Into the REM

Prolouge

"Kayla! Your breakfast is getting cold!" I heard my mommy call from downstairs. I slipped on my new light up shoes that she had bought me days before for my birthday. I strapped the Velcro straps across my foot and then eagerly jumped to my feet. I walked over to my full-length mirror that hung on the back of my door and gazed at myself. My mom had brushed my long hair into two pig-tails on either side of my head and my caramel skin beamed as I happily looked at my new shoes that complimented the grey and pink sweater my mom had picked out. As usual, I stomped my foot down to see the pink and blue lights appear under the sole of my feet. A large, toothy grin crossed my face. "Kayla!"

"I'm coming, Mommy!" my high-pitched voice called back. I took off running down the hallway towards the stairs. The stairs were wooden and each protested under the weight of my stomping feet, but all I was focused on was the way each shoe lit up with each stomp.

"Come on and eat your breakfast, Kayla. We're running late and mommy has to get downtown to the office," my mom rushed me. I pulled myself up into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Plated on a little Dora the Explorer plate was chopped up sausage, mini Eggo pancakes drowned in syrup, and scrambled eggs that looked cold already.

"Mommy, you were in my dream last night!" I told her as I went to stuff one of the little pancakes in my mouth.

"This is the third night in a row you've dreamed me huh?" she asked curiously. I nodded. My lack of response caused her to look over at me. She frowned, "Kayla, please use a fork so your hands don't get all sticky."

I sighed and licked the sweet, sticky stuff off my fingers between chewing before grabbing the fork my mom had set out beside me. "We went to the park, mommy – me, you, and Daddy. And you guys let me get two ice creams!"

My mom grinned, "Yeah, you know that was a dream, sweetie. One ice cream is more than enough." I shrugged with a smile and continued eating my breakfast. "I like dreaming you!"

She gave her usual warm smile and hurried me to finish eating. Afterwards, she helped me to get my jacket and book bag together before we were headed off to my school. I don't think I was even at school for two hours before the intercom came on in our classroom.

"Ms. Asbury, please release Kayla Aisling for early check-out. Thank you."

Other children in the class let out jealous moans, but I was happy to be going home early! My teacher gave me a handout for homework before sending me on my way.

When I arrived in the front office, my dad was sitting in one of the olive, office chairs. His knuckles were pressed into his forehead as he sat hunched over and his leg bounced anxiously. "Hi, Daddy!" I called out. My father looked up with me with red eyes. He'd been crying and he stood and began walking towards me. I ran up to him and grabbed his leg, "Daddy, why're you crying?"
He patted my back and beckoned me towards the door. By the time we made it to the car, he still hadn't said anything. "Daddy!" I demanded as I hopped in., "Where are we going?"

"Kayla, baby," he said slowly with his deep, raspy voice. He helped be buckle in my seatbelt and then looked at me, "We have to go to the hospital, okay?"

I cocked my head in confusion as he closed the door. When he ducked into the car in the front seat, I asked, "Why the hospital? That's where sick people go. I'm not sick, Daddy! I don't want any shots!"

His large, brown hands gripped the steering wheel. "I know you're not. It's Mommy."

"Mommy is sick? She wasn't sick before she took me to school today," I argued. How could my mother be sick? She'd just made me pancakes and listened to my dream. She couldn't be sick.

And I was right. When we arrived at the hospital, she wasn't sick. She was dead – or almost at least. She lay in a hospital bed all bruised up – cuts on her face and neck and burn marks. One of her arms was bandaged into a cast and a large brace held her neck straight. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was soft and subtle. All that could be heard were the steady beats of machines in the room supporting her heart and lungs.

She'd gotten in a car accident at the intersection right down the street from my school. An 18-wheeler ran the stop sign and t-boned her from the side. My dad told me that witnesses said her car flipped three or four times before skidding and then coming to a halt. They were surprised she even survived that. But now, doctors said she was brain dead and were almost certain she would never wake up.

"So mommy's never going to come back home?" I whimpered as my dad had explained all of what happened so that my young brain could comprehend it. He shook his head and sobbed. "Is it my fault, Daddy? Mommy said she was late. I was taking too long to look at my new shoes and-"

"No, Kayla, no. It's not your fault. Don't ever think it's your fault!" he assured me before embracing me. My dad wept and wept but my eyes stared blankly at my mother's stoic face. This is your fault, Kayla.

She died later that evening. She never woke back up. I never got to tell her goodbye. Somehow I knew it was because of me.