Epilogue
November 22, 1990
11:55 A.M.
“What’s that street sign over there?” Tristan asked, pointing in front of Marissa, who was sitting in the passenger seat of a Hertz rent-a-car.
“I don’t know!” Marissa sighed in exasperation.
“I can’t see it unless you pull ahead of this tree next to us.”
“Right you are, luv,” Tristan said. He pulled the car ahead about a foot.
“Cherry Lane,” Marissa read.
“Cherry Lane?” Tristan questioned. He bent over the map he’d drawn.
“I can’t figure these directions out.”
“Perhaps now we could go back down the hill and ask?”
Marissa said. They’d passed a service station a few minutes before.
Tristan’s head shot up.
“Listen,” he said, “I can find the damn house, okay?”
For a moment the two glared at each other. Then they both broke into easy laughter.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan said.
“I suppose I’m a touch tense. Didn’t mean to snap.”
“I didn’t mean to either,” Marissa said.
“I think we’re both under a bit of strain.”
“That’s an understatement,” Tristan said.
“I don’t even know’ if Chauncey will recognize me. It’s been over three years.”
“But he’s six,” Marissa said.
“I think he’ll recognize you. I wonder what he will think of me.”
“He’s going to love you,” Tristan said.
“Mark my words.”
“If we ever get there,” Marissa said.
“Have faith,” Tristan said. He looked back at his map.
“If we could only find this Connolly Avenue.”
“We just passed that,” Marissa said.
“I’m pretty sure that was the last street we went by.”
“Then we’ll just have to chuck a u-ey,” Tristan said as he pulled the steering wheel all the way to the left.
“It’s always a bit confusing since you folks drive on the wrong side of the road.”
Going back a block, they found Connolly Avenue. Connolly Avenue fed into Green Street. Within fifteen minutes they were parked in front of a white clapboard house with Victorian trim.
On the front lawn was a sign that said: OLAF SONS
“Well, here we are,” Tristan said. He gazed up at the house.
“Yup,” Marissa agreed.
“We made it.”
Neither moved to get out of the car.
Marissa was particularly nervous. The Olafsons, Tristan’s in laws had been caring for Tristan’s son, Chauncey, for the past three years. Marissa had never met them and had never seen Chauncey. While Marissa and Tristan had been hiding out under the auspices of the FBI, it had been deemed unwise for them to meet until now, Thanksgiving day.
The months since their return from the Orient had passed slowly. The government had placed them in Montana, where they shared a house in a small town. Neither of them were permitted to work as physicians.
At first it had been very difficult for Marissa. It took her a long time to adjust to Robert’s death. She felt responsible for it for a long time. That he had died when they were still on such bad terms only added to her pain.
Tristan helped a lot. To a degree, he’d been through the same thing. It gave him a special empathy. He’d known when to talk with her and when to leave her alone.
On top of Robert’s death, she had to contend with Wendy’s.
It had taken months before the nightmares of the sharks had stopped their nightly visit. She felt responsible for her friend’s death as well.
Ultimately, time had been the great healer, as it was said to be.
Gradually Marissa had begun to feel more like herself. She even started back to her usual exercise routine of jogging several miles a day. Losing the weight she’d gained through the fertility treatments proved a boost to her morale.
“I guess we’d better go inside,” Tristan said. But no sooner had he voiced the words than the front door to the house opened, and out stepped a couple with a child.
Tristan got out of the car. Marissa did the same. They slammed their doors shut. For a moment, no one said anything or moved.
Marissa looked at the child. She could see sZ s of Tristan in his hair and the shape of his little face. Next s e looked to the couple. They were younger than Marissa had anticipated. The man was tall and slight, his features sharp. The woman was short.