others overcome their human mistakes and turn to the Light.
Chantal Louise Segretti
The day the Mirror published Sister Anne’s lost letter, Grace met Jason at the Rusted Anchor.
“How’s your old man doing?”
“One day at a time.”
“How about you?”
Jason shrugged.
“Might take some time off, drive down the coast to Mexico, do some thinking. I got an offer to write a book.”
“It’s an unbelievable story,” Grace said, “when you look at all the people it touched, the impact, and what they carried with them all these years. People dealing with their mistakes, you know?”
“I know.”
“I mean, look at the nun. Look at Boland, afraid to spend the money, Rhonda and Brady, what they were facing, Sperbeck gave up twenty-five years for a payday. Then there’s your dad and you.”
Jason looked into his ginger ale.
“Yup.”
“Helluva toll.”
“Yup.”
“So, uhm, this drive to Mexico, you thinking it’ll be one of those solo soul-quest journeys, or what?”
He looked at her, at her smile and what it offered.
“I don’t know, Grace. Guess I’m open to ‘or what.’”
“Then we’ll talk about that.”
“We will.”
Later, Jason drove his Falcon to his old man’s house, south, between Highway 509 and the west bank of the Duwamish River, not far from the shipyards and Boeing Field. The house where his mother had read him bedtime stories, where he’d dreamed of being a writer.
Since Sperbeck had ended things, Jason’s dad wasn’t talking much. But Jason’s daily visits were like balm to him. Today, as steaks sizzled on the grill, they reflected on the Seahawks, Mariners, and the Sonics, which was their way of putting the broken pieces of their lives back together.
On this night, Jason noticed that his father had taken out an old family album and was looking at a picture of Jason’s mother, who’d walked out on them years ago.
“You ever think of looking for her, Dad?”
Henry Wade gazed out beyond his deck toward the sun setting over the ocean.
“Every day, son. Every day.”
