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“What do you mean?” I pushed up in the bed. “I was in Italy with mom.” My eyes shot open wide. “Oh my God. Where's mom? Is she okay? These men came into our hotel room and—”

“Woah, woah, woah. Pumpkin, slow down. What are you talking about? You weren't in any hotel room, and you certainly didn't go to Italy. I think I would have known about a trip like that.”

“Yes, I did. I went with Mom. We went to Paris first, and then we went to Italy. These men forced their way into our room, and one of them did something to Mom. I saw it, Dad. I was there.” My voice was crackling as I spoke. I could barely hold back my tears.

My father ran his hand down my head and said calmly, “It sounds to me like you had a bad dream. Actually, that sounds more like a nightmare. Your imagination is pretty wild.”

“I'm not lying. I'm telling you the truth. Where's mom? She'll tell you,” I sniffled and took a deep breath.

“Mom isn't feeling well today. She's sleeping. Mom needs as much rest as she can get when she's sick, you know that.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “No, that's not true. She was better. Mom wasn't sick. We flew on a plane. We were on an adventure. We used pretend names, and she even cut my hair. See?” I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling at the ends.

“Pumpkin,youcut your hair. Last night after dinner, you talked about wanting it cut, and when I said no, you stormed off. I didn't think you'd cut it yourself, though.” He lifted the scissors off my dresser with a concerned look. “Are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever?” He placed the back of his hand against my forehead. “You're burning up.”

“Dad, I swear—”

“Look, sometimes dreams can feel real. And if you have a fever, it's even worse. I'm going to go get you some medicine.”

“I feel fine. It wasn't a dream. Go ask Mom. She'll tell you.”

“She's sleeping. I told you that.”

“I want to see her.”

He grimaced as he rubbed his jaw, thinking. “Alright, but you can't wake her up. You need to let her rest. She isn't well, Pumpkin. And then we need to get you something to bring down this fever.”

“Fine.”

My father stood up, tucked his hands in his pockets, and nodded. “Let's go.”

I followed him to her room. My mother and father slept separately because she was sick a lot. I wasn't sure what was wrong with her, but it seemed like she had been sick on and off my entire life. My father only told me that I would understand it better when I was older.

His penny loafers squeaked against the wood floor. His pleated pants swooshed back and forth with each step as his thighs rubbed together. My father's button-up shirt was tucked into his pants, and his gray vest was buttoned all the way to the top. He always wore a tie, and that day, he chose a bright red one. I remembered the red vividly because it was the same color red as the handkerchiefs the men had.

As we approached the door, my father stopped and turned to face me. “I'm warning you, Poppy, donotwake her up. I'll let you see her so you know you had a bad dream, but that's it. Understand?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm telling you the truth. We did fly to Paris, and then we took a train to Italy. I'm not lying.” I pushed past him and opened the door.

My mother was tucked peacefully into bed. The covers were tight and snug all the way up to her neck. She was sleeping, just like my father said. A towel was draped over her hair and across her forehead. The lamp next to her bed cast a yellow glow, making her skin the color of amber.

My father placed his hands around my shoulders and squeezed. “See. She's sound asleep, just like I told you,” he whispered.

“I'm telling you it's true. Look,” I said, pulling away and darting to her side. “Her hair is black. She dyed it in France.” I gently pushed up the towel, exposing her hair, but to my surprise, it wasn't black. Her hair was now the same beach-kissed blond it had always been. “But. . . She dyed it. It was black. I swear she dyed it black.”

“Pumpkin, I don't know what else to do to prove to you it was just a dream.”

I was aghast. Was I going crazy? I remembered everything. Every moment. Every sight. I could probably bring my father there and be his guide. But now, I wasn't so sure. Could a dream be that memorable? That real? That tangible? I could still smell the fresh pastries of Paris and the musty, brackish water of Venice. I could still feel the silk sheets on my skin and the warm breeze as it blew through my hair.

“Poppy, as you can plainly see, Mom's hair isn't dyed.” He gave me a feigned smile as he held out his arm. “Let's go get you some medicine. That fever needs to come down. I'm getting worried now.”

“I don't have whatever it is Mom has. I feel fine.”

“You can't catch what your mother has that way. People sometimes just get sick, Poppy. It's a natural part of human life. A high fever can do all kinds of things, especially cause hallucinations.”

I walked by him and back into the hall, giving my mother one last look over my shoulder before my father shut the door. “I'm so confused.”

“That's why you need to trust me. I know what I'm talking about.” He guided me along with his hands on my shoulders to the kitchen.