Once spoken, their truth cannot be denied. No backpedaling can change them. No action taken can refute them.

Words make things real.

The chapel is dark and quiet, and Debbie’s hand in mine is warm and small.

I stare blankly at the carefully non-denominational trappings and remember watching Mikey -- 14, 15, 16 years old -- shying away from Debbie’s outstretched hand. Embarrassed by the affection, the attention. Making faces at me behind her back, cheeks colouring with shame.

The first time she touched me, hand wrapped soothingly at the back of my neck, smelling of beef rigatoni and cheap perfume… I cringed away. Didn’t know what the fuck to do. I had no basis for comparison.

Then, I could never tell her how much I needed her. And Mikey. How my life would have fucking imploded without the refuge of Chez Novotny.

Now, I can call her “mom” with affection, and not even think of Joanie.

I squeeze her hand and feel the cool metal of her rings dig into my palm. There are no sleepy-eyed plaster saints here. No one is passing judgment. There is only Debbie, praying to a God I’m still not sure I believe in, and Mikey, fighting for his life in surgery. There is only me, feeling the last of bricks and mortar crumbling away inside.

“Deb,” I say into the silence, proud that my voice doesn’t crack, “I have to go.”

She releases my hand and reaches across the aisle to pat my cheek, and I don’t cringe away. “Give Sunshine a kiss for me,” she says.

I light up a smoke as my driver negotiates the late-evening traffic. When I close my eyes everything is tinged in scarlet and grey, smoke-strewn, gritty. So I keep my eyes open, concentrate on keeping the hand that holds the cigarette steady as I bring it to my lips. Know that Justin is alive, he’s fine, and I’ve been given another chance, one more fucking chance, and this time I’m not going to fuck it up.