Page 72 of The Broken Places

She grasped his hand, hot tears leaking down her cheeks. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you again,” she said.

“I’m not gone for good. But you still have a lot to do here. Use your gifts. Go live, Picasso.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

She stepped forward, through the mist, putting one foot in front of the other, her hand held tight to the Saint Bernard’s collar. The mist grew thicker, swirling, the light and numbers dissolving into it as it, too, faded. Outlines formed, and she became aware of soft sounds. Whispered voices drawing closer. She felt something beneath her. A soft chair. She felt so sleepy, but also somehow wide awake. There was this deep feeling of ... joy flowing through her. Her heart was sofull. She squeezed her fist. She was no longer holding the collar. That was okay. She wasn’t alone.

She felt softness on her cheek, brushing her tears away, and raised her heavy lids. Ambrose. He was right there, peering at her, his expression worried but also hopeful. His gaze went to her lips, and then hesmiled, returning what must be her own expression. She swallowed, trying to find her voice. “Hi,” he said. His voice was gentle, so gentle.

Those soulful eyes. She’d gotten lost in those eyes the moment she’d met him. Some part of her had recognized them. Perhaps it wasn’t only his soul she’d seen, but also her own mirrored there. She lifted her hand and brought it to her stomach, where she knew the tiny flicker of a brand-new heart beat beneath her skin. A son she’d met for an instant, a baby boy who had his father’s eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Lennon sipped at her cup of coffee as she gazed out the window of Ambrose’s hotel room. It was a plain room even by economy-hotel standards, but to Lennon, even that looked inviting and ... safe. Yes, it was just a room, but it was comfortable and secure, and she felt gratitude for the fact that Ambrose had invited her here to recover from the experience she’d gone through, the one she was still processing. But though she was still allowing the time she’d spent in the belly of her trauma, so to speak, to settle in, she felt deeply changed by it. It’d been life altering, empowering. And she’d come away with a peace and an ... understanding that shefeltbut still couldn’t quite explain. Maybe she’d never be able to. Or perhaps that would take time.

The most shocking thing was that Lennon had only been in Dr. Sweeton’s chair for five hours. Five hours that had seemed like a lifetime. Others completed seven days, or even two. But the doctor had determined that she needed far less than that. It wasn’t necessary to bring her to the scene of an event that had lasted months, or years, as was the case with abused children or many soldiers suffering from PTSD. And it definitely hadn’t been necessary to take Lennon all the way to her base and build her attachment centers and central nervous system back up again. “You formed bonds,” he’d said. “You learned to love and trust. We don’t need to rewire you.” He’d said it with a smile, but it hadcaused Lennon’s heart to speed, proved by the quickened beeping from the heart monitor connected to her chest.

Ambrose had glanced at it and squeezed her hand, and her heart had slowed, certainty replacing her momentary fear. It said quite a bit about her trust in Ambrose, she knew, who had agreed to be by her side, along with two women she’d met who had also gone through the process. Even so, Lennon had wanted a video recorded on her phone, and once that had been set up, she’d signed consent forms, and then she’d willingly taken the cocktail of hallucinogens and sedatives.

She took in a big cleansing pull of air and then sipped some of the hot coffee, the mug warming the palms of her hands and sending another trickle of gratitude through her body. The rain outside drummed on the pavement, streaking the glass, and everything was just so clear and beautiful. She felt more herself than she ever had, this wondrous, shimmering hope making everything brighter. The only thing she could compare it to was when she’d been a child watching a bubble grow and grow on a wand her mother held. Such wonder had filled her as rainbows appeared in the shifting translucence, her mother laughing as it detached from the wand and floated up into the sky.

Lennon had the mind of an adult now, not a child. But the treatment had brought back that feeling of awe of the world that had been covered over by years and fears and all the other things that life delivered and that she’d taken on. She didn’t know if this would last or if it was the residual effects of those drugs still tapping pleasure centers in her mind, but she’d hold on to it while she could. If nothing else, it was a reminder of what she should strive for, even if it could only be achieved for moments at a time.

What must it be like to live with hopelessness and pain every day of your life and then to suddenly feelthis?The way Ambrose must have felt.It made her want to cry.

She suddenly remembered that story of the man jumping off the bridge and the sea lion that saved him. She’d looked that story up in the days after he’d told it. At first, she’d wondered if it might have beenAmbrose’s story. But it wasn’t. It was true, though, and in the aftermath of the experience, that man went around the country and gave motivational talks. It was inspiring, and she understood now why Ambrose had remembered all the details. Because it was somewhat ... magical. It was a confirmation about how mysterious the world really was. How many layers there were that people couldn’t see.

I think it’s important to be able to determine when answers are necessary and when they’re not,Ambrose had said to her a few days after she’d met him.

She hadn’t known how to interpret that then. But she understood now. She knew exactly what he’d meant. She’d seen beneath the surface. She’d spent five hours there.

Her gaze moved down to the street, where a man and woman laughed as they ran through the rain. She smiled, tilting her head as they splashed out of sight, picturing the block where they’d turned. God, she loved this city. She knew its every nook and cranny, from the wide streets of the avenues where she’d grown up to the narrow neon blocks of Chinatown. This city of her heart was filled with artists and entrepreneurs, rebels and dreamers, and featured every culture under the sun, and had once, very literally, risen from the ashes. You could be anyone in San Francisco and be embraced not despite your differences but because of them. It was eclectic and beautiful and classy and funky. It washome, and it would be part of her heart and soul until the moment she took her final breath.

She cared deeply about the people who shared her city, not only as fellow humans but as a sort of extended family too. She wanted them to be well. She wished for them to thrive.

The door opened, and Ambrose came in, holding several to-go bags, his face breaking into a smile when he saw her out of bed and standing by the window. He’d brought her here after the treatment, and she’d slept for—she glanced at the clock—three hours while he’d watched over her. When she’d woken, there was a note on the bedside table that he’d gone to get dinner and would be back.

He held up a bag. “Italian.”

“Oh my God, I love you.” He grinned, but their eyes met. And she thought maybe she did love him, even though it was far too soon and she really didn’t know him. But then again, maybe she did, and God, but life felt so full of possibilities.

“This is going to taste like some of the best food you’ve ever had,” he said. “Some of that is because you haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, but you also might still have some of the narcotics in your system.”

She let out a breathy laugh. “I’m surprised you’re not tempted to take this cocktail on a regular basis.”

He gave her a quirk of his lip. “They have their place in treatment, but hallucinogens aren’t great for your brain, or your body, on a regular basis. And I value my brain and body. I’ve been an addict, and I have no desire to live that life again.”

“Point taken.”

He set the bags down and began opening them and pulling out the fragrant boxes of food, her mouth literally watering as the steamy scents of basil and cheese wafted her way. “Help yourself,” he said.

She did, any shyness she might have felt overtaken by her body’s craving for food. She picked up a container of spaghetti and a plastic fork and started eating, moaning as the food hit her tongue. She ate in earnest for several minutes, and when she looked up, he was watching her, a smile tipping his lips. “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked around a bite of garlic bread.

“I’ll eat what you don’t want.”

She laughed. “I can’t possibly eat all that.” She nodded down to the six containers, four still filled with food.

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