by Lucy Keating
Suitor. I choose to ignore the word. “No, you don’t get it.” I laugh and put a hand on his knee, then pull it away quickly when I see his eyes zero in on it. “Max and I actually dream about each other. We have been dreaming about each other since we were kids. But the thing is, we’ve never met before. In … reality.” I go on to tell him everything, the full history, seeing Max for the first time at school, and how difficult it’s been. “Okay, now is the part where you ask Sam to make an emergency stop so you can run for the hills.”
Oliver’s expression hasn’t changed. He’s still looking at me, but I can tell his mind is working eighty miles per hour.
“You and Max,” he says.
“Me and Max.”
“In your subconscious?” he asks.
“… Yes?” I respond.
“You’re right, that is totally insane,” he replies.
“I know!” I want to bury my face in my hands. I know exactly how it sounds. Too bad it’s true.
“But I’m totally into it.”
“You’re what?” I ask. “I mean, you believe me?”
Oliver gives his shrug. “I’m into it. When I was a little kid, and would watch a scary movie, I’d wake up the next morning asleep in the hall outside my parents’ door, with no recollection of how I got there. I mean, really, how do you explain that? And honestly, I like it better this way. You’re so weird about Max, and I couldn’t figure out why. Maybe you love him, but at least it’s not love at first sight … That would be tough to compete with.” He grins.
I blush and look down at my hands.
“Just one question,” Oliver says.
“That’s it? Just one?” I laugh.
“Have you ever had a dream about me?” Oliver looks me directly in the eye when he asks. Is he afraid of anything?
I think about the pool and the socks and the iPad. “Yeah, kind of,” I say.
Oliver’s whole body relaxes, and he sits back on the bench with a happy sigh, his arm finding his way to the back of my chair again. “Excellent.”
And suddenly I realize, my whole body has relaxed, too. Talking to Oliver about Max and the dreams is such a relief. I have Sophie, too, but she’s so far away. Confiding in Oliver makes me feel like I’m not so alone.
Unfortunately the moment is ruined when we hear a splash in the water, and see that Jerry, having spotted his duck target once again, has launched himself off the swan boat and into the water, like a hairy little Ishmael after his own White Whale. It also appears that Jerry can’t swim very well.
I turn to Oliver in a panic and realize he’s not there. He’s already in the water, grabbing Jerry around his thick middle and pulling him toward the boat.
“Don’t even think about bringing that animal back aboard,” Sam calls as he continues to pedal. “It’s disruptive! This is highly unprofessional behavior, Oliver.”
“But that’s my dog!” I yell over the heads of horrified tourists.
“If you have a problem with the policy, miss, you are welcome to join them,” he replies. He’s obviously not serious. He doesn’t think I will do it. But then I look at Oliver, treading water frantically, Jerry lying on his back with his bulldog tummy exposed, and Oliver’s face just lights up. He raises his eyebrows as if to say, Well?
“You know, as a matter of fact, I think I will!” I say. And I dive in after them.
The three of us swim to shore, Oliver and me supporting Jerry as we go, and a small crowd has gathered to see if we’re okay. But as soon as we’ve pulled ourselves onto dry land, we just burst out laughing.
“That was crazy,” I breathe.
“That was fun,” Oliver says. “Told you we’d have an adventure.” I love how I feel right now. Like I just had a dream, but I didn’t. It was all real. Oliver doesn’t need the dreamworld to have fun. I think about Max and my mood darkens.
Then I glance to my left and see two gorgeous white swans, real ones, pruning themselves side by side.
“That’s Romeo and Juliet,” Oliver explains when he sees me staring. He gives his hair a quick shake, like a golden retriever that’s just gotten out of the water. “They’re famous. They’ve been together for ten years.”
“They make a cute couple,” I observe.
“They’re also both ladies,” Oliver says with a chuckle. “The parks department didn’t realize when they put them together. They lay eggs every year, but none of them hatch. But they still seem to like each other a lot.”
“There are many different ways to love someone,” I say, observing the swans, and turn to find Oliver gazing at me. Then a shadow falls over his body and we look up to find Sam. He does not look happy.
Needless to say, Oliver is told he is not welcome back at the swan boats again, professionally or otherwise.
That afternoon, sopping wet, I let a soaked Jerry into the foyer of the house and replace the spare key under the urn to the right of the door. My father and I are too forgetful to ever have our keys on us. Before I follow Jerry inside, I glance at the wet paw prints he just left on the stone steps.
They are the size of basketballs. Like they were made by a dog the size of a water buffalo. I remember the image of Jerry from my dream last night, parting the curtain with his giant head, ready to carry me away. Then I look back at the footprint, before walking inside and shutting the door, as though getting it out of my sight will make it disappear.
Something really weird is happening.
17
We Missed Everything
“DID YOU KNOW that every time we dream, we basically just become certifiable lunatics?” Max calls out.
It’s another beautiful fall afternoon, but we can’t see that, because we’re in the Dozing Center, which is kept at a perfect level of dim for optimum comfort. I also can’t see Max, so I crane my head over the top of my sleep pod. The pods are a genius solution that Petermann devised to help his subjects relax and eventually fall asleep. He was so excited when we came in today for our first day of real research that I thought he would short-circuit. “Now is where the real fun begins!” he said as he rubbed his hands together.
Sleep pods, by the way, are exactly what they sound like. Large couches shaped like seashells or the head of the flower in the Bennett greenhouse that looked like it was going to eat me. You wedge yourself right in the middle and it closes around you, submerging your body in total comfort, like lying on a cloud. It’s so comfortable that even claustrophobes like me don’t mind.
“I always say my sleep is where my true crazy comes out,” I reply, then I chuckle.
“What?” Max asks. I like the way he asks, like he’s already excited, like he trusts that whatever I’m going to say, it’s gonna be good.
I pause to explain. “Just that we’re talking about how sleep makes us crazy, while we lie here looking like a couple of hotdogs in buns like it’s totally normal.”
Max lets out a genuine laugh, and I wonder why, after all this time, making him laugh still makes me feel like I just pulled the lever in a slot machine and millions of gold coins are spilling out on top of me.
“I did some reading about it,” Max continues. “It turns out that the five main characteristics of dreaming can also all be attributed to mental illness. One, heavy emotion. Two and three, illogical thought and organization. Four, acceptance that what one sees, however bizarre, is true. And of course five, trouble remembering the experience. All of these things are also the experiences of patients with delirium, dementia, or psychosis. The only reason we accept ourselves as not being insane is because we are asleep at the time and none of it’s voluntary in our minds.”
I try to nod my head in understanding, but the pod doesn’t allow for much movement and it’s not like he can see me anyway. I think about Jerry’s enormous footprints yesterday and wonder what this means for me.
“Sorry about the other night,” Max says then. And it takes me a moment to figure out what he’s talking about.
“With your parents?” I ask. “T
hey were great.” Then I wince. I forget that Real Max still may not know me very well, but Dream Max definitely does. And he knows when I’m lying.
“Well, they are certainly something,” he says. Neither of us speaks for a little while, and all we can hear are the repetitive beeps of a machine that’s attached to our pods, tracking our vitals and brain waves. Lillian asked if either of us wanted a noise machine. They have ninety-two varieties, everything from chirping birds to waves crashing on the beach, even just the sound of voices in another room. Max said he liked that one because it reminded him of being little and going to bed, listening to the sound of his mom’s dinner party downstairs. But in the end we decided we’d rather just talk to each other.
“Your parents really love you,” I try. “That’s all. They just don’t necessarily show it in the best way.”
“Hey, kids,” Miles pipes in over the intercom. “I’m really enjoying this heartwarming exchange, but I just want to let you know the clock is ticking, and you have seven minutes to fall asleep if this session is going to be useful at all.”
“That’s really helpful, Miles,” I call out. “Nothing like a little anxiety to calm the body down.”
“Whatever. I’m going to get a cappuccino,” he says. “You better be asleep by the time I get back.”
How was I supposed to fall asleep, lying inches away from Max? What if I talked in my sleep, or, worse, what if I talked about him? The good news is that for some reason he doesn’t seem to be able to fall asleep, either. Max, the perfect student. So I don’t feel so nervous. And the less nervous I feel, the closer I’m getting to falling asleep.
“Why did you come here?” Max asks out of the blue. “To CDD, I mean. When you were little.”
“I don’t really remember,” I reply. “But according to my dad, it all started after my mom left to go do her ape thing.” I haven’t told Max the full story, but we’ve been to enough exotic places and seen too many rare species for Madeleine’s research not to have come up.
“So she just left you? I don’t think I ever realized that,” Max whispers, and I’m surprised I never told him that part. I’m also surprised at how genuinely offended he sounds. But then his tone softens. “I guess we always had other stuff to talk about … like when we found ourselves scuba diving around that old pirate ship.”
I smile. “Or how about when we floated down that milk river on a raft made out of a giant piece of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?”
“Delicious,” Max replies, and I giggle. But I’m reminded yet again that when it comes down to it, what do we really know about each other? How much have we already missed?
“Anyway, yes. I guess she left us,” I say, before correcting myself. “I mean yes. She did leave us. My dad would say it’s less definitive. But it’s not. She definitely left.” I think about the dream I had, lost in my house, how I felt when I woke up. I wonder if that’s the kind of dream I had when I was little. I decide to switch topics. “So what about you? How did you end up here? I picture you as this perfect child with no problems. Like the kid who ate spaghetti without ever getting it on his white bib.”
Max snorts. “I was never like that, not even close,” he says. “But then there was the thing with my sister …”
“What sister?” I ask. “Is she at college? You mentioned her the other night, too, and I didn’t even know you had one.”
Max doesn’t say anything for a long while, and I wonder if he’s fallen asleep already. But deep down I know he hasn’t. And something terrible is coming.
“That’s because she died,” Max says.
My heart clenches, and the sleep pod suddenly seems tight around my body. I want to go to him, but it has me in its clutches.
“Max,” I say. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Thanks,” he replies, and I can just picture him stretched out next to me, gray eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. “It was a long time ago. I was seven and she was fifteen.” He pauses for a minute. “You would have liked her. She was a total free spirit. My parents couldn’t control her, and they hated that. But she was always there for me whenever they weren’t, which was most of the time. And then one of the many weekends she was grounded, she snuck out. And the other kid had been drinking, and Lila only had a learner’s permit, so she couldn’t …”
Tears are welling up in my eyes, not just over Lila, but imagining Max, just a kid, suddenly so alone. So much is starting to make sense. About who he was, about what Celeste said. About who he’s so intent on being now. And how we didn’t miss a little bit, we missed everything. Max experienced a whole life without me.
“That’s why your parents are so intense.” I understand it now. “If they can plan it all out, they can account for any unforeseen errors.”
“I believe the saying is, ‘all their eggs in one basket,’” Max says. “I am the basket. I guess that’s when I became the kid who never spilled spaghetti on his bib. I just want them to be happy, you know? They’ve been through enough.”
“But, Max,” I say. “So have you.”
Max clears his throat. “Thanks, Alice,” he says again. Then he switches topics slightly, and I let him, because I can tell he needs to. “Isn’t it kind of strange that we both went through this stuff when we were younger—your mom leaving, my sister …” He trails off at the end of the sentence, leaving it blank.
I step in. “Yeah, it is strange. But we came here for our nightmares. Right? And something’s gotta give you nightmares in the first place.”
“Right,” Max says, his voice a little quieter, a little more crackly than before. He’s falling asleep. Over the years you get used to the signs. Max usually trails off midsentence.
“Sweet dreams, Max,” I say.
“I’ll see you soon, Alice,” he says. And then we’re both out.
OCTOBER 10th
For a moment I think I must be in a laundry detergent commercial.
All around me is a duvet. Soft and fluffy, smooth and cool against my skin. I inhale, stretching my arms overhead, and roll over on my side.
And come face-to-face with Max.
I’m not surprised to see him, and from the look on his face, he’s not surprised to see me, either. We just grin, to the point where my smile isn’t a part of my face, my face is a part of my smile. My mouth, my eyes, I bet even my dimples have dimples. Everything is just a little bit fuzzy. Like when I feel noodly, but in a really good way. That’s how lying in this giant duvet and staring at Max makes me feel. Normally there’s a point in a staring contest where people get uncomfortable, and someone will finally say something. It’s vulnerable, staring someone in the face. But that moment doesn’t come for us. I have no idea how long we’ve been here. Minutes, hours, days. I don’t care.
Then just beyond Max’s head I see a giant balloon float past. It’s a million shades of purples and pinks, ranging from fuchsia to cranberry to grape. I sit up and realize that this is no duvet we’re lying in. It’s a cloud. And down below, covering the sky, are a million little hot air balloons in various stages of flight.
Max sits up, too. Neither of us speaks. I lean past him to get a closer look at the balloons, because I don’t see any people in them, like the balloons themselves are acting of their own free will. Then I realize Max isn’t looking at the balloons at all. I feel something in my hair and glance down to find his hand gently running through it, almost imperceptible. Except it’s the opposite of imperceptible. I may not feel it in my hair, but I feel it in my stomach.
Ever so slowly, I turn to face Max. But I can’t meet his eyes right away. We’re too close. I feel drawn to him, like he’s a refrigerator and I’m made entirely out of alphabet magnets. Finally I look up, and he’s not looking at me, either.
He’s looking at my lips.
I don’t realize that we are slowly moving toward each other until his lips are almost touching mine.
18
Wakey-Wakey
I OPEN MY eyes, back to the blip-blap-bleep
of the sleep pod.
“Wakey-wakey,” Nanao says as she carefully helps me out of the pod, while my eyes adjust from the soft glow of the cloud to the dimly lit room. I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard her speak.
“Where’s Max?” I ask, glancing at the empty pod next to mine and trying to control the panic in my voice.
“Don’t worry. Follow me.” Not only is her voice kind and reassuring, but it’s also British.
“Our data isn’t clear enough,” Petermann is saying when Nanao ushers me into the main laboratory. This time he’s dressed in riding jodhpurs and a polo shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I see Max sitting on an iron windowsill, and I am nervous to look at him. But when I finally get the courage to do so, he’s looking right back, a bit warily from beneath his eyelashes, leaning over his knees with his hands clasped together. My whole body jolts from the feeling of his eyes meeting mine, and I have no doubt that my cheeks have just changed from pink to fuchsia to purple.
Petermann leans over a desk, a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose as he looks between two large computer screens. Because they are made from renovated rooms of the old observatory, CDD’s labs are far from the sterile environments you’d expect. They have black-and-white-checkered floors, huge windows, and classical moldings. If it weren’t for all the technical equipment, you’d think you’d been transported back a hundred years. I like it here.
Petermann continues. “If our data isn’t clear enough, I can’t tell what you’re thinking.” He scratches his head. “See, Max, you just told me that this dream was about a hot air balloon.” He points to a series of data on the screen to the left. “But all I’m getting on the monitor at the right, is a balloon from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.” He’s not lying. On the monitor on Petermann’s right is an image of a giant helium-filled Snoopy dog.
The goal of today’s session was to spend the first part sleeping in the pods while a monitor mapped our brain activity, then wake up and tell Petermann everything we dreamed about. He will line up the imagery we describe with what parts of the brain light up, and try to understand our dream logic and the pathways in our mind that got us there.