Adjusting to life out of the dark

FAYETTEVILLE, N.C. - For the first time in more than a decade, Edwin Sanabria awoke Christmas morning to find presents under the tree with his name on them. On New Year's Eve, he dressed in a pin-striped suit and tie, perched a cardboard top hat on his head, and posed for pictures. He had fun.

"Too much fun," Sanabria, who turns 32 this month, said with a smile. "I got drunk."

Sanabria, one of four mentally disabled adults who were found imprisoned in a Tacony cellar in October, is free.

Missing to his family since 1999, Sanabria ended up in the care of Linda Ann Weston, the Philadelphia woman in jail awaiting trial on charges of assault, kidnapping, and theft for allegedly moving several people around the country and stealing their Social Security checks.

Sanabria now lives on a cul-de-sac in Fayetteville, in a two-bedroom duplex he shares with his brother, Robert; Robert's wife, Toni Vega; and Vega's 6-year-old daughter, Izzy. There he enjoys pleasures that, for a third of his life, were cruelly out of reach.

Sanabria sleeps on a couch in a carpeted living room. He chooses an outfit each morning from a closetful of clean clothes. He eats when he's hungry, watches movies, draws with colored pencils, plays Mario Kart, and pulls the family's white cat, Twiggy, onto his lap. Any time he wants, he can walk outside to feel the sun on his face and the grass under his feet.

Sanabria has a small vocabulary and a tendency toward understatement. Asked how he likes his new home, he said things were "better."

As Weston's prisoner, Sanabria has said, he was starved, beaten, forced to steal, and worse. He is trying to move on from 10 years of unrelenting abuse, and says he is making progress.

"I used to worry a lot, but I don't worry no more," he said recently. "I'm starting to forget about a lot of stuff."

Robert Sanabria and Vega, both 29, met in spring 2010, when he saw her standing outside a military social event and left his friends to talk to her. About a year later, during a trip to Puerto Rico, he proposed.

They married in a courthouse on Oct. 11, 2011. They planned to have a wedding in 2013, then possibly a child. Four days later, Edwin Sanabria was found in Philadelphia.

Since then, their lives have been consumed by the challenges of providing him with the help he needs.

Edwin Sanabria has been without medical care for years; he needs dental work. His eyesight deteriorated so badly while living with Weston that he needs a corneal transplant ("new eyeballs," he says).

He is also isolated, and his days are monotonous. His brother and sister-in-law hope to find a group home where he can maintain some independence yet be among people who will watch over him.

Robert Sanabria, two years younger than his brother but appearing twice his size, is overwhelmingly grateful to have him back. Edwin Sanabria was missing so long his brother began losing hope. Now, he said, he can make up for lost time.

Vega, practical and goal-oriented, is frank about the stress her brother-in-law's sudden appearance has created. After her first marriage ended, she raised Izzy alone. She's used to calling the shots in her life, and after she and Robert wed, she was looking forward to spending time as a new family.

"We're taking on a big responsibility that we didn't expect. It's been hard."

But she is learning to be more patient, less selfish.

"I've been very stuck in my ways," she said. "I've been stubborn."

And Edwin Sanabria could not be a better houseguest.

"His consideration level is on 10. He's very thoughtful, very patient. You couldn't ask for a better person.

"All he wants to do is be happy, be loved, and be free."

Edwin Sanabria is slight, about 5 feet, 8 inches tall, and he slumps a little when he stands. He smiles often, especially when talking to the rambunctious, cheerful Izzy. He is unfailingly polite, holding open doors and saying, "Excuse me," and, "Bless you."

Born prematurely and with a low IQ, he grew up in North Philadelphia with his father, brother, and a sister. In special-education classes at William Penn High School, he met and fell in love with Tamara Breeden.

It was Breeden who introduced Sanabria to Weston, whom authorities have described as one of the most horrifying criminals in Philadelphia history.

Weston, 52, served prison time in the 1980s for starving a man to death in a closet of a North Philadelphia apartment. When she was released, authorities say, she began preying on vulnerable adults like Sanabria and Breeden, persuading them to sign their government benefit checks over to her. Weston, her boyfriend, her daughter, and another man are charged with holding five people captive, stealing from them, and repeatedly abusing them.

Pennsylvania Common Pleas Court Judge Marsha H. Neifield imposed a gag order on the case in the fall. But in previous interviews and in testimony in December, Edwin Sanabria spoke about "mother Linda."

When he was 19 or 20, he got into an argument with his father, grabbed some clothes, and left. With no job, he ended up living on the streets until Breeden suggested they stay with Weston.

At first, Weston cared for them, but soon she and her accomplices took them to Texas, Virginia, and Florida, keeping them confined in attics or other spaces.

Along the way, Weston met Herbert Knowles and Derwin McLemire, who also ended up in the Tacony basement.

The captives often went without food and were subject to vicious assaults, Edwin Sanabria said. With him, Breeden bore two children who were taken away and raised as Weston's. The children are now in state custody.

In early October, Weston moved the caravan to Philadelphia and her daughter's Tacony apartment building. Sanabria, Breeden, McLemire, and Knowles were shut in a dark boiler room, where they slept on the floor and used a bucket as a bathroom.

On Oct. 15, a landlord stumbled upon them and called police. The room, one officer said, "smelled like death." As the emaciated victims were led out of the cramped enclosure, the officer noticed them squinting as though they hadn't seen light in a while.

"When Edwin saw the landlord and the cops come for them in the basement," Robert Sanabria told The Inquirer in the fall, "that's when he knew he wouldn't suffer anymore."

Robert Sanabria, a U.S. Army sergeant who works in vehicle transport and did two tours in Iraq, last saw his brother in 1999, before Edwin vanished into the streets of North Philadelphia.

When he heard about the Weston case on the news in the fall, the mention of "mentally challenged" victims made him fear for his brother, but he quickly dismissed the idea. When his father called days later, saying he had seen Edwin's name in the paper, Robert Sanabria asked his supervisor for some time off and drove straight to Philadelphia.

At a sterile health-care facility, he saw a gaunt man playing checkers. At first, Edwin didn't recognize his brother and just nodded in greeting. Robert, distraught, began to weep.

When Robert put his face close to Edwin's, Edwin spoke Robert's name. Robert broke down sobbing, and they embraced.

"At that moment, I lost all control," Robert said. "I can't remember the last time I cried in public."

Edwin also wept. Since then, he says, he has not cried once.

To Vega, Edwin Sanabria is still a stranger. Before the fall, she barely heard her husband mention his brother. When he was found, she remembers thinking, "We're about to have some major life changes."

Vega comes from a military family, and she grew up with her parents, brother, and sister at various bases. She enlisted at 18 and has worked ever since, serving as a pharmacy technician at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center and at Fort Dix, among other places.

Until recently, she worked in Maryland for the Department of Defense, and she planned to find work at Fort Bragg. But when managing her brother-in-law became a full-time job with the phone calls to Philadelphia social service agencies, the follow-ups with North Carolina agencies, and the trips to Philadelphia for court dates, she put her career on hold.

"It was never in doubt that we would take Edwin," Vega said. "We saw that this is what we had to do."

She acknowledged the situation had strained her new marriage. One of the two upstairs bedrooms belongs to Izzy, and Edwin's perpetual presence in the living room makes the home feel small. Since he moved in, Vega has rarely been alone. She has trouble sleeping and is frustrated by her role as a housewife.

"I thought I had challenges before," she said. "This is a real challenge."

Edwin and Robert, meanwhile, are rebuilding their bond. Robert hooked up an old Nintendo console so they could play the games of their childhood. They lift weights in the garage. Edwin sometimes goes to work with Robert, whose colleagues welcome his curiosity and interest. Recently, one sergeant took the time to play basketball with him.

When Robert jumps from a plane in a training session, Edwin will be there to watch.

"If I jump from a plane 10 times and I know how to do it, I'd still be scared," Edwin said, his admiration obvious.

Their mother left the family after Robert was born. Their father showed little warmth and disciplined the children with beatings, Robert said. Edwin left home before graduating from high school, and Robert followed soon afterward.

Robert harbors guilt for not keeping a closer eye on his brother. He sometimes saw Edwin on the street, and when Robert got his own place, he invited Edwin to move in. Edwin always said he was staying with his girlfriend, Breeden. Robert now knows that at some point, Edwin moved in with Weston.

"Sometimes I feel at fault," said Robert, who was a teenager at the time. "If I'd have known, I would have gotten his butt to my place and that would be it."

Although Edwin Sanabria says he doesn't think about the years with Weston, he talks about them often. He has nightmares and what mental-health professionals call "intrusive thoughts": vivid memories that pop into his head without warning.

Vega has had trouble connecting him with social service agencies. His monthly Social Security payments arrive, but because he is legally competent, some agencies have said they can't offer further help.

On one recent week, the family had a major breakthrough: an appointment with Community Innovations Inc., an agency dedicated to addressing gaps in care. After a two-hour meeting, Johannah Hibbs, an energetic social worker whose eyes widened when she learned of Edwin's background, recommended he see a trauma-focused therapist. She suggested psychosocial rehab, in which patients learn life skills like budgeting, and she assigned someone to look for housing.

Edwin Sanabria can care for himself, Vega said, but he needs to be pointed in the right direction and won't ask for help. When he moved in, Vega noticed his dirty clothes piling up. She showed him how to use the washing machine, and since then, he has laundered his clothes himself.

The bigger problem is his trusting nature. He's easily influenced and needs protection from people like Weston, his brother said.

"He won't speak up for himself," he said. "When something bad happens, he'll think . . . it was his fault."

He would like his brother to gain some independence, but he also wants him close.

"I would like him to be around other people," he told Hibbs. To reassure Edwin, he added, "You'll still be coming to the house to hang out with Twiggy and Izzy. I'll still see you every day."

Vega, too, is committed to this new version of family.

"I want him to be able to experience other people, and experience things that are new to him," she said. "We want him to have a life."

Edwin shares those goals. He wants to take art classes, make a few friends, maybe even get "a little job."

"I want to show people I can do stuff on my own, because I know I can," he said. "I don't mind people helping, but I did a lot of stuff on my own before. . . . I just hope everything goes well, because I would really like to do something with my life."

Robert Sanabria and Vega have learned not to wait for Edwin to ask for what he needs. At home after seeing the social worker, Robert made a turkey and cheese sandwich and handed it wordlessly to his brother. Then he gave him a large bowl of strawberries. Edwin ate every one.

Later, Vega left to pick up Izzy from school. When she returned with groceries, Edwin put everything away.

Izzy and Edwin have an easy friendship. He tells silly jokes to make her giggle, and he draws pictures of cars or dolls for her to color.

Unresolved is the question of what will become of Edwin Sanabria and Breeden's children. Breeden lives in Philadelphia with her parents. She and Edwin were speaking regularly but broke up after an argument, he said. Background checks are being conducted on Vega, Robert Sanabria, and Breeden's parents, who have expressed interest in seeking custody of the children.

Edwin and Breeden have not been allowed to see the children, a girl, 5, and a boy who turns 3 this month. Until recently, Weston had led Edwin to believe they were dead.

"The kids don't even know Edwin as their father," Vega said.

That night, as Vega and Robert Sanabria prepared dinner, Izzy picked through Edwin's colored pencils, sharpening them one by one. Edwin noticed and began sorting them, picking out the dull ones.

As Izzy finished one, she held it up. "How do you like it?" she asked. "Nice? Good?"

"Nice," he agreed.

Vega and Robert put dinner together: steaks, mashed potatoes, salad, corn on the cob, glasses of water and juice. As they linked hands around the table, Vega asked who wanted to say the prayer, then guessed, "Edwin?"

Eyes tightly closed, Edwin bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, God, for this beautiful day," he said. "Thank you for the people who are helping me. And thank you for this food."

See a video about how Edwin Sanabria is adjusting to life at his brother's N.C. house at www.philly.com/sanabria

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