Dreamology (12 page)

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?”

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.