Dreamology (17 page)

I am not
sure if I have ever felt something as wonderful as the sun on my face right now. I'm draped across an innertube on some windy river in Texas, my toes dangling in the water, my head and arms splayed backward across the other end. I adjust the big round sunglasses above my nose and sigh.

“You look happy,” Max calls out, and I raise the sunglasses again and turn my head in the direction of his voice to give him a wink.

“You betcha,” I say, and grin at him.

Max is floating along a few yards away in navy swim trunks and black Ray-Bans. He grins back. “Come here.”

“You come here,” I say, waving an arm out toward him. That's when I notice my fingernails are painted the most beautiful shade
of sparkly sunset red. I wiggle my fingers in front of my face and marvel at the sight of it, the sun shining between my fingers.

I go to rest my hand down again and am confused by the texture of the innertube. It's rough and chalky to the touch, and it has big holes in the surface. That's when I sit up and realize I'm floating along in a giant Cheerio, and the river is now made entirely of milk.

“This must be great for our skin,” I observe, and look at Max again. “Hey, how come you get a Froot Loop?” I demand to know.

“Because I'm more fun than you are,” Max quips back. He reaches down and breaks off a piece of his lime-green vessel, dunks it a few times in the milk river like a donut, and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm,” he says.

“Wanna trade?” I ask sweetly.

“No way,” Max says, and now he's sitting up, too, because he knows better.

“Too bad,” I reply, and start paddling madly toward him. He's going to give me that Froot Loop whether he wants to or not.

But no matter how hard I paddle, I can't seem to reach him. The river is picking up pace, and suddenly it's no longer white—it's rainbow-colored milk, like someone just finished a bowl of Lucky Charms and is pouring the remaining milk down the drain.

“Max, slow down!” I cry.

“I can't!” he yells back, moving farther and farther away, until he's just a dot on the horizon, and I've stopped moving altogether. Dejected, I pull my giant soggy Cheerio to shore and fall asleep with my head against it, my legs resting on a beach made of sugar.

IT'S SAFE TO
say that if you are a student at Bennett Academy who needs to get actual homework done, the last place you should go is the library. It's more social than the dining hall at lunch, the main quad on a Monday morning, or the bleachers at a Saturday afternoon football game, all put together. Most of the time students go there and pretend to work while they people-watch instead, and sometimes they don't even bother to take their books out of their bag. It drives the librarians absolutely nuts.

The library is the last place you should go to study unless, of course, you have the discipline of Max Wolfe. I almost don't want to disturb him when I find him sitting in a far corner on the second floor, surrounded by stacks of history books, the
light of the desk lamp casting a glow over his handsome face. But then he looks up and spots me and I feel embarrassed for staring.

Hi
, he mouths.

“Hi,” I say back out loud.

Max shakes his head with a smile and motions me over.

“This is the silent floor,” he whispers. “Do you want to sit down?”

I nod, and pull up a chair next to his desk.

Neither of us says anything for a moment.

“We have a problem,” I finally whisper.

“I know.” Max nods. “I know we have a lot to talk about, and I promise we will, but right now this exam is all I can think about—”

“No,” I say, putting a hand out to stop him. “Not about . . .
that
.” Because there's a lot to say about
that
, but right now there are more important things to deal with. “About Petermann. It seems he's . . . been arrested.” I feel bad telling him this on the eve of his history test. After how nervous he was Sunday, it's going to throw him for a loop. But we have to figure out what we're going to do.

“I know,” Max says.

I sit up straighter. “You do? How?”

Max pauses. “Celeste told me,” he answers, and I slump again.

“Of course,” I say, working hard to make my tone light. “Did
she tell you I took her there? I was just trying to make things right, to make her understand.”

“I know you were,” Max says. “And it means a lot. Thank you.”

“So things are okay between you two?” I ask casually, doodling with a pen on his worksheet and forgetting the real reason I came here for a moment. “You and Celeste?”

“We'll see.” Max shrugs, and my doodles morph into furious whirling scribbles.

Max reaches a hand out, and I think he actually might brush my cheek, but instead he pulls something out of my hair, which turns out to be a dried Cheerio.
Not again
, I think, as I stare at it.

“Where did this come from?” Max asks.

“I have no idea.”

Then Max does something that totally surprises me. He starts laughing. Hard.

“Well, I'm so glad I could entertain you!” I exclaim.

Max catches his breath. Then he speaks. “I broke up with Celeste,” he says. “That's when she told me about CDD.”

“You did?” I ask, looking at him and putting my pen down slowly. A girl with mousy brown hair at the desk a few feet away gets up in a huff, shoves her books in her bag, and walks off.

“Yeah,” Max says. “I did.”

I don't move. I'm not sure what this means. Did he do it for
me? Are we going to be together now, finally? This isn't exactly how I'd pictured this moment in my head.

“So does that mean . . .” I start to say.

“It doesn't mean anything, except that I broke up with Celeste,” Max says gently, but matter-of-factly, like he was expecting the question. “You know I care about you, Alice, but this has so far been the weirdest semester of my life. Right now, I think I just need some time to figure things out.”

No
, I think to myself,
this is definitely not how I pictured this going at all
. But I also know there are more important things to deal with. Like the matter of our sanity.

“So what are we going to do?” I ask. “About the dreams. Especially with everything Petermann told us on Sunday, we need answers now more than ever. And CDD is totally shut down. Things are only getting weirder around here.”

Max just shakes his head. “I honestly don't know.”

“But you always have the answer for everything,” I say.

“I know,” Max says. “But I'm not sure I have the answer for this.”

When I walk into the kitchen that night, bossa nova is playing loudly from the record player, and it looks like there has been a mass murder of baking materials on the countertop. There is powdery substance covering virtually every surface. Sugar and flour, cocoa powder, chocolate chips, and large smudges of oily butter.

My father is standing at the counter in an apron, frosting a cake with the dexterity of a world-renowned painter. Except that when I look closer, I see the cake is basically concave, and he is using the frosting to piece it back together.

“Well, this looks like progress,” I observe.

“Ha-ha,” my dad says. “I try so hard, but I never get it right.”

“Have you ever considered just accepting the fact that you are not very good at baking?” I ask.

My dad looks at me like I am nuts. “No,” he says. “I have not. And I can't believe you would even ask me that.” The seriousness of his statement is harder to accept when he turns to me and I see he is wearing the apron he purchased in Florence, which turns his entire body into a naked marble statue . . . of a woman.

“Ugh, Dad, gross,” I say, putting a hand in front of my face. “But also, it's just a cake. You can buy them, you know.” I sneak a little bit of frosting on my finger and lick it off. It's surprisingly tasty.

“They're just breasts, Alice,” my dad says, removing the apron to reveal his usual cashmere-and-corduroy ensemble. “Also, I am a scientist. Do you think I just give up every time a result isn't satisfactory?”

“No,” I grumble.

“What have I always taught you?” he asks, pointing a batter-covered spatula at me a little too closely.

“Never keep bananas in the fridge; they go bad faster that way,” I tease.

“The other thing,” my dad says, not taking the bait.

“Always answer every question, and always follow through,” I say.

“Exactly. Good girl.” He bops some frosting on my nose with the spatula, and I roll my eyes before scooping it off with a finger and sticking it in my mouth.

“The frosting isn't bad, you know,” I say.

“It's just butter and sugar,” he says. “If I somehow managed to make those two ingredients taste bad, I'd really be in trouble.”

I trudge upstairs to try and make a dent in my homework, some reading and a short work sheet for Levy. But even though it's my favorite class, I can't seem to sit still, and I find myself being drawn to one of the tall, built-in bookshelves with beautiful half-moon moldings at the top. I've explored the items on these shelves dozens of times before. There are carved boxes, silver ring trays, and old postcards with nothing written on the back, showing they were purchased as souvenirs instead of as a means of communication. I pull a chair up and stand on it to see what's on the top shelf, where I discover a small canvas box. Inside are rows and rows of slides, and a small antique wooden slide viewer. I pull the box down and sit on my bed.

I suppose I was thinking that maybe just one baby shot of me couldn't hurt. Something to show she recognized my existence, something to hint that maybe she still does. Instead
there are photos of exotic places, seascapes and windy plains, and animals, animals, and more animals. Giraffes and birds and turtles. No people whatsoever, in fact, not even a shot of my dad. Except one at the end, of her. Looking windswept in an old Harvard T-shirt and straw hat, sunburned and grinning as she sits in the bow of a small fishing boat that is taking her to wherever she was going.

“On to the next adventure, huh, Mom?” I tell the slide. “The next unanswered question.”

Then I hear my father's voice in my head again.
Always answer every question, and always follow through.
I repeat it a couple times in my head, still gazing at my mother. She certainly always did, and this time, I was going to. I had a ways to go before I was done with this experiment.

WHEN GUSTAVE PETERMANN
answers the door of his quaint, mansard-roofed home just off of Porter Square, I should be more surprised to find him dressed head to toe in a karate outfit, but I am not. I also can't help but notice the large black cuff attached to his left ankle.

“Alice,” he says, looking alarmed, adjusting the piece of cloth tied around his forehead. “How did you find me?”

“The internet,” I say, before getting right to it. “Were you even planning on telling us? And why are you wearing a kimono?”

Petermann looks uncomfortable. “It's called a
gi
. Listen, this really isn't a good time,” he says, not inviting me in. “My sensei is here, and Yoshi doesn't like interruptions.”

“What happened?” I ask, ignoring him.

“I am not legally able to discuss it,” Petermann says. “Per Yoshi's advisement.”

“Yoshi your sensei?” I ask.

“He's also my lawyer,” Petermann replies, as though I am too slow to keep up. “Two birds with one stone, pardon the expression under the circumstances.”

I feel the sudden urge to take his headscarf and strangle him with it. Why isn't he taking this more seriously? “But what about me and Max?” I demand. “We need you. You told us yourself we are at risk of losing our sanity, and then you just abandoned us!”

“Alice, this is all just a silly misunderstanding,” Petermann says, glancing behind him nervously. “It will be handled in no time and we can get back to the business as usual, I promise. I think we are very close to an amazing discovery.”

“Dr. Petermann, the papers say you had over twenty species of rare birds lining the walls of your attic in cages!” I push.

“Yoshi Yamamura is one of the top criminal lawyers in Massachusetts,” Petermann says. “If he can't get the charges dropped, I don't know who can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my lesson. I'll see you in a few weeks, Alice. There's no way you'll have gone crazy by then. Trust me.”

Petermann shuts the door in my face and I hear the sound of somber flute music resume in the house. I stand there a second, thinking. Petermann's reassurances are not comforting.

“No way,” I say out loud. And then I start banging on the door again. I bang louder and louder, but the flute music only increases in volume. Eventually my hand starts to hurt and a few people on the sidewalk are staring, so I have no choice but to give up. I am almost all the way down the driveway when I hear the front door open again and a woman wrapped in a green cashmere cardigan and black leggings comes dashing out after me.

“Wait!” she cries. “Wait, please.” When I stop, confused, she speaks first. “It's Alice, right? Alice Rowe?”

In response I am only able to nod my head. I feel a specific hopelessness building within me and am certain that the tears will come any minute.

“I'm Virginia Petermann,” she says. “Gustave's wife.” She extends a hand and I shake it slowly.

“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.”