by D. J. Palmer
“So why is it that childhood trauma doesn’t arrest that process for every victim of abuse in the same way?” It was a question that had bedeviled psychiatrists and psychologists alike, and Grace wanted Dr. McHugh’s take on it.
“Hard to say,” he replied. “I mean, why do people have different responses to trauma? There could be a biological or genetic link involved, an overactive fight-or-flight response—we just don’t know. What those in my profession mostly agree on is that children have different coping mechanisms, and in certain cases walls are built in the mind.”
“Walls so that the abuse feels like it is happening to somebody else?”
McHugh nodded. “We dropped the name ‘multiple personality disorder’ because people with the condition don’t have more than one personality. It’s more like they don’t have one whole personality, not yet anyway. Penny’s alters aren’t different people. They’re fragments of her whole self—think of them like personality traits but in a concentrated form.”
“Do you think integration is possible in Penny’s case?”
McHugh dipped his head. “If I can confirm the diagnosis, that would be the goal,” he said. “But it won’t be easy. Alters function as added layers of security.”
“I always worried that she’d been abused. Arthur, well, I guess he didn’t like to think about those things, didn’t want it to be true. In his mind, if he ignored it long enough, the problem would just go away.”
“So there were warning signs early on?”
Disappointment washed over Grace. “Looking back, you know how hindsight is—I guess you could say those signs were flashing neon, but we were all too in love with Penny to notice them.”
CHAPTER 13
AFTER WE FOUND YOU in the park, you were in the hospital for eleven days, and Mom went to see you every day you were there. Went right from work to Salem and spent the afternoon with you coloring, reading books, all that sort of stuff. Even though you got presents from strangers—stuffed animals, games, puzzles, you name it—she brought you a new toy at every visit. I have to say, Ryan and I were both a little jealous, but even though we were young, we still understood. After all, we had a mom and dad, and you had neither.
When the Department of Children and Families finally found out your real name was Isabella Boyd, you wouldn’t answer to it. I guess that name was full of bad memories for you. You told everyone to call you Penny, the name I proudly gave you, and it stuck. Nurses, doctors, social workers—everyone looking after you started to use that name, because we all wanted you to be happy.
I know DCF tried to place you with relatives, but Rachel’s parents were both dead, and your other relatives didn’t pass muster. No idea why. I called the agency to get more background as part of my film research, but as you can imagine, they have a strict confidentiality policy.
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!
Ryan might have devoured those doughnuts and the cake, but I think reality sank in for him that day. He hated sharing a bedroom with me, but what choice did he have? You were the girl and you got your privacy. I remember you had a look of pure delight when you saw your new bedroom for the first time.
Mom had spent a week getting it just right for you. She painted the walls a light shade of lavender, and in the center of the ceiling, she hung a mobile of winged horses circling a bright orange sun. In a corner of the room, where my Batman cave had been, she put a small desk, a perfect spot for doing arts and crafts. She found a colorful rug at a co
nsignment store, along with a perfectly sized bookshelf that I helped her paint a deep shade of purple. She filled the bookshelf with some of our favorite reads and some of hers, including one she loved as a girl, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes.
As she walked you around the house, she showed you all the rooms and various things, pictures on the walls and such, telling you who was who. She made it clear that Mom didn’t think of herself as a foster parent, but as your new mother, though the courts would have to make that official—and first, Dad would have to get on board.
The social worker we’d partnered with was there that day, same with your original foster parents, and there were friends, family, and neighbors, all there to welcome you to your new home. It had to have been a bit overwhelming, and nobody was surprised to see you behave like you had in the park that day—a reserved child, shy and demure, incapable of much eye contact.
But things changed when we were finally alone, when all the visitors had gone, leaving Dad to bemoan how much extra food there was, patting his belly as if anticipating its growth. We finally had a chance to play—you, Ryan, and me. I suggested hide-and-seek and your face lit up. I didn’t know you loved that game, but you jumped at the opportunity to be the one to hide, and I volunteered to be the first seeker.
I went to the kitchen because nobody was allowed to hide in there and started my count.
One … two … three … four …
Ryan wasn’t too hard to find. For whatever reason, he thought I’d never think to look between the couch and the wall. It was the fourth place I checked, and I found him curled up in a tight little ball. Then together we set out looking for you. We searched every room. Checked under every bed, every closet, every part of our house, from the basement to the attic, and we couldn’t find you anywhere. It was as if you’d gone.
Eventually I started to get nervous. Where could you be? Mom heard me calling your name, and the look on her face when I told her we couldn’t find you was like Shelley Duvall’s Wendy Torrance character confronting the horrors of the Overlook Hotel for the first time. Mom went to the front door, certain you’d gone outside. First day with us, and she’d lost you, or so she thought. Maybe you’d run into the street, or worse, maybe you’d been taken—that’s what had to be going through her mind. It for sure was going through mine.
We started calling your name, all three of us, because Dad had gone to the restaurant to help with closing.
“Penny! Penny, come out! Game over!” I remember shouting while we were outside, screaming your name to the winds, praying you had concealed yourself in a bush in a neighbor’s yard.
And then I heard you giggling from inside the house. Mom rushed to you and wrapped you in such a tight hug I thought she’d break a rib.
“Where were you?” I asked, and your smile grew ten times the size.
“I’ll show you,” you said proudly, and you marched us down to your room. You got on your knees and lifted up the bedskirt to your bed.
“I looked under the bed,” I told you.
“I wasn’t under,” you said to us. “I was in.”
You reached under the bed and pointed up. In the dark my eyes needed a moment to adjust, but I soon saw it. You had pushed the wood slats to your box spring apart and crawled up into that tiny dark space, where you must have laid yourself flat on the other slats. We had checked under the bed, but we never checked in it.
Mom was shocked. We all were. She got down on her knees to look, and asked you how you came up with such a clever hiding place.
You said in a voice that carried pride, and I’ll never forget: “I didn’t make it up here. I made it up in my other home, because I needed to have a good place to hide when it got really scary … a place where nobody, no matter how hard they looked, could find me.”
CHAPTER 14
GRACE RETURNED FROM EDGEWATER hours later than she’d planned, arriving at the restaurant in time to help Ryan with the dinner rush. She had much on her mind, much to discuss, but right now, it was all about making pies.
The familiar scent of yeast, flour, and tangy sauce worked as a hard reset. Even so, the implications of the day—Penny’s sudden and shocking appearance, the possibility someone else had been with her daughter at the time of the murder—weighed heavily on her.
As Grace walked into the kitchen, she gave the food prep stations a quick once-over, pleased to see everything in its proper place. Ryan, who’d grown up working alongside his dad, didn’t need any training to run the show. He was already an expert pizza maker and skilled restaurateur, able to step in and take the reins without missing a beat. It was a good thing, too. Grace had her hands full with Penny’s trial, and her sister-in-law, Annie, divorced for many years, was keen on moving to Florida and fishing year-round now that her kids were grown and gone.
Across from her, on the other side of the counter, a half a dozen or so patrons dined happily on perfectly prepared pizzas made to Ryan’s exacting standard. Before the murder and all of the negative media attention, that number would have been double.
Grace knew Ryan belonged in college, not working the ovens. To this day he wouldn’t explain what had triggered him to drop out of Northeastern shortly after Penny’s arrest. No one questioned that he could work at the restaurant—it was a family business, after all—but it was not something Arthur would have wanted for his son. He didn’t even want it for himself.
Arthur’s father, Francesco, had opened Francone’s Pizzeria in 1968 with a three-thousand-dollar bank loan and a dream of leaving a legacy behind. Years later, Arthur would rename the pizzeria Big Frank’s, in honor of his late father, and it continued to be a local favorite. After his death, Arthur’s sister Annie returned to the restaurant she’d left in her youth to help Grace keep the family tradition alive. Everywhere Grace looked she saw signs of her late husband’s legacy. Draped over the lattice that separated the wait staff station from the dining area was the flag Arthur’s father had brought home from Italy. The walls were decorated with pictures of Italy and the Francone family over the years. It was hard to believe how close they were to closing the doors forever.
It was in this very restaurant that Grace had met Arthur. She was in graduate school doing her student teaching and she’d come into Francone’s Pizzeria, as it was called back then, for a slice of cheese and a Diet Coke at least once a week. While it was love at first sight for Arthur, or so he’d later claim, for Grace it was a slower burn. Even so, Grace felt a “bump,” a little dip in her stomach, every time she saw him.
Grace’s parents had grown up on the low end of middle class, and hoped their daughter would partner with someone of greater means. But love is love, and they were quick to accept this pizza-slinging boyfriend as “the one.”
On the day of her wedding, Grace had worn a simple white dress and a crown made of wildflowers. She said her vows under the watchful eye of Jesus at the same church where Arthur’s parents had been married some thirty years before.
As far as Arthur was concerned, the pizzeria was merely a pit stop on the road to rock stardom. He played guitar (really, he played any instrument he could get his hands on) and wooed Grace with ridiculous pizza-making songs, which he layered with more double entendres than a deep dish had ingredients:
Baby, you make my dough rise
I’m the pizza pie to your oven
Melt all over you like I am made of cheese
You’re the only topping that I’ll ever need
Grace kept all of his guitars in their original cases in the basement, standing them up like suits on a rack. On occasion, she’d venture down there, and in a form of meditation and reflection, open the cases and sit on a foldout chair, admiring the instruments while hearing Arthur’s songs play in her head.
Since Arthur’s death, her friends, even Annie, had encouraged Grace to move on with her life, date again, find someone new. Oh, how she hated that phrase—move on. To move on meant to leave, to abandon Arthur’s love, his devotion to her an
d the children, wasn’t something Grace could simply walk away from. Arthur existed in her mind and in her heart in the present, not the past.
As if to put an exclamation mark on that sentiment, oftentimes Grace found herself speaking of him in the present tense.
Arthur loves this show. Arthur makes the dough like this. Arthur knows how to fix the refrigerator.
She owned a pizzeria now because of Arthur and because she’d lost him. He was present in Ryan’s blue eyes, there in Jack’s lanky build. She heard his laugh in things she knew Arthur would find funny, and saw his heart in Penny, whom he had welcomed into the family as warmly and with as much love and devotion as if she’d come to them via the delivery room.
So while Grace’s well-meaning family and friends were wrong with their choice of words, they were right in the sense that she needed to move forward with her life, and that Arthur could and would forever remain part of that journey. In many ways, Grace’s grief was like Penny’s disease—incurable. No treatment, not even time, could make it go away entirely.
Tying an apron around her waist, Grace approached Ryan at the central prep station and gave him a quick peck on the cheek, catching the annoyed look in his eyes. In his mind, family affection didn’t belong in the workplace. He wasn’t wrong, but Grace loved her boy, so he’d have to endure.
Ryan was a tall, strapping twenty-one-year-old with sandy brown hair and a handsome dimpled smile. He should have had a girlfriend, a life path, been on his way to becoming a lawyer as he’d planned, but instead he’d retreated into himself, grown sullen and distant—except while serving his customers, who were increasingly scarce.