I grasp her shoulder. “It’s okay, Mom. I’ve been here before. And so have you. You’re the one who wrote this.”
She shakes her head. “This isn’t . . . This can’t be . . .”
Rapscullio hesitantly steps toward us. He reaches for my mother’s hand, falls to one knee, and bows his head. “Your Majesty. It is an honor, and a privilege, to finally meet you.”
Captain Crabbe approaches next and kisses her hand. “I swear my allegiance to you, always,” he vows.
Humphrey runs a circle around my mother, licking the back of her knees. “You taste delicious,” he says, and she gasps.
“You . . . you can speak?”
“Yes, I can,” Humphrey replies. “I know lots of words.Potato. Thermos. Pencil. Communism.”
“That’s . . . great,” my mother says as Socks shyly drops a daisy at her feet. She pats his mane, a smile washing over her face. “You were always my favorite.”
“I knew it,” Socks replies, prancing away.
Orville is the first to fold my mother into a hug. “Welcome home, my dear,” he says.
One by one, the other characters step forward to introducethemselves. The fairies zip around her face; the mermaids flip and splash their tails; the trolls reveal a sand castle built in her honor. Even Pyro soars through the clouds like a skywriter, spelling out her name.
“I hate to say I told you so,” I murmur. “But I told you so.”
My mother looks at me and shakes her head. “I’m dreaming this. I must be dreaming this.”
“Kind of,” I say. “You’ll get used to the weird stuff. Like the way you can jump extra high and run extra fast and eat anything and never gain an ounce. Or the way you move from page to page. It feels like it must be a dream . . . but this is our newreal.”
She created this adventure for me, years ago, when I was afraid of death. This time, I’m going to do the same for her.
“Come on,” I say, taking my mom’s hand. “There’s a lot to see.”
I can tell she still thinks she’s going to wake up at any moment. I can tell she doesn’t trust what’s in front of her eyes. Maybe it’s just going to take time.
At that thought, I can’t help but grin. Because here, that’s exactly what we have.
The castle is just the way I remember it: dazzling, grand, ornate. I watch my mother walk into the great hall, staring at the vaulted ceilings and intricate tapestries, occasionally reaching out to touch a marble statue or sword mounted on the wall. I take her into one of the towers, to Queen Maureen’s chamber,and open the double doors, revealing a round room with a high carved canopy bed, a massive fireplace, and a gigantic armoire containing the finest silk and satin gowns, embroidered with golden thread.
“So?” I ask shyly. “Do you like it?”
“It’s lovely,” my mother says. “I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I wake up.”
I sigh. “You’re not dreaming, Mom. You’re here.We’rehere. For good.”
The clock on the mantel chimes. It is made of bone china and gold, covered in rubies and emeralds and sapphires. My mother’s eyes fly to its face, and she begins to reach into the pocket of the scrubs she is still wearing. “I have to take my medication,” she says, but of course, the pills aren’t there. They’ve already disappeared in the transition.
My mother pats down all the pockets. “They must have fallen out on that beach,” she says. “We have to go back.”
“No we don’t. You don’t need those pills here. You don’t need them anymore at all.”
“Edgar, you have to accept the fact that I’m sick. It’s not what you want, and it’s not what I want, but it’s what we have to deal with. And it’s going to be a lot easier to handle if I don’t keep having seizures.”
Frustrated, desperate to prove to her that she’s going to be healed here, I grab the clock from the mantel and smash it as hard as I can against the stone wall. It shatters into hundreds of pieces: gears and springs and gems scatter across the parquet floor.
“What have youdone?” my mother cries. She immediatelyfalls to her knees, trying to gather the pieces, but they begin to tremble in her hands. They pop out of her palm, quivering, gears finding each other and notching into place, golden joints fusing together, until the clock—whole and restored—rests on the floor in front of her.
I pick it up and set it gently on the mantel. “This is what I’m trying to tell you,” I say. “You can’t be broken here. The book will fix you.”
My mother stands and, with a shaking hand, reaches toward the clock to touch it. “Of course,” she murmurs. “I understand.”
