3. Peyton
peyton
. . .
M inus the heat and humidity, Chicago and Portland aren’t all that different. They’re both bustling, overcrowded metropolises. However, I love it here and one of my favorite things to do is go to the Saturday market along the waterfront. I’ve been able to buy so many amazing trinkets for our home, as well as fresh vegetables, fruit, and the most beautiful bouquets. Noah doesn’t always come down with me, which gives me an opportunity to really explore. He’s too well known, and people don’t hesitate to ask him for his autograph or to pose for a picture. Even if he wears a disguise, someone always figures it out. You would think, that after growing up with the band, I would be used to it. In some ways, I am. I expect the fans to recognize Noah, my dad, Liam, and Jimmy, but I don’t always like it.
This morning, I’m sitting in Pioneer Courthouse Square with a cup of coffee in my hand, watching as people rush to work. They come and go in droves, getting off the train and buses before disappearing into the skyscrapers surrounding me. The bricks that make up the square contain names of the community members who helped bring the project to life. The names below my feet, the ones I’m sitting on and the ones that surround me, make me wonder what their life was like, who they were and what they’ve become since the early 80s.
The bell from the nearby church rings out. I count each one, it’s nine and time for my dilly-dallying to end. If others have things to do, they’re not hurrying off. They’re lingering, enjoying the sun, and reveling in the beauty that is all around them. I want to stay, and probably would if there weren’t more pressing issues weighing on my mind.
A few blocks down, where the older buildings are, I push a heavy steel door open and climb a flight of narrow stairs. Inside, the room is warm, the sun beating through the windows. A few people look at me as I enter. I smile softly and choose one of the seats in the back. The advantage of sitting there is the fact that I’m close to the door and can make a quick escape if I feel like I can’t manage the meeting well. The disadvantage is that when I go to speak, everyone will turn and look at me. They do it out of respect, so they can hear your words and let them soak in.
“Good morning.” His name is Barry, he’s a grief counselor, and comes highly recommended. He sits on a stool, wearing corduroy pants and a tweed blazer. Very outdated, but very Portland. “I want to thank each of you for coming today. I know that sometimes you struggle with waking up, so the fact that you not only woke up but also got dressed and made your way here, speaks volumes about how your day is going to go. Would anyone care to start?”
Someone in front raises their hands. I careen my neck to see, but the people in front of me are taller, making me wish I had chosen a better seat.
“Last week, I lost my husband.” Her voice is soft, and I almost couldn’t hear her, but I did, and her words stab me in the heart. Noah… he’s always on my mind. My constant everything. I desperately want to be his wife, but fear he will be ostracized by his teammates, his coach, and the media. Players “know better” than to get married during the season or have children. Wives have been the butt end of jokes when they give birth between August and the end of January, saying we know better. And I do. I know that football is an old boys club, that it’s hard for women to break through the mold. I also know that I’m going to be damn good at whatever my job turns out being, but being Noah’s wife is also important to me. Maybe more so than a job.
“Twenty years, and he’s gone,” she concludes. I’m so lost in my head that I didn’t hear what else she had to say.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Barry says, and everyone else repeats him. “Anyone else?”
I raise my hand. I don’t know why, but I do. These people are strangers, and yet here I am, about to share my story with them. It’s cathartic. I tried once to get Kyle to come with me in Chicago, so he could understand why there are times when I need to distance myself from him, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t. I don’t remember the excuse.
“I’m Peyton,” I tell the group of about fifteen. “I died.” I let the heaviness of my word settle over the group. There are a few gasps, and of course, there’s always the one or two who don’t believe me. My mom is part of the latter or part of the ‘nonbelievers’ where she doesn’t want to believe her daughter died and came back. I’m not sure which is better, to be honest. “I was in a horrific accident a few winters ago. The car I was a passenger in was t-boned by a semi. The irony is that my father died after a similar accident.” I readjust the way I’m sitting and look at the back of the grayish brown metal chair, focusing on the little gold label. “Like I said, I died and came back, but haven’t felt right since.”
“Like a piece is missing?”
I look to my right. The woman at the end of the row is bent at her waist and looking at me. I smile and nod. “Yes, like something was left on the other side.”
“I feel the same way,” she mumbles.
“Peyton,” Barry says my name to get my attention. “I want to welcome you to the group and thank you for being here.”
“Thank you,” everyone says in unison.
“Death and dying are part of the unknown. If we could quantify what people experience, both good and bad, I believe we’d have an upheaval on our hands. Meaning people would experiment more to have the experiences of others, which is not necessarily a good thing.”
“It wasn’t fun,” I tell him. Except for seeing my father and knowing how badly I wanted to go with him. I’ve missed him growing up, but since my accident, he’s all I think about. I keep this tidbit to myself. Not even Noah knows because I don’t want him to think I’m going to do something to myself. I don’t want him to worry. “I was in a lot of pain. I’ve had a lot of surgeries, and the scars I bear remind me every day of how close I came to losing my life forever.”
“Three years ago, I lost my son to a drive-by.” My story is interrupted. I’m both grateful and slightly annoyed. What if I wasn’t finished? What if I had more to tell? What if… what if I wanted sympathy, for someone to tell me that everything is going to be okay, that it’ll all work out if I just… that’s just it, no one knows. Least of all me.
By the time the session is over, I’ve zoned out. The woman on the end, the one who knows what I’m going through is at the coffee station. I go there, with the intent to speak to her, but I can’t find the words. We stand side-by-side, stirring powdered creamer into our coffee with a wooden stick. I pick mine up and make eye contact with her. I smile and head for the door.
“Wait up,” I hear as soon as I hit the street. There are horns honking, people yelling and freight trucks making all sorts of racket, but I hear her. She walks toward me with coffee sloshing out of her cup. “I’m Frankie.”
“Peyton,” I say as we shake hands.
“Are you in a rush to get to work?”
“No,” I tell her. “I was just going to walk back to the square and sit before I go home. Sometimes after group, I need time to decompress.”
“Same, do you mind if I walk with you?”
I shake my head and start in the direction we need to go. Our bodies jostle with people rushing by us, making me wish I had a lid for my coffee. When we come to a food cart, I stop and order us two fresh cups. “Thanks,” she says.
We sit down, and I lift my face to the sun. As much as I love the summer, I love football and that means fall. I’m counting down the days until Noah starts practice. I want to be there, on the sidelines, for every game, which is another reason why I shouldn’t go to work. Noah tells me to make my own choice, to follow my path and not his. It’s been his family’s motto since he was reunited with his dad. Follow only your dreams . Noah will support me in whatever I decide. I know this. What I don’t know is, what my path is.
“I have cystic fibrosis,” Frankie says after a few minutes. “About two years ago, I got really sick. My parents had last rites done, funeral was planned, and somehow, I woke up. And, I didn’t want to.”
“Me neither,” I tell her. “I was five when my father died. He was there, waiting for me. All I had to do was take his hand.”
“And there would be no more pain.”
I nod. “But then I wouldn’t be here and right now I’m where I always dreamed of being.”
“Sitting on brick steps drinking coffee from a food truck?” She lifts her cup and laughs.
“No, engaged to the only man I’ve ever loved. Surrounded by an amazing family.”
“But they don’t understand,” she adds, and I agree with her. “I do, so if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”
“Me too,” I say. We sit for a few minutes, staring off. The both of us lost in our own thoughts. “Are you sick now?”
She shrugs. “I’m always on meds. I know when my lung function is dropping so I’ll check myself into the hospital. Usually stay about a week or two, depending on how fast I can kick the infection. There are new advances in medicine, helping prolong our lives, but they don’t work for everyone.”
“That’s too bad. Do you have a good support group?”
She shakes her head. “CFers aren’t supposed to hang out with each other because we can share bacteria. We cough a lot and covering our mouths doesn’t always work when another patient is around, so we try to keep our distance.”
“So, you really are alone?” She nods. “Wow, I’m sorry.”
“I’m used to it. The isolation that is. My parents, they try but their concern is my health and I hear, ‘did you take your meds’ way too many times a day. It would be nice if they just asked how my day was.”
“How’s your day, Frankie?” I ask.
She smiles. “So far, it’s been pretty good. Yours?”
“No complaints here.”
“What do you do for work, Peyton?”
“Nothing, yet. I recently graduated from Northwestern.”
“And you moved here?”
“My fiancé lives here, his job is here, it made sense to be here. Chicago was nice, it’s a lot like Portland in ways.”
“We have Voodoo Donuts,” she points out.
“Yes, there’s definitely that.”
Frankie and I chat for another hour or so before I tell her I need to head home. It was nice to speak to someone about life, even if Frankie is in a different place in life. Knowing someone understands how unsettled I feel sometimes helps.
Back at the apartment, I say hi to the bellhop as he holds the door for me and listen to the couple on the elevator talk animatedly about how excited they are to visit the City of Roses. In our apartment, music blares from one of the spare rooms. I don’t bother knocking on the door, and just open it because I know the sight behind it is better than making Noah stop, and I’m right. My soon-to-be-husband is shirtless and lifting weights. He installed a set of mirrors when he made himself a home gym and from where I stand, I can see the concentration on his face. And a smile, which is meant just for me.