Dreamology(69)

“That depends,” I say. “Is it edible?”

“I always knew she wasn’t coming back,” my dad says as he digs his fork into a surprisingly moist piece of red velvet. “But it was so much easier to deny it than to come to terms with the kind of person she truly was. The kind who could desert her family, her husband, and most of all, her daughter.” He pauses. “It was easier to ignore that fact than to confront the idea that I never really knew her at all.”

“That must have been hard,” I say, taking a sip of coffee.

“It must have been hard for you,” he says, placing a hand on mine, and this time he’s not so quick to remove it. “You were so young. I know I failed you in this, Alice. I know she caused the nightmares, but I should’ve been able to stop them. I should’ve been able to make you feel safe. But I didn’t want to talk about it, and you were alone. And I’m sorry.”

I tell him it’s okay and take another bite of cake, chewing slowly. He managed to get the texture right this time, but he also seems to have added twice the salt and half the sugar. This conversation makes me feel so much better, but it still doesn’t make me feel totally right. There’s still one apology I’m missing.

“It means a lot to hear this from you, Dad. I just wish I could hear it from her,” I admit.

“Well, maybe you should email her,” he suggests. “At this point, what’s stopping you?”

I get up and start clearing our plates without thinking. No way was I going to email Madeleine. She was the mother. That was her job. But then, for what must be the fortieth time today, I think about Max.

Slowly I set the plates down in the sink, grab my bag, and head for the kitchen door.

“Where are you going?” my dad asks. “Was the cake that bad?”

“It was the opposite of bad,” I lie. “It was delicious. But now I have an email to write.” I pause in the doorway, then walk back to give him a kiss on the cheek. “That was a good talk, Dad. We should have them more often.”

In response, my father smiles widely, adjusting his glasses a little bit. “I’d like that very much,” he says.

It’s time to take down the patio lights.





34


All We Have




FROM AN EMOTIONAL standpoint, there is really never a good time to cause your imaginary dream boyfriend to break up with you. I have been well aware of this every day for the past week, since we got back from Maine. But from a practical standpoint, as I approached the new science center, balancing my succulent trays atop my bike basket, I could have really benefited from the use of my imaginary dream ex-boyfriend’s station wagon.

“Alice.” Parker walks up, arms outstretched toward my succulent trays. “This is a sight to behold! You’ve come a long way since that first day in Terrarium Club!”

“Thanks!” I say. “I’ve had some time on my hands.” By that I mean the time I would have usually spent sleeping. But since I’m too afraid to go to sleep and not dream of Max, instead I’ve been doing my homework and tending to my succulents. The other night my dad heard me in the yard at two a.m. and came out wielding a baseball bat.

“Well, set them down over there by Celeste, and then if you want you can help Jeremiah measure out where the installations are going to hang, that would be excellent.”

I glance over to where Jeremiah and Celeste are standing on two ladders next to each other. Jeremiah gives a small wave and brandishes some measuring tape.

“Did you ever build your vacation home for Socrates?” I ask as I extend some tape and Jeremiah makes small lines on the wall with the tip of a pencil.

He seems genuinely shocked. “I can’t believe you remembered his name. He’ll be so honored,” Jeremiah says.

“Well, please let him know,” I say with a smile.

“I don’t have to. He heard it himself.” Jeremiah winks.

The measuring tape rolls back into its cage with a snap. “What does that mean?” I ask nervously.

Jeremiah slowly makes sure the coast is clear before unzipping the fanny pack he is wearing at his waist, and out pops the head of a small green lizard.

“Say hello, Socrates,” Jeremiah says.

Socrates just blinks, and Jeremiah looks at me expectantly.

“Oh!” I exclaim. “Hello, Socrates!” I say, a little too loudly to compensate for my insincerity.

But Jeremiah gives me a disgusted look. “Not so loud!” he hisses. “Do you want us to get suspended?”

“Sorry,” I whisper, shaking my head.

And when I do, I see Max is walking across the quad, a stack of books tucked under his arm, heading in the direction of the gym. I watch his slow gait wistfully. He always knows where he’s going, what’s next. I wonder if I will ever manage to get over him, or if years down the line I’ll be in therapy, still talking about a guy I barely even knew when I was conscious. My swan. My African parrot. My fuzzy fish.

Just then, an email pops up on my phone. I see who it’s from. My hand starts to shake a bit, and I waste no time opening it immediately.

“Actually, will you hold Socrates for a second?” Jeremiah asks. “I really have to go to the bathroom, but Socrates is afraid of the sound of the toilet flushing.”