by Chris Fabry
“Did the bulls show up?” she said.
“Yes, the bulls in the white uniforms with the syringe. I suspect he’s off his medication again.” He looked at her in the fading sunlight and leaned forward, making something in his arm or his back pop. He frowned. “My bones sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies.”
“You should stretch more,” Treha said.
“No amount of stretching will stop the popping and snapping inside, my dear. I need an oil change. A transmission flush. A complete overhaul.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s not talk about me tonight. Let’s talk about you.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Au contraire. There’s much to learn. Much to know.”
“I could tell you what I did today, but it would bore you.”
“No, I don’t mean about today. I mean about your life. Where you’ve been. What you’ve done. What you’ve seen. You never talk about it.”
“I told you, I don’t remember much.”
“I don’t believe you. You remember everything. The things you read. The things told to you. How could you say you don’t remember?”
“Maybe I don’t want to remember.”
“Aha, now you’re getting closer to the truth, I think.”
She gripped her legs tighter and lowered her head where he couldn’t see her.
“Close your eyes and let me ask you some questions. If you don’t know the answer, say you don’t know. Or make something up. If you can ask me questions, it only seems fair that I should do the same with you.”
She closed her eyes but they still moved behind the eyelids. Her fingers were engaged now, typing on some unseen keyboard. She bit her lip, tearing at a chapped area. Crenshaw got like this frequently, asking questions about her past. It almost seemed to her that he wanted to tell her something, reveal something hidden, but what could he know?
“Tell me about your parents. What do you remember?”
Her head moved slightly left and right. “I only remember my mother in the ice cream shop. The color of her dress. A little perfume. And her walking across the street.”
When he didn’t speak, she opened her eyes and found him staring at her with condescension. “That’s not nice, Treha. You can’t take another person’s story and make it your own.”
“You said to make something up.”
“You know what I mean.”
She sat all the way back. “All right. I remember my mother taking me into a jewelry store. Or maybe it was a watch repair shop. And she left and I never saw her again.”
“You’re hopeless, you know that?”
“Hopeless?”
“Go ahead. Give me synonyms for the word hopeless. Thirty seconds. Go.”
She closed her eyes again and rhythmically, without hesitation, spoke the words that passed across the synapses. “Hopeless. Despairing. Miserable. Depressed. Downcast. Disconsolate. Dejected. Melancholic. Wretched . . .”
He interrupted. “What about this: ‘The wretched refuse’? Does that ring a bell?”
“‘The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’”
“Emma Lazarus,” he said, beaming. “You are amazing,” he whispered. “Simply amazing.”
“Remembering the words is not amazing. The words are amazing.”
“True. But most people are not able to remember like you.” He looked at the floor, at the slippers beside his chair. At the bed and the television and desk and nightstand, the circumference of his limited world. “I was reading earlier today,” he said, picking up a dog-eared book. “A sentence jumped out of a novel at me. Arrested me. I thought of you.”
“What did it say?”
He flipped to a bookmarked section. “Here it is. ‘Scared money can’t win and a worried man can’t love.’ Marvelous, isn’t it?” He read it again. “What do you think that means?”
She sat, unmoving except for her eyes, mulling the words. “The first part has something to do with gambling. If you want to win, you have to risk. Put your money where your mouth is?”
“Good.” He nodded. “And what about the second part? ‘A worried man can’t love.’”
Her head swayed like a blind performer’s, with no concern for who noticed. “If you worry, you can only think of yourself. You can’t love someone else.”
“Why not?”
“Because love is not about what you receive. It’s about what you give.”
“How do you know this, Treha?”
She shrugged. “There are some things you just know.”
He turned his head to look at the ceiling for a moment. “That’s very insightful. Maybe that’s why it jumped out at me. It brought back all the mistakes. Things I regret.”
“What regrets do you have?” she said.
He waved a hand and the splotches on his skin shone in the dim light. Other signs of unwanted age too—the weary movement, the misshapen nails, the telltale wrinkles and sags.
“There are things in my life I would like to do over. I used to look at my life as a long tunnel, a hole in the side of a huge mountain that I entered and couldn’t see the light on the other end. It felt like it stretched forever. But now I can’t see the light behind me. And the rest of the tunnel is very short, I’m afraid.”
“Can you see the light ahead?”
“Yes, and I think it’s a train.” He studied her as if to see any hint of joy or laughter. “When I read that sentence, I saw for an instant what has held me back.”
“From what?”
“From living fully. The choices you make when you are younger . . . there is no way to undo them. You can ask forgiveness. You can beg pardon. From others you hurt, from God, even. But there is no way to erase what happened. There is no way to untie the knots of a life. There are so many strings and they’re pulled together so tightly.” He held up his arthritic hands. “With these, you can’t get the threads apart. And you can’t distinguish the individual strands with your eyes because you can’t focus. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “What is it you would like to erase?”
“Little decisions. A thousand things I said or did. To my children. My wife. My patients. Little decisions always lead to bigger ones, of course. You take a wrong turn on a road and you can quickly head in a direction you shouldn’t go. But there aren’t many off-ramps to life.” He remained in that far-off place, reflecting. Then he returned and ran his tongue over his dentures. “I was talking with Elsie. She said you have memories of your mother. Do you recall this?”
“I recall telling Elsie, yes.”
He dipped his head and waited like some wizened prophet.
“My mother was not a nice woman. I became angry with her. Very angry.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. It may not have actually happened. It could be a memory I’ve stolen.”
“True. But I think you know the difference between what is real and what is imaginary. What actually happened and what has been appropriated.”
“I’m not as sure as you.”
“You know you were not left in an ice cream shop. You know that is my story.”
Treha remained silent.
“Why do you think you do this?” Crenshaw said. “You co-opt these shared histories. Do they give a structure to your life? A past, a way to become comfortable?”
“If you say so.”
“I’m asking about your childhood. What is the real story?”
“Why is it so important?”
He seemed frightened by her stare. It felt like he was trying to open a cellar door on some unimaginable horror in her life that made her numb. She looked out the window at the fluorescent lights of the parking lot.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps I’m trying to expel the fear so that I can love well.”
He smiled and Treha chewed on her thumbnail. She put a foot on the floor and then the other and then brought them both back to t
he chair.
“I don’t remember my parents. I don’t think I ever had any.”
“How could that be?”
Staring at the floor now, her head swaying, eyes moving, her right hand typing and left thumb in her mouth. She slipped her feet into the open shoes. “I need to go.”
“Treha, don’t be upset.”
“I’m not upset. I need to go.”
Crenshaw nodded. “I understand. Treha, what would you say if I told you . . . ?”
“Told me what?” she said.
“What if I told you I need you to mail something for me? An important letter?” He struggled to stand and she told him to stay seated. “It’s on the desk. The one addressed to Calvin Davidson. Do you see it?”
She nodded and put the letter in her pocket and walked to the door, shoelaces flapping.
“Will I see you tomorrow?” he said.
She spoke to the door. “Of course.”
After she left, Crenshaw reached for the light, pulled the switch, and sat in the dark looking out the window until Treha rode past on her bicycle. He sat in the dark with the truth. He could not remake his life. But he could deal truthfully with it. And he could force others to do the same. He could let the truth do its good work in her life.
Something inside rose, a whisper that said an old man could not make a difference. That no one would believe him. Digging up the past would bring scorn. Doing such a thing showed ingratitude. He shook the voice away and stood, shakily, and walked to his nightstand, pulling the bookmark, a business card that said, Life Reviews—Devin Hillis, President.
He sat on his bed and caught his breath as he picked up the phone and dialed. A message said to leave his name and number.
“This is James Crenshaw. I am one of those you spoke with for your documentary. From Desert Gardens. I need your help. I want to enlist your services for something important. A story that needs to be told.”
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 9
Wide shot of Ardeth Williams sitting in wheelchair in her room, plumping her hair.
I don’t know what you want me to say.
VOICE OFF CAMERA: Just tell us your story. When did you come to Desert Gardens?
Oh, not very long ago. I’d been sick for a time and living with my daughter and her husband. And they thought it best for me to be in a place where . . . They both have jobs and I was at home by myself and couldn’t manage.
VOC: Did you want to live here?
I can’t say for sure. I hadn’t thought of it, really. I suppose if you’d asked me, I’d have wanted my independence. But after coming here, that first day, the world opened for me.
VOC: What do you mean?
Well, it’s hard to explain. I think I had almost given up. And coming here made me want to keep going. It was meeting her that did it. The girl, you know.
VOC: What girl is that?
The one who looks like Tiffany, my granddaughter. I get them mixed up sometimes, there’s such a resemblance. Treha. That’s her name. She comes to see me and I look forward to her visits because . . . she doesn’t expect anything. Most of my life people have expected things. You, coming here and making your movie or whatever it is you’re doing, I can feel it. You’ve come here with a purpose, recording an old geezer like me. I don’t know what it is you want and I don’t pretend to care. That’s another thing age does for you: it makes you not care about what other people think. My daughter expects me to be the old me, the mother she remembers. My son-in-law expects me to kick the bucket before my money runs out.
But that girl. I think it’s the first time I ever felt like someone didn’t need. She was just there one day. Showed up and sat with me. She was patient. Like it didn’t matter how long it took. She was going to be there.
I don’t know that I’ve ever had that before.
CHAPTER 9
TREHA ARRIVED early the next day, riding her bike in the cool September morning air. The day would heat up and be oppressive by the time she rode home, but not for those in cars with air-conditioning, only for people like her who had to walk or ride a bike or the bus.
She avoided Dr. Crenshaw’s room. As soon as she passed the post office near Desert Gardens, she’d remembered the man’s letter and that she had forgotten it in the pocket of her other scrubs.
She avoided other residents and cleaned a hallway that had been waxed, arranged rarely touched books in the library, and dusted the dayroom mantel. Late in the morning she tired of the busywork and found Ardeth Williams, the new resident. The woman sat in her wheelchair with the television on and the volume loud enough to obscure low-flying jetliners or passing tornadoes.
Treha turned down the volume and the woman glanced up. “Tiffany. I didn’t know you worked here.”
Treha didn’t correct her. “How are you today, Mrs. Ardeth?”
“I suppose I’m all right, now that you’re here.”
“Do you need anything?”
She peered closer, leaning forward. “You’re not Tiffany.”
“My name is Treha.”
“Such a nice girl.” The old woman looked around for someone else. “You look like my granddaughter.”
“Would you like to go for a walk? I think you would like the view of the garden.”
Treha released the brake even though the woman told her she didn’t want to go outside. She placed Ardeth’s hands on the armrests and pushed her slowly toward the hall and then past an attendant’s station.
“There goes Mrs. Williams,” a nurse said, smiling. “Hey, Mrs. Williams.”
Ardeth nodded and waved as if she were the queen of England. Treha looked for Dr. Crenshaw but didn’t see him. They made a lap around the south wing and stopped by the window near the garden. Ardeth delighted like a child, patting her hands as she watched the fountain shoot water and saw the colors of the flowers planted in a mosaic.
As Treha returned Ardeth, Mrs. Howard’s voice came over the intercom. “Treha, could you come to my office, please?”
A few minutes later, Treha peeked inside and Mrs. Howard smiled and motioned her to sit. There were empty boxes stacked in a corner of the room and several full boxes of books by the shelf.
“I’ve been meaning to have a little talk before I leave,” Mrs. Howard said, crossing her arms. “You know there is a new director. Ms. Millstone.”
“Yes. I have seen her.”
Mrs. Howard seemed to be searching for the right words. “There may be changes after I leave. I have done things a certain way, but I don’t pretend it’s the only way. Or the best way. I don’t want you to be surprised.”
“What kind of changes?”
“The board has given her carte blanche. That means—”
“I know what it means.”
“Yes, of course you do.”
“It means free reign. She can do what she wants.”
“Exactly.”
“You think I should be wary of her?”
A look of concern clouded the woman’s face. “Treha, I’ve tried to explain to her how valuable each worker is here. Ms. Millstone may have a slightly different vision. I was thinking, if you could try to put your best foot forward, connect with her, that might be a good start.”
“Does she have a problem with her brain?”
Mrs. Howard smiled. “Not the kind of problem you are used to. Let’s just say her vision is limited.”
“Compared to you.”
Mrs. Howard stood and held out a small piece of paper. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. Keep this. It’s my home number. If anything happens, call me. We can talk it out, work it out.”
Treha nodded and took the paper.
“Do you promise you’ll call?”
Treha nodded.
Mrs. Howard leaned against the desk. “Treha, I’ve been trying to understand your gift. Trying to put it into words. And I think what you offer is safety. The residents feel safe talking to you. You listen. You validate.”
Treha star
ed at the floor.
A deep breath. “At some point, you’ll need to stop listening, though.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You listen but never tell. Do you think it’s because no one is safe enough to speak with?”
Treha looked up, teeth clenched. “There’s nothing to tell. I have no story.”
“Oh yes you do, my dear. You have a—”
The intercom blared and a breathless voice said, “Mrs. Howard, come quickly. It’s Dr. Crenshaw.”
Treha followed Mrs. Howard, her mind whirring like a hard drive. Dead. Deceased. Departed. Lifeless. Gone. Late. Passed away. This was all she could think. Synonyms. She wanted to give him a riddle or just sit and talk and feel warm inside.
When they reached his room, a group of residents had congregated and Mrs. Howard asked Treha to help them. Treha looked inside as Mrs. Howard entered the room. The man was lying still in his bed with staff around him.
CHAPTER 10
AT A TIME like this, Miriam knew her two greatest allies were procedure and protocol. Everything that happened at Desert Gardens could be broken down to those two components. Fulfill the list of duties assigned and things would go more smoothly. Showing control and composure provided residents with comfort.
Treha stood by the door to Dr. Crenshaw’s room like a faithful dog waiting for its master. Miriam’s heart ached, but she had to focus. She put a hand to the man’s neck and felt a slight pulse. His eyes were fixed on some place on the ceiling, staring at infinity. His left side seemed to be wracked with spasms.
“We called the paramedics,” a nurse said.
“Good. Call Chaplain Calhoun as well. Ask him to come immediately.”
If she recalled correctly, Dr. Crenshaw had a son who had accompanied him years earlier. They would need to contact him too.
The paramedics arrived and took over, stabilizing Dr. Crenshaw and then lifting him onto a gurney. Miriam stepped into the hallway and put a hand on Treha’s shoulder as she stood with the residents watching the scene, too scared to ask questions. The girl’s eyes moved but there were no sobs. No contorted face. No tears.
