Dreamology(54)

“I’ve heard all about you,” she says. “This project, the work with you and Max, it reinvigorated Gustave over his research. The possibility of it all . . . you don’t know how much it meant.”

“He has a funny way of showing it,” I say with a small sniffle.

“Well, here’s the thing about Gus,” Virginia goes on. “I already wanted to kill my husband half the time, even before I found out he was adding more parrots to the attic and giving me vague answers about where they came from, even before he got arrested and even before he hired that ridiculous lawyer who comes over every day with his flute music. But I can’t murder him, because I love him. Even if the man spends eighty percent of his waking life in athletic attire. Even if he has entire chest of drawers filled with cashmere sweaters that I buy him for Christmas in the hopes that once, just once, he might wear that to the office rather than a poly-Lycra blend. So instead I’m going to help you.”

I stare at this Virginia Petermann, with her wispy bob and her cuddly sweater, her sensible boots with just a hint of furry trim. “How can you help me?” I ask.

“Because I know who you need to talk to,” she says, as though it’s obvious.

At this moment behind Virginia I see a curtain whisk closed, and suddenly Petermann is running out the door in his karate outfit and a pair of LL Bean duck boots.

“Virginniaaaaaaa!” he calls as he takes each long leap.

“You’re too late, Gus!” She turns around, practically shouting. “I’ve already told her about Margaret Yang.” Virginia turns back to me. “Margaret Yang is the one who did it,” she says quickly, excitedly. “And she can fix it all. She works at Wells College in Maine.”

“Did what, exactly?” I ask, looking between them. Then to Petermann I ask, “What is she talking about?”

Petermann just shuffles his feet.

“Tell her, Gus,” Virginia says.

Petermann doesn’t say a word.

“Gustave Louis Petermann, you will tell this girl what she needs to know, or I will walk out the door and I will never come back. And guess what—you’ve got an ankle monitor on that says you can’t go past the front walk, so you won’t be able to find me this time!”

This time. Somehow it does not surprise me that Dr. Petermann is not an easy man to live with.

“What did Margaret Yang do?” I try again.

Petermann sighs like a petulant child. “Margaret Yang was just starting out as a research assistant years ago, when you and Max first came to CDD,” he says. “She was brilliant. The most gifted student I had ever seen. And I was remiss to admit it at the time, but I couldn’t keep up with her. She seemed to have a handle on more than just the brain, she understood the mind. She understood it in a way I could not. And it plagued me.” Petermann looks into the distance for a moment, as though remembering past demons.

“I heard rumors that Margaret was carrying out some unorthodox practices at the lab, and I fired her from the program,” he says. Then he notices the look his wife is giving him. “What, Virginia! What else is there to say?”

“Maybe something along the lines of, ‘I’m sorry,’” she says, her tone softening as she rests a hand on his forearm.

Petermann grits his teeth for a moment, before inhaling. “Fine, I am sorry. I should have kept her, I should have asked her to stay on and work with me, but I was jealous. Selfish and competitive. And I suppose I still am. Otherwise I would have contacted her already.”

At this, Petermann takes both my hands in his. “Alice, I’m sorry. When you came in that day, I found you and Max in the system and I saw you’d both been under Margaret’s care. I knew she must’ve had something to do with your dreams, but instead of telling you how to find her, I wanted to fix it myself. I’m so sorry, Alice. I know all you ever wanted was answers.”

It’s taking me a moment to fully understand what I’m hearing. “You would’ve contacted her already because . . .”

Petermann is patient. “Because Margaret Yang is the woman who did this to you and Max, Alice. She’s the reason you dream of each other. She has to be. And she’s the only one who can fix it.”





OCTOBER 17th




I am thinking it’s a huge mistake that the Public Garden doesn’t offer more swan boat rides at night, because that’s where I am now, cruising along the pond under the stars. The Boston skyline looks down at me like a family over a newborn baby, and it’s pretty spectacular. Everywhere my gaze shifts, all around the edges of the pond, are cherry trees. Their blossoms are such a bright shade of pink they might as well be electric. That’s when I realize they are electric. The trees themselves aren’t growing petals at all, but hot-pink Christmas lights, casting us all in a rosy glow.

I turn to point this out to Oliver, but Oliver isn’t there. Max is.

“Hi,” is all he says, and he reaches out to take my hand. My whole body melts as I prepare for him to pull me to his chest, letting one hand rest at the base of my neck, tangled in my hair.

I want to wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head just under his chin. I’ve missed him so much.

But just before Max’s hand touches mine, he pulls back.

“What?” I ask.