“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?”