But life didn’t work like that.
Chapter 4
Three years later
I was back in my childhood home. Everything felt heavy and strange, as if I were walking through invisible, waist-high water. The wallpaper was the same faded green, peeling in the corners. The carpet felt soft beneath my bare feet. I couldn’t be more than ten. The screams were muffled, warped by the walls, but they were there.
“Mom?” My voice cracked as I crept down the long hallway. Each step felt wrong, like the house itself didn’t want me there.
“Mom?” I called again.
No answer.
I knew something terrible was waiting in the living room. The same living room where my parents used to watch TV after they thought I was asleep.
Another scream tore through the house.
“Mom!” My voice was louder now, raw with panic. I wanted to turn around and run, but something in me pushed forward. What if she needed help? What if Dad was hurting her?
He’d never been violent before. Not physically. But we were always afraid he might be. One day, we knew it could happen.
“Mom!” I shouted again, tears burning my eyes. The hallway stretched on like a nightmare. I felt as if I were running in place.
“Dad, stop!” I shouted, even though I didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know if he was hurting her. Gathering my courage, my steps quickened, carrying me to the door at the end of the hallway. I reached out, hand trembling, fingertips justgrazing the rough wood. Then a burst of blood exploded in front of me.
A choked sound slipped from my mouth.
“Emily!” Daniel’s voice cut through the fog. His hands gripped my shoulders. “Emily, wake up.”
“Wake up, wake up,” Mochi echoed, flapping frantically in his cage.
Blinking, dazed, I looked around. The penthouse’s living room came into focus. High ceilings, sleek furniture, too much space. I was in my nightgown, my feet cold on the marble floor. Daniel stood in front of me, worry etched into every line of his face. Mochi, my African Grey, fluttered wildly in his cage, repeating, “Wake up, wake up.”
“How long have I been sleepwalking?” I asked, already moving toward the cage. I lifted the blanket we draped over it at night.
“Six minutes,” Daniel said. “You were awake again. Talking to me. Said I should go back to bed. Don’t you remember?”
I shook my head. My fingers slipped through the bars and stroked Mochi. His sleek grey feathers shimmered with soft silver tones, the edges dusted in pale white. A flush of crimson colored his tail. He calmed immediately, his eyes fluttering closed as if he were a child tucking himself back in.
“Just bad dreams,” I murmured.
Daniel didn’t look convinced.
“Extreme nightmare-related NREM parasomnias,” I added, almost by habit. “Remember? That’s what the Harvard neurologist said after all the tests came back clean.”
PTSD. That was what Cynthia said. But that wasn’t news. I’d carried that diagnosis nearly my whole life. It came in waves. Sometimes manageable. Sometimes like this.
The clinic psychiatrist had tried everything—Zoloft, Paxil, Prozac, Celexa. Nothing helped. And when she startedsuggesting antipsychotics, I stopped being honest about the nightmares.
I wasn’t hallucinating during the day. Just confused for a bit after I woke up.
Daniel took my hand and guided me to the couch. I didn’t even have to say it. He already knew.
“I’m real,” he whispered. “You’re not dreaming anymore.”
I nodded, but my eyes fell to our hands. To the wedding ring on my finger. I was still afraid that the best part of my life might be a dream too.
Daniel pulled his phone from the pocket of his pajama pants. His gold wedding band flashed in the light as he tapped the record button.
