Dreamology(23)

“Ciao, Alicia!” he says enthusiastically. “All aboard! Veniamo!”

I climb up on his back, and he gives me a twirl around the tower as I lean down and point him to where I want to go. Then I slide the block out and carry it in my arms as he flies me to the top, where I carefully set it down.

“Brava!” Sergio cries, and from below Petermann raises his glass in approval. Sergio returns me to the ground and I have a seat as I watch Brunilda take her turn, wearing a big emerald necklace that perfectly complements her plume. She uses her beak to pull a block out with dexterity and gracefully places it atop the tower, giving me a wink when I congratulate her.

“Pretty fun, huh?” someone says next to me, and I turn to find Max sitting closely by my side, his elbows resting on the tops of his bent knees.

“When did you get here?” I ask, sliding closer to rest my chin on his shoulder.

“I’m always here, Alice,” he says quietly. Then he leans his cheek against the top of my head.

It surprises me, how a gesture so small can feel so very big. How sometimes you don’t realize the nervousness or sadness you were holding deep inside until the touch of someone you love lets it all out of you, like your entire body is exhaling. That’s what this feels like. I close my eyes to savor it completely.

“Watch out!” someone cries from above, and we look up to see Petermann speeding down atop Sergio’s back, as pieces of the Jenga tower begin to fall. “Take cover!”

But when the first block lands, bouncing and tumbling along the lawn, we realize there’s no danger. They’re actually just giant sponges cut in long thick strips, and suddenly we are swimming in a foam pit, like the one at my old gymnastics class in the Bronx.

“Max?” I say. “Max? Where are you?”

But before I truly panic, his head pops out of the pile with a huge grin.

“I’m here!” he cries. “I already told you. I’m always here.” Then he tackles me into a sea of sponge.





11


Fetal




I AWAKE TO the feeling of dead weight pressed against my back on the other side of the duvet, and know it must be Jerry, who apparently believes we are members of the most peculiar puppy litter in town. My knees are tucked up into my chest and I’m holding them against me almost desperately. Sun streams through my bedroom window, setting the whole room in a kind of angelic glow.

One unusually balmy day last fall, my dad asked if I wanted to come and watch a soccer match at Columbia. He’s not big into sports, but he likes soccer more than the rest, and one of his students was playing. Unfortunately, that student ended up taking a pretty rough fall, flipping over and landing on his shoulder. The whole crowd quieted down as the coach and referees dashed to his side, the player curled up in a little ball, legs tucked into his chest as he held his shoulder with his opposite hand.

As they escorted him off the field, my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, the womb. As I gave my usual nod to signal that I had heard and understood his latest factoid, he added, “And, in case this information should ever prove crucial to your welfare, it is also the best position to survive a bear attack in the wild.”

As I lie under the covers now, in a position that can only be described as completely fetal, I see his point. It does seem to hurt a little less this way. The pain that started thudding through me when I opened my eyes. That even if Dream Max would always be here, Real Max had broken my heart.

But if that’s the case, then what is he doing in our dreams? How can he wrestle with me in piles of foam and remind me of the parts of him I love, if he’s only going to take it away?

“Make up your mind, Max,” I say out loud.

“Bug?” My dad’s voice comes through quietly and crackly out of nowhere.

“Dad?” I ask. “Where are you?”

“Bug, if you can hear me,” he continues, still sounding a million miles away, “find the large rectangular phone that looks like it was purchased for a corporate law office in the early to mid nineteen-nineties.”

Am I still dreaming? I think to myself as I stand on my bed in my PJs, scanning the room, until my eyes fall on a beige phone with a million lines and lights on a small table in the corner, a real eyesore among the painted Chinese lamps and silk pillows.

Cautiously, I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“You found it!” my dad says, sounding loud and clear now, and far too jovial for this early hour. “Exciting stuff! Aren’t these neat? I think Nan bought them after we left.”

“What is it, exactly?” I ask, rubbing my eyes and peering down at the phone. “And seriously, where are you?”

My dad lets out a laugh. “I’m in the kitchen. And it’s called an intercom. It helps you call directly within the house, from floor to floor. Beats shouting up the stairs. Cool, right?”

“Yeah, really cool,” I say tiredly. “Was there anything else?” I wince a little at my tone. It’s not his fault I feel this way.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” he says dryly. “Two things. One, I am your father and you will not sass me so early in the day. Two, as a result of point one, it is my legal obligation to tell you that you’re going to be late for school if you don’t get your butt downstairs in the next ten minutes.”