When Micky finished his cereal, he took a closer look at the things in the house. Of course, he had seen it all yesterday, but none of it had really mattered to him. Now, he had the determination to get his memory back.
Upon seeing the instruments again, his mind was flooded with the previous nights dreams. He eyed the drums suspiciously, as if at any moment they might jump up and force him to play. After all, that's what he had been playing in his dream. And that bandstand, right in front of the window . . . that's exactly where they had been playing.
Or maybe his dreams were simply from having seen this the previous night. But that thought didn't convince him. They seemed to be having too much fun. It seemed too real to be a dream, but more like a . . . memory.
Could it be? Were they really a band? There was only one way to find out . . . but should he ask? If they weren't, he didn't want to sound crazy. But how else would he know?
"Hey, um . . ." he just had to get it right this time. "Mike?" he asked curiously.
"Mike isn't here," Peter told him. "He went to talk to Mr. Babbit, our landlord, about the rent, and Davy went with him to back him up."
Micky didn't remember seeing them go, but then, he had been daydreaming. "Well, I have a question," he told Peter. "Are . . ." ugh, what if he sounded foolish? "Are we a group?"
"A group?" Peter asked slowly. "Well, we're friends."
"No, I mean a singing group?" Micky corrected him. "Is that what those instruments are set up for?"
Peter froze. What should he say? Mike had told him not to discuss this subject with Micky. But Mike wasn't here to help him out, and Micky was the one who brought it up.
"Yes, we are," Peter told him. "We - We're the Monkees."
"Oh," Micky said slowly. "And I play the drums, don't I?"
"How did you know that?" Peter asked, surprised. "Is your memory coming back?"
"I don't know," Micky confided. "It's just something that I had in a dream last night."
"Do you think you could play the drums?" Peter asked. If Micky could remember that they were, in fact, a group, perhaps instinct would allow him to play.
"I don't know," Micky shrugged. "Is it hard?"
Peter sighed; or maybe Micky wouldn't know how. "Never mind," he said comfortingly. "You'll remember soon enough."
"I hope so," Micky said, somewhat gloomy. So he knew they were a group, that didn't mean anything. It meant he had a dream, but nothing else. "You don't know what it's like, not knowing what to say or do."
Peter wanted to tell him that he did feel that way. They all felt so helpless around Micky, not knowing how to help.
"You don't know what it's like for someone to greet you, but you don't know who they are," Micky continued. "That's how I felt when you all were there, in the hospital."
"No," Peter admitted. But he knew how it felt to be the one who had been forgotten. He knew how it felt to be looked at, by one of his closest friends, and not be recognized.
"You don't know what it's like, to be so confused, to have the whole world be a mystery, to feel so lost," Micky went on, feeling ready to cry.
"No," Peter agreed. But he knew what it was like to watch one of his best friends go through that.
"Sometimes I feel so hopeless that I ever will get my memory back," Micky finally broke down and Peter wrapped his arms around him, allowing Micky to cry onto his shoulder.
Peter felt a tear slip down his cheek. "We love you, Mick," he said softly. "You're not the only one suffering from this."
He wanted to pour his heart out to Micky, just as Micky had done, but he knew he shouldn't. Micky would only feel worse, knowing he was causing such grief. Instead, he decided to offer a little ray of hope.
"We're here for you, Micky; we'll help you with whatever we can. You will get your memory back . . ."