“Do you think he could be wrong?” I say, sitting up a bit straighter, and I notice Max stops chewing. Please let him be wrong, I want to say.
“It is certainly a first, but in this case, unfortunately, I believe he’s right,” Margaret says, signaling for the check. “Are you aware of what a transitional object is?”
I recall a lecture we had with Levy a month or so ago, after discussing attachment theory in children.
“It’s basically a teddy bear, right?” I say.
“Very impressive,” Margaret says. “That’s right. Transitional objects are given to young children as something they can attach themselves to, besides the caregiver, to make them feel safer when they are exploring the world, or when they sleep at night.”
I think back to my mother leaving, to what brought us to CDD in the first place. “I don’t think I had one of those,” I say.
“Yes, you did.” Margaret Yang gives a confident nod.
“What was it, then?” I ask. “Jerry?”
In response, Margaret just looks pointedly at Max.
“I don’t get it.” I frown.
“Me?” Max says.
“Yes.” Margaret places her hands on the table, one on top of the other. “You have to understand, when I met the two of you, my heart broke. I was young, just starting out. At that point in my treatment I’d run into a few adults with insomnia, some stressed-out college kids at most. I’d never seen children your age before. You’d both suffered these unbelievably hard experiences, death and desertion, and you were so small and so alone. You needed something to make you feel safe, and nothing was doing the trick. That’s when it hit me. You could have each other.”
Max and I share another look, but this time we hold it. I think about the story he told me with the chocolate Legos. “I never really expected it to work,” Margaret says. “But I was adventurous and trying to make a name for myself. And somehow, you connected. You found each other. I expected that, like all kids do with their blankies and teddy bears, you would simply outgrow it. But apparently you never did.”
I finally look away from Max to Margaret. It all makes so much sense. “Then maybe we never need to?” I say hopefully.
“I wish that were the case, Alice. But I think we have enough evidence to the contrary, now that you’ve met in real life. Not if you want to tell the difference between sleeping and waking. We have to get you out of each other’s dreams as soon as possible.”
Max and I are listening to Margaret Yang when I feel his hand grip mine under the table.
“Are you sure?” I ask. “There’s no other way?”
Margaret Yang simply shakes her head.
Half an hour later Max and I are still holding hands as we lie on Margaret Yang’s bed back at her faculty apartment, where she places EEG caps on our heads and then a small metal object the size of a cell phone battery at the base of our necks.
“We’re going to be okay, Alice,” Max says as our eyes begin to close. “No matter what, we have each other.”
I have never been so scared in my entire life, but I put on a brave face. If I can make Max think I believe him, maybe I actually will. “Would you like me to tell you a story?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” Max says.
“Okay,” I say. “One day a nine-year-old girl is walking around the Museum of Modern Art. It’s totally empty. There aren’t even any guards. But she doesn’t really mind, because it gives her more time to look around.” I rub my thumb along the knuckle of his forefinger, and I can feel him start to relax. “Then suddenly, all the paintings started to disappear. Or rather, the images on the paintings, and eventually the canvases are all white. She hears a noise and realizes she isn’t alone in the gallery after all. There’s a boy there, and he’s holding out a giant box of felt tip markers, in every shade.” I chuckle out loud, thinking of the memory. “And they spend the rest of the day coloring in the paintings with whatever they want, and then they fall asleep on the roof in the sunshine. And even though when she wakes up he’s gone, and she’s back in her apartment, she somehow feels better. Stronger. Like someone was there to save her.”
“Was that the first dream you remember having about me?” Max asks softly, and I nod in reply. “I remember it, too,” Max says. “It was such a great day.”
“I’ll see you soon, Max,” I say, squeezing his hand tight.
“I’ll see you soon,” Max whispers.
OCTOBER 18th
Max and I are curled up back on the dock at the Charles River, this time on a bundle of pillows, and I am dangling the slide viewer in front of our faces again.