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When I wake, I don’t know what time or day it is, but what I do know is that I’m somewhat rested, and my brain no longer feels like mush. Thinking back to what I can remember, I’m disappointed that my memory won’t allow me to skip further back.
Sighing, I rise slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It’s daytime, and the ache in my bones alerts me that I’ve slept longer than a few hours. Reaching for my cell from my handbag, I see that it’s just after 8 a.m.
The wool blanket pooled around me reminds me of everything that occurred before I switched off from the world. Cayden and Lacey were here, and we were having a semi-decent conversation before I began hearing and seeing things.
My usual visions varied because it was no longer nighttime but dusk, and instead of drowning, I felt free. The smells and tastes—they were so real, but I have no idea what it all meant. I try to focus on the feeling, but all I’m faced with is a roadblock in my mind.
Pegging it as nothing but wishful thinking, I swing my legs and place my feet on the dusty floor. Taking a moment, I rise slowly, hopeful my jelly legs will hold me up. They do. Ambling through my home, I grab my backpack and suitcase and dump them into what will be my bedroom. The moment I step foot inside, that warm feeling surrounds me, and I instantly feel at home.
Dropping to a crouch, I hunt through my suitcase, turning up my nose at almost all of the clothes inside. They cost a lot of money—too much, in fact—and I’d trade every single garment for a comfy pair of jeans and a baggy sweater. Sadly, I won’t find the likes of those in here, so I settle on a white summer dress instead. Grabbing my toiletries and towel, I make my way down the hallway and into the bathroom.
Peering around, I sigh because, once again, the photos did not do this place justice. The entire room is decorated in shades of green, and although it has all the essentials, I’m not sure how operational it is.
Undressing, I peer at myself in the cracked mirror above the basin. My snarled hair has seen better days, and we won’t even touch on the topic of my smeared makeup. But that aside, I place my hands on the edge of the sink and lean forward, needing to take a closer look at just who is staring back at me.
I don’t recognize this person because I don’t know who this person is. I wish I could remember who I was because living in someone else’s shadow is the most unsettling feeling. I have no doubt I’ll make new memories—I already have—but a part of me is missing because I can’t help but compare this Peyton to the Peyton everyone else knows.
Who is the better version? The past me or the me now?
I struggle with this question daily, and just like every other time, I’m no closer to uncovering the answer.
Not wanting to start the day on a downer, I step into the bath and turn on the faucets to hot. The moment the water hits my aching muscles, I forget my woes and focus on what I can remember, and that’s my plan to renovate this place. I don’t have a car yet because Stella thought it was too dangerous for me to drive, seeing as I had no idea where I was. But now that I’m determined to call this town my home, that’s one of the first things on my agenda. That and ransacking a hardware store.
I have the money to buy everything I need, but I don’t want to depend on Stella and Augusto’s wealth. I need to find a job.
Maybe I could return to my profession as a marketing manager one day. One day, maybe, I can return to normal. That day doesn’t seem likely to be coming anytime soon.
Switching off the water, I quickly dry off and dress. My ravenous stomach grumbles, reminding me I have no food and, more importantly, coffee in the house. I’ll just add that to my list. As I finish applying a light face of makeup, I hear gentle rapping on the door.
Capping my lipstick, I pray to whatever God is looking over me that Stella isn’t at my front door. Although knowing her, she wouldn’t knock.
When I open the door, I am pleasantly surprised to see Lacey standing before me with two cups of steaming coffee in hand.
“Good morning,” she singsongs when I stand mute. “Can I come in?” She wiggles the travel mugs, a bargaining chip to let her in.
Remembering my manners, I swiftly step out of the doorway. “Shit, I’m so sorry! Of course, you can. This amnesia thing appears to have messed with my manners, too,” I tease as I gesture for her to enter. She laughs lightly, giving me a loose hug as she walks by.
The act catches me off guard because it feels so natural. The surprise shows, and Lacey is quick to apologize, mistaking my surprise for distaste. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. I forget some people aren’t.”
But I quickly wave off her apologies. “No, please, it’s fine. I’m just happy to see you again.” I close the door and follow her into the kitchen. “I’m really sorry about yesterday.” She offers me the mug, which I gratefully accept.
“Don’t be silly. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” she replies, jumping up onto the small counter, her legs swinging as she sips her coffee.
“Are you kidding me? I’m pretty sure as far as first meetings go, that went down as the worst in history. Not to mention the fact that your brother is kind of a smart-ass.”
Lacey splutters up her coffee, thumping her chest in hysterics. “That he is. Cayden isn’t really a people person. He means well, but…” She pauses once again, a common theme it seems when her brother is involved.
I don’t push because the last time that happened, things went downhill, and I’d rather not relive that—ever. I nurse my coffee silently, indicating I’m listening if she wants to continue.
“It was just Cayden and me growing up. My mom split when we were kids,” she explains while my heart grows heavy. “My dad ‘raised us,’ but he was no father figure for Cayden or me. It would have been better if he left too. And he did. One day, he just disappeared. I was eleven, and Cayden was days away from turning eighteen.” The bitterness in her tone reveals no love lost between her and her father.
“I was such a little brat. The last thing Cayden wanted was to look after his little sister; I mean, he was in his prime. But not once”—she holds up her pointer—“not once did he ever complain. He came to every single dance recital. He picked me up without fail from every cheerleading practice. He was both my mom and dad. At the time, I resented him, but now, I realize everything he did was for me.” Her voice turns sentimental, and I can’t blame her. She’s lived a tough life. Her comment from yesterday makes sense now. I know what Cayden lost…what they both did.
Discreetly wiping away her tears, she smiles. “So that’s why I excuse his less than sociable behavior at times because my brother is a good guy. The best. You’re trying to remember your past…but most of the time, I’m trying to forget mine.”
Her statement strikes a chord within me because she’s right. We all have our crosses to bear, and I’ve been looking at this the wrong way. If I want to remember, then I have to stop living in the past, so to speak, and focus on the future. By obsessing over what I can’t remember, I’m shutting myself off from the things that I can.
