by Lucy Keating
“What’s going on in there?” I nod to the doorway he just came out of, with the symphony of clanking plates.
“Just the millionth dinner party of the season. My parents have a lot of friends,” Max answers, sitting down next to me at the island. He sounds exhausted. “So what is this, Alice. Twenty questions? What are you doing here?” He folds his arms across his chest, then places them on the countertop, before ultimately letting them rest in his lap.
I give him a look. “I have your phone,” I say. “Relax. Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not being weird,” Max says, in a voice that’s uncharacteristically high and squeaky. “You have my phone?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I reply coolly.
“So, can I have it?” he asks impatiently.
“You know what?” I reply, sliding the phone across the marble countertop so fast I think it might fly off the other side, and I sort of hope it does. “I came here tonight to do you a favor. And I’m getting kind of tired of your manic behavior.”
“What do you mean?” Max asks, looking genuinely confused. He snatches the phone with ease before it can shatter on the floor. Of course.
“I mean one minute you’re a jerk at Oliver’s party. The next you’re apologizing to me in an elevator, then you’re coming to my rescue when I think I might suffocate in the MRI machine, and now you’re acting like I’m some stalker who just showed up at your home. I mean really? Pick a side, Max. I feel like I’m living through some vampire romance where you can’t be near me because my blood smells delicious.”
I’m obviously kidding, but Max suddenly looks more uncomfortable than ever. He stares awkwardly down at his hands.
“What?” I ask, watching him. Then my mouth falls open slightly. “Is that it? You’re afraid to be alone with me?”
Max still doesn’t say anything, and his jaw clenches. “Kind of,” he admits.
It takes me a moment to find my voice, and when I do, it comes out small and unsure. “Why … what is it you’re afraid will happen?”
Max finally meets my eyes with a look that says, What do you think? And I think I might actually pass out.
Instead we’re interrupted by a voice from the hall. “Max? Could you bring a bottle of red as well?” Max’s mother appears in the hallway between the dining room and living area. She’s immaculate with a friendly, open face. “Oh,” she says when she sees me.
“Mom, this is my friend Alice. She was just leaving,” Max says quickly, standing up from the table.
I can take a hint. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolfe.”
“Not so fast,” Max’s mother says. “Alice, first of all, it’s lovely to meet you. And please call me Katherine! Secondly, I’m sorry Max is in such a foul mood. He hates our dinner parties. Why don’t you come in and join us for dessert? Someone canceled at the last minute and we have an empty seat.”
I look to Max, but he’s intentionally not meeting my gaze.
“I—I’m not sure …” I stammer.
“Well, I am,” Katherine says, putting a sparkling diamond-clad hand on my back. “Besides, we have a flourless chocolate torte for dessert, and if more people aren’t here to eat it, I’ll do it all myself.” She winks.
The chocolate torte is what dreams are made of. Like a brownie that’s been cooked just right, warm and gooey at the center, with a deliciously crisp crust. I would swim in it if I could. Or just dig a hole and sit inside it with a spoon and eat my way out. Maybe tonight when I fall asleep, I’ll dream about this cake.
“So, Alice,” Jacob Wolfe says. Over the course of dessert I learned Max’s dad is the head of pediatric surgery at Mass General Hospital, a few blocks away. His mother, meanwhile, works for the largest philanthropic foundation in the city. No pressure or anything. “How come we’ve never seen you before? Where have you been hiding?”
I put my spoon down, embarrassed to realize it hasn’t left my hand since I sat down. “I just moved here, actually.”
“Alice is in one of my classes at school,” Max says. He’s acting different, like he’s playing a version of himself. His speaking is more formal and enunciated, his posture more rigid. Like the way you speak to someone who is hard of hearing. Not the way you talk to your father.
“Yes, psychology,” I add. I was only trying to participate, but immediately I see Max wince.
“Psychology?” Jacob asks. But he’s not speaking to me anymore, he’s speaking to Max. “I thought you decided not to take that this semester?”
Max takes a deep inhale, nodding, and I realize I’ve made an error. “We did discuss that, yes, but this is the only semester Mr. Levy teaches Psych 201, and I didn’t want to miss the opportunity. Especially if I want to get into his three-hundred level next year.”
Jacob clears his throat, his posture still like stone. “I just thought we agreed you’d wait until your senior spring to take the fluffier courses,” he says.
“He just said it wasn’t offered in the spring, dear,” Katherine says in that same soothing tone. A tone that says, I’m putting out this fire, and don’t bother trying to light it again. She brushes a strand of Max’s hair out of his eye. “And besides, you have such a great relationship with Levy. It will look even better on your transcript to show a continued interest in a specific subject.”
This conversation stuns me. In my house we talk about the things we saw or learned that day. The new bicycle share in Harvard Square, or the coffee shop that just opened on Marlborough Street. Max’s parents seem to know every detail of his life, and everything they don’t know yet, they seem to have planned for.
“Max is by far the smartest in the class,” I chime in. “I swear he knows the questions Levy will ask before Levy does.”
In response to this Jacob beams. “That’s great to hear. Good work,” he says to Max.
“And he doesn’t hesitate to make sure we all know it, either,” I tease, and the whole table erupts in laughter, including Max, whose eyes shine at me gratefully from the other end.
After I thank Max’s parents for dessert, Max walks me to the door. I am just turning to give him a wave when I see him putting on his own coat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Walking you home.” He shrugs. “It’s late.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be alone with me?” I tease him.
“I think I can handle myself,” he says with a laugh, playing along. But I notice he missed one of the buttons on his coat, and without thinking I reach over to fix it. Suddenly, a moment too late, I am aware of how close he is, and even though I refuse to look up and meet his eyes, something crackles between us.
“I’ll be fine, really,” I say, taking a step back. “I like to walk alone. It clears my head. Besides, my dad makes me use one of those apps where he can locate me whenever he wants.” I sigh and wish I were kidding.
Max actually looks a little hurt. And a little silly, standing there in his brown waxed-cotton coat with a plaid scarf that’s less wrapped around his neck than draped over it, where it won’t do any good. “Oh,” he says. “That’s cool.”
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. “Okay, so … I’ll see you at school.” I turn to leave.
“Alice,” Max calls out.
“Yeah?” I say.
“Thanks,” Max says.
I smile at him, and as I make my way back down the hill, I can’t help but feel like something between us is changing. It’s not just about our memories anymore. We’re getting to know each other again. We’re building something in real life. And it’s not always pretty, but I’d rather have that than have no Max at all.
SEPTEMBER 26th
The first thing I think is that I’ve obviously eaten the same mushrooms that Alice, the other Alice, eats in Wonderland. The ones that both shrink her and make her grow. I’ve eaten the first kind. I’m making my way through the living room at Nan’s house, but I’m so small I’m able to walk directly under
the piano without crouching an inch, and the carpet seems much softer than usual, squishier beneath my feet. I’m looking for something, but I don’t know what.
I take the stairs slowly, flipping over onto my stomach and wiggling down each one. I cling to pieces of carpet with my fists to hold on for dear life. I can hear voices in the distance and want to go faster, but I don’t know what I’m looking for.
In the kitchen, I hoist myself up onto a chair and lift a teacup the size of a kiddie pool from where it lies facedown on a saucer. I poke my head underneath it and see if anyone’s inside, but find nothing. I’m disappointed, but then I’m momentarily distracted by a pile of cream puffs in the middle of the table. They are as big as loaves of bread. I pick one up and break it in my hands, then begin to nibble around the edges, and I take it with me as I continue on my way.
I hear a laugh, a woman’s laugh, loud and full, and suddenly I’m excited. I smile and pick up my pace, hustling back through the dining room, checking beneath each piece of furniture as I go. But I can’t find her. In the main foyer I catch a whiff of something lovely. Sweet and a little bit spicy. Familiar. Like shampoo. I close my eyes and breathe it in. But as soon as it comes, it goes again.
Where is she?
Anxious and alone, I wander over to the window curtains and wrap myself up in deep green silk. I wait; for what, I’m not exactly sure.
That’s when I hear the breathing—large grunts and snorts. I think I should be afraid, but I’m not. I’m less afraid than ever. I’m relieved. They are getting closer, and I wait patiently. Suddenly the curtain is pulled away and I am face-to-face with Jerry, except he’s as big as a buffalo. His wet nose wipes against my face as he sniffs, and then he nudges me, before picking me up by the collar of my sweater and carrying me back through the house.
He hops up the stairs and places me back in my bed, giving me a big slurp with his tongue and curling up next to me. I fall easily to sleep.
16
Swans Mate for Life
JERRY HAS THIS unbearable habit of scraping at the front door for dear life every time he needs to go to the bathroom, and then taking an exhaustive amount of time deciding where to pee. Or worse, just standing on the sidewalk and staring at me indignantly, as though he is waiting for me to tell him what we are doing here in the first place, and why I got him up so early.
“Are you kidding?” I say, staring down at him with my hands on my hips. It’s nine a.m. on Saturday morning and I am in bare feet, jeans, and an old lavender sweater I pulled from one of my mother’s drawers. “You have exactly one minute to go to the bathroom. And then we are going inside, and I don’t care if you have to hold it all morning.” Jerry blinks once before hustling over to the edge of the sidewalk to handle his business.
“That’s what I thought,” I say.
This morning I woke up spooning him like he was a living breathing teddy bear, his little sausage-shaped frame nestled comfortably in the blankets, his giant head resting on the pillow like a person. I also woke up with an odd pit in my stomach. But not the kind of pit I felt the morning after the Brooklyn Flea dream. This one was different. Less heartbroken, more lost. Like I was missing something I couldn’t find, but something I hadn’t been able to find for a while. The feeling is fading little by little, but the memory is vivid. I stare up at the façade of our beautiful old house and then I just know. I was missing her. My mom. I’d been looking for her in my dream.
“Time to go back in, Jer-Bear,” I say, turning around to discover that we are not alone. Oliver’s fluffy head is blocking Jerry’s face as he leans down to pat him on the back.
“Hi!” I say enthusiastically, but when Oliver raises his head to look at me, he just squints.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” he asks.
“Oh, come on,” I say then, giving him a shove.
Oliver’s blue eyes widen in shock, cradling his shoulders as if to protect himself. “Ma’am! Please. I’m just here to visit my friend Jerry. We were roommates in college.” He turns back to the dog. “Jer, do you even know this woman?” I’m pretty sure dogs can’t roll their eyes. But if they could, Jerry definitely just did.
“Very funny,” I say. “What are you really doing here?”
Oliver grins. “Well, obviously I’ve come to take you both on an adventure.”
I open my mouth, ready to protest—I am in bare feet, after all—before realizing that an adventure is exactly what I need.
“I’m only doing it for Jerry,” I say. “He needs to have some fun.” We turn to find Jerry lying on his side on the brick sidewalk, while a little girl with a butterfly balloon rubs his belly.
“Poor Jerry,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “His life is so hard.” Then he crouches down with his hands on his knees and says to my dog, “How do you feel about boats?”
Of all the wonderful books that exist about the city of Boston, Make Way for Ducklings is by far the best. The story is about a mother duck who gives birth to her babies on a small island in the middle of the Charles River, and must find a way to get them back to the pond at the Public Garden. So she marches them through town in a little row, and the whole city stops to “make way,” until they safely plop their fuzzy bottoms into the water, and all is right with the world.
In the Public Garden, which is right across the street from our house, there are also swan boat rides. For three dollars you can climb aboard what basically looks like two green canoes welded together under six rows of wooden benches, followed closely by a giant swan sculpture, behind which sits your tour guide. Then you are pedaled around the pond, which has to be no more than half a mile in length, for fifteen uneventful minutes, and get off again.
“Isn’t this kind of a tourist attraction?” I ask Oliver as we wait in line for a ride.
“Aren’t you still kind of a tourist?” Oliver responds.
“I resent that,” I say. “And so does Jerry.”
Oliver doesn’t answer, he just hands me an envelope. “Here, hold this,” he says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Do-it A-lice,” he singsongs nervously while eyeing the ticket taker, and for some ridiculous reason I obey.
“Oliver!” The ticket taker gives him a big hug when it’s our turn. “We miss you around here. Are you coming back next summer? You were such a hit with the guests.”
“How could I not, Sam?” Oliver says. “Best job I’ve ever had.”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure it’s the only job you’ve ever had, but I’ll take the compliment. Unfortunately, what I cannot take is this guy.” He points at Jerry, who is gently sniffing the back of a woman’s calf in front of us in line, like she is an expensive piece of cheese. “You know the rules, no dogs unless they are a service dog.”
Oliver gives an overexaggerated sigh. “Sam, what do you think, I just forgot everything I learned last summer? Jerry is an emotional support animal. He belongs to my friend Alice. She even has a letter from her therapist—don’t you, Alice?”
Suddenly I understand the envelope. And I want to murder him.
Sam takes the letter from me and scrutinizes it, then glances sidelong at Oliver. “He doesn’t seem like much support,” he says.
We look over and see that a fat brown duck has swum up to the dock and Jerry is leaning toward it, right out over the water, emitting a low growl. The leash is the only thing keeping him upright.
“He’s both an emotional support animal and a security dog,” Oliver says quickly.
Sam sighs.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, very aware of the fact that Oliver has put his arm around the back of my chair, as Jerry lies down below our seat with a grunt. “And wrong, on so many levels.”
“But isn’t it fun?” Oliver winks, and stretches out his legs in front of us. He belongs on a beach in Malibu, not a boat with a giant fake swan on it. I can’t help but consider all the hearts he would break if he weren’t always acting like the Energizer Bunny. “Did you know swans mate for
life?” he asks, wiggling his brows.
I roll my eyes.
“So, where were you on Wednesday?” Oliver asks. “I looked for you after Terrarium Club, but Jeremiah said you ran off. I thought we were going to that old record store in Harvard Square I told you about.”
I lean forward and place my forehead in my hand. “I completely forgot,” I say. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“I’ll be fine.” Oliver waves a hand dismissively. “It’s Sally who is heartbroken.”
“Sally?” I ask, wracking my brain. I don’t remember meeting anyone at school with that name.
“Sally the Segway. Don’t tell her I told you, but she sort of had a crush on Frank … I think she just felt jilted is all. They lock up together one time at a bike rack and he never calls her again? Real classy, Frank.”
I can’t help but snort in response. We’ve just made our way under the small pedestrian bridge that crosses the pond, and a little girl in a green wool coat waves to us. We wave back.
“Seriously, where did you go?” he asks then, and I feel a pang when I see how earnestly he is looking at me.
I take a deep breath. “It’s kind of weird,” I say. “I’m not sure what you’ll think.” I can’t believe I’m even considering doing this. Telling him everything. But Oliver always makes me feel safe. And I can tell right now he’s a little hurt.
Oliver shakes his head. “Alice, since the day I met you, you’ve been nothing but weird. News flash, I like it. Tell me what’s going on and maybe I can help.”
“Okay, so …” I lean in closely, unsure. “It seems that Bennett isn’t the first time I’ve ever met Max Wolfe.”
Oliver’s eyes go dark. “Well, when then?” His jaw twitches slightly. We’ve now reached the end of the pond and are curving around, heading back again. For the first time I notice the weeping willows dotting the shoreline, and they seem familiar, but I can’t tell if it’s from an actual childhood memory or a dream I had as a child.
I take a deep breath. Can I trust him?
“In my dreams,” I say, ripping off the Band-Aid.
Oliver’s face falls, and he removes his arm. “I know you like him, Alice, but don’t you think it’s a bit cruel to go on a swan boat ride with another suitor, only to tell him that someone else is the man of your dreams?”