Dreamology (14 page)

THE SUMMER MY
father and I lived in Rome, I was desperate for a trip to Venice. He was against this, even for a couple days, saying that like Pig Beach, it was a complete tourist trap at that time of year, and impossible to get around regardless. But I was fascinated by the place. It was a city unlike any other, where everything was old, and where the streets were made of water.

“Come on, we have to go before it sinks,” I said, and there was no way for him to argue with this statement, although he did mutter something about how there'd always be scuba tourism.

Tourists aside, it was even more magical than I'd expected. My favorite part was how easy it was to picture exactly what
life would've been like hundreds of years earlier. Being in Venice was like being one step closer to the life and energy that the paintings in my beloved museums only hinted about. The water flooding over the steps of a church at high tide, the pigeons in Piazza San Marco, the boats tied up alongside the canals. It was all too easy to imagine Venetians throwing grand parties in their waterfront palazzos, while their guests approached by gondola.

The late Isabella Stewart Gardner, who traveled there in the late nineteenth century, when that very world was still in full swing, apparently loved Venice just as much, because when she returned home to Boston, she designed an entire mansion around it, and then she filled it top to bottom with art. I don't think I have ever seen anything so beautiful in my life. Four stories of Venetian design surrounding a gigantic, plant-filled courtyard, topped with a glass roof.

“Over the course of her life, Isabella Stewart Gardner traveled the world and befriended artists, musicians, and writers, amassing a collection and creative network rivaling any other in the United States at that time,” Emmet Lewis says wistfully as he tours me and Max around the grounds. Emmet was a guest of Max's parents the night I crashed their dinner, and I was immediately fond of him, his friendly smile, and immaculate tweed suit. He is also the director of the Gardner Museum. “But her favorite place by far was the Palazzo Barbaro in
Venice, where she would stay. And you see its influence here today.” He waves a hand at the intricate architecture.

“Thank you for letting us visit after hours, Mr. Lewis,” I say. “This is a dream come true.”

“How could I resist?” Emmet exclaims. “I love young people taking interest in the arts. And when Max called and said you had a school project you needed to take care of right away, I was happy to help.” He gives Max a pat on the shoulder. “Now, I've given all of security a heads-up. If you need anything from me, I'll be on the fourth floor handling some last-minute emails. I had them turn Isabella's private spa into my office.” He bends over and whispers in my ear, “Sometimes I like to read in her clawfoot tub!” With that, Emmet winks and heads off up the staircase.

“I kind of love him,” I say, watching his tweed-covered body disappear at the top of the stairs. Then I turn to Max. “And I can't believe you arranged all this.”

Max shrugs bashfully. “I know how you feel about museums,” he says. “It's the perfect place to reenact our dream at the Met.”

We've just arrived in a room on the second floor, as gorgeous and ornate as the last, but with one major difference. On one of the lavishly papered walls, lining either side of a fireplace, are two large gold frames that appear to be framing nothing at all.

“This seems like an odd choice,” I say, pointing at the empty frames. It's more something I'd expect to find in Sophie's parents' apartment, alongside a giant sculpture of a hamburger.

But Max looks thrilled. “These must be left over from the heist. In the nineties, a bunch of guys posing as police officers showed up to the gates of the museum after hours, saying they were responding to an emergency call from inside, and a guard broke protocol and let them in. The next morning the guard who was supposed to relieve the two from the night before found them duct-taped together in the basement . . . and a bunch of priceless works were missing.”

“Did they ever catch them?” I ask.

“The
Boston
Globe
occasionally posts a rumor or two . . . something spotted in a small gallery in Europe or in a private collection at a residence, but nothing official has ever turned up.”

We make our way back downstairs and come to a small sitting room on the first floor. It's covered in sunny yellow wallpaper and paintings of portraits and landscapes, guarded by a very large Eastern European man wearing an earpiece and a blazer, who doesn't acknowledge us in the slightest.

“This is where the work I'm looking for should be,” Max says, scanning the walls. “There.”

I follow his gaze to a canvas in the far corner of the room by the window, a painting that is at first glance not at all what I expected. It's smaller than the others and painted in various
shades of gray. Not the bright turquoise tutus and deep pink backdrops of Degas's ballerinas, or Monet's colorful lilies. But as I move closer, I see the gray is peppered with small flecks of fiery orange, as though appearing through a mist.
NOCTURNE, JAMES M
c
NEILL WHISTLER
, the plaque reads. Somehow calming and slightly mysterious, it's one of the most beautiful paintings I've ever seen. Forget Petermann's surrealist works. As I stare into
Nocturne
's depths, all I can think is that this is what a manifestation of a dream
really
looks like. I see why Max chose it, and I love him even more for doing so.

“Are you ready?” I turn to Max, and find him already gazing at me with a funny, almost wary expression, like we are thinking the same thing.

All I can manage in response is a nod. I can't believe we are doing this.

“Let me just change,” Max says. “I'll be right back.”

I remove my wool coat and place it under a carved wooden table in the corner that probably cost more than our car, revealing a long, plum-colored ball gown I found in my grandmother's closet. It's not exactly Beyoncé material, but it does bring out my complexion. Then I open to the entry about the Met dream and scan its pages as though running lines one last time before going onstage.

I hear a noise and turn back, finding Max standing by
in the doorway
, looking terrified. And also completely perfect in an elegant tux.

“You look . . . beautiful,” he admits.

“Then what's wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” Max says with a sigh. “Just read the journal, Alice.”

I open my notebook and start from the beginning of the dream, describing the sparkling champagne, the fancy dress, and the elegant crowd, until I get to, “And that's where Max finds me, standing in front of the Degas ballerinas, in the Impressionist section.”

I swallow at the next part, but press onward. “And this is where you say—”

“I know what I say,” Max interrupts, his voice low, his eyes gentle. “You know, I can dance, too.” He slips an arm around my waist. How I have missed this arm.

“Right, good.” I flip a page. “And my whole body—let's just skip that part.” I glance up at Max's face, which is way too close, and find him barely containing a smirk. It's like he's enjoying the fact that this is torturing me.

“And I say, ‘Prove it.' And now you . . .”

Without hesitating, Max gives me a twirl. As I spin, I swear I see twinkle lights flying past, like little fireflies zooming around me. But when I steady myself again, it's just the glow of the candelabras.

“Good, good,” I manage after the twirl, smoothing my skirt down in the back to make sure it hasn't flown up. So I'm
already off balance when Max pulls me tightly to him, and I smell his neck and close my eyes for a second.

“And now you say . . .” Max's voice comes from far away, and I open my eyes again.

“You look good in a tux,” I barely whisper, having sort of given up. I want to nuzzle my nose just below his ear.

“Thanks. It's the one Beyoncé wore to the Grammys.” He says the line like he's tired, like he's given up, too, and I can feel his heart hammering in his rib cage. This time we don't laugh. We just stand there, because we both know what's next, and it obviously can't come next, we know that, because he has a girlfriend, and also because this is real life and not a dream, and because it would mean something more than maybe we are ready for. I swear from somewhere I can hear the hum of low chatter and symphony music, which makes negative sense since we are at a high-security museum after hours and the only people here are us and Emmet upstairs in a nineteenth-century tub and the security guard, who must think we are complete and utter mental patients.

“Okay, great!” I announce, way too loud, and use all my energy to pull away from Max. But just as I'm at a safe distance, I realize he hasn't let go. And firmly, almost forcefully, Max has pulled me back into his arms and tipped me backward.

And Max kisses me.

And his lips taste like Oreos. But the Oreos are an
afterthought. I know somewhere deep within my brain that when a woman finds herself on the receiving end of a gallant kiss, she should let herself just be kissed. Isn't that how it always works in the movies? But I'm unable to play the part. Nothing can stop my hands from reaching up and tangling themselves in Max's hair, my arms from pulling me to him and him to me, closer than we already were. As though I've never been kissed before. As though I'm devouring him. As though we're the last two people left on the planet and kissing is the one thing that can keep us alive.

Max pulls away far enough to lean his forehead against mine. “I missed you,” he says. And I can't tell if we're on script anymore.

As the security guard, whose name I learn is Igor, lets Max and me out of the locked front door of the Gardner, I feel as though I didn't just talk about sipping the champagne in my dream. I feel as though I had it. Maybe more than one glass. Maybe more like twelve. When Max takes my hand, I think,
And there goes one more
, and I look back at the museum door to see Igor standing behind the glass.

He gives me a wink.

We drive back to the lab in mostly silence, because I can't think of anything to say. I stare out the window and wonder if he's regretting it all, except for one thing. Once again, there are two hands on my knee, and one of them is Max's.

“Where'd you tell your dad you were staying tonight?” Max asks.

“I told him the junior class had a lock-in.” I laugh. “I could've told him I was going to Portugal and he would've barely heard me. What did you tell yours?”

“They're out of town,” Max says. “What they don't know won't hurt them, as long as I keep my cell phone on.”

I know we need to talk about it, but truthfully I'm afraid to ruin it. Right now, just the two of us driving, dressed up in ridiculously fancy clothes, we could actually be in a dream. We wouldn't even know. Who is here to tell us otherwise?

Turns out Lillian is, when she greets us in the circular foyer of CDD by the staircase, holding two sets of blue cotton PJ's—CDD standard issue—two toothbrushes, and two travel-sized bars of soap. It feels like summer camp. A really bad summer camp where you never get to go outside.

“Where's Petermann?” Max asks as Lillian hands us our toiletries.

“He'll be here soon,” she says. “He had a fundraiser to attend. In the meantime, I'm on duty. Just yell if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Lillian,” Max says.

“You're very welcome,” Lillian answers, shooting me a mischievous look when Max turns his back for a moment.

I shoot a look back.
What?
How could she possibly know?

But when I walk into the bathroom, I see why. I'm a mess.
My hair looks like I just woke up from a twelve-hour nap, and there is a redness around my nose and cheeks, no doubt due to Max's slight stubble.

But that's not even the most distracting part. Speaking of my cheeks, they are glowing. Not like I just ran six miles, more like I just swallowed six nightlights. I am positively lit from within, and my eyes are big and round.

Apparently love makes you beautiful.

I put on my pajamas, wash my face and brush my teeth, and finger comb my hair so it looks halfway decent again. Then Max and I climb into our side-by-side pods.

“I wish I could hold your hand,” Max admits when we are all tucked in.

“Me too,” I say.

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” he asks.

I smile. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Max says. “One day a little boy is sitting on the floor of his living room, playing with some toy trucks.
Vroom!
” Max makes the sound effect enthusiastically. “He shoots one across the carpet, but it goes too far, to the other side of the sofa. And then miraculously, it shoots right back. Surprised, the little boy peers around the sofa to find a girl around his age with a very attractive bowl cut, building a giant Lego castle. She asks him if he wants to play, before popping one of the Legos in her mouth, informing him that if he's hungry, they are made out of chocolate.” Max pauses now, and his voice takes on a softer
tone. “And the boy had never felt so happy in his whole life. They build the most incredible chocolate castle, with dragons and soldiers and a moat made of milk. And then they fell asleep side by side. The boy wakes up in his living room, and even though there is no castle or no little girl, he still feels just as happy. And he knows he will see her again.”

“Was that me?” I say with a yawn.

“That was you,” Max says, his voice a little hoarse. “The first time we met.”

“I like that story,” I sigh.

“I'll see you soon, Alice,” Max mumbles.

“I'll see you soon,” I say. And slide into a peaceful sleep.