Chapter 9 - The Long Road to Recovery
Healing didn't happen overnight. It came in slow, quiet increments over the course of a year.
Clara Jenkins returned to Seattle with her parents. She began attending a specialized school for expressive arts, using oil painting to work through the dark memories of her years in captivity. Her paintings, which began as dark, black-and-grey abstracts, slowly filled with vibrant greens, yellows, and warm ocean blues.
Toby—now legally restored as Ethan Ross—moved into a charming sunlit home with his mother, Laura, near Portland’s Mount Tabor Park.
Every Thursday afternoon at 4:00 p.m., after my shift ended, I drove my personal pickup truck over to Laura’s house.
In the beginning, Toby struggled with loud noises, closed doors, and dark rooms. He couldn't sleep unless a hall light was left on and his bedroom door was propped open with a heavy wooden wedge.
On a crisp October afternoon, fourteen months after the day I first met him at the flagpole, I walked up the driveway to find Toby sitting on the front porch steps, holding a brand-new soccer ball.
"Hey, pal," I said, sitting down beside him on the steps.
"Hi, Officer Jim," he said, handing me the ball. "Mom bought me new shoes today."
I looked down at his feet. He was wearing bright blue soccer cleats. They fit him perfectly—no tight toes, no worn soles.
"Those are sharp," I said, smiling. "You ready for tryouts on Saturday?"
"Yeah," Toby said, looking out at the colorful autumn leaves falling onto the lawn. "Coach said I'm fast."
Laura walked out onto the porch carrying two glasses of apple cider, handing one to me and one to Toby. She looked healthier, younger, the deep dark circles under her eyes replaced by a bright, peaceful radiance.
"He’s been practicing his kicks in the backyard for two hours," Laura smiled, running her hand gently through Toby’s thick brown hair, which had grown out into a neat, handsome style.
"He’s going to do great," I said, taking a sip of cider.
Toby looked up at me, his eyes clear and full of life. "Officer Jim?"
"Yeah, Ethan?"
"Do you remember the promise you made me at my old house?" he asked softly.
"I remember every word," I said.
May you like
"You kept it," Toby whispered, leaning his head against my arm. "Nobody ever made me go back."
I put my arm around his small shoulders, pulling him close as the cool Portland breeze rustled through the trees. "And nobody ever will, kiddo. Nobody ever will."
