Dreamology(21)

“Exceptional,” Petermann says, looking at them fondly. Then he redirects his attention to us. “So tell me about the dreams. How often? Any distinctive patterns? Are they recurring, as in same place, same subject matter? Or are they individually unique?”

“The only thing recurring about my dreams is Alice,” Max explains, and I blush. I should be used to hearing him say my name out loud by now, but I’m not. “Ever since I was young, she’s always been there. When I was little, she was little, and as I grew, so did she. But we’d never actually met. I never told anyone about it. . . . I figured other kids had imaginary friends, so Alice must be mine. By my sixteenth birthday we’d climbed a volcano, won the World Cup, built a life-size gingerbread house—remember that one?” Max turns to me, chuckling. “Jerry kept eating all the doorknobs.”

“Who is Jerry?” Petermann frowns. “I don’t recall ever having a patient by that name.”

I open my mouth to answer, but Max answers first. “Jerry is Alice’s bulldog,” he says excitedly, as though talking about an old friend. “He’s the best. Okay, he has a little bit of an attitude problem, but he calms down if you scratch just below his chin. He loves fetch.”

“Maybe in your dreams,” I mutter, thinking that I can’t remember the last time Jerry had actually retrieved a tennis ball and dropped it at my feet.

“He’s in about half our dreams. Wouldn’t you say?” Max looks at me again.

It takes me a minute to respond because I’m too busy gazing at him, delighting in how much he seems to be enjoying this. To hear him describing the time we’ve spent together with the same pleasure that I feel. How despite our rocky real-life start, this has all clearly meant as much to him as it has to me.

“It’s true.” I nod. “I think I dream almost every night, and about three nights a week are about Max. And yes, often they are very exotic—riding pink elephants through the jungle, exploring underwater cities—but they can also be completely normal, like visiting a museum or eating really delicious ice cream. One of my favorites takes place on a rainy cobbled street. Just walking under a big umbrella.”

“A red umbrella that’s also a heat lamp,” Max adds. “I love that one.”

“This is astounding.” Petermann is now leaning forward on his desk, his large fluffy head balanced between his thumb and forefinger. “What we did here was simple dream mapping, followed by some cognitive behavioral therapy. Yes, you were both here around the same time, but sessions are private. There’s no reason for you to have known of each other.”

“So you have no idea why this is happening?” I ask.

“I don’t.” Petermann begins tapping a finger against his skull, then stops. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try and figure it out. The brain is a real mystery, but I’m sure we can get to the bottom of whatever it is, figure out what wires are crossed, so to speak.”

Petermann’s theory bugs me. Max isn’t just a brain malfunction. Some thing that got put in my head and can be explained away.

“Is it possible this is something that science doesn’t have the answers to?” I ask.

Petermann shakes his head. “Science is the explanation for everything. We just have to ask the right questions.”

“This is the car you drive?” I ask, surprised.

Max has just pulled up next to me in an old turquoise-colored Volvo wagon. I’m struggling to put the blinking safety light on the back of my bike.

“Sentimental value. C’mon, let me drive you home. It’s not safe at this hour.”

I let him get out and lift Frank with one hand, as though the bike weighs as much as a marshmallow, and place it in his trunk, while I hop in the passenger seat. As he pulls onto Memorial Drive, we are silent, the river speeding by to our right. The car is warm, the seats are plush, and I feel safe in this space with Max.

“In my favorite dream of you and me, all we do is drive. Just open road. Sometimes we’re in the desert, other times swerving around woody mountain ledges, this feeling of total wonder and excitement coursing through me. In the dream I always know we are going somewhere great. But even if we never get there, it doesn’t matter, because I’m with you.” He glances over at me, and I wish we were in that dream now. I wish we would never wake up from it. “Have you had this dream?”

“Of course,” I say. “It’s one of my favorites, too.”

Then, I honestly wonder if we are dreaming. Because Max does something so unexpected that every hair on my body stands on end.

Slowly, so slowly I didn’t notice it at first, he reaches for my hand. And suddenly there are two hands on top of my left knee. Mine and Max’s, intertwined.

I stare at them, like if I look away, they’ll cease to exist. How is it possible that even though only our hands are touching, the feeling of warmth has spread up through my elbow and into my chest? I don’t take my eyes off them until we pull up outside my house, when Max is forced to release his grip so he can put the car in park. We sit in silence for a moment staring straight ahead, the interior of the car crackling with something beyond either of our understanding, my left hand feeling empty and cold.

I hesitate before turning to face him, and notice he has done the same thing. Max is giving me an odd look, his head angled down, his eyes peering up at me warily.