“GROUP ATHLETICS ARE a great way to meet people,” Petermann explains when I ask about the trophies.
There’s a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf spanning an entire wall of his office, filled with equal parts books and awards, like tiny gold figurines of people about to hit a tennis ball or dive into a nonexistent swimming pool. “As you can imagine, it takes quite a bit of funding to keep an operation like this afloat. Connections are good for business.” He gives his signature smile, and I almost expect one of his teeth to sparkle like a toothpaste ad. Ding!
Behind Petermann’s desk hangs a giant photograph of an enlarged brain scan. He sits directly in front of it and kicks up his white sneakers. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words come out in Italian.
“Idiota!”
“Did you just call me an idiot?” I ask.
Petermann shakes his head. “Sergio.” He points to a large birdcage in the back corner of the room by the doorway, where two giant blue parrots sit side by side, staring at us intently.
“And the one on the left is Brunilda. Aren’t they gorgeous?” Petermann asks. “They only speak Italian, from the last person they lived with, an orthodontist in the North End. I’m trying to learn, but you know how it goes, busy-busy.” He sighs dramatically. We don’t really know how it goes, though. I’ve never seen any other patients in the building.
“Quest’uomo non è uno scienziato. Lui è un pagliaccio!” one of the birds cries, and what little Italian I learned during a summer my dad and I spent in Rome at a neuroscience conference tells me that it just called Petermann a clown.
“Exceptional,” Petermann says, looking at them fondly. Then he redirects his attention to us. “So tell me about the dreams. How often? Any distinctive patterns? Are they recurring, as in same place, same subject matter? Or are they individually unique?”
“The only thing recurring about my dreams is Alice,” Max explains, and I blush. I should be used to hearing him say my name out loud by now, but I’m not. “Ever since I was young, she’s always been there. When I was little, she was little, and as I grew, so did she. But we’d never actually met. I never told anyone about it. . . . I figured other kids had imaginary friends, so Alice must be mine. By my sixteenth birthday we’d climbed a volcano, won the World Cup, built a life-size gingerbread house—remember that one?” Max turns to me, chuckling. “Jerry kept eating all the doorknobs.”
“Who is Jerry?” Petermann frowns. “I don’t recall ever having a patient by that name.”
I open my mouth to answer, but Max answers first. “Jerry is Alice’s bulldog,” he says excitedly, as though talking about an old friend. “He’s the best. Okay, he has a little bit of an attitude problem, but he calms down if you scratch just below his chin. He loves fetch.”
“Maybe in your dreams,” I mutter, thinking that I can’t remember the last time Jerry had actually retrieved a tennis ball and dropped it at my feet.
“He’s in about half our dreams. Wouldn’t you say?” Max looks at me again.
It takes me a minute to respond because I’m too busy gazing at him, delighting in how much he seems to be enjoying this. To hear him describing the time we’ve spent together with the same pleasure that I feel. How despite our rocky real-life start, this has all clearly meant as much to him as it has to me.
“It’s true.” I nod. “I think I dream almost every night, and about three nights a week are about Max. And yes, often they are very exotic—riding pink elephants through the jungle, exploring underwater cities—but they can also be completely normal, like visiting a museum or eating really delicious ice cream. One of my favorites takes place on a rainy cobbled street. Just walking under a big umbrella.”
“A red umbrella that’s also a heat lamp,” Max adds. “I love that one.”
“This is astounding.” Petermann is now leaning forward on his desk, his large fluffy head balanced between his thumb and forefinger. “What we did here was simple dream mapping, followed by some cognitive behavioral therapy. Yes, you were both here around the same time, but sessions are private. There’s no reason for you to have known of each other.”
“So you have no idea why this is happening?” I ask.
“I don’t.” Petermann begins tapping a finger against his skull, then stops. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not willing to try and figure it out. The brain is a real mystery, but I’m sure we can get to the bottom of whatever it is, figure out what wires are crossed, so to speak.”
Petermann’s theory bugs me. Max isn’t just a brain malfunction. Some thing that got put in my head and can be explained away.
“Is it possible this is something that science doesn’t have the answers to?” I ask.
Petermann shakes his head. “Science is the explanation for everything. We just have to ask the right questions.”