by Lucy Keating
Except apparently there isn’t much logic to be found, as the confusion over the Snoopy balloon can attest. It’s as though our brains are trying to trick Petermann, because it doesn’t want him to figure it out. And that makes me kind of happy.
Petermann rubs his face in his hands, looking worse for wear. “Alice, can you tell me more about the dream? Max doesn’t seem to remember much at the moment.”
“Sure,” I say, taking the only seat I see, next to Max on the windowsill. “It was pretty simple, we were basically just sleeping on a cloud.”
“Together?” Petermann asks.
I hesitate. Max stares at his shoelaces. “Yes …”
“And then what happened?” Petermann asks.
“Um,” I say, glancing at Max.
Now Max breaks into a smile, still looking down at his feet. “Yeah, Alice,” he says, furrowing his brows together mock-inquisitively. “Then what happened? Sounds like a pretty boring dream.”
I want to whack him, but smile despite myself. “I don’t know,” I say. “I think I might have woken up just before it got good.”
Max looks up suddenly, his eyes cutting into me, surprised and curious. I feel a shiver run through my body. Max smiles.
We should just tell Petermann about the almost-kiss. Why aren’t we? This is why we’re here. But to tell Petermann about the almost-kiss would mean giving up our moment, something only we share. And also admitting it had happened, something I’m not sure we’re ready to discuss.
“How odd,” Petermann says, oblivious to the tension. “Your dreams are usually so much more diverse. There’s usually more material to work with. But our data is inconclusive regardless. The sleep pods are just not as conducive as I’d hoped. Never fear, I have another idea.” He takes a seat on a stool facing us. “If anyone is interested in hearing it?”
Scratch that. Petermann now seems to have noticed that Max and I are looking at each other with googly eyes.
“Of course we are.” Max shifts and sits up straighter, giving Petermann his full attention. I stay where I am, leaning back against the window where I can keep an eye on him, as though I expect him to lunge at me with his mouth at any moment. But I can’t help it. We are inches from taking this a step too far. We woke up before it happened, sure. But what if he hadn’t? What would have happened? Would he have let it?
When I was in the seventh grade, my cousin Jane came to stay with us in New York. Jane was starting at Barnard in the fall but had an internship the month prior, before the dorms opened. And for that month, she drove me mostly insane. She borrowed my books and gave them back with food stains all over the pages. She left her hair covering every inch of the bathroom sink. And she had about eight thousand dietary restrictions. For example, Jane was a pescetarian, but only if the fish was killed humanely. Excuse me, I imagined Jane asking a waiter at a fancy French restaurant, but was this fish gently euthanized by syringe as soothing symphony music played? Or did it just die of natural causes immediately at the time the fishing boat came by, like a heart attack or brain aneurysm?
In this moment, watching Max, I picture my heart as one of Jane’s beloved fish. How many ways could it possibly be murdered before Max is through with me? I picture it now, swimming with a bunch of other little heart muscles down a stream, before they are all caught up in a net, jumping and wiggling around.
“So, what’s the new plan?” Max asks, appearing calm and focused as ever, and I hate it. One moment I feel like I’m sitting next to my boyfriend, the guy I’ve known and kissed a thousand times before. And the next he’s perfect Max, a Max I barely know, a Max I can’t even kiss. I hate all of this back-and-forth. I’m so tired of thinking about it. Suddenly I just want this day to be over so I can go home and bury myself in my real, non-cloud duvet and try to make myself dream about something, anything other than Max tonight.
“I think we should try reenacting a dream you’ve already had about each other,” Petermann says then. “A way to get you in the right mind frame. If you’ve been to a baseball game, go to a baseball game and try to get the same seats. Or if you went swimming, go and find a pool. Try to wear exactly what you were wearing and behave exactly as you did.”
“Why?” I demand, and I realize I sound like a fitful child. But I can’t help it. This isn’t just the last thing I want to do in the world, it’s the exact opposite of what I want to do. It’s torture.
Petermann removes his glasses and begins cleaning them with a pale blue pocket square. “Because what we need is material. Stuff to sift through. I want the memories and images fresh in your mind before you dream again.”
“Sure,” Max agrees. “Though our dreams are kind of weird. I don’t know if we can remember all the details …”
“I have it all written down,” I say. “But even if I didn’t, I’d still never forget them.” The last part comes out a little more defensive than I mean it to, but Max doesn’t seem to notice.
Petermann, however, turns in shock. “You keep a dream journal?”
I nod. “It’s a notebook.”
“Alice, this could have been incredibly fruitful information to have at the beginning of this process,” Petermann says. “Why was I not informed?”
“Because it’s personal,” I say, crossing my arms.
“The way you write about and describe these experiences could be a goldmine for this experiment, and for dream research in general,” Petermann says.
“The purpose of this experiment isn’t just about science,” I say. I’m not sure why, but suddenly I feel like I’m going to cry. He just doesn’t get it. “You don’t get to take my personal memories and distribute them to a group of research assistants. Max and I can use them as a script, but consider me the director.”
Max is looking at me sympathetically. “It’s okay, Alice,” he says. “Nobody is going to do that. Are they, Dr. Petermann?”
Petermann purses his lips, but nods in agreement. “Understood, but here are my terms. You will go to the location and act out the dream, and then you will come back and spend a full night sleeping in the laboratory. No more of this afternoon nap business.”
“The whole night?” Max and I ask at the same time. My voice comes out as small as a cartoon mouse, and his is the opposite: incredibly loud.
“The whole night,” Petermann says firmly. “If this is as important to you as you claim it is, you shouldn’t have a problem with that.”
Max clears his throat, taking a sidelong glance at me. “I guess the real question is, which dream will we choose?” he asks. “We can’t exactly hop a plane to Thailand right now.”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “We don’t need something as exotic as Thailand, but it has to be more interesting than the red umbrella. Something that is exceptional, yet accessible.”
Max stares out the window for a moment, thinking. Then he smiles. “I think I know just the place.”
19
Nocturne
THE SUMMER MY father and I lived in Rome, I was desperate for a trip to Venice. He was against this, even for a couple days, saying that like Pig Beach, it was a complete tourist trap at that time of year, and impossible to get around regardless. But I was fascinated by the place. It was a city unlike any other, where everything was old, and where the streets were made of water.
“Come on, we have to go before it sinks,” I said, and there was no way for him to argue with this statement, although he did mutter something about how there’d always be scuba tourism.
Tourists aside, it was even more magical than I’d expected. My favorite part was how easy it was to picture exactly what life would’ve been like hundreds of years earlier. Being in Venice was like being one step closer to the life and energy that the paintings in my beloved museums only hinted about. The water flooding over the steps of a church at high tide, the pigeons in Piazza San Marco, the boats tied up alongside the canals. It was all too easy to imagine Venetians throwing grand parties in their waterfront palazzos, while their guests
approached by gondola.
The late Isabella Stewart Gardner, who traveled there in the late nineteenth century, when that very world was still in full swing, apparently loved Venice just as much, because when she returned home to Boston, she designed an entire mansion around it, and then she filled it top to bottom with art. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so beautiful in my life. Four stories of Venetian design surrounding a gigantic, plant-filled courtyard, topped with a glass roof.
“Over the course of her life, Isabella Stewart Gardner traveled the world and befriended artists, musicians, and writers, amassing a collection and creative network rivaling any other in the United States at that time,” Emmet Lewis says wistfully as he tours me and Max around the grounds. Emmet was a guest of Max’s parents the night I crashed their dinner, and I was immediately fond of him, his friendly smile, and immaculate tweed suit. He is also the director of the Gardner Museum. “But her favorite place by far was the Palazzo Barbaro in Venice, where she would stay. And you see its influence here today.” He waves a hand at the intricate architecture.
“Thank you for letting us visit after hours, Mr. Lewis,” I say. “This is a dream come true.”
“How could I resist?” Emmet exclaims. “I love young people taking interest in the arts. And when Max called and said you had a school project you needed to take care of right away, I was happy to help.” He gives Max a pat on the shoulder. “Now, I’ve given all of security a heads-up. If you need anything from me, I’ll be on the fourth floor handling some last-minute emails. I had them turn Isabella’s private spa into my office.” He bends over and whispers in my ear, “Sometimes I like to read in her clawfoot tub!” With that, Emmet winks and heads off up the staircase.
“I kind of love him,” I say, watching his tweed-covered body disappear at the top of the stairs. Then I turn to Max. “And I can’t believe you arranged all this.”
Max shrugs bashfully. “I know how you feel about museums,” he says. “It’s the perfect place to reenact our dream at the Met.”
We’ve just arrived in a room on the second floor, as gorgeous and ornate as the last, but with one major difference. On one of the lavishly papered walls, lining either side of a fireplace, are two large gold frames that appear to be framing nothing at all.
“This seems like an odd choice,” I say, pointing at the empty frames. It’s more something I’d expect to find in Sophie’s parents’ apartment, alongside a giant sculpture of a hamburger.
But Max looks thrilled. “These must be left over from the heist. In the nineties, a bunch of guys posing as police officers showed up to the gates of the museum after hours, saying they were responding to an emergency call from inside, and a guard broke protocol and let them in. The next morning the guard who was supposed to relieve the two from the night before found them duct-taped together in the basement … and a bunch of priceless works were missing.”
“Did they ever catch them?” I ask.
“The Boston Globe occasionally posts a rumor or two … something spotted in a small gallery in Europe or in a private collection at a residence, but nothing official has ever turned up.”
We make our way back downstairs and come to a small sitting room on the first floor. It’s covered in sunny yellow wallpaper and paintings of portraits and landscapes, guarded by a very large Eastern European man wearing an earpiece and a blazer, who doesn’t acknowledge us in the slightest.
“This is where the work I’m looking for should be,” Max says, scanning the walls. “There.”
I follow his gaze to a canvas in the far corner of the room by the window, a painting that is at first glance not at all what I expected. It’s smaller than the others and painted in various shades of gray. Not the bright turquoise tutus and deep pink backdrops of Degas’s ballerinas, or Monet’s colorful lilies. But as I move closer, I see the gray is peppered with small flecks of fiery orange, as though appearing through a mist. NOCTURNE, JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER, the plaque reads. Somehow calming and slightly mysterious, it’s one of the most beautiful paintings I’ve ever seen. Forget Petermann’s surrealist works. As I stare into Nocturne’s depths, all I can think is that this is what a manifestation of a dream really looks like. I see why Max chose it, and I love him even more for doing so.
“Are you ready?” I turn to Max, and find him already gazing at me with a funny, almost wary expression, like we are thinking the same thing.
All I can manage in response is a nod. I can’t believe we are doing this.
“Let me just change,” Max says. “I’ll be right back.”
I remove my wool coat and place it under a carved wooden table in the corner that probably cost more than our car, revealing a long, plum-colored ball gown I found in my grandmother’s closet. It’s not exactly Beyoncé material, but it does bring out my complexion. Then I open to the entry about the Met dream and scan its pages as though running lines one last time before going onstage.
I hear a noise and turn back, finding Max standing by in the doorway, looking terrified. And also completely perfect in an elegant tux.
“You look … beautiful,” he admits.
“Then what’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Max says with a sigh. “Just read the journal, Alice.”
I open my notebook and start from the beginning of the dream, describing the sparkling champagne, the fancy dress, and the elegant crowd, until I get to, “And that’s where Max finds me, standing in front of the Degas ballerinas, in the Impressionist section.”
I swallow at the next part, but press onward. “And this is where you say—”
“I know what I say,” Max interrupts, his voice low, his eyes gentle. “You know, I can dance, too.” He slips an arm around my waist. How I have missed this arm.
“Right, good.” I flip a page. “And my whole body—let’s just skip that part.” I glance up at Max’s face, which is way too close, and find him barely containing a smirk. It’s like he’s enjoying the fact that this is torturing me.
“And I say, ‘Prove it.’ And now you …”
Without hesitating, Max gives me a twirl. As I spin, I swear I see twinkle lights flying past, like little fireflies zooming around me. But when I steady myself again, it’s just the glow of the candelabras.
“Good, good,” I manage after the twirl, smoothing my skirt down in the back to make sure it hasn’t flown up. So I’m already off balance when Max pulls me tightly to him, and I smell his neck and close my eyes for a second.
“And now you say …” Max’s voice comes from far away, and I open my eyes again.
“You look good in a tux,” I barely whisper, having sort of given up. I want to nuzzle my nose just below his ear.
“Thanks. It’s the one Beyoncé wore to the Grammys.” He says the line like he’s tired, like he’s given up, too, and I can feel his heart hammering in his rib cage. This time we don’t laugh. We just stand there, because we both know what’s next, and it obviously can’t come next, we know that, because he has a girlfriend, and also because this is real life and not a dream, and because it would mean something more than maybe we are ready for. I swear from somewhere I can hear the hum of low chatter and symphony music, which makes negative sense since we are at a high-security museum after hours and the only people here are us and Emmet upstairs in a nineteenth-century tub and the security guard, who must think we are complete and utter mental patients.
“Okay, great!” I announce, way too loud, and use all my energy to pull away from Max. But just as I’m at a safe distance, I realize he hasn’t let go. And firmly, almost forcefully, Max has pulled me back into his arms and tipped me backward.
And Max kisses me.
And his lips taste like Oreos. But the Oreos are an afterthought. I know somewhere deep within my brain that when a woman finds herself on the receiving end of a gallant kiss, she should let herself just be kissed. Isn’t that how it always works in the movies? But I’m unable to play the part. Nothing can stop my hands from reachin
g up and tangling themselves in Max’s hair, my arms from pulling me to him and him to me, closer than we already were. As though I’ve never been kissed before. As though I’m devouring him. As though we’re the last two people left on the planet and kissing is the one thing that can keep us alive.
Max pulls away far enough to lean his forehead against mine. “I missed you,” he says. And I can’t tell if we’re on script anymore.
As the security guard, whose name I learn is Igor, lets Max and me out of the locked front door of the Gardner, I feel as though I didn’t just talk about sipping the champagne in my dream. I feel as though I had it. Maybe more than one glass. Maybe more like twelve. When Max takes my hand, I think, And there goes one more, and I look back at the museum door to see Igor standing behind the glass.
He gives me a wink.
We drive back to the lab in mostly silence, because I can’t think of anything to say. I stare out the window and wonder if he’s regretting it all, except for one thing. Once again, there are two hands on my knee, and one of them is Max’s.
“Where’d you tell your dad you were staying tonight?” Max asks.
“I told him the junior class had a lock-in.” I laugh. “I could’ve told him I was going to Portugal and he would’ve barely heard me. What did you tell yours?”
“They’re out of town,” Max says. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them, as long as I keep my cell phone on.”
I know we need to talk about it, but truthfully I’m afraid to ruin it. Right now, just the two of us driving, dressed up in ridiculously fancy clothes, we could actually be in a dream. We wouldn’t even know. Who is here to tell us otherwise?
Turns out Lillian is, when she greets us in the circular foyer of CDD by the staircase, holding two sets of blue cotton PJ’s—CDD standard issue—two toothbrushes, and two travel-sized bars of soap. It feels like summer camp. A really bad summer camp where you never get to go outside.