Dreamology(39)

“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.