With nobody else to claim you, you entered the foster care system. After getting Dad on board, Mom put in a request with DCF to take you home with us. I think she told them of her intention to adopt you before she told Dad. Not like Dad didn’t want you, but Mom knew he’d be more cautious and resistant by nature. The special circumstances of your case allowed some processes to get sidestepped, some norms to be ignored, and DCF granted Mom’s request to have you come live with us—on the condition that Mom and Dad complete the state-mandated procedures to become foster parents. Until those requirements were met you had to reside elsewhere, so a temporary foster family was arranged.
I saw Mom sizing up Ryan’s room, imagining how she’d fit my bed, my clothes, and my toys in there so she could give you a room to yourself. I think she had the paint colors picked out even before she started filling out those forms for the foster parent application.
When you left the hospital, Mom couldn’t visit you every day. You had a place to live and a nice older couple looking after you. DCF felt that it would be fine for Mom to see you twice weekly, but not daily as it had been. The limit was for your benefit—they said it would help you adjust to your new situation and hopefully, if all went well, it would only be temporary.
Mom was obviously sad. I heard her cry a couple times, and it freaked me out a bit. I’d come to this realization that the person I counted on most to keep me safe was actually a human being with real feelings—she wasn’t a superwoman, she was vulnerable—which meant I was vulnerable, too.
The whole fostering process, with its training requirements, background checks, home visits with social workers and whatnot, took three months instead of the usual five to six. I’m sure Mom had a hand in speeding up that effort. You know how she gets when she has her mind set on something. Google “tenacious,” and you’ll get a picture of Grace Francone.
I mean, who else but Mom could have taken over for Dad when he died? Even Aunt Anne, who inherited part of the restaurant from Grandpa when he passed away, was happy to help out in the kitchen—but she didn’t want to run Big Frank’s. It’s a lot of work, more than people realize, to make a place like that go. But Mom knew she could make more money slinging pies than delivering interactive learning programs, so she gave up her teaching job—which she loved, really loved with all her heart—to do what had to be done for the family.
That’s who your mother is, Penny, tenacious as can be. And you were tenacious too, in a way. You weren’t going to let your trauma destroy you. We praised your strength and resilience. You were just a little girl, but you were so brave. Looking back, your speedy, seamless adjustment to your new life should have been a massive warning sign to us all.
You didn’t pine for your mother, didn’t cry yourself to sleep at night—you didn’t even ask about Rachel. You accepted without complaint what you were told: that your mother could no longer care for you, and that if all went well you were going to eventually come live with us. Social workers and therapists assumed that as the trauma lessened over time, you’d experience the expected feelings of loss and sorrow.
You never did, though. Why? I guess either Rachel hurt you more than anybody knew, or you were completely lacking in emotion—a character trait found in most psychopaths.
The day we brought you home to live with us was one I’ll never forget. We were all so excited. Even Ryan. It was the year I turned seven, so I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the frenetic energy in the days leading up to your arrival. Dad had gone from nervous to eager, though he was still a bit more reserved than Mom, who I remember being downright giddy with anticipation.
It was a marvelous homecoming. I know I was only a kid, but some memories have a way of sticking. There were balloons and streamers galore, fresh flowers everywhere, Our little home in Swampscott looked like it was a float in the Macy’s parade. Dad, Ryan, and me spent the whole morning cleaning, vacuuming, doing the bathrooms, straightening every pillow, as if the queen herself were coming to visit. And in a way, she was—you were the queen of that day. And me? Well, I was as excited as I’d be on Christmas morning.
Dad went all out, cooking up a feast in the Italian version of Eat Drink Man Woman. There were savory antipasto platters, every kind of pizza you could imagine, meatballs, and lasagna. For dessert he made bombolone, a light and fluffy fried doughnut filled with raspberry mascarpone. The house smelled of great food for a week. On the kitchen table was a vanilla-frosted cake with your name written on it, and below that, in swirly blue frosted lettering, Dad himself wrote: Welcome Home!