Dreamology(40)

“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.





OCTOBER 10th




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.





18


Wakey-Wakey




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.