Blues for Zoey Read Free Page A

the Roman god of sleep.
    If appendicitis means the swelling of the appendix, I’m sure you can see what somnitis is. It means sometimes my mom doesn’t wake up. For days. She can have an attack anytime. One moment she’s wide awake, and the next— zzzzzzzzz …
    For days .
    It’s so rare, most people have never heard of it. Not even doctors. Which is why there aren’t many working on a cure. There are quacks out there who ’d like to sell you crystals or incense or some treatment that includes stabbing you with needles, but none of it works. In those cases, the only people getting well are the “practitioners .”
    I’ve read everything about her illness (and I do mean everything ; there isn’t much out there). I’ve learned that throughout her life, Mom’s attacks will get longer and longer. One day, maybe when she’s old or maybe tomorrow, she’ll fall asleep and never wake up.

9
    O n Googling
    When your mom has somnitis, you can’t help but google. A lot.
    (Is it just me, or does the word google , when used as a verb, sound like slang for masturbation? Example: I’ll bet Topher Briggs googles himself, like, ten times a day. See what I mean? This is not to say that there’s anything wrong with googling yourself. To quote Mr. Dearborn, my extremely fired health class teacher: “Boys, it’s perfectly natural. Ev erybody does it.”) So like I said, I google a lot. (Please note that I’m now using google in the classical sense—i.e., searching the Internet.) You can ’t help but type things like, “What is the cure for somnitis?” The first thing you get is pages and pages of bullshit sites trying to convince you to do more yoga, or get hypnotized, or rub eucalyptus cream on your earlobes. Mom tried all of these, by the way. None of it worked. All it did was teach me my mom ’s a sucker for miracle cures. It’s hard to blame her. She’s the one who’s sick. When something terrible is happening to you, I guess you’re willing to try anything.
    Which is why it was so crazy she wouldn’t try the S leep Clinic at the Mars-Bowen Health Sciences Complex in New York City. It’s the only Google hit that actually seemed legit. One of the founders is a neurologist who specializes in sleep disor ders. These are actual doctors. They do actual resea rch. Using actual science.
    On their site, they have a list of everything they have treated, f rom snoring to insomnia. And guess what? Scroll all the way down to the very bottom and you’ll find eight beautiful little letters you won’t find anywhe re else: s-o-m-n-i-t-i-s.
    But there’s a catch. Mars-Bowen is one of those all-inclusive private health complexes. You can only book yourself into the place if you ’re a member, and membership will cost you. $12,000. Up front.
    So now you know what I was saving up for.

10
    Big Daddy
    In the back of the ambulance, the paramedics had Mom strapped to a gurne y. There was a bandage on her head and orange padding stuffed around her face. It pinched her cheeks and pushed her lips into a pair of prunes. But it couldn’t stop her from grinning. That was because she was dreaming of Dad. “Daniel … ” she murmured, breathing deeply. “Daniel … Daniel … ” She whispered his name over and over. Eventually, the words faded away, but the smile stayed.
    The paramedic looked fr om Nomi to me, arching his eyebrows. “She often talk in her sleep?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    I picked up Mom’s hand and stroked it. The paleness of her skin looked even whiter under my brown fingers. She squeezed my hand and the grin on her face went even goofier. I think she thought my hand was actually Dad’s.
    Nomi watched Mom’s face, wincing as if in pain. “I shouldn’t have pulled her.”
    â€œShe ’ll be fine,” I told her. “It’s not your