Page 111 of Plaything

For a doctor, she acted lightheartedly. Almost all doctors I’d met had a stick up their butt or took everything too seriously. I walked alongside her to the kitchen.

When we entered the room, Dominic and the doctor seemed to be in pleasant conversation, laughing (a rare sight for Dominic). From the looks of it, it didn’t seem like a business meeting at all. They were acting like old friends.

“Do you want anything to drink?” I asked Elora, as we seemed to be on the outside of their conversation.

Her eyes lingered on something behind me, and she shook her head. “I’m okay, thank you. What happened to your pepper?” she asked.

The pepper? I turned, seeing our seasoning rack shakers behind me. They looked just the same as they always were. Normal. “What do you mean?”

“Elora,” Dane mumbled, softly chuckling.

A slight tint of pink crept up her cheeks, and she smiled at me. “All the other spices have labels. The pepper doesn’t,” she pointed out.

Turning around, I noticed she was right. I’d never paid enough attention to the seasonings to notice. I chuckled. “Yeah, that is kinda strange.”

“Luckily, I always keep a label maker close by,” she smiled. Still, it was evident that something—I hope not the pepper—was bothering her. “I actually have one in the car,” she told me before she turned around and exited the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Dane said with a smile. “Organization is her niche,” he explained.

Dominic handed the Doctor a cup of hot coffee and placed it in front of himself. “That’s alright. What topics were you thinking of covering?” he asked, looking eager to get down to business.

As they started talking again, I slipped out of the room as quickly as I’d entered.

It was a long shot, but seeing as Elora and I weren’t contributing much to their conversation, I had a lingering question on my mind. I wasn’t sure if she’d even have an answer for me, but she was a doctor.

“Elora,” I smiled at her as she reentered the house, typing away on a small machine in her hands. “So you’re a doctor...” I instantly felt stupid for my start.

“Uh-huh,” she nodded while smiling at me. “What’s up?” she asked, noticing that I had a question or two.

“So...” I sat on one of the couches, thinking of the best way to ask without spilling my guts. She sat next to me, placing the label maker in her lap. “Is it possible to have memories that you can’t remember?” I asked.

She nodded. “Absolutely. I’m assuming you’re not talking about memories lost with old age, right?” She clarified, and I nodded. “There are lots of reasons why someone’s brain would choose to forget certain things. When I was going through school, I shadowed a few therapists. Long story short, a lot of those memories are from trauma. It’s like their brain is protecting them. Is that kind of what you mean?” She asked. “Sorry, I rambled.”

So, there was a chance the dreams were real.

My heart sank, but I held onto a sliver of hope that I’d imagined sick, twisted things. “What would cause the memories to come back?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Anything, really. It could be something as simple as a word that triggers you to recall it. Sometimes, people get hit in the head, making them remember. Or your brain feels safe enough to allow you to remember. Everyone’s different, so I’m probably not much help,” she nervously chuckled.

There was no reality where I’d want to remember those memories if they were real. I think I’d remember hitting my head—Wyatt’s desk.

I hit my head when I was under his desk...

The evidence was stacked against my sliver of hope. I’d hit my head, then had the dream later that same day.

“Are you okay, Odette?” Elora asked as her insanely bright eyes wandered my features.

Snapping out of my own thoughts, I gave her a reassuring nod. “Asking for a friend,” I lied with a smile. “Thank you,” I said genuinely.

“I’m just happy I had answers,” she said. “Sometimes, people assume doctors know everything without context. You’d be surprised at how often I’ve been asked something and have no idea how to answer,” she cringed. “It’s super embarrassing.”

She smirked at me. “Like right now, I’m about to go contribute nothing to their conversation because Dane always knows what to say and when to say it.”

I giggled with her. I was glad she was here, too; it was obvious she felt just as out of place as I did. “That’s not true. You may not be contributing to the conversation—honestly, who could? Those two are having a whole hoopla in there. But you did label our pepper, and none of us would have noticed that, like ever,” I laughed.

She grinned, holding the machine up as she stood. “How about we let them talk about the boring stuff, and we go find things to label!” She offered.

I grinned, liking the sound of that much better than standing awkwardly listening in on their conversation. “You get me.”

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