Moonglow by Michael Griffo Page B

Because she had something to tell me. That something, however, isn’t good.
    Slowly her eyelids close, her beautiful gray-blue eyes that we share once again hidden, separated from the rest of the world and me the way they’ve been for almost a decade. But before they closed I saw how they looked. They were frightened. Not for herself, but for me.
    I sit back into the hard cushion of the chair and feel the warmth leave my body and wait for my breath to return. There’s no reason to press the button for the on-call nurse; my mother’s back to her normal state, and anyway the nurse would just tell me what the doctor told my father when he decided to take her off of life support, that even while in a coma the body will involuntarily move. Sudden spasms, fluttering eyelids, facial tics are all common physical traits among coma patients; they’re not the beginnings of resurrection.
    But I know this was different. What happened here was direct communication between my mother and me; she was telling me that we’re the same. My problems, just like hers, lie beneath the surface. Outwardly, we look fine; it’s what’s happening inside of both of us that’s all screwed up. Involuntarily, my body shivers, and I’m suddenly ice-cold. Something inside of me is changing, shifting, and it’s doing it on its own, the same way some unknown disease or ailment took control of my mother’s body and took her away from us.
    Looking at my mother is like looking at myself, at my future, and it terrifies me. And down deep, lost in whatever world she’s living in or being held captive in, it terrifies her too. Because we both know my life is about to get much, much worse.
    I press my mother’s hand against my cheek, and her touch is so warm that I wish I could cover myself with her skin and wear it like a coat so I wouldn’t be so cold. “Why won’t you wake up?” My whisper is soft, but it seems to bounce off the walls because the room is so quiet. Why won’t she just open her eyes again and keep them open and tell me in her singsong voice that I have nothing to worry about, that I’m making mountains out of molehills. Despite the fear that’s beginning to cling to my skin, I laugh through my tears and accept the fact that it’s contagious; prolonged exposure to The Retreat makes one speak in clichés.
    Sitting in the Sequinox, back in the real world, I feel more conflicted and anxious than before, and I wonder if my visit helped at all. What was I looking for? Comfort, advice, absolution? In a very distant part of my mind I hear a little ping, like someone flicked a finger into the mushy wall of my brain to get my attention. My mother can no longer offer those things, but what she can do—what she just did—is give me confirmation and strength. She’s not completely dead; whatever has taken over her body, whatever wants full and complete control still hasn’t won. So whatever is trying to take over my body will only succeed if I let it. If I fight, like my mother’s still fighting after all this time, refusing to give in to whatever outside force is her enemy, I can be just as worthy an opponent, just as determined, just as skillful. Like my mother I can survive.
    I look over at Caleb, and he’s already looking at me.
    â€œYou have a good chat with your mom?”
    A new sensation overcomes me, and I can’t speak. Is this real love? Or am I still caught up in my revelation about my mother and how I can fight whatever unnatural presence is creeping into my body and my heart and my soul? Unsure, I just nod my head and allow Caleb to brush away my tears. It’s such a tender moment and he’s so sweet that I can’t believe I ever wanted to do him any harm.
    I take his hand like I took my mother’s, and it’s not nearly as soft or as warm, but it feels even better because it can touch me back. I place it on my neck and