometimes sisters can be annoying and you just wanna give them trouble for the fun of it, you know? 

My dad would often say how we were ‘outnumbered’ and had to do boy stuff to compensate. I think it was just his way of getting to spend time with me because I was the only boy. He loved letting Aaliyah do his fingernails and helped coach Shawna’s gymnastics team. Clearly he didn’t mind doing girl stuff.

Mom hated when we called it ‘girl stuff’. There’s no such thing as boy stuff or girl stuff, she’d say. Just things people like to do. Like the white Cadillac Shawna, Dad and I were fixing up. I always thought of cars as a boy activity, but Shawna really took an interest in it. 

My dad promised he was going to give her the car when she got her license, so long as we got it working first. It was a fun project. Each week we’d get an additional part or two in the mail and dad would explain to us how it worked and where it went under the hood. Shawna was great at understanding the mechanics behind everything. It always impressed me.

Dad would explain how, say, a carburetor works and she’d soak it up like a sponge. I wanted to understand, but sometimes my brain just couldn’t wrap around such complicated machinery. “Don’t worry bud, it’ll all click one day,” dad would say. 

While daydreaming, I realized I hadn’t heard from dad in a while. I thought about it, and the last time I heard from him was when we went for a test drive in the Cadillac. He wanted to make sure everything worked properly before showing it to Shawna. Wanted to make sure everything was safe. 

He took me on the test drive and we found a hill that was so big it felt like we were on a giant roller coaster, whizzing passed trees and power poles with the windows down. The car kept going faster and faster, my dad almost seemed scared as we approached the bottom of the hill at full speed.

Why hadn’t I heard from him in so long?

Evenly paced footsteps entered the room. “Mrs. Abernathy, a word?” a deep and somber voice said. It was my doctor. He never sounded happy. Maybe he needed to spend some time fixing a car with his dad or reading his favorite book. That always made me happy.

Mom’s chair creaked as she stood up and walked over to him. “Yes, what is it?” she asked.

The doctor cleared his throat and somehow the tension in the room grew taut as piano wire. “Did your insurance company speak to you?” he asked.

“They did,” mom replied.

“And you understand everything they told you?”

“I do.”

“Right, I’m… sorry. Did you want to be here when we do it? Some people like to hold their loved ones’ hand as they go.”

“Yes. Can I please finish the story? It’s his favorite.”

“Of course. Take your time.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what they were talking about. If I’m honest, my mind drifted a bit during their entire conversation. My foot itched and I couldn’t scratch it. Hard to focus when your foot itches. Mom sat back down, took a deep breath, and opened the book again. Her voice changed even more now. It caught in her throat and her nose got snotty. My gut sunk to the bottom of the ocean. 

She always cried when she had to leave. I loved her visits, but hated when she cried. I couldn't imagine why one would be sad when reading about ‘the boy who lived’. With such a rich and detailed world for one’s mind to play in, the idea of sadness was simply crazy to me.

Even so, she cried until the story finished. She shut the book and her warm hand clasped around mine as some doctors entered the room and fiddled with the objects around my bed. The last thing I remember was my mom whispering, “I’ll always love you,” right before I fell asleep.