Dreamology (13 page)

“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. “They 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.

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.

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.

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.”