A steady stream of cold air pummels my upper molars as I recline in the dentist’s chair, my arms tightly wrapped around my middle to hold myself still. The air and the scraping send pulses of ice and fire through the nerves in my teeth, and every muscle in my body stiffens; my shoulders and neck feel like rocks.
“All done!” The dentist says. “But I did find a cavity that we need to fill.”
I stand up, steady myself, and walk over to the receptionist’s desk to make my appointment.
“How about Monday, April 24th to have that filled?” the receptionist asks.
The date sounds familiar, but I’m not sure why. I check my appointments on my phone, and it looks like that day is open, so I take it.
“Great! Just remember that we send lots of texts and reminders. Some people find it annoying. You can opt-out if you want.”
“Thanks,” I say, relieved to be leaving for now but dreading next week.
The volume on my phone is turned up because I’m expecting a package any day, and I have to hear the doorbell alert system chime. With the volume turned up, though, my appointment reminders make me jump from my seat every time they come in. At least five times a day, I see “Appointment Reminder: April 24th.” These alerts are synchronized with my email, so the messages make additional pinging sounds, which won’t go away.
I’ve counted how many reminders I’ve gotten in one day, over the past two days: ten. That’s too many, but I don’t opt-out. I like getting the automated birthday texts from the dentist, but every time I see the Monday, April 24th date, I shiver. Not because I have to get a cavity filled. There’s something else I should remember, but I can’t figure out what it is.
Over the next two days, I get twenty more alerts, but when I look carefully at the messages, I notice something I didn’t see before. The reminders say, “Monday, April 24th, 2:30 a.m. @ Hyram Lake.”
I couldn’t possibly be getting a cavity filled at 2:30 a.m. on a Monday, and Hyram Lake is not the dentist’s address. When I finally try to opt-out, there isn’t a link.
During the weekend, the reminders come in at all hours of the day and night. I spend hours deleting them with a sinking feeling in my heart—like I’m supposed to remember something else, something soul-aching and important.
I set my alarm for 1:45 a.m. Sunday night.
The lake is smooth this time of day, a flat extension of land, almost like a solid patch of desert, shrouded by fog. The water in the air pulls at the loose strands of my unkempt locks. At 2:30 a.m., the appointment reminder goes off: Hyram Lake, Monday, April 24.
I look out over the water, hoping to remember, but dreading how deeply I’ll feel the mist that rises.
A shape, somewhat familiar, materializes, walking towards me in the fog, and my breath catches in my chest. I recognize it—the shape of my brother. Flashes from that fateful day hang in the air: he told me he would dive to the bottom of the lake; he said he’d return in precisely one year; when Mom and Dad asked, I said he’d drowned; they’d said they weren’t surprised since he was hell-bent on self-destruction and they were tired.
He stops walking, and we look at each other once more, holding each other’s gaze; a wide cavity grows. His form shifts, and wings like those of the ancient eagle shark spread, filling the void. Turning, he disappears into the fog.
Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught English and Spanish courses in Ohio before moving to Washington state and publishing short stories in various magazines and anthologies. The Places We Haunt is her first short story collection. You can find her DIY humor blog and other adventures/achievements here: