The Long Way Home

But she sat there, taking in the canvas on the easel. It was very Peter. Very detailed, precise, controlled. Technically brilliant. It made the best of all the rules.

This was no dog’s breakfast.

Unlike Bean’s creations. With a smile Clara remembered the wild splashes of conflicting, of contrasting, of clashing colors. Vivid colors from a vivid, unrestrained imagination.

The last bite of toast stopped partway to her mouth. Another glob of jam slid closer and closer to the crumbly edge and the great leap downward.

But Clara didn’t notice. She was staring, openmouthed, at Peter’s painting.

And then the jam dropped.

*   *   *

Myrna Landers stood at the window of her loft, looking between the panes. The glass was so old it had imperfections, distortions, but she’d gotten used to seeing the world that way, and made allowances.

This morning she stood in her pajamas with a mug of coffee and watched the village wake up. It was a common sight. Unremarkable. Except to someone coming from a certain chaos and turmoil. Then it was remarkable.

She watched her neighbors walk their dogs on the village green. She watched them chatting, exchanging pleasantries.

Then her gaze traveled up the dirt road out of Three Pines and stopped at the boundary, at the bench overlooking the village. There she saw Armand sitting, as he did every morning, holding the book in his hands. Even from this distance, she could see it was a very small book. Every morning he sat there with it, and read. Then closed it, and just stared.

Myrna Landers wondered what he was reading. She wondered what he was thinking.

He came to her once a week for therapy, but had never once mentioned this book. And she hadn’t asked, preferring him to offer. And he would. When the time was right.

Still, there was plenty to talk about. The injuries of the past. The ones seen and unseen. The bruises on his mind and body and soul. They were healing, slowly. But the wounds that seemed to hurt him the most weren’t even his own.

“Jean-Guy’s life isn’t your responsibility, Armand,” she’d said. Over and over. And he’d leave, nodding and thanking her. And understanding.

And then the next session, Armand would admit the fear was back.

“Suppose he drinks again? Or uses?” he’d ask.

“Suppose he does?” she’d ask back and hold those worried eyes. “He and Annie have to work it out themselves. He’s in rehab and has his own therapist. He’s doing what he has to do. Let it go. Concentrate on your own side of the street.”

And she could see that it made sense to Gamache. But she also knew they’d have this same conversation again. Over and over. Because his fears weren’t about sense. They didn’t live in his head.

But she could see progress. One day he’d get there. And once there, he’d find peace.

And this was the place to do it, Myrna knew, as she watched the large man on the edge of the village open the little book, put on his reading glasses, and begin again.

They’d all come here to begin again.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache looked down at the book and read. Not long, not much. But he found even these few words every day comforting. Then, as he did each morning, he closed the book, removed his reading glasses, and looked at the village. Then he lifted his eyes to the misty forest and mountains beyond.

There was a world out there. A world filled with beauty and love and goodness. And cruelty and killers, and vile acts contemplated and being committed at this very moment.

Peter had left and been gobbled up by that world.

And it was coming closer. Coming here. Nibbling at the edges of the village.

He felt his skin tingle, and the sudden, overwhelming need to get up. To go. To do something. To stop it. It was like an out-of-body experience, so powerful was the urge to act.

He gripped the edge of the bench, closed his eyes, and did as Myrna had taught him.

Deep breath. In. And out.

“And don’t just breathe,” he heard her calm, melodic voice. “Inhale. Take in the smells. Listen to the sounds. The real world. Not the one you’re conjuring.”

He breathed in, and smelled the pine forest, smelled the damp earth. Felt the cool, fresh morning air on his cheeks. He heard, far off, the excited yapping of a puppy. And he followed that back. The puppy led him through the howls and shrieks and alarms in his head.

He held on to the sound. To the scents. As Myrna had taught him.

“Follow anything you can,” she’d advised. “Back to reality. Back from the edge.”

And he did.

Deep breath in. The cut grass, the sweet hay by the side of the road. Deep breath out.