“The purpose of this Healing Project is just that, to start you on a new road,” Julie said. “But even more, it lets you do some real good for your victim’s family.” As we spoke, I noticed a door to the room open and close quickly. A small, attractive woman, maybe in her late sixties, poked her head in for an instant. The look on her face as she took in the scene was as if she were watching a knife fight. This is his mother, I thought. I wished I could sit alone with her and talk about all of this.
Roman’s proposal for renewal was that, as a drug counselor, he would pledge part of his salary to an education fund for the children of the young woman he had killed. Merry Betancourt would help him set up the fund, which would start with an initial grant from The Healing Project until he finished his training as a counselor.
He read his letter to us:
“If I were you, I would probably throw this letter out. I would be thinking, he got away with murder and now he wants to say he’s sorry? I can’t change the past. I have no right to think of the future. But I have to find a way to go on, for the sake of my wife and child. My son is innocent. I have to consider his future and the future of Rowena and Rosalind Wild. I had a great life, great job, great wife, great parents. I threw it all away. I liked to drink. I loved to drink. A little relaxation but then hours of being a buffoon, staggering all over. I always thought I was fine to drive. A lot of drunks think this and they are never fine to drive. But I was such a fool that I kept it up. It took ninety seconds. It took ninety seconds to wipe out a family’s dream. I got ninety seconds in court to apologize. I got six years to repent. Okay. Wise people say that forgiveness means giving up all hope of a better past. I can’t repair the damage I did. I was drunk when I hit Maggie Slaney and Jessamyn Slaney Wild with my car. I took away Maggie Slaney’s only child and I took away Rowena and Rosalind Wild’s mother. This is my remorse, expressed in writing. Here is my renewal. I pledge to contribute to the education of Rowena and Rosalind from every paycheck I earn until they are eighteen years old, because this is what their mother would have done for them. I can’t bring her back, but at least I can offer this. It is up to you if you want to accept it.”
Afterward we shook hands with Roman, then with Trina and Joey and said our goodbyes. Wondering where all this emotion was coming from, I turned back and gave Roman a hard hug—from Stefan. He stood and watched as we drove away.
“Those are some serious dogs,” Julie said in the car.
“People who have dogs are happier,” I reminded her.
“Then they must be very happy.”
My phone abruptly pinged, a few times in sequence.
How did it go? Stefan wanted to know. Tell me how Roman is. Did you see the dogs? And five seconds later, before I could answer, Are you done yet? Is it going to work out?
But just after Stefan’s were two other text messages from a number I didn’t recognize.
Will you still talk to me?
And then.
I don’t blame you if you never answer this.
I answered her before I answered my son. Why? She was the shell around something I sensed I needed to know.
I texted her, I will still talk to you. I promise. Just not right now. Give me a couple of days.
Stefan was literally standing in the doorway when I got home. I told him everything, even about exchanging glances with Roman’s silent mother. Then I called Maggie Slaney, who had been alerted previously about the mission of The Healing Project and about Roman’s offer, and, thanking the universe for answering machines, left a message proposing a time for our visit, asking her to call back if it was inconvenient.
I hoped she would change her mind. I hoped she would say, just leave a letter in the mailbox. But no call came.
The next morning, Julie brought me coffee.
“I hope this goes as well as it can go,” Julie said.
We both knew this would be harder. How much harder, neither of us had any idea.
* * *
The big farmhouse where Maggie Slaney was raising her two granddaughters on her own was just a few miles outside Madison. Spontaneous raw “neighborhoods” sprouting crops of one-acre mansions shared the countryside with traditional family farms. I had all but ordered Julie to go with me. I knew this encounter would not be the same kind of lovefest that transpired for Rebecca. Still, we had high hopes.
When we knocked, a woman opened the door unnervingly quickly, but then made no move to admit us. “I am Thea Demetriou and this is Julie Bishop.” I held out my driver’s license and a page of The Healing Project letterhead. “I called yesterday. We’re from The…”