Caught in the Act

Eight months later, I still got up every morning and functioned just as I had before the attack. However, imperceptibly though it may have been, I had changed. Although the person who stared back at me in the mirror may have looked the same, I knew I was no longer that person I had been before July 30, 2007. This event had come to redefine me as well as Shea and the rest of my family, because we now deeply understood how incredibly fragile life is. Every time one of the children left the house, a moment or two of panic washed over me, and I worried that maybe it could be the last time I’d ever see them. It was worse when they weren’t home and I heard sirens in the distance. Sometimes I would imagine the sound of an ambulance racing toward wherever they were, and I would practically resign myself to the fact that fate has just caught up with us. At those times, I’d have to force myself to relax and take a deep breath. If that didn’t work, I’d call their cell phones to make sure they were all right.

A rational fear of the unknown is one thing, but to become obsessed is quite another. Certainly, we parents all have concerns about our children’s safety, but I could no longer convince myself that I was overreacting. Bad things had happened once; why couldn’t they happen again? I would imagine that the heartache my family had been spared that night might be looming somewhere just ahead of us. Having escaped that fate once before, I couldn’t help but feel that it was closing in behind us every moment, unseen, but expected.

Late at night I found myself tucking the bedroom curtain behind the corner of the windowsill to provide an unobstructed view of the backyard, feeling that somehow if there was another monster lurking outside, this time I would see it coming. It was one of many rituals I developed in the wake of the attack that I just couldn’t seem to break. I wondered to myself just how long I would continue. Sometimes logical thought eluded me when bedtime approached, but nevertheless, this simple routine afforded me not only an added sense of security, but a sense of control.

At the same time, I would ask for a little help by going through a lengthy prayer, asking God to continue to bless my family, just as he had on that hot July night. Most every night I whispered these very personal words with the hope that they would be heard, and each day I knew that they had been. However, I was fearful of falling asleep without reciting this spell in its entirety, believing our luck would run out if I neglected to do so. In a not-too-distant part of my mind, I recognized the absolute absurdity of my fears and superstitions, and I sometimes shook my head in disbelief at my actions. Yet I still continued doing these things.

Perhaps the most unlikely of all was a contact we received that March from Boston Red Sox pitcher Jonathan Papelbon and his wife, Ashley. Apparently, the couple had stumbled upon the People article and felt compelled to invite our family to be Papelbon’s guests at a game during the team’s first home stand of the season, a Friday night series opener against the New York Yankees. Because of the relative proximity of Chelmsford to Boston, it must have been assumed that we were Red Sox fans. Their assumption was correct!

The past several months had weighed heavily on all of us, and the invitation created a much-needed diversion. We were all bubbling over with anticipation at the prospect of meeting the Boston closer and the opportunity to watch batting practice prior to the game. It was an experience of a lifetime we could not pass up. I don’t know who was more excited, the kids or Kevin and I.

Later, after speaking with Claire Durant, one of the Fenway Ambassadors, we were asked if we would be comfortable appearing on camera as part of the pregame show and being introduced to the sellout crowd of thirty-eight thousand fans in attendance that day. Papelbon’s publicity people thought it would help promote the pitcher’s image if we were recognized as guests of his and the Red Sox organization. Although we agreed to it, I was relieved that it ultimately did not happen for some reason or other. Still, as the opening series between the two rival clubs approached, I was a little nervous, not knowing what to expect once we got to Fenway Park.

Although we were more than appreciative for having been extended such a thoughtful invitation, it also made Kevin and me feel somewhat uncomfortable. We were concerned that this honor might have made us look like opportunists who were trying to take advantage of our fleeting celebrity status. But we were all such big fans of the Red Sox, who were defending World Series champions, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity. And did I mention that they were playing the Yankees?

On April 11, 2008, we went to the game. We met Ann, another Fenway Ambassador, at Gate D on Yawkey Way at 4:00 p.m. She greeted us with four Red Sox home jerseys bearing Jonathan Papelbon’s number, 58. They were presented to us as keepsakes of the evening’s festivities. We then followed Ann onto the playing field, where we were permitted to watch the Red Sox batting practice close up. It was absolutely amazing to see how big the players were, how much bigger the field looked from this perspective.

Moments after setting foot onto the field, we were graciously welcomed by Jonathan Papelbon himself. He stayed with us for a while, chatting; then he signed all of our jerseys. He was also kind enough to have a professional photo taken with our family. His warm and welcoming demeanor is something we will never forget.

Equally satisfying for Kevin and me, as well as Ryan, was observing the complete awe and joy on Shea’s face when she was acknowledged by her favorite player, Jacoby Ellsbury. He went out of his way to make her night special by having a picture taken with her and later giving her a personally autographed baseball. We were also provided with another baseball signed by Dustin Pedroia, who would later that year be named the American League Most Valuable Player for 2008. That ball came our way via Steve Murphy, a Boston Red Sox attendant who also happened to be the brother of Chelmsford Police Chief Jim Murphy. Steve stopped by and introduced himself to us shortly after we arrived at the park and helped make our evening complete.

The whole experience was thrilling (despite the Red Sox loss), and we deeply appreciated everything the Red Sox organization did for us. The efforts of these players, heroes to millions of people including ourselves, went a long way to help a young girl heal from the trauma of a frightening brush with death. To once again see the glint of happiness return to Shea’s eyes and watch her experience genuine joy was a source of tremendous satisfaction for her father and me. We were particularly thankful to Jonathan and Ashley Papelbon, who may never fully comprehend the healing power of their very moving gesture.

When a letter from the New Jersey State Police arrived, I hoped that it was notification that Lane’s extradition to the state had finally been approved and that he was on his way there already. Instead, we were informed that we had been chosen as “Guests of Honor” at the annual banquet that would conclude the Advanced Homicide Investigation Conference being held at Princeton University in late June.

Detectives George Tyros and Todd Ahern told us that they would be attending the weeklong series of workshops and would be present at the closing banquet. Chief Murphy was also planning on attending the ceremony, so we were comfortable with the idea right from the start.

Besides being humbled by the invitation and by being considered an integral part of the capture of this multiple murderer, it was a unique opportunity to meet and converse with various people involved in the continuing Adam Lane investigation. There was still so much that was unknown, and I could only hope that within the next few months some additional information would be revealed. Along with the potential for an update on the legal progression of Lane’s pending cases, I was very much looking forward to trying to arrange a get-together with Fay and Frank Massaro at some point during our visit to New Jersey. I wanted to express to them in person our heartfelt concern and commitment to the prosecution of their daughter’s killer. Kevin and I had always felt strongly about meeting two of the people who are sitting where we so easily could have been ourselves: mourning a beloved daughter.

The reality that we had come so close to losing Shea was something I did not take for granted. In the time since, I have witnessed her blossoming into a young woman before my eyes. Certainly Shea had her own obstacles to overcome since the terror of the previous summer, but I got a strong sense that she was moving forward in a positive direction with more and more confidence each day. At various times I would catch a glimpse of her behaving in a way that seemed mature beyond her years, but then in the next instant the frivolity of the teenage experience would return, and she would act accordingly.

Just as quickly as winter had turned to spring, spring was moving on toward summer, and Adam Leroy Lane was still sitting in a Massachusetts correctional institute awaiting extradition to New Jersey, now almost a year since he murdered Monica Massaro.

After another discussion with Detective-Sergeant Geoffrey Noble, of the New Jersey State Police, who sympathized with my feelings, it became apparent that I wasn’t the only one feeling irritation in this matter. My impression was that law enforcement harbored similar frustrations toward the tedious bureaucracy within the justice system. Although it was good to know that we were in agreement on this issue, it did not offer any resolution to the problem.

Still, with the days warming and the flowers and trees in full bloom, it was impossible not to find joy in the changing of the season. This kind of weather, after what seemed like an eternity of cold and rainy weather, naturally elevated the spirit. At the same time, it was difficult for me not to think about Monica Massaro and Darlene Ewalt and how unexpectedly life can be cut short. My heart was heavy, knowing that something so precious had been taken from their families. These were the moments of such intense clarity, when I felt the deepest appreciation for all that I have been blessed with, yet the extremes of my mental state could be frightening, and I wondered if something was wrong with me.

Mother’s Day provided me with an ideal opportunity for reflection. We spent that Sunday together as a family, and it was then that I realized how my attitudes and emotions regarding Adam Leroy Lane and the justice system were being reflected in my children. I had been harboring extremely negative and destructive feelings about everything related to the July 30 attack, and my moods and words seemed only to have darkened the moods of everyone around me. With this understanding, I vowed to be outwardly more positive and constructive in my judgments, both for my family’s benefit and my own.

Adopting such an attitude change couldn’t have come at a better time. The gains we were all making individually were not an illusion, but the amount of progress was deceptive. We were struggling as a family. It seemed that every step forward was followed by another backward. We were really getting nowhere.

School had been more of a challenge that year than we had anticipated, for both of our children. Ryan and Shea had always been good students, but now both were failing academically. This was a situation that none of us had ever found ourselves in before, and so we thought they’d be able to get themselves back on track. However, we were mistaken—or in denial.

Shea’s academic year had been a wash. She struggled with issues involving her concentration and focus, as well as an inability to sleep at night. To alleviate some of the strain, it was arranged with her school to adjust her course load and reduce her schedule. Following that simple change, I noticed a marked difference in her personality and behavior. Her anxiety diminished, and from all outward appearances she seemed to be happier overall.

But things were difficult even with the reduced schedule during the second half of the year. Being a teenager is difficult enough without adding to that the anxious feeling that everyone was staring and whispering behind your back. At home, Shea was around her family, people who understood what she had gone through; in high school, it was all about fitting in, and I could only imagine how Shea felt every day when she walked through those front doors and was instantly reminded that she was not like everyone else. Who could be surprised that her experience had left her with diminished motivation and a lack of commitment to academic excellence, which she once valued so highly?

The last few weeks of the semester would be pivotal in salvaging what was left of her junior year, perhaps the most critical juncture for any student with college aspirations. It was heartbreaking for me to think of the future limitations that would be placed on her because of a less-than-mediocre academic year.

Ryan hadn’t fared any better. The challenges of our son’s freshman year at college had overwhelmed him, and after being placed on academic probation his first semester, he was not able to crawl out of the hole he had dug for himself. When we received a certified letter from Wentworth stating that Ryan had flunked out of school, this compounded our already heavy hearts. This had been a complete letdown for us, which led me and Kevin to question some of the choices we had made as parents.

Since the alcohol-related episode Shea had battled through in February, she had continued to visit her therapist regularly, and her therapist felt it could be beneficial for Shea to also see a psychotherapist who could prescribe a low dose of antidepressant and antianxiety medication, which hopefully would stabilize her sleep patterns and increase her motivation.

I was apprehensive about this suggestion because of possible side effects and the unknown long-term implications of prescription antidepressants. Kevin and I agreed that we would only consider this method of treatment if we saw a drastic decline in Shea’s well-being.

Measuring that kind of progress is tricky, I realized, and I was afraid we might be making the wrong decision. However, we watched her closely, and luckily, she began to make great strides, and it wasn’t necessary to prescribe medication after all.

Although there were many challenges ahead of us as a family, we were still together, and that was the most important thing. After surviving something so profoundly life-changing, no obstacle or difficulty seemed quite as significant. I was confident we would get through this dark time, and things would eventually work out for us, even if not quite the way we had originally envisioned.