Someone Else's Shadow, page 4
When my sense of smell catches a whiff of what I’m inhaling, my senses salivate while my mind, my once quiet mind, shakes its head and flips me off. Too tired to move, I surrender and stumble in the fragrance. I can deal with this shitstorm tomorrow because now, all I can smell…is the ocean.
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.
Like right now.
“What are you doing? Right now?” Lacey pauses mid-sip, looking around her like she’s been caught doing something wrong. I can’t help but laugh at her response. “If you’re free, maybe you could come into town with me? I could use the extra muscle.” The sagging door from my pantry decides to strengthen my claim when it takes its last breath and gives way, crashing to the ground.
We both yelp, then look at one another and burst into unconstrained cackles. Once she can breathe again, she nods. “It’s a date.”
Unable to contain my excitement, I bounce from the kitchen and into the bedroom to slip on a pair of sandals. Just as I’m about to leave, I take a moment to appreciate what Lacey just shared. Cayden and I have only shared a handful of words, but I can’t deny the overwhelming pull I feel toward him.
Even though tragedy taints our lives, we go on because that’s what living is all about. I decide to make more of an effort with him—not because I feel sorry for him, but because he’s the type of person I want in my life.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s incredibly easy on the eyes, but that’s beside the point.
Shaking away such thoughts, I grab my bag and am ready to face the big, bad world. Lacey waits by the front door with a pencil and paper in hand. When I arch a curious brow, she smirks. “Just writing down a few things we need.”
Standing on tippy-toes to peek at what she’s writing, I quip, “Are you sure there are enough pages in that notepad?”
“It’s a start,” she replies lightly with a shrug.
She bounds down the front steps, humming to a tune in her head as she taps her chin, looking at my nonexistent front garden. Once I’ve locked up, I stop beside her, wondering what she’s thinking. “How about some roses? I love roses,” she says, hand over heart.
I suddenly put two and two together. “You live in the amazing glass house with the beautiful rose bushes out front, don’t you?”
“Yup, that’s me.”
“I admired your home and your roses when I first arrived. Your home is extraordinary. So different from any others around here.”
Lacey looks like a proud mom, and I have no idea why. “Thank you. I love it. It’s my dream home. I have Cayden to thank for that.” The unconditional love she feels for her brother warms my heart.
“I think roses will look amazing. Add that to the list.” She yelps in excitement, penciling it on her notepad. Her happiness is contagious.
She leads the way to her home. I didn’t get to appreciate it in all its full glory yesterday, but now that I’m mere feet away, I shield the sun from my eyes and stop dead in my tracks.
The exterior is a dark woodgrain with large bay windows. The curtains are drawn back to let in the glorious sun. A balcony wraps around the upper level, providing Lacey and Cayden with views all around. Two glass doors sit dead center on the bottom level. I scan over the upper level, wondering which room belongs to Cayden.
This needs to stop. Now.
Quickening my step to catch up to Lacey, I give her my full attention when she stops beside her car. “I know she doesn’t look like much, but she’s yet to let me down,” she says, patting the roof of the rusted Volkswagen Beetle. In her heyday, she would have been a brilliant turquoise, but now she’s a faded, rusty blue.
To most, she’d be sold for scrap metal, but to me, she screams personality, and I love her. “She is beautiful,” I say in awe, running my hand over the metal. I can just imagine Stella’s disgust.
As I attempt to open the door, it sticks, and I almost fall backward. Lacey chuckles. “It only opens from the inside.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a good way not to get carjacked.”
Her laughter continues as she unlocks her door and jumps inside. Reaching across the middle console, she pulls on the door handle to grant me entry. The inside is just as impressive as the outside. Shaggy wool seat covers provide comfort for the front and back seats. A unicorn air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror. This entire car reflects Lacey’s personality—fun, well loved, and vibrant.
Once I’m belted in, Lacey starts the car with a splutter, and I bite back my smile. After three coughs, she starts, and we’re on our way. A pop song plays over the radio, setting a vivacious mood for the day ahead.
I take a moment to appreciate my surroundings because on the way down here, with Augusto behind the wheel and Stella bickering that he took the long way, all I could do was zone in and out, desperate to arrive. But now, with the wind in my hair, thanks to the windows being wound all the way down, I can fully admire my town.
The lake is never far from where we are, our gravitational nucleus drawing us back home if we ever stray.
Lacey isn’t exactly driving the speed limit, and I reach for the grab handle, always a little anxious when riding in a car. The night of my accident, a wintry blizzard folded over the horizon, and it was bedlam on the roads. Stella told me I was on my way home from a New Year’s party. The roads were slippery, slick with frost, and an oncoming car lost control and wiped me clear off the road. His blood alcohol was three times over the limit, thanks to the holidays—when it’s a continuous party and the good times roll. What a way to start the new year.
I spent five days in a coma, and it was touch-and-go. If life was fair, I’d be out celebrating the new year with friends and family and maybe even a boyfriend. But Stella said I only really had one of the three. No guessing which.
“Are you getting car sick?” Lacey’s concerned voice snaps me from my thoughts.
“No, why?” I ask, meeting her troubled stare.
“’Cause you look seconds away from throwing up.”
Sighing, I slip on my sunglasses, worried I’ve ruined the mood. “No, I’m okay. Just thinking.”
“About…?” she prompts me, and although I don’t want to be a stick in the mud, it might be nice to talk to someone who wants to listen. And not just because they’re waiting for their turn to talk, but rather because they’re genuinely interested in what I have to say.
“About the night of my accident,” I reveal, shifting in my seat, as this topic will always be a delicate one for me.
A shade of curiosity suddenly mutates into horror, and I almost get whiplash when Lacey slams on the brakes. “Oh, my God. I didn’t even think. I know these roads like the back of my hand, and I probably go a little faster than I should. I am so, so sorry, Peyton.”
I realize that all Lacey and I seem to do is apologize to one another. As much as I appreciate her compassion, I don’t want her to walk on eggshells around me. And I vow to do the same. “Let’s make a deal,” I offer, turning to look at Lacey, who is working her lip.
She nods, indicating she’s listening.
“Let’s stop saying sorry to one another and just accept the fact that I’m broken, and you’re a…” My mind draws a blank because Lacey is pretty darn perfect.
She thinks otherwise. “A nosy neighbor who means well?”
A laugh erupts from me. “Okay, that seems fair. So how about from now on, we ask one another whatever is on our minds and make no apologies for it. How’s that sound?”
Lacey taps her pointer against the steering wheel as if mulling over my suggestion. “All right. That’s what friends do, right?”
She’ll never know just how much I appreciate her choice of words. “Yes, that’s exactly what they do. So go ahead…ask me anything.”
Her head snaps my way before returning to the road. “Anything?”
“Yes, anything,” I confirm. Leaning my head back against the headrest, I relish in this new sense of freedom.
The car is silent as Lacey contemplates which question to ask. “You really don’t remember anything?”
I smile, thankful she’s taken my suggestion and dived into the deep end. “No, nothing really solid…”
“Why did you move here? I don’t mean to be nasty, but I could think of a million more exciting places to move to if I lost my memory and wanted to start fresh.”
She quickly bites down on her lips as if she’s overstepped a line, but she hasn’t. “I honestly don’t know. Yesterday, during my”—I search for the right word—“blackout, I thought I remembered something, but I don’t even know what I saw.”
“Has it happened before?”
I nod. “Yes. I have the same vision. It started not long after I woke up from my coma.” The car is silent, the background music and our pensive breathing filling the otherwise still air. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before. I know that sounds crazy—believe me, I know—but that lake, that towering oak with the swing, I’ve seen it before.” Goose bumps prick my skin, and I rub my arms to warm the chill.
Lacey swallows. Her sunglasses conceal what’s going on behind her eyes, but I can sense her intrigue. “Lots of lakes have oak trees with swings, Peyton. I’m not trying to play devil’s advocate, but what makes you so certain that this lake is the one you’ve seen?”
I know it sounds ridiculous, and she has every right to ask what she did, but her doubt only further cements my certainty. “Because I can clearly see the red ribbon in my flashbacks. You know the one. It’s tied to the rope. It’s so distinct.” Lacey’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, but other than that, she remains unmoving. “I don’t know what it means, but I just have a feeling it’s so important to uncovering all of this. I don’t suppose you know what it means? Has it always been there?”
I give her the time she needs to reply because I know it’s all a little confusing and weird. She inhales before shaking her head. “I haven’t thought much of it, to be honest. I always figured someone found the ribbon and tied it to the swing in hopes the owner would find it.”
I purse my lips because that’s a very valid reasoning. But why would I remember it? Surely, it has to mean something for me to remember it so vividly.
“Do you remember anything else?” she asks, her tone grave. She knows there’s more.
As much as I want to confess that I do, I shake my head. I need to wrap my brain around what I’m seeing before I confess to being a murderer because, deep down, that’s what I think I might be.
She seems relieved that there isn’t any more. “Well, I’m here to help. If I can help you remember in any way, then I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, Lacey. You’ll never know how much that means to me. How long have you lived here?” I ask. I know she all but said I don’t look familiar, but maybe she’ll know of someone who might.
“All my life,” she replies softly.
