Dreamology(8)

4


Beep-Beep-Honk, Toot-Toot-Whistle




THE CEILING OF my new bedroom is covered in maps. Subway routes, nautical charts, world geography. It’s obvious that from a very young age, my mother was desperate to get out. By the time the nauseating tri-tone alarm of my iPhone erupts through my bedsheets, I’m already awake and staring at a patch of the solar system in the far right corner, thinking about last night’s dream. I could swear it’s actually twinkling, but it must be a trick of the light coming through the window. Mornings used to be my favorite time of day. Those spare moments when I was able to hold on to Max. I could close my eyes and actually imagine his face right next to mine. Exactly what he looked like, the way it felt to be near him. Because no matter what happened when I was awake, Max was always my constant when I slept. Until now. Because now his eyes were turning purple.

It’s been two weeks since we arrived in Boston, and now seeing Max—in dreams or reality—is basically torture. Last night he may have been the carefree guy I loved, but I am pretty sure when I get to school today, it will be another story.

Max has always been the guy who takes care of me. Who puts me first. Last year I kept dreaming we were in Thailand, riding elephants, floating in long-tail boats on crystal-blue waves, watching sunsets from the beach. It was perfect and beautiful and carefree, except for when it was time to eat: Max taste-tested everything for me, trying to detect any trace of peanuts, because I have a nut allergy that I’m careless about even when I’m awake. I sighed dramatically every time, but on the inside, he made me feel loved and safe. But now I feel awful. Seeing him each day while he treats me like I don’t exist. Watching him with someone new as though I never existed in the first place.

I scramble to turn off the alarm and throw myself back down on the bed in resignation, causing all the pillows to fluff around my head. I beat them down angrily with my fist, then hop out of bed, pull on a gray sweatshirt, and stare at myself in the mirror of my mother’s vanity table. My caramel-colored hair is sticking out in so many directions you’d think I went through a car wash in a convertible, and my eyes are bright and intense, sitting somewhere between green and honey colored in the morning light.

“You really have to get over this,” I say.

“Are you up, Bug?” I hear my father’s deep, pre-coffee voice call on his way to the kitchen. “I know you’re up. I can hear you talking to yourself again.”

I run a brush through my wild strands and trot down the three flights of stairs to the kitchen. I find my dad seated at the large chef’s prep table, just opening the New York Times.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning down to give him a peck on the cheek, then crouching under the table to do the same to Jerry’s fat face. Jerry barely blinks as my lips graze his furry wrinkled skin.

The coffeemaker pops and gurgles in the corner, and I walk toward it, breathing in the delicious smell.

“Sleep okay?” my father asks without looking up from the Opinions page.

I turn around slowly from the counter to face him. “Why do you ask?”

“Bags under your eyes, an unhealthy attention to the French roast,” he says simply. “When our REM cycle is disrupted—”

“Thanks, Dr. Rowe,” I say. “I know how it works.”

My father glances up at me from behind his glasses. “Irritability is another sign of sleep deprivation, for the record,” he mutters.

As soon as the coffeemaker beeps, I fill his favorite grad school mug and slide it across the table to him in apology, waiting until he takes a sip as a signal that he forgives me. Then, after filling my own, I slump down at the table, facing him. He’s wearing his old flannel robe over navy pajamas and the same worn penny loafers he’s had for as long as I can remember. He’s obviously worn this costume outside to get the paper. Meaning he’s been seen. By people. I wince, and I watch as he flips through the paper, mumbling to himself as he skims, reaching up to stroke his beard when he comes across an article of interest. I know all of his habits, his idiosyncrasies. I understand things about my father he doesn’t even realize, and probably wishes I don’t. Like how he still misses my mother.

“Do you think I’m going to like it here?” I ask finally. “I mean, eventually?”

“Where? Boston?” my father answers, clearly fixated on something in the Science section.

I tilt my head to the side. “No, Cuba. Wait.” I throw my hands up to my face in mock horror. “Where are we?”

“Very funny,” he says, folding the paper and looking at me directly for the first time. Then he switches to a topic he finds more interesting. “Odd you’re having trouble sleeping again.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I’ve always had the best dreams.”

“Now you do,” my dad says. “But after your mom left . . .” He stops for a second.

“Dad . . .” I say. I’m starting to feel a little noodly again.

“You had nightmares that you were lost. You’d wake up hysterical and I’d have to hold you until you fell asleep again. Until I found CDD.”

“CDD?” I ask. Why does that sound so familiar? My coffee hasn’t kicked in, but it’s on the tip of my tongue.

“Center for Dream Discovery,” my dad says. “You don’t remember? Dr. Petermann?”