Dreamology(45)

“I thought it was the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen,” I say breathlessly after swallowing a big mouthful of ice cream, careful not to spill on my plum ball gown. Isabella, in turn, is dressed in a gown made of deep-green velvet.

“I’m so glad you think so,” she replies.

“Me too,” Emmet Lewis adds. He’s seated in the corner in an orange wing-backed chair, wearing a teal suit and perusing a book titled Tweed, Tweed, and More Tweed!

“Come on,” Isabella says, hoisting herself out of the tub abruptly, before extending a hand to me. “I want to show you my latest acquisition.”

Raising the hems of our skirts around our ankles so we don’t fall, we tiptoe down the staircase to the third floor of the Gardner Museum, but when we reach the bottom of the steps, I see we’re back at the Met, in the Impressionist wing.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Isabella asks, pointing to a painting of a bright green field, where a purple hot air balloon is tethered to the ground. “It just arrived.”

“It’s striking,” I say. There really is something extraordinary about it, but I can’t put my finger on what it is. The colors and detail are so vivid they’re nearly lifelike.

“Touch it,” Isabella suggests.

“Are you sure?” I hesitate. “It’s against the rules.”

“Alice, I make the rules,” Isabella says. “And I insist. You haven’t seen the half of it.”

Biting my lip, I reach a hand out to touch the painting and find that suddenly I’m inside it. And the hand I extended has landed on Max’s cheek, where he stands in the basket of the hot air balloon.

“Wanna go on a ride?” he asks, a welcoming smile on his face.

“Okay,” I say, taking his hand and climbing over the top of the basket.

“Lillian, will you do the honors?” Max asks. Lillian appears, holding a giant pair of golden scissors, and snips the rope with ease.

And just like that we are rising, up, up, and away, slowly at first and then a bit faster. I look down and see there’s no longer a field below us but, instead, the city of Boston. Fenway Park, the Citgo sign, and a gleaming statehouse dome, the Charles River snaking through it all. Everything is bathed in a warm, dusky light.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Back to the cloud,” Max says. “To finish what we started.” He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, leaning down to rest his head on my shoulder blade.

I blush. “We don’t have to go back to the cloud,” I say.

“We don’t?” he asks, spinning me around to face him.

“Nope.” I take a nervous breath, gazing up at him.

“Great,” Max says. “Because I’ve been dying to do this again all night.” Then he places one hand at the back of my neck, and leans down to kiss me.





20


They’re Merging




WHEN WE ARE ushered into Petermann’s office the next morning, I am shocked to see him dressed in something other than athletic attire, but relieved to see it’s just as strange. Max and I aren’t the only people in the room in pajamas. Petermann’s are a silk cobalt blue.

“Good morning, sleepyheads,” he says, removing his glasses and setting down the paper. “Please, take a seat and help yourself.”

Spread out all over his desk is an array of breakfast items. Scones, cinnamon buns, bagels, and croissants. In other words, heaven. Lillian walks in looking tired, pushing a cart with a bunch of clinking cups.

“Would anyone care for coffee?” Petermann asks, gesturing to the cart, and both Max and I eagerly raise our hands.

“This is all for us?” I ask, genuinely excited.

“She has a thing for baked goods,” Max interjects, and I nod enthusiastically.

“It’s your reward for all your hard work yesterday,” Petermann says, leaning over his desk and clasping his hands together. “I think it really paid off, because not only did you sleep soundly through the night, your brain activity was off the charts. Now I am dying to hear what happened!”

Max has already covered a bagel in cream cheese and taken a big bite, so I go first, smiling when I notice he put the other half of the bagel on my plate. There is something very primal about it, like we are prehistoric people and he went out and killed the bagel and brought it home for me. “Well, we dreamed about the hot air balloon again,” I start to explain.

“No,” Petermann says, waving a hand impatiently. “No, no. Earlier. Start at the very beginning, when you were conscious. Begin with the reenactment and go from there.”

I hesitate, and look at Max. “Everything?” I ask. But Max just gives a why not tell him shrug, and Petermann insists. So this time, I don’t leave anything out. I tell him about Emmet and the clawfoot tub, about the stolen artwork, about Nocturne, and about how we stood in front of her and went through the whole dream . . . even the kiss. I look down when I mention the last part, feeling weird talking about it in front of Petermann, of all people. But he doesn’t seem fazed.

“Your idea must’ve worked,” I say. “Because it all felt so real at the time. I could actually hear the symphony music from the Met dream.”

“So did I,” Max adds. “And your lips tasted like Oreos.”