Ryan templed his hands together in a prayer position. You reached across the table to cup your hands over his. You locked eyes with him and said in an assured voice that didn’t belong to the Penny I knew, “Ryan, you’re my brother. I forgive you.”
Our mom placed her hands over yours and Ryan’s. Then she turned her attention to me, but my hands were interlaced on the table, defiant. Mom said nothing, because she knew these decisions had to come from within.
Several moments passed in stillness, until eventually my hands unclasped like a flower coming into bloom. I placed my hand on top of Mom’s. And this will be the final shot of my film. Mom looking into the faces of her children, the many faces of them, seeing in each flickers of hurt, joy, anger, sadness, regrets—a plethora of emotions, moods, and attitudes that are merely projections of one self, one person, one family.
“Better together,” Mom said, reciting Dad’s favorite saying.
And we all responded, “Better together,” as though it were a sacred mantra.
EPILOGUE
HOPE STARTS HERE.
Someone had etched Clean Start’s inspirational motto in gold lettering on a black plaque, displayed prominently next to the front entrance of the rehab facility where Adam and dozens of other opioid addicts lived. Located in a leafy part of Massachusetts, where the only distractions were the rose gardens and walking paths, Clean Start featured beautifully manicured lawns with lush greenery and gorgeous landscaping designed to evoke a sense of calm.
Unlike Edgewater, the single-story main structure had plenty of windows to let in lots of natural sunlight, and the red clapboard siding gave the building the appearance of a rambling farmhouse. Mitch sat alone in the airy, nicely appointed reception room waiting for Adam to arrive. It was Caitlyn’s idea that Mitch and Adam have some alone time, a little father/son bonding, to see if he could be more successful than she’d been at assuaging his fears. With his release day only a week away, Adam was getting quite nervous about his future.
Mitch had rehearsed his speech on the forty-minute drive to the facility, but when Adam appeared from around a corner, he lost his words. Instead, Mitch focused on how strikingly handsome and healthy his son looked. Adam was blessed with a dimpled chin, now covered with a dotting of scruff, and prominent eyebrows. His rugged face no longer bore the gauntness typical of addicts who prefer drugs to food. During his stay at Clean Start, Adam’s tousled dark hair had grown to a moppish length, but his sunken eyes held the same haunted, fearful look that would have made him fit right in wandering the corridors of Edgewater.
Mitch knew the many pitfalls awaiting Adam out in the real world—joblessness, lack of purpose, a sense that he was doing time in life and there had to be a way to pass it more pleasurably. And there was a way, of course—a little pill he could take, or a shot in the arm, anything to make it all seem better if only for a while, until the world crumbled in on him again or he exited this existence entirely.
Mitch and Adam shared a hug to go along with their hellos, but conversation was limited to superficial observations: you look well, so do you, a recap of the drive, that sort of thing. They made their way to the dining hall, which had the ambience of an upscale Denny’s, and got their food at the salad bar. Mitch found a table for two in the back of the room where they’d have plenty of privacy. Now, he just needed the right words to say.
“Read the Globe article about you,” Adam said as he buttered some bread.
Mitch gave a slight chuckle. “Oh, yeah … I haven’t seen it. Heard it’s a long one though.”
“You’re a celebrity now, Pop,” said Adam. “They even printed the drawing she made … the one you helped her make, in color, too.”
“I didn’t realize that,” said Mitch. “I’d given the drawing back to Penny. I guess she gave her permission to print it.”
“It’s cool that all the triggers that caused Penny to remember what Isabella Boyd knew … the anchor pendant, the running bathwater, the book of ships, the ammonia, even the rope that Navarro guy used on her, were all in that drawing,” he said. “Pretty wild stuff. The article said Penny’s legally changing her name to Olivia Francone, dropping the Isabella even. Did you know that?”
Mitch might not have read the report in The Boston Globe, but he knew that detail. Grace had called to say hello, check in, and in the course of conversation she’d shared the news. It made sense to Mitch that Penny, as he thought of her, would want to give her alters a place to go, a blank canvas, a fresh start.