by Chris Fabry
“Treha, these things happen.”
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We’re not sure. The doctors will help him. It looks like he may have suffered a stroke.”
Miriam felt a shudder run through her as Jillian Millstone noiselessly entered the hallway. Her face also showed no emotion.
“There are two men here with camera equipment.” Millstone said it almost as an accusation. “They say they were here to talk with Dr. Crenshaw. Do you know about this?”
“That’s Devin and Jonah,” Miriam said. “I’ll speak with them.”
Millstone glanced at the residents gathered. “Shouldn’t we disperse the crowd?”
She spoke as if they were protesters at an illegal gathering or cattle too close to the killing floor.
“No, this is an important time. They need to know what’s happening.”
Miriam walked toward the exit and found the two men, Jonah shooting video of Dr. Crenshaw being wheeled to the waiting ambulance. She signaled to Devin that she would be right with him.
She returned to find even more residents spilling into the hallway near Dr. Crenshaw’s room. She knew each by name. Some hadn’t encountered paramedics yet; they were newer to the facility. Others were long-term and watched the proceedings as if anticipating the next moves of a running back.
She spoke loudly enough for them to hear but with a calm tone, the art of every good administrator. Show authority without being authoritarian. Sound the alarm without alarming.
“Everyone, please give me your attention. I have news about one of our friends.”
The people stood or sat like mannequins. This was like a reality show they watched on television except they couldn’t adjust the sound.
“Dr. Crenshaw became ill a few moments ago and the paramedics were called. He is in very good hands now.”
Miriam noticed Elsie with her wheeled walker, clutching a rolled-up paper towel that she dabbed at her nose.
“Is he dead?” Hemingway shouted from the back of the group.
“No, he has a strong pulse, and if I know Dr. Crenshaw, he will make it through this. He’s a fighter, and he’s been through many setbacks. I’ll call members of his family right away and let them know. Let’s keep him in our prayers.”
“What do you think happened?” Elsie said.
Miriam placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke softly. “I know how much he means to you.”
She nodded.
Miriam spoke again so all could hear. “I’m not sure. He may have had a stroke. We’ll just have to wait and see. As you know, getting the person treated quickly after a stroke is important. I don’t think we could have acted any quicker, so at this point we must leave things in God’s hands.”
There were tears in the hall and shaking heads and many far-off stares. A nurse relayed the news that the chaplain was on his way.
“I’ve asked Chaplain Calhoun to join us,” Miriam said. “If you would like to talk with him or just be in a quiet place, you can move to the chapel. He should be there shortly.”
“He’s such a dear man,” Elsie said, choking on the words. “I was just talking with him at breakfast.”
Elsie turned to Henry, half of the Lovebirds, who had wheeled himself down the hall to see the commotion. The man began to speak of deaths he had experienced in the war, in “the big one,” as he called it.
Miriam found Devin and Jonah, and both seemed shaken. The two had been shadows around Desert Gardens for months, recording residents, talking with the staff. Devin had first come because of his grandfather and, after the man died, continued his visits and interviews.
Miriam had wondered at first if Devin might be an opportunist, someone who preyed on the elderly, no different from contractors who promised a new roof or a paved driveway and then drove away with the down payment. But that fear was put to rest when he spent an hour in her office explaining his vision, in a seemingly unstoppable, passionate defense of his thesis about the power of stories and the interconnectedness of humanity. She couldn’t help catching his excitement. She had given them free rein after seeing some of his student work from the University of Arizona and talking to two of the references on his résumé, who had given glowing reports. And at a meeting with the residents, everyone voted in favor of letting them record their “movie.” Now they were recording not just the memories, but the dark side of the work, the loss.
“Did Dr. Crenshaw say why he wanted you to come?”
“He left a message. Said he had something important to say. A story that needed to be told.”
“They say timing is everything,” Jonah said. “Should I put the equipment away?”
“No,” Devin said. “You mentioned the chaplain was on his way. Could we record people’s reactions, from a distance? We won’t be intrusive. Maybe they want to talk about Dr. Crenshaw. What he means to them. We could use it at his memorial, if it comes to that.”
Miriam looked at Jillian Millstone, who was near the office on the phone. She put a hand on Devin’s shoulder. “Be discreet.”
She turned and saw Treha holding Elsie’s hands. The woman wept and Treha simply held on.
“This is going to be hard for the girl, isn’t it?” Devin said.
“You mean Treha?”
“Yeah, Dr. Crenshaw mentioned her. Said they spent a lot of time together. I’ve never spoken with her, though.”
“I’m sure it will be hard. But Treha will be a help to the residents. She’s quite gifted.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps we can talk later. If you’ll excuse me.”
Devin and Jonah stayed at Desert Gardens for two hours, asking people to tell them about Dr. Crenshaw. When Chaplain Calhoun arrived, they moved their equipment to the chapel and recorded the impromptu service. The man read several portions of Scripture to try to comfort the little flock and then spoke individually with residents.
Devin couldn’t help watching Treha. She stayed near Elsie the most, but she was like the flower petals and the old people were the bees. The girl was short and heavy, pear-shaped, with pale skin that was even more pale when compared with her dark scrubs. Her brown hair was pulled back so tightly that it seemed to draw her face upward, accentuating ears that jutted like an elf’s. She stared at the floor mostly. Or the walls. And there was a sway to her, a movement of the head and body like the world had become unstable and she was compensating.
She was the type of person you might see in a family photo and never notice. Not because she was hiding, just because she looked lost. An extra in one of life’s B movies. That was probably why Devin had never really noticed her before. He had seen her but never saw her.
Her tennis shoes remained untied, which was unnerving to him, but as she spoke with the residents in the chapel, Devin asked Jonah for the camera. From across the room he centered on the shoelaces and followed her around the room. Then he focused on her face—the dark eyebrows, the eyes the color of some exotic ocean, sparkling blue-green. Despite the extra weight, she had a square jaw and high cheekbones. No earrings, no studs, no jewelry of any kind.
The more he focused on her, the more uneasy he became, as if he were a voyeur. Something was missing with Treha. Something wasn’t quite right. And then it hit him. He hadn’t seen one smile. In fact, there was no emotion at all. She took in the grief and solemnity of the crowd, absorbing it, but showed none herself.
A cinder block of a woman walked past the chapel, dark shoes squeaking on shiny tile. She looked out of place, out of her element. Proper and collected as she passed the grieving, she paused and stared at Devin, then quickly walked toward him.
“You’re still here,” she said.
He wanted to affirm her powers of observation but just nodded, unsure how to answer.
“I was told you were leaving. I think it’s time.”
He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. “We have an agreement with Mrs. H
oward. We won’t be much longer.”
A scowl that tried to turn itself into a smile. There was something behind it, something powerful he couldn’t decipher. “We’ve had plenty of excitement for one day.”
She walked away and Devin lingered in the room, watching Treha, catching some of the conversation around him. Miriam had mentioned that Treha had a gift. The way old eyes came alive around her gave him an idea. And the more he watched, the more convinced he became.
Streams from Desert Gardens
scene 15
Wide shot of Chaplain Calhoun in the empty chapel, hands folded. A cappella voices singing a hymn underneath.
I don’t get paid for this—I wouldn’t accept it if they offered. I was pastor of a church nearby for many years and some of the people who live here now were in my congregation. I hold services each week and laugh with them when they have a birthday and cry with them when they lose someone they love. We walk through the pain together, sharing the comfort we’ve received.
Wide shot of Calhoun with residents, sitting in dining hall.
Growing older is not much fun. It’s the slowing down that gets to you. Elsie calls it “vigor mortis.” You just can’t do what you used to do, what you worked your entire life for. You try to arrive at some goal of rest or retirement. But contentment is what you crave, and that’s a funny thing. Most of us live decades trying to grasp it and we come close, but there’s always something in the future, something that spurs us to hope things will be different. That they’ll improve. And you miss so much when you’re caught in that struggle.
Handheld shots following Calhoun down the hallway, stepping into a room. Voice-over continues.
The people here know the truth. Old age teaches you in a very unkind way that things won’t necessarily get better. Not in this life. In fact, you can pretty much count on things degenerating.
Being content is not a lack of ambition. It’s being able to rest and relax and know your worth doesn’t come from what others think of you or even what you think of you.
Tight shot of Calhoun.
I had a friend who had a tumor. It shouldn’t have killed him—it was benign. It was where it was located next to his brain that made all the difference. If it hadn’t grown, he would still be alive. But it did grow.
The last weekend of his life, the family got together and took him to his favorite place, a cottage in the mountains. They all got in the hot tub and he sat there next to his wife and children. He could barely talk by then, but he whispered to her, “If I die tomorrow, I’ll die a happy man.”
And he did. The very next day he slipped away.
That’s what we’re longing for, no matter how old. That moment when we look around and can truly say, “I’m okay with this. No matter what happens, I’m more than okay. I accept it and I embrace it.”
That’s what I try to help the people here do. And the funny thing is, they’ve helped me more than I’ve helped them.
Fade to black.
CHAPTER 11
TREHA RODE HER BICYCLE in the dark, wishing she knew which hospital Dr. Crenshaw was in. She hadn’t asked and was sure they wouldn’t let her see him if she found him. They only let family members visit people in the hospital. That’s what she had heard. She imagined what it would be like, him lying there with tubes and machines hooked to him, and her gently touching him and waking him. Maybe tomorrow she would ask Mrs. Howard.
She wound her way home and pushed her bike up the stairs, into her one-bedroom apartment, and sat, listening to the bugs skitter among dirty dishes. The air-conditioning had stopped working the week before and simply blew tepid air. The only relief at night was to open the front door, which was not a good idea on this street.
She opened the freezer and ran her hand over the ice caking the walls. Like the surface of the moon. There was nothing there but an empty ice cube tray, so she left the door open. Some people ran their oven in the winter to warm themselves, or so she had read, so why couldn’t she cool her kitchen like this?
She stuck her head inside, breathing in the frigid air and letting it out to see her breath like in the movies where people walked in the moonlight. Maybe this was what it felt like in a morgue. When the blood stopped, did the skin get this cold?
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator. Sliced cheese. A few eggs and wilted kale and flaccid carrots. She wasn’t hungry anyway.
The events of the day roiled like thunderheads and her fingers typed on ice and her eyes moved. She could feel it building, something inside.
If she had checked on Dr. Crenshaw earlier instead of just standing around, she might have saved him.
She turned to her unmade bed in the next room, her cover gnarled like a snake. Behind it was the closet with empty hangers, skeletal in appearance, dangling over the full hamper. She needed to change scrubs but none were clean.
She glanced at the corner, the books on the shelf she had assembled herself. There were some from the library, a few she couldn’t return because they meant so much, and some she had bought at Goodwill or the thrift store. Books were friends and pages were scenes of lives she would never experience except through paragraphs. Letters and white space that deciphered life. Riddles and romance and mysteries of the heart. She picked one and put it under her arm, then grabbed the hamper. At least the Laundromat was air-conditioned.
Treha jammed her clothes into a mesh bag and put the book inside, then pulled the drawstring tight and slung it over her shoulder. She closed the freezer and rummaged in a kitchen drawer for spare change, coming up with enough quarters for the washer and dryer. She hoped.
The laundry was awkward, so she left her bike. She locked the door and carried the sack to the decaying stairs. Concrete that was new in the 1980s was now cracked and brittle.
Halfway down the steps, she heard the familiar click and pop of gum in a child’s mouth and caught the aroma of lemon as strong as furniture polish. Lightning Lemonade. Bubblicious mixed with the heat of the evening, and she stopped, wondering if she might avoid him.
“Is that you, Miss Treha?” came the voice. High-pitched but tinged with oncoming hormones.
Treha descended and peered between the stairs, yellow light bleeding through and marsupial eyes watching her. She took a deep breath.
“Going to the Laundromat?” the boy said.
“How did you guess?”
The boy laughed and bounced into the light, hands and arms hanging on everything he could touch, leaning and twisting in the night.
“You’re funny,” the boy said. “I knowed you was going to the Laundromat as soon as I heard you come out. Sure came home late tonight.”
He pulled a high-intensity flashlight from a pocket and nearly blinded her when he clicked it on.
“Turn that off. Where did you get that?”
He nodded across the street. “Liquor store.” It came out “licka stow.”
“And where did you get the money, Gavroche?”
He pointed it at the ground and turned it off, his face fully in the yellow streetlight. Ten years old. Maybe eleven. Round head, the size of a basketball. Hershey-colored skin. Short hair, down to the very nub of the scalp, and teeth so white they flashed like a beacon. He wasn’t from Arizona; she knew that. He talked with anyone who would pay attention and it was clear he was too trusting.
“My name ain’t Gavroche. Why do you call me that?”
She didn’t answer.
“You shouldn’t come out here without a flashlight, Miss Treha. You never know what’s gonna be crawling around in the desert—that’s what my daddy said. It’s almost October, but critters are still out.”
“This is the city.”
“Just because there’s concrete don’t mean things can’t crawl. I heard snakes like to lay on the slabs at night to get warm. I’ll go with you.”
“Stay here and wait for your mother.”
“She don’t get off till eleven. Plus, my daddy said you should never let a lady go out alone after dark.
If he was here, he’d walk you to the Laundromat. I know he would.”
Treha kept walking, hoping the indifference would discourage him.
“My name’s not Gavroche; it’s Du’Relle. You know that, Miss Treha. Why you call me that?” He had the flashlight on and was moving it back and forth in front of them on the sidewalk, jiggling it so much it made her head hurt.
“Because you remind me of him.”
“He somebody you know?”
“No, he’s a character in a book.”
“Oh, I get it. The book in the laundry bag?”
“No, from another book. You wouldn’t know it.”
“Try me. I mighta read it. My mama reads to me at night sometimes late after she gets home. If I can stay awake.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t know the book.”
“Well, what’s he like? Is he handsome? Does he turn into a superhero?”
“It’s not that kind of story.”
“That’s what I want to be when I grow up. Captain America. But not the Hulk. I mean, I’d be okay with smashing stuff, but I don’t think I’d want to split my pants every time I had to save the world. I don’t see how he keeps his pants on if he grows that big, do you? Your underwear probably wouldn’t come off because there’s elastic in it, but I guess you can’t show superheroes in their underwear in a comic book or parents will boycott it.”
They were silent for half a block, Du’Relle smacking the gum. Finally he said, “What kind of story is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“The one with Gavroche. Is it the kind where there’s animals? Because my teacher read one to us last year about this boy and he saved up his money for a long time and sent it off and there were these two dogs that came on a train he taught to chase rabbits and coons and it was a sad ending—I won’t spoil it, but I just about bawled my eyes out.”
“Where the Red Fern Grows.”
“That’s it! You read it? Man, that was the saddest book I ever heard. But it felt kinda good at the same time, you know? Like you was hunting all night with the boy in the story or sleeping in the woods. I guess you have to wade through the sad parts to see what happens, but I swear if I woulda wrote that, I’d have stopped before . . . you know, the blood and guts.”
