Payton Hidden Away Read Free

stretches into the lonely
apartment, though it’s not like I’m feeling nostalgic. I haven’t been happy here
since I moved in, but now that I’m leaving, all those ‘things’ I spent so much
time picking out—the couch, the recliner, the TV, the bookcase, the end
table—they all look like an argument intended to keep me from changing my mind.
    Locking the door
behind me, I push the keys into my pocket, grab my rolling suitcase by the
plastic handle and make my way along the hall to the elevator.

Part IV
    I hate airports.
    The long lines,
the uncomfortable seats, the vending machines, the food wrapped in plastic, the
impatient people, the prices, the magazines, the carpeting, the escalators and
the robotic voice coming from the ceiling asking me over and over for my
attention please.
    I hate flying.
    The seats that
smell like a smoldering vacuum cleaner, the upright tray tables, the seatbacks,
the air vents recycling stuffy air, the SkyMall magazines, the in-flight
passenger announcements, the feeling like I’m going to puke the moment the
wheels leave the tarmac, the little bastard sitting behind me, the gorgeous
flight attendant that waits on the couple one seat ahead of me and the male
flight attendant who asks if I’d prefer soda or juice.
    I hate rental
cars.
    The pretentious
smile at the front desk, the paperwork that comes folded in a glossy pocketbook
with a picture of a family laughing on the front, and my bill tucked inside,
the new car smell that’s been baking all day under the hot sun, the controls
for the windshield wipers and blinkers which are on the wrong side of the
steering wheel, the radio and all of it’s digital choices, the air conditioning
and it’s—
    Actually, the
car is pretty nice. I’m just grumpy.

Part V
    Kristine Lambert. She had a
middle name, but I’ll be damned if I remember what it is. I probably wouldn’t
have remembered her last name if she hadn’t told me. It’s odd, but the
harder I try to remember my past, the fuzzier it all feels. I’ve heard of
things like memory repression and amnesia, but I never really believed in it.
Not until now.
    It’s eighty
miles from the airport to Payton County—an hour and some change by car—so I
have plenty of time to get frustrated while trying to remember the
inconsequential details of my childhood. It’s still hard to wrap my head around
the idea that just this morning I woke up in Atlanta, and only a few hours
later I’m in Michigan driving toward a place I call ‘home.’ It doesn’t sound
like home, but maybe that’s okay. Atlanta doesn’t feel like home either. 
    “Kristine
Lambert,” I say aloud. “Kristine Lambert. Kristie.”
    She’s a skeleton
in my closet. Kind of like my ex-wife. They’re both chapters in my life that
have ended. The difference between the two is I don’t remember why I left
Kristie. I remember with great clarity the reasons why I left my marriage. I
remember how Heather and I fought, I remember how nothing I did was what ever
good enough, I remember how our inability to conceive was my fault, how the
miscarriage was also somehow my fault, and I remember feeling free the day our
divorce was finalized.
    Thump-thump,
thump-thump.
    One thing I do remember is Michigan highways. Cracks in the pavement beneath the tires will
sing you to sleep until potholes jar you awake again. The slogan “Pure
Michigan” does not apply to its roads.
    Thump-thump,
thump-thump.
    The radio offers
no relief. There’s nothing but country or Christian music out here. I try
scanning the dial but find nothing to my liking, so I switch the radio off and
return my concentration to the road that seems to stretch into forever.
    Exit 110 is
coming up fast. I’m exhausted, and I almost disregard the sign entirely when
something at the back of my mind triggers a memory. None of the landscape looks
familiar, but there’s something about that sign...
    Exit 110
    Route 89
    1/4 Mile
    Route 89 was the
fastest way out of