Chapter 17: December 19, 1975

Rich throws the car keys in the dish and announces us before I set my pack in the guest room. The girls are home tonight, and they’ve rightfully reclaimed their territory.

When I step back into the living room, I see a boy, probably my age, carefully stepping down the ladder from the attic. I step back to give him space, but he still jerks when he looks up and sees me.

I suspect his thoughts overrode reality. I know the feeling.

“Why were you in the attic?” I ask with genuine curiosity.

“That’s where my room is.”

Rich smiles at us. “You two haven’t met yet. Deere, this is Pete; Pete, this is Deere. Pete just arrived; he stays with us during his school breaks.”

“Why?” I ask, again without malice.

“Because we like having him here,” Simone interjects. “Your room is okay, Pete?”

“Yeah, it’s cozy.” He sighs, content. “Feels like home.”

Rich playfully tousles Pete’s shaggy, blond hair. “Welcome home, buddy.” He looks from Pete to me. “I’m sure you’re both hungry; we’ll eat dinner shortly. Marc is joining us too.”

Simone chuckles. “It’s going to be a full house.”

Rich grins and claps his hands. “Just the way I like it!”

He begins walking toward the kitchen, and Pete sheepishly trudges after him. “Rich,” he mumbles quietly.

Rich crouches and places his hand on Pete’s shoulder, providing his full attention. “What is it, son?”

Pete looks down, fidgeting with a maroon and apricot woven bracelet on his right wrist. “I haven’t seen her,” he mumbles, “since I was here last time. Sorry.”

Rich’s expression falls, and I can almost hear his heart crack, but he recovers quickly, and he’s holding a steady smile by the time he places his index finger under Pete’s chin. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he reassures softly. “That’s not your responsibility, understand?”

Pete nods.

“This will always be your sanctuary. No matter what.”

To my surprise, Pete throws his arms around Rich, and Rich holds him in a tight hug. For the first time, I notice the bruises on Pete’s left arm. They look like the grab marks the social worker left on me after she wrenched me away from my sister.

Rich squeezes Pete, then rubs his back. “You’re safe here, son. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Pete nods into Rich’s shoulder then releases him.

I look away, worried Pete will feel embarrassed that I witnessed that moment, but instead he simply asks, “Wanna see my room?” His voice is easy, casual, as if what just happened is completely normal.

Maybe it is. It should be.

I carefully climb after him, and I can’t believe what I see. The left side of the room looks like an attic; there are piles of boxes, storage containers, and two massive trunks covering the floor. However, the right side could be a stage set. An odd sofa, which I’ve heard called a “chaise lounge,” sits a few feet from the window, a throw pillow and blanket carefully arranged on it. Next to it is a wood and marble nightstand topped with a silver reading lamp. A matching chest of drawers stands next to a floor lamp, and a crocheted spiral rug ties the room together.

“Cozy” indeed.

“Where’s your bed?”

He points to a loft protruding from the dormer window. It is only wide enough to fit the twin mattress.

“They built it for me,” he confirms, reading my thoughts.

“I bet it’s beautiful at night,” I comment, beginning to amble through the space.

“It is. Come back tonight, and I’ll show you. There was a full moon last night, so it’ll be magical.”

“Thanks. I will.” I touch the nightstand’s cold marble. “How long have you stayed with Rich during school breaks?

“My entire life. I’m here every summer, all summer. Last year, I started coming on winter break too.”

“Your whole life? How do you know Rich and Simone?”

“He and my mom were best friends.”

“‘Were’?” I ask before catching my insensitivity.

He rubs the back of his neck. “She died this summer.”

“Oh,” I whisper, looking down. “I’m sorry,” I add, unsure what to say.

“Not your fault,” he says as he shrugs, but he stares out the window with his back to me, and I know I unearthed something that was none of my business.

“Guys,” I hear Rich call, “Marc’s here, and dinner’s ready. C’mon down.”

Without speaking, we climb down the steps and return to the living room–where time doesn’t stand quite as still.

When the girls emerge from their room, they run to Pete. “Petey!” Eva squeals as she practically barrels into him.

He bends down and hugs them simultaneously. “Hi, girls.”

“We missed you!” Eva yells. “Where were you?”

“I was at my house.”

“Well,” Naomi chimes, “we think you should live here.”

He smiles warmly as he pulls away. “I missed you two so much!”

Throughout dinner, the twins ask Pete every question they can think of, and he patiently answers each one. The rest of us, especially Rich, listen intently.

When we finish dinner, Simone reads the girls to sleep while the rest of us clean the kitchen.

Pete disappears to take a shower, and Marc asks me for my letter. I run into the guest room, my socked feet silent as I slide against the hardwood. I open the top drawer of the wooden desk and grab the letter of seven pages–front and back.

When I return to the living room, Rich helps me place the letter, four drawings, and two dozen photographs into a large envelope. We seal it with tape, and I hand it to Marc.

I want to tell him that it’s important. I want to make him promise to bring me one from my parents. I want to tell him how grateful I am that he’s doing this.

But my throat is a sticky web catching my words He smiles when he takes the envelope. “I know,” he says gently.

I smile and nod, and I hope that conveys everything I can’t say.

Rich hugs Marc as he leaves. “Safe travels, man.”

“I’ll be back in ten days. Hopefully by then, we’ll know more.”

“Give my best to your family.”

“Thanks. I will.”

When Pete emerges, wearing a t-shirt and baggy shorts, I suck in a breath. Bruises of different colors and sizes cover his arms and the backs of his calves.

Pete and Rich lock eyes. Rich scans Pete and takes a deep breath, but Pete simply shrugs. Then, he gestures to me with his head, and I follow him into the attic.

Pete turns off the lights and lamps, and I can finally see the stars. “Not bad for San Diego, huh?” he asks.

“Not bad… I’ve missed the stars. At home, starlight and moonlight flood our land. Here, you can barely see either.”

Pete climbs into the ledge with his bed, and pats the space beside him. “This is the best seat.”

I follow and sit next to him, staring out the dormer window. There really is magic here. I hope to see a shooting star; maybe it will grant my wish.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “I sleep better in this bed, under this window, than I do anywhere else in the world.”

“Why?”

He continues to stare out the window. “Tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

So I do. I skirt the details, but I tell him about being taken away, about being separated from my sister, and about the Russells. I glance at him a few times, but his stare stays steady out the window, his arms wrapped loosely around his knees. Despite his lack of acknowledgement, I know he’s paying attention.

When I finish, he simply nods, then climbs down from the loft. From the top drawer of his dresser, he pulls a worn Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH paperback. He opens it and removes a folded piece of white paper, which he hands me when he returns to sitting beside me.

I unfold it and read it slowly while he looks out the window.

**

April 10, 1975

Rich, I can’t avoid this letter any longer. I am becoming weaker every day, and I suspect I will be gone within the next month. Before I go, I want to do everything I can to protect Pete, and I hope that writing this letter does that.

I give my express permission for you to continue to host Pete every summer. If there was a way for you and Simone to adopt him, I’d consent to that, too (but I know Peter would never agree). Promise me that you will continue to care for him after I’m gone.

I don’t know what will happen to him after I die. I don’t know how Peter will react or how he’ll treat Pete. Sometimes I worry that I am the one stabilizing force in Peter’s life, and I’m glad that I could be that for as long as I was. I fear that God taking me is crueler to those around me than it is to me.

Pete needs a man who can show him what it means to be one: respectful, kind, generous, and honest. You’re that role model, Rich. You’ll have to pack a year’s worth of life lessons into a summer, every summer. He needs to see that there is good in the world and know that he should be on the side of the angels (and the rebels). He’s at a delicate age, and I can see his moral compass beginning to solidify. I can only pray that he becomes the man that I want him to be, that I know he can be.

I had to stop inviting Ra'Shelle over a couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry, but I’m simply too weak to host people anymore. I worry her home life is deteriorating, and I hate that I won’t be here to provide a buffer. Maybe Florence will pull it together and become the happy, responsible woman we all remember.

Ra’Shelle is a bright, articulate girl. She reminds me a lot of you, actually. I know you thought you’d need to wait until she was thirteen, but I think you could persuade a judge when she’s eleven. Just a few more years and she can be yours again. Hang in there.

Give my love to Simone, and to Eva and Naomi, too.

One more time, to be clear: Richard and Simone Dawson have permission to care for and support Peter Lassio, Jr. in any way they see fit. If Peter Lassio, Sr. dies, it is my express wish that Richard and Simone become Pete’s legal guardians.

With indescribable gratitude and infinite love, Debbie Lassio **

I refold the paper, but Pete doesn’t take it from me. Instead, he says flatly, “She died fifty-two days later.”

He finally turns to me, and I see the tears in his eyes as he takes the paper.

“No one knows I have this,” he whispers.

I nod in understanding. There’s a quiet space before I ask, “Ra’Shelle is Rich’s other daughter?”

He fidgets with the woven bracelet again. “Yeah, and she’s amazing.” He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “She should be here with us.”

We wrap our arms around our legs, each holding our left wrist with our right hand. Our elbows touch, but neither of us pull away, and I wonder if he’s feeling what I’m feeling.

We hear the creak of the bottom ladder step, and Pete quickly hides the folded letter under his mattress.

Rich emerges with a carefully balanced tray containing three mugs of hot chocolate and a bottle of aloe vera. We climb down, and the three of us sit on the sofa and look out the giant window. Pete slathers the gel on his arms and legs before we sip our hot drinks, but Rich sets his mug on the floor and stretches his arms behind us.

“You’re my two favorite guys.” He looks at Pete for several seconds, then turns to me before returning his gaze to the window. “You both deserve good things. I hope you know that. I hope that you ask for what you need, and I hope that you achieve what you want. I hope that you find a way to be happy, your own way, following your heart, your path. I hope you’re able to do everything you want to do, see all the things you want to see, and appreciate those experiences. I hope you’re able to love and accept love. I hope you stay true to yourselves, and that you’re never ashamed to be who you are. I hope you’re happy.”

He looks at each of us again. “You’re safe here, with Simone and me, and we’ll do everything we can to protect you.”

Pete’s shoulders drop, and he tilts to rest his head on Rich’s shoulder. Seeing this, I can’t help but do the same.

Rich wraps his arms around us and sings in a deep, comforting voice, “Sometimes in our lives, we all lose faith, we all have sorrow, but if we are wise, we know that there’s always tomorrow.”

He gently brushes back our hair. “I have faith that everything will work out, and you two will lead extraordinary lives.”