Dreamology(20)

“I’m sure,” I say.

Max replies with a nod, before getting up and strolling into the next room. I’m creating piles by last name when I hear him whisper-shout my name from the next room. I find him standing in the circular space below the old observatory dome. The opening for the telescope has been permanently removed and replaced with glass, so you can see the stars above.

“Wow,” I say as the sky sparkles down on us. “This is just like—”

“The Met,” Max finishes my sentence. We look at each other. I can almost hear the symphony music in the background, and suddenly I’m craving Oreos. “You looked good that night,” Max says slowly, subtle emphasis on the good, and even though his words send me into a state of sheer bliss, I still roll my eyes.

“You’ve always sucked at taking a compliment,” he observes, trying not to smile.

“I know,” is all I can think to say, because he’s right.

Max puts his hands in his pockets. “I went there once. To the Met. We took a train down from Boston as a family. I dared my sister to touch a Rothko and she actually did it.” He laughs. “Needless to say, it was a short trip to the museum.”

Sister? I open my mouth to ask—she’s never been in any of our dreams—but Dr. Petermann’s voice rings out instead of mine, and the overhead lights flick on.

“What is this?” Petermann asks. He’s standing in the doorway in shockingly small white athletic shorts with a canvas duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a sweatband in his hair.

“Dr. Petermann.” I falter. “What are you doing here?”

“I have squash doubles on Wednesday nights, and saw the light on as I was heading home,” he says. “And now I’m calling security.” Miraculously, he manages to pull a cell phone out of his tiny shorts.

“Go ahead,” I say. “But it will be a complete waste of your time. I’ll just keep coming back.” I can feel my nerves start to stand on end and a flush rise to my cheeks. He can’t take this away from me. Not when we are so close.

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Alice,” Petermann says.

“And I don’t care.” I’m trying to control the level of my voice, but it’s not going well. This always happens when I feel cornered. All my manners go right out the window. “I’m not giving up. If I have to set up camp outside the building or burn this whole operation to the ground.” I don’t mean it, of course. I just get carried away sometimes, the words come out before I have a chance to think about what they mean.

“Hang on,” Max jumps in. “Nobody is burning anything.”

“Speak for yourself,” I tell him.

Max ignores me. “Dr. Petermann, please excuse Alice. She gets fired up sometimes. My name is Max Wolfe.” He walks over to Petermann and extends a hand, which Petermann shakes reluctantly. “I’m not sure if you’d remember, but I was a patient at CDD about ten years ago, at the same time as Alice. I promise we aren’t looking to complicate things. We’re just looking for answers, about what happened to us, and why we dream the way we do—of each other.” I don’t know how he does it. So self-assured and charming. It’s impossible to say no to him.

Nevertheless, Petermann looks stunned. “You really dream about each other?” The smoothest person on Earth couldn’t soften the news that two of his former patients know each other from their subconscious. He slowly returns the phone to his pocket, glances from one of us to the other, and his mind seems to go elsewhere. “It was a very long time ago,” he says, lost in thought. “But I might have an idea. Come . . . have a seat.”

As we follow Petermann to his office, I mutter in Max’s ear. “Of course he listens to you.”





10


For Normal People




“GROUP ATHLETICS ARE a great way to meet people,” Petermann explains when I ask about the trophies.

There’s a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf spanning an entire wall of his office, filled with equal parts books and awards, like tiny gold figurines of people about to hit a tennis ball or dive into a nonexistent swimming pool. “As you can imagine, it takes quite a bit of funding to keep an operation like this afloat. Connections are good for business.” He gives his signature smile, and I almost expect one of his teeth to sparkle like a toothpaste ad. Ding!

Behind Petermann’s desk hangs a giant photograph of an enlarged brain scan. He sits directly in front of it and kicks up his white sneakers. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words come out in Italian.

“Idiota!”

“Did you just call me an idiot?” I ask.

Petermann shakes his head. “Sergio.” He points to a large birdcage in the back corner of the room by the doorway, where two giant blue parrots sit side by side, staring at us intently.

“And the one on the left is Brunilda. Aren’t they gorgeous?” Petermann asks. “They only speak Italian, from the last person they lived with, an orthodontist in the North End. I’m trying to learn, but you know how it goes, busy-busy.” He sighs dramatically. We don’t really know how it goes, though. I’ve never seen any other patients in the building.

“Quest’uomo non è uno scienziato. Lui è un pagliaccio!” one of the birds cries, and what little Italian I learned during a summer my dad and I spent in Rome at a neuroscience conference tells me that it just called Petermann a clown.