Payton Hidden Away (7 page)

“Nothing works out
the way you want it to,” she says,
sifting through her salad while still chewing. Lifting her eyes, she holds her
fork upright, a bit of chicken perched upon the prongs. She wags the fork at me
as if to make a point. “I learned that lesson at the tender age of twenty-one.”

“Are you being
sarcastic?”

“No.” She snags
the bite of chicken from her fork and begins to chew. “It’s a fact.” Then she
shakes her head. “No, not a fact. It’s a fairytale.”

“What is?”

“All of it. All
that crap they cram down your throat when you’re a kid about growing up to be
whatever you want to be. It’s a fairytale. It’s like blowing on the white
feathers of a dandelion. They tell you to make a wish, but it’s an illusion,
and pretty soon all you’ve got is weeds.”

“So, what
happened?” I ask. “When you were twenty-one?”

She lifts her
eyes and studies me a moment before returning her attention to her salad. “That
was the year my dad was injured in an accident.”

“At the plant?”

She nods. “It’s
also the year I got pregnant and gave birth to a still-born baby boy.” She
looks at me, and I can see the fatigue in her eyes. “I named him Anthony.”

“I’m…sorry.” I
don’t know that I am, but it’s awkward as hell.

“I think I
cursed God about a hundred times that year. Maybe more.”

There’s a blob
of chewy meat in my mouth that I can’t bring myself to swallow, and I’m looking
across the table at a girl who apparently named her dead kid after me. I don’t
know who her son’s father was, and I don’t really care to. I didn’t even need
to know that she had been pregnant. Ironically, my eyes drift to her left hand.
There is no ring.

She smiles,
lifts her hand and wiggles her ring finger for a better view. “Jeff Taylor,”
she says.

“Jeff Taylor?”
I’m stunned. “The guy whose dad owns Taylor Collision?”

“Owned,” she
answers. “Past tense. Jeff ran it into the ground. If you ever want to see the
face of ADHD, well, there you go.”

“What did you
see in him?”

“I was young and
lonely,” she says, washing her meal down with a sip of ice water. “He was
sweet.” Her glance is accusing. “And he was
around
.”

Guilt trip.

“Anyway,” she
continues, her eyes returning to her meal. “He’s out of the picture.” She chews
for a moment before looking up again, catching me staring.

“It’s none of my
business,” I mumble.

“You’re acting
like it is.” When I don’t answer, she continues. “Anyway, by the looks of
things, you’re doing just fine.”

“By the looks of
what things?”

“Where do you
live now?”

“Atlanta.”

“Can’t be cheap
to live in Atlanta.”

“I do all
right.”

“Got a nice
apartment?”

I smile. “I have
an average apartment.”

She matches my
smile. “Suits you.”

“Nothing suits
me.”

“An apartment
does. You can just pick up and go at a moment’s notice.”

Guilt trip #2. I’m
not taking the bait. I didn’t fly across the country just to be reprimanded for
a decision I made half a lifetime ago. I don’t remember everything that
happened, but I know enough to know that it wasn’t all my fault. “Why did you
stay?” I ask. “Here, I mean?”

“You mean
after
she disappeared?” She pauses, looking at me hard enough to make me feel
uncomfortable. “Why’d I stay?” she asks. “Why’d you come back?”

I hear her ask
the question, but I don’t answer. I’m barely listening. My mind has drifted,
because the words ‘
after she disappeared
’ are lodged like a kidney stone
in my mind, chiseling at my memory, and suddenly I know why she called.

“You okay?” she
asks.

I forgot. I
completely forgot. I mean, I remember Joanne, but I forgot that she went
missing. There was that whole thing—a missing persons—but I wasn’t even here. I
was down in Georgia getting ready for fall semester while they were organizing
huge search parties up here. They traipsed through fields and looked in
abandoned buildings for weeks. Joanne Lambert made front page news from June
until December. My mom gave me all the updates when I called on the weekends,
but—

They never found
anything.

“Tony?” she
asks.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“No, I’m not
okay. I don’t remember.”

“You don’t
remember? Which part?”

“Any of it. All
of it. I forgot.” I shake my head. “I forgot about her.”

“About Jo?”

“How do you
forget something like that?”

She sits back,
clearly angry. “You
forgot
?”

I shrug.

“Are you for
real? You
forgot
?”

“What, you think
I’m lying? You think I’m
happy
about this? I have this big blank spot
that I can’t reconcile, and it’s eating up half my fucking childhood. I can’t
remember anything. When you called this morning, I couldn’t even remember what
you looked like.”

She stares at me
from across the table, a table which might as well be the Grand Canyon given the
distance between us. I
do
remember, but only fragments of that lost
summer. I remember that Joanne left without saying anything to anyone, and
nobody knew why. But I also remember that by that time I was already gone.

“She disappeared
the same day you left,” Kristie says softly.

I stare at her,
realizing that if what she just said is true, then maybe this is a trap. After
all, if Jo and I really did both leave on the same day, then despite my
inability to conjure memories into a contiguous timeline of events, the timing
does seem a bit suspicious. Kristie might be setting me up.

“I left for
school,” I say defensively, my voice sounding anything but confident. “It had
been in the works for weeks.”

“Did she go with
you?”

“What’s that
supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.
I’m just asking.”

“I have no idea
where Joanne went,” I say, looking her in the eye. “I wasn’t here.”

“You swear it?”

“What difference
does it make? I don’t remember.”

She exhales and
folds her arms, about to say something then stopping. There’s some more glaring
before she gets over it, leans forward and starts picking at her meal again,
her eyes on her plate. “Fine. I believe you.”

“Your support is
overwhelming.”

“I had to ask.”

I shake my head.

“You asked me
why I stayed,” she says, chewing. “We all did. My mom and dad. And me. I guess
we were waiting.”

“For Joanne?”

“No, for fucking
Santa Claus.”

I toss a fry at
my catsup before plucking the crumpled napkin from my lap, wiping the grease
from my fingertips. “Sorry.”

“Jesus Christ,
Tony, wake up.”

“I’m trying.”

“Then try
harder.”

“I’m trying,” I
repeat, my tone soft.

 Kristie leans
her elbows on the table and runs her fingers through her hair. “It’s been a
nightmare that just won’t end. A twenty-year nightmare. I mean, after we got
the letter, we kind of thought maybe she’d come back. Then when Dad got hurt, I
couldn’t just leave Mom here all by herself to take care of him.”

I take a sip of
water to cool my throat. “What letter?”

She picks at a
fry. “Joanne’s letter.”

“She sent you a
letter?”

Kristie looks
up. “You didn’t hear about that?”

I continue to
stare.

She pushes her
bangs behind an ear but doesn’t look up. “She sent us a letter.”

“When?”

“You really
don’t know?”

“Jesus Christ,
Kris, no, I didn’t know.”

She shrugs. “We
got it something like a year after she left.”        

“If she sent you
a letter, then what makes you think she was murdered?”

Tears well in
Kristie’s eyes, but she smiles as if to hide them. “Forget it. It’s
complicated.” This is a strange comment, and I think this might actually be the
first time she’s ever lied to me. “How’s your mom?” she asks suddenly, dabbing
her eyes.

“You’re changing
the subject.”

“I’ve gotten
good at that.” She chuckles. “Years of practice.”

I study her for
a long moment. I can tell she’s not going to talk about it. She’s going to do
things like ask me about my mom even though she doesn’t really care, and I’m
going to do things like answer in order to keep this pointless conversation
going. “She’s doing good,” I answer. “She’s living in Chicago with her sister. She
moved over that way a long time ago.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Everyone knows.
When someone moves out of this town, it makes front page news for, like, three
weeks.”

I chuckle.
“Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, her sister’s husband passed away, so Mom moved in.
They share rent.”

“You still see
each other?”

“Holidays and
family reunions. Things like that.”

“Are you still
close?”

I shrug. “It’s
complicated.”

“Touché.”

“If the shoe
fits.”

“If you can’t
beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“What goes
around, comes around.”

“You can say
that again.”

“That again.” I
smile.

She grins while
shaking her head, once more playing with a wayward bang that refuses to be
tucked behind one of those cute little ears. “That was one of the things I always
liked about you.” She takes a sip of water, careful as she sets the glass back
down. “You loved your mom. You took care of her.”

“She and I have had
a unique relationship ever since Dad died. I was pretty young, and I don’t
remember a lot, but even then I remember us having good and bad days.” I smile.
“But she’s still my mom.”

“Sounds comfy.”

I wag a finger
at her. “Don’t start, Kristine.”

She wrinkles her
nose. “God, you know how I hate that name.” She takes a bite and smiles as she
chews, but I know her. I know how her mind works. She’s thinking about how
she’s going to tell me why I’m really here. “So, when I called you,” she says,
swallowing before taking another sip, “why’d you come back? I mean, if you
don’t remember anything, and since there’s no one left here...”

Guilt Trip #3.

“Except…” she
says, awkwardly.

“For you,” I
say, filling in the gap.

“For Ritchie,”
she suggests.

I go rigid.

“Hmmm.” She
smiles. “Touchy subject?”

“Sort of. We
haven’t spoken since I left either. Things didn’t really end well between us.”

“So, you
do
remember?”

“Enough.”

“Of what?”

I smile, but
there’s nothing funny about it. I do remember something. A number painted on an
aluminum bleacher. The kind you’d see in a stadium. The numbers are blue, the
paint worn, but there it is, just like a tattoo that won’t wash off. The number
44.

“You were best
friends,” she continues. “How do you just…do that to your best friend?”

“You were my
best friend, and I did it to you, didn’t I?”

She leans back,
wiping her mouth. “Yeah, I guess you did.”

I set my fork
down. “I’m sorry.” I look at her and realize I might be the world’s biggest turd
for leaving her all alone to fend for herself for the past twenty years. I’m
out of things to say. The waitress comes by, and yes, everything is fine, but
she tops off our nearly untouched glasses of water anyway.

“What am I doing
here?” I ask once we’re alone again. “You called me, asked me to fly halfway
across the country, and whether it’s guilt or amnesia or God knows what, here I
am.”

She gingerly
picks up her  and picks up her purse, which she places on her lap—under the
table and out of view—before leaning forward. “I found something.” Her voice is
barely a whisper.

“That’s what you
said on the phone.”

“Remember the
old Johnson farm?”

Suddenly my
steak has lost its appeal, quivering on my white plate in a pool of red blood
mixing with A1 sauce. Yes, I remember the old farm. I passed it on the way into
town, and I reflected on it then, but now that she’s bringing it up, I’m
wondering what it has to do with anything. “Sure,” I answer, and sure, I
remember. Sure, I remember that Ritchie and I used to shoot bottles out there
to kill lazy afternoons. Sometimes we’d even get lucky enough to have a rabbit
or squirrel serve as a moving target. And now that I think about it, sure, I
think…I think…

“Tony?”

Route 89. That
was the way out of town. Route 89 led all the way to the edge of the Earth and
beyond. You didn’t take Route 89 unless you never planned on coming back. To us
kids, the farm marked the final outpost, or as we called it, the point of no
return.

“I was over that
way the other day,” she says quietly.

“I passed it on
my way in,” I say, chewing again, but this lump of meat isn’t going anywhere.
“I was surprised to see it still standing.”

“That place
always gave me the creeps,” she says. “I remember as a kid thinking the Devil
lived there. Its peacefulness was like bait. It
lured
us in.”

“Then why’d you
stop?” I interrupt, washing the bit of meat down my throat with a gulp of
water. I keep my tone light, the conversation casual. Not that I feel either
light or casual. Everyone knows you don’t just wind up at the old Johnson Farm
and keep the conversation casual. Twenty years ago the driveway and yard was
littered with rotted boards and hundreds upon hundreds of broken bottles from
the numerous teenage excursions of tempted bravery bent on drunken dares. Even
if you’re wearing steel-toe boots, you don’t just wind up ‘over that way’
unless there’s a reason to.

“My car broke
down,” she says. “I had to walk back.”

“But your car’s
working fine today?”