Sixteen years of holding in her sneezes, and one pollen-laden day, Mika took her mom's advice and let one out. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the kitchen watching her mom burn chicken soup. She was on a lawn, and not her lawn, at least, not the one she was accustomed to seeing outside her window. She was looking at a house she hadn't seen since she was ten; blue walls and blacktop, childish scribblings made three years prior that had yet to be painted over on the white garage door.
Mika held her breath and looked down. On the grass was her ten-year-old self, bug hunting with a mini net, a glass container of crickets beside her. Mika opened her mouth, intending to say hello, but suddenly thought of something. She remembered this day. The dirt had smelled and felt boggy because it had just finished raining, and the crickets' chirps sounded lonely with the rest of the world quiet. She remembered, her mom would come running out, grab her, and tell her there had been an accident. She would cry for her dad, but find out that he was all right, alive at least. Still, their lives would all change in that instant.
A leaf fluttered down from the great oak overhead, brushing teenaged Mika's nose. Just as she heard the front door open, Mika sneezed again. She opened her eyes to a scene of an even younger her, about five, being bounced on her daddy's knee.
Back when he still had two of them.
The two of them sat before the T.V. on their lumpy couch, thrilling over Saturday morning cartoons. Older Mika was just out of her dad's periphery, standing behind the couch, beside the standing lamp. She grabbed ahold of the light stand to steady herself as her stomach rolled, praying she wouldn't be sick. As she took quiet, steadying breaths through her nose, she listened.
"I want to see dinosaurs, Daddy," her five-year-old self said, "like last time."
She was talking about a trip to the museum, Mika remembered, the dinosaur exhibit that had sent her home with a ceramic dinosaur footprint fossil (that she was convinced was a billion years old) and a strong desire to dig for more.
"We can't because the exhibit's closed." Her father stopped bouncing her and reached for the remote, turning up the volume a bit. "Let's just watch the dinos on T.V."
Mika ducked further behind the couch as younger her vaulted to her feet, faced her dad all red-faced, and stomped. Older Mika cringed and convinced herself not to come out to give her little self a spanking, but her dad showed more patience. Mika didn't have to see him, she could picture him lacing his fingers and putting them to his lips, statuesque with his dark eyes quizzical like he was watching a clever show.
"Things don't last forever sweetheart. That's why we've got to treasure them."
"Like my fossil treasure?" little Mika asked, her anger subsiding. "I put it in the music box Mommy gave me."
Mika remembered her dad's brow creasing then as he said, "Not quite like that. It's nice to keep and love your fossil now, but if it breaks or gets missing in the future, you still have your memories of it and the museum trip. Those are your real treasures, because they can't go anyplace. Not useless you get brain surgery from Dr. Frankenstein," he added, tickling little Mika. The two laughed while a tear scrolled down hidden Mika's face.
She wished he hadn't said that part. Like his legs, her dad's memories weren't fully intact after his accident. Then again, he barely spoke anymore. It was difficult to tell what he recalled and what was forgotten. Maybe he couldn't even remember this day that she was witnessing of a still happy time.
At that moment the house cat, Fritz, went by. His tail whipped Mika's nose. She didn't have time to think of holding in her sneeze. Out it came.
She opened her eyes.
It was dark, too dark. She couldn't see anything. She wasn't even sure if she was properly breathing. A fluid, warm and thick, filled her nose and mouth, yet she wasn't choking. She felt like she was crammed into a small place, someone nestled up beside her. There was no recollecting time or the passage of it. Had she been here for years or only a minute? Oddly muffled voices reached her, and she thought one or two of them were familiar. She tried to focus on what they were saying, before sleep could find her; it was coming heavily upon her.
"I think I was wrong about it being one big baby, Mrs. Calloway. Congratulations! Looks like you're having twins! Two healthy girls. Do you have names in mind?"
A man's voice answered. "We're not sure about the second, but we plan to call one Mika. We've always liked that name.