15 The Garden of Oz
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It was funny: that I should have thought earlier on the fact that we could never go home—for when I awakened (or at least partially awakened), blinking my eyes and watching the curtains rustle, smelling the sweet lilacs in the Garden of Oz, well, I realized I had done just that.
Gone home.
“That’s it, Miles,” coaxed my mother, softly, encouragingly, urgently. “We need you to wake up; okay? Need you here, and present—and alert. Come on, honey.”
I rolled to face her and found her sitting on the bed next to me—pensively, I thought; broodingly, her hair having fallen partly over her face. “I can smell lilacs,” I said, and sniffed at the air. “But it’s already late July.”
She swiped the hair out of her eyes and regarded me. “And do you like it? The way their s
