Chapter 13 - The Return to Elm Street
Returning home to our ordinary suburban lives was surreal. The physical world was unchanged, but the emotional landscape had undergone a total metamorphosis.
On Tuesday, Jason and I drove over to Richard’s house on Elm Street. The darkness that had shrouded the bungalow on the night of the barbecue was gone. The front curtains were pulled wide, letting in streams of golden afternoon sunlight.
Together, the three of us walked into the garage.
The bulletin board that had caused so much terror just a week prior still hung on the wall. But this time, there was no fear, no suspicion, and no police reports.
Richard stood before the board with a heavy cardboard box at his feet. With deliberate, reverent hands, he began unclipping the old newspaper articles about the Route 9 crash. He removed the clandestine surveillance photos of Jason, folding them gently and placing them into the box.
"You don't have to throw them away, Richard," Jason said softly, standing at his side.
"I’m not throwing away her memory, Jason," Richard replied with a serene, peaceful smile. "I’m putting away the pain. I don't need clippings of a car wreck to remember my daughter. Her legacy isn't how she died. Her legacy is that you are standing here beside me."
When the board was completely cleared, only a single, framed photograph remained on the workbench: the portrait of Emily in her graduation gown, smiling her radiant, dimpled smile.
Jason reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver pendant on a delicate chain. It was a medal of St. Jude—the patron saint of hope and lost causes—that Arthur and I had given Jason on the day he was discharged from the cardiac ward nine years ago.
Jason gently draped the silver chain over the corner of Emily's picture frame.
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"To Emily," Jason said, his voice ringing clear and steady in the quiet garage. "Thank you for the life you gave me."
Richard closed his eyes, a single tear tracing down his smiling cheek. "To Emily," he echoed.
