Authors: Lucy Keating
My dad sits there quiet a moment. “Did you know the brain processes emotional rejection the same way it processes physical pain?”
I raise my eyebrows. “I did not.”
“Well, it's true.” He always lights up when he discusses the brain. “When you're in love, your brain has an influx of dopamine. The same effect people get from doing drugs. You're basically an addict. But when love, the person of your affection, is taken away from you, we process it in the same part of the brain that tells us if we've burnt ourselves, or broken a bone, or scratched our skin. So what I'm telling you, Bug, is not to worry. Heartache is not just a word we use. It has a scientific basis. So you don't have to feel bad for missing him. It's totally normal. But all broken bones or burns or hearts . . . well, they all heal up eventually.”
I reach over and give my dad a pat on the forearm, just short
enough so neither of us gets uncomfortable. Sometimes I wish he was the kind of dad that would just ask where the guy lived, drive to his house, and grab him by the collar. But I know this kind of dad is better.
THERE IS NO
number 1.
I'm circling the interior of Dunham Court at MIT, peering at all the names and numbers like an old lady, while students shuffle by me. Dunham is made up of a central lawn bordered on four sides with university buildings, not unlike Bennett's main quad, except it's a fully closed square. CDD is listed at 1 Dunham Court, yet there is no number 1. The building at the most northwestern corner of the quad is number 2, and they increase in number as they circle around, with the highest, number 15, meeting right up with number 2 again.
I sit down on a bench and am just about to give up when I notice something peculiar. In the center of the quad is a small cupola-like building that looks as if it was removed from a
rooftop and placed on the ground. It's solid white and has a dome on top, surrounded by pillars. A woman in a copper-colored sweater has just ducked out from behind one of the pillars and is skittering in the direction of Massachusetts Avenue, books clutched to her chest.
I approach the rotunda, and begin to walk the exterior. Sure enough, next to a set of heavy wooden double doors is a sleek metal sign, almost undetectable. It reads,
CENTER FOR DREAM DISCOVERY. GUSTAVE L. PETERMANN, PHD.
I press a small button just below the placard and am jolted backward when a loud intercom voice comes out of nowhere.
“Yes?”
I hesitate, not sure how to begin.
“Do you have an appointment?” The voice is female and impatient.
I think for a second. “Um . . . Sure?”
“Name, please.”
I roll my eyes, knowing this isn't going anywhere good. “Alice Rowe.”
There is a long pause.
“You don't have an appointment.”
“Is this an automated machine?” I ask. And what I think is another pause turns out to just be no response at all.
“I used to be a patient,” I finally say, smacking my hand on the button again. “I need to speak to Dr. Petermann.”
“Then you will need to call the number listed in your CDD handbook,” the voice says matter-of-factly.
I think for a second. “Is there a security camera out here?” I ask.
“To your left,” she eventually responds.
I look, and just above the door is a sleek white camera pointed directly at me. I pull the stack of postcards from my bag, fan them out like a poker hand, and hold them up to the lens.
“I don't have a handbook,” I say, “because I haven't been here in ten years. All I have are these and some whacked-out dreams of a guy that I thought was a figment of my imagination, but turns out is a real person. So like I said, I want to speak to Petermann, and I am willing to wait. There can only be one way out of this funky little rotunda, and I'm standing in front of it.”
After a moment of silence, the door clicks open. I enter the circular main floor of CDD. Across from me is a reception desk, with two sets of stairs ascending on either side behind it, meeting at a doorway at the top.
“Cool place,” I say to the girl behind the desk, her hair in a smooth bun, her face serious.
Charm her
, I think. So I also say, “And that is a nice . . . dress.” It is not a nice dress. It's a hideous brown pattern with a rounded collar. It looks like something someone's grandmother would wear. This girl is not much
older than me. She's pretty, but this dress is not doing her any favors.
“It's the old observatory,” she explains. “And my grandmother made this for me. May I see the cards?” She holds out a hand.
I wait patiently as she examines them, then types a few things into her computer. “You can sit over there,” she says without looking up, and points aggressively to a bench on the side wall, its back curved to fit the shape of the room.
As soon as I sit down, I understand why she exiled me here. Due to something about the acoustics, I am unable to hear what she is whispering into the phone, no matter how far I lean in her direction.
“He's coming out,” she says finally.
When Dr. Petermann descends one of the staircases, he is everything and nothing I expected. Expected are his fluffy white hair and thick spectacles. Unexpected are his spandex cycling shorts, racing top, bike shoes, and charm.
“Alice,” he says, extending a leather-gloved hand. “What a pleasure. I knew both your parents way back when.” He smiles heartily. “Please forgive the outfit. One must take advantage of these last warm days before the winter tundra sets in, correct? I'm just about to take my bike out for a spin around the river.”
“I'm sorry to bother you, Dr. Petermann,” I say. “But I recently found these cards, and understandably I had some questions . . .”
I realize I'm not holding the cards, that the blond vintage-loving cyborg still has them, so I take a few steps over to the desk and hold my hand out expectantly. She finally rolls her eyes and gives them back.
“Of course you must!” Petermann says jubilantly. “And I would be more than happy to fill you in on what we do here, if you'd just make an appointment.” He purses his lips in such an exaggerated smile that I stop finding him sincere. “I am quite booked up at the moment, but I'm sure we can figure something out in the next couple of months. Right, Lillian?”
“Months?” I say. “No. This is slightly more time-sensitive than that. If I could just have a moment of your time, or perhaps take a look at my files?”
“I'm afraid not.” Petermann laughs nervously. “You see, we've just recently upgraded to a new computer system, and not even half of our records have been logged. It's an arduous process, I'm sure you understand.” He waves his hand in the air and begins to head for the door.
“Please, Dr. Petermann,” I say, stepping in front of him. “I've been having the craziest dreams, and I'm starting to question what is real and what isn't. My dad says you guys helped me when I was little. I want to know exactly what you did.”
Just then there is another buzz at the door, and Petermann stiffens slightly. Lillian looks up at him from behind the desk, her nostrils flaring.
“Should Iâ” she asks.
“No,” he says quickly. Then turns back to me. “I'm sorry, Alice. Like I said, I'm very busy.”
Another buzz. Petermann closes his eyes. Then a banging at the door.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
Petermann grits his teeth. “Do not let them in,” he orders Lillian.
“But, doctor,” she hisses. “They may do more harm out
there
than in
here
.”
Petermann looks at her hard. “You're right,” he finally agrees. “Go ahead.”
I hear a faint click before the heavy doors shove open and a male voice hollers, “I've got seven peacocks out here. Could you have taken any longer to open the door?”
To my utter astonishment, he's not kidding. A guy with shaggy brown hair and thick glasses strides in, a peacock squirming under one arm. Behind him, a girl with a copper sweater pushes a dolly with six more, stacked in cages. They flutter and shake and cry out again and again, their green tails sticking out every which way.
“I know Mrs. Perry requested peacocks,” Dr. Petermann scoffs. “But next time we have to think of a better substitute.” Suddenly he stops, remembering me. “Alice, this is Miles, one of our research assistants, along with Lillian and Nanao.”
“Hey,” Miles says.
“Nice to meet you.” I look from him to Nanao, who merely
stares back at me while a peacock pecks at her fingers.
“So about the files,” I try again.
“I'm afraid it's just not going to be possible right now, Alice,” Dr. Petermann replies. “As you can see, we sort of have our hands full.”
I want to tell him that having your hands full with peacocks is not a legitimate excuse coming from a medical professional, but I bite my tongue and try another angle instead. I didn't want to have to go here so soon, but I'm not sure I have a choice. “It's just that there's this boy. I keep seeing him in my dreams . . .” I stop short when I hear an incredulous snort from behind me, but when I look, Lillian is staring at her computer with deep focus.
“Anyway,”
I say. “I know this is going to sound insane, but I think he might actually be . . . real.”
I brace myself for Petermann's response. Will he look at me with wonder or shoo me from his lab? But before I get to see the look on his face, the peacock beneath Miles's arm breaks free, heaving itself onto the marble floor before running wildly around the room, making absurd yodeling sounds as Miles and Nanao chase frantically after it.
When Petermann turns to me now, he seems actually agitated. “Like I said, Alice.” He clears his throat. “Now is not a great time. But if you'll make an appointment with Lillian, we will get to the bottom of all this.”
He is lying. It's all over his faceâthe tightness in his features, the clenching in his jaw. His voice, once upbeat and
welcoming, is becoming short. He just wants to get me out of here, that much is clear. Which can only mean one thing: He's scared.
“I'm sorry.” I give my sweetest smile, tilting my head to the side. “I didn't mean to waste your time. I'd be happy to make an appointment with Lillian. She's been so kind already.” I slowly turn and give the same smile to Lillian, who I notice is eyeing me warily. The other thing I notice is her employee ID card on her desk. And in the shuffle that occurs in the next three minutes as Miles and Nanao maneuver the peacocks up the stairway, I have just enough time to grab it.
Everywhere I look
there are bubbles, fat and wobbly, as though someone gave a class of preschoolers too much candy and then handed them bubble wands. The shiny spheres glide toward me like happy Martians.
We come in peace.
I try to pet one, but it pops
.
“We have to turn off the washing machine!” my mom cries. She is standing by the overworked appliance, which gyrates and gurgles, dripping foam like it's right out of
Fantasia
. She's wearing a green safari jacket and camo boots. But the binoculars that hang around her neck are bright blue and bedazzled, sparkling endlessly.
“I'll get it,” I offer, and climb inside the washer. But it catches me, whirling me to and fro like a riptide, until I tumble out into a clear blue ocean. All around me, floating in the water, are rubber duckies and plastic tugboats and also some bras and socks.
“Alice,” I hear Max call out to me. His voice is muffled through the water, but he sounds happy. “Alice, come here! I think I found it.” The surface of the water seems like a million miles away, but I am never out of breath.
When I reach the top, I'm at the edge of a swimming pool. I hop out, soaking in a gold one-piece, and Lillian from CDD is there, holding a fuzzy golden retriever puppy and smiling.
“Here,” she says. “This is for you.”
I take the puppy, but it squirms out of my arms and runs to a set of lawn chairs, where a guy is holding an iPad in front of his face.
“Max?” I say, pushing the iPad out of the way. But it's not Max, it's Oliver.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
He holds up the iPad and doesn't say anything. He just smiles. On the screen is Max, and he's talking to me.
“Alice, I found it!” he says to the camera. “Come here!”
“How?” I say desperately. “I don't know how to get inside!”
“Don't be silly,” he says. “You know how.”
“Max, I can't!” I cry. But he just shakes his head and walks off screen. Frustrated, I hurl the iPad into the pool.
“That was rude,” Oliver says. But when I turn to apologize, I see Oliver is now a peacock, and it's wearing glasses.
“TODAY WE'LL BEGIN
our discussion of one of social psych's most popular topics,” Mr. Levy is saying. I am barely listening, because I'm totally distracted by Max's eyelashes. They're so long that even though he is sitting one row in front of me, just to the left, I can still see their tips peeking out past his profile. I
know
these lashes. Beyond today, beyond last week. I've known these lashes forever.
But that doesn't mean these eyelashes know
me
. Ever since I left CDD, the stolen ID tucked into the back pocket of my jeans, I've been thinking about those peacocks. Clearly, the Center for Dream Discovery is an eccentric place, and I had been a part of it. What's more, I'd apparently had such vivid nightmares as a kid that I'd actually required professional
help to fix them. What does that say about how far my imagination can go? Who knows what my mind is capable of? I can't explain it yet, but I must have seen a picture of Max somewhere and my brain handled the rest. Which is not just embarrassing and pathetic, it also breaks my heart. To know that, really, I've been alone in this all along.
“The topic we'll be discussing today is love,” Levy says now, and I finally look up at the board.
“But first we have to start with the basics,” he continues. “Attachment. Can anyone tell me who is responsible for the study of attachment? Kevin?”
“Um, Freud?” Kevin MacIntire mumbles almost inaudibly. He's a big kid who has yet to grow into himself. I catch him staring at me sometimes in class with a dazed expression, but he's never even said hello.
“MacIntire, you've answered Freud to almost every question I've asked this year. I commend the perseverance, but do your reading. Max, what do you have for me?” Levy jerks his chin upward slightly, giving Max the go-ahead.
“John Bowlby,” Max says without so much as a pause. As usual, he sits up straight in his chair, never looking anywhere but the board, Levy, or his notebook to take neat, concise notes. I would know, because I'm usually watching him. He has these perfect wrists. Strong but delicate at the same time, with smooth skin, the joint sitting well past the cuff of his oatmeal-colored sweater, which he has pushed up below his
elbows. I'm transfixed by them, how beautiful they are, and how funny it is that such a vulnerable, intimate part of a person can be in front of us every day, yet we rarely take note of it.
“Bowlby!” Levy says loudly, raising his arms like
hallelujah
and jerking my mind back to attention. “That is correct. For those of you who did the reading, like Max, you might recall that Bowlby believed early experiences in childhood have an important influence on our development and behavior later in life. Yes? And our attachment styles are established through the infant/caregiver relationship, or, to put it more simply, your relationship with your parents. Make sense?”
I nod and wonder briefly what happens if you barely had a child/caregiver relationship. If your mom moved halfway across the world, so you spent most afternoons putting your overweight bulldog in a tutu and pretending to interview him on
Oprah
.
“Can anyone tell me why we form these early bonds in the first place? What purpose they serve us?” Levy asks. He is met with silence.
“Survival,” I say without raising my hand.
Max shifts in his seat but doesn't turn. Levy looks pleasantly surprised. “That's right, Alice,” he says. “Care to elaborate?”
“Okay,” I say, suddenly a little self-conscious. “I mean, it's pretty obvious, right? We're born these tiny things, unable to do anything on our own. So we need someone to do it all for us. Attachment to another person guarantees we will always
be close to someone who can do that. Who will ensure we survive.”
Levy nods. “But even though survival is the basis for these early bonds, it's not the only positive outcome. Attachment theory supposes that the child who has a supportive and responsive caregiver develops a better sense of security. The child knows that the caregiver is dependable, which creates a base for the child to then explore the world.”
Levy turns back to the board and starts writing the stages of attachment, which is exactly the question I will get wrong on the exam, because it's exactly the moment I start tuning out.
A base from which to explore the world.
I keep turning the phrase over in my head. My mom was gone by the time I turned seven, and sure my dad was there . . . he just wasn't always well,
there
.
Suddenly I look up and notice Max staring at my bouncing fingers, which I didn't even realize I'd been tapping. I slap them down flat on instinct. He looks at me quizzically and directs his gaze forward again. My whole body tingles, a combination of embarrassment and the feeling of his eyes on me.
“What about other kinds of attachment?” Leilani Mimoun says. “Like in adults?”
“Miss Mimoun!” Levy teases. “So eager to discuss that beautiful and tragic thing we call love.” He perches on the edge of his desk, his hands pressed to his heart.
Leilani blushes, removes her glasses, and starts cleaning
the lenses furiously. She is totally in love with Levy. She is the first one in class and the last one to leave, never misses a homework assignment, and cleans her glasses every time he asks her a direct question.
“We'll get to that next time,” he says. “But there are many theories. Some think love is divided in two categories: passionate and compassionate. Passionate comes first, and lasts only a few years at most, followed by compassionate, which is stronger and more durable. Others have asserted that there are three components to love, intimacy, passion, and commitment, and different combinations of these three things produce different types of love.” He draws a triangle on the board and starts writing words around it.
romantic love = passion + intimacy
liking = intimacy
empty love = just commitment
“That's sad,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Empty love.” I can't help but glance at Max. When I look at him, I can't even conceive that something like empty love is possible.
“That's BS,” Max says. And when Levy turns to him with his brows raised, he clarifies. “Why bother trying to explain something as arbitrary as love? It's like the least definable thing in the world.”
“Don't tell Celeste,” someone calls from the back of the room, and everyone snickers. Everyone except me. I just feel nauseous. So Max and Celeste aren't just a couple. They're
that
couple. That perfect, everyone knows us, everyone wants to be us couple. Max and I don't even exist in the same sentence.
“It's human nature, of course,” Levy says, ignoring the comment. “We want to define what we don't understand. But we'll cover that part, too. See, you guys, isn't social psych
so cool
?”
We all mutter and roll our eyes as the bell rings.
“Oh, and before I forget!” Levy says loudly as people start packing up their things. “I brought you hardworking young scholars a treat. I know what you are thinking: a genius
and
a chef? The answer is yes. Grab one on your way out.” He produces a small Tupperware container from his desk and opens it to reveal surprisingly perfect-looking chocolate chip cookies. “And, they're vegan!” he says.
After hearing Celeste's name, I'm basically the opposite of hungry. But having never met a cookie I didn't like, I am one of the first to pick one up. It's plump and soft, and my mouth starts to water. I'm just about to sink my teeth in when someone suddenly grabs my hand, jerking it away from my mouth and pulling me out of my cookie euphoria.
“Don't eat that!”
Max cries, his tone almost irritated as he throws the cookie into the trash can like it's on fire, more animated than I've seen him in days, more animated than I've seen him maybe . . . ever. Then his eyes shoot back to me, wide, as though he can't believe what he's just done. I swallow. We both look down at the trash can, and I can hear Max breathing heavily.
“Poor cookie,” is all I can think to say. Because I mean it, it does look so sad there all alone, and also because I have to fill the silence.
“It's made with almond flour,” Max finally replies, lowering his voice back to normal and not taking his eyes off the trash. “He brought them in last year, too.” There's another pause before Max asks, a little quietly, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I manage to say, still not daring to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Don't mention it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. Then he clears his throat and strides out of the room, as though leaving the scene of the crime will erase it from ever having happened.
“That was rude!” Leilani Mimoun says as she walks up next to me. “Are you guys even friends?”
But I can't manage a response, because my mind is far, far away, standing at a street cart in Bangkok.
He remembered my nut allergy.
Because he remembers everything.
Because he was there.
Because he is the Max from my dreams after all.