by Chris Fabry
Elsie launched into a poem about Miriam that she had worked on for several months. Miriam was captivated by the power of the old woman’s words. Elsie included a healthy dose of spiritual fervor, getting in several mentions of Jesus and how Miriam had been his hands and feet. Miriam smiled, watching the reactions of some who were not as spiritually attuned as Elsie, as well as others who nodded and drank in her words. This was vintage Elsie. It was like watching a geyser spout, a naturally reoccurring phenomenon. Elsie also managed to work Miriam’s mother into her soliloquy, which made Miriam tear up. The woman had been such good friends with her mother during her stay.
Miriam spotted Charlie in the corner, eating a piece of cake and watching the festivities like he was looking for the stock crawl. His head bobbed from his carrot cake to whoever was talking.
When it was over, when the words had all been spoken and the people shuffled back to their rooms and staff members came to store the sound system and fold chairs, Charlie came to her.
“That was some send-off, wasn’t it?”
She smiled. “It was, but I can’t find Treha.”
“Who?”
“Treha, the girl I’ve told you about.”
He motioned with a finger. “The one with the eyes? I think I saw her at the end of the hall. Looked like she was cleaning the floor.”
Miriam found her doing exactly that, and Treha kept working as Miriam spoke. “I missed you at the party. Did you get cake?”
She shook her head.
“Treha, what’s wrong? Why won’t you look at me?”
Head still down. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone.”
“Who told you that?”
“Ms. Millstone. I tried to do what you said and make a connection. She was going to fire me and then said I had to do my job and stop talking to people.”
Miriam wanted to curse but thought better of it. She also wanted to grab Jillian Millstone by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
“How are you getting home tonight?” she said.
“Walking, I guess.”
“No. Charlie and I will give you a ride. I just need to check on a few things and call the hospital about Dr. Crenshaw. Your shift ends in thirty minutes, right?”
The girl nodded at the floor and kept scrubbing. Miriam wanted to rip into Millstone, but on the walk to the office, she cooled. A confrontation would probably only make things worse for Treha.
Miriam located her last boxes of books and office material in the hall and asked Charlie to load them, which he dutifully did. She stepped into the office, taking in what Millstone had done. Her footprints weren’t even out the front door and the paint was fresh on the walls. She scanned the immaculately decorated room, the muted lighting, felt the thick carpeting underfoot and wondered why she hadn’t done this long ago. She had cared too much about the bottom line, the cost of something so extravagant.
The only thing out of place in the room was in the corner behind the door, three full boxes. She recognized the clock and Dr. Crenshaw’s framed medical license, his diplomas, and his patented brown slippers. Everyone chided him about how worn those had become.
Millstone’s actions were against protocol, cleaning out a resident’s room before it was time, and Miriam wanted to educate the woman on the rules she obviously didn’t understand. Unless she knew something Miriam didn’t. A wild thought raced through her mind and she glanced toward Millstone’s desk to see if there was a call slip from the hospital or some other communication about Dr. Crenshaw’s condition.
She saw nothing but lingered near the door as the contents of the third box caught her eye. Neatly packed to the brim were word puzzles and spiral notebooks one on top of another. Behind the books were manila file folders pushed tightly together. She saw one titled Taxes, another that said Life Insurance, and another that said Investments.
She opened a folder titled Memories and saw loose pictures of the man’s childhood. Black-and-white photographs of his unmistakable smile. He had a sheepish grin and a way of holding his head that had followed him through life. She put the photos back and returned the file to the box. And noticed another with the heading Treha.
Miriam’s heart skipped a beat. Crenshaw had taken an interest in the girl, but what could he be keeping in a file about her? Perhaps notes about her mental prowess, how many seconds it took her to unscramble words? She opened the folder and peeked inside. There were several pages filled with Dr. Crenshaw’s scrawl. Toward the back were more official-looking papers, like medical records.
“May I help you?” someone said behind her.
Miriam closed the folder and turned to see Jillian Millstone.
“I was just saying good-bye to the old place. I noticed Dr. Crenshaw’s things here. Have you heard anything more about his condition?”
“No, but I’m assuming from how he was when he left that he won’t be returning.”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit premature?”
“Perhaps it is, but I don’t see that it’s your concern now, Mrs. Howard. You’re off duty.”
“Well, you don’t just walk away from someone you’ve had a relationship with for years.”
“Maybe that would be best for you. Let go. Move on with your life. I’m sure you’ll find a . . . hobby.”
Miriam gritted her teeth. The audacity. The woman was so clinical. Go by the numbers. What Miriam had tried so hard to make into a community, Millstone would turn into a warehouse in a week.
“The protocol for personal belongings is that—”
“I’m aware of the rule, Mrs. Howard. This is not your concern any longer.” She took a step forward. “You’ve had a good run here. We’ll take care of things now.”
Miriam stared at the woman. There was something dead in her eyes. Some spark that hadn’t come about or had withered long ago. She tried to shake it off but couldn’t.
“I want to make one more appeal on behalf of Treha,” Miriam said.
Millstone smiled. “Please don’t. You’re free; don’t you understand? These people are in good hands. Walk out that door and rest peacefully. You’re not responsible.”
“There’s a folder here with Treha’s name on it . . .” Before Miriam could finish, before she could even ask, Jillian Millstone put a cold hand on her arm.
“Let it go, Miriam.”
The sound of her first name made Miriam want to dry heave. She looked back at the box, then quickly made her way out of the office and down the hall.
CHAPTER 16
MIRIAM WAS STILL reeling from the encounter with Millstone when they walked into Sizemore’s on Oracle Avenue.
Charlie had shrugged when Miriam suggested they take Treha and said, “Might as well keep the party going.” But she knew he would care about the money, how much he would have to pay for Treha’s meal.
Walking into the restaurant felt like giving up.
The place was not so much crowded as bunched in the line to the buffet. As they worked their way through, someone behind them said, “Mind if we join you?”
Miriam turned to see Devin and Jonah smiling sheepishly.
“We kind of followed you. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. The more the merrier,” she said, looking at Charlie and seeing the questions about who would pay spin in his brain.
The five worked through the buffet line, Treha staying close to Miriam. Then they sat at a circular wooden table and threw out small talk about the party and Miriam’s final day. Treha ate with her head down, barely looking up from her plate of salad and chicken that she’d arranged meticulously, not allowing one to touch the other. Devin seemed fascinated by her.
Miriam told them she had called the hospital and Dr. Crenshaw was still clinging to life, but the test results hadn’t given any good news. He was resting comfortably. Her guess was that this was as good as he would get, but she didn’t reveal this.
“What are you going t
o do with all your free time, Mrs. Howard?” Jonah said. He had two glasses of soda in front of him and a plate that looked like a gastronomic Everest. She guessed Charlie would say something about Jonah “getting his money’s worth” on the drive home.
“Keeping Charlie in line will be a full-time job,” Miriam said, glancing at him. Charlie didn’t break stride with his corn on the cob. “I have some volunteer work I may do at TMC. I might write a book about my experiences at Desert Gardens.”
“I’d read it,” Devin said.
There was an awkward silence until Jonah said, “The reason we followed you is because of our project.” His face turned grim. “If you hadn’t intervened, I don’t think Millstone would have let us in the door. But now I think we’re done.”
Treha looked at him, then back at her plate.
“What were you doing over there in the first place?” Charlie said.
Jonah motioned with a french fry toward Devin, who wiped his mouth.
“I’m a big believer in the power of stories. Individual and collective. We were capturing people at Desert Gardens rehearsing their lives, showing how one person’s story touches another and how it feeds the rest of us, makes us better. Instead of discounting those on the margins, those our society says aren’t important, we need to celebrate their stories. Ask more questions. Learn and grow and honor them.”
Charlie cocked his head. “That’s it? You’ve been working on old people’s stories? Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”
Miriam gave him a look, which he didn’t see.
“A documentary is an organic thing.”
“So’s a cucumber, but you still have to plant it. You don’t have a script? You can’t just record people talking. I mean, how do you know when you’re done?”
“Good question,” Jonah said, making it to base camp three.
“What we’re doing is different,” Devin said. “The script is life observed. We look for story lines and drama in the everyday.”
Charlie scowled. “I get up every day and brush my teeth, but that would make a boring movie. Why not shoot people painting a wall? In the end, at least you’d have a wall painted.”
“That’s our next film,” Jonah said, deadpan. “It’s a thriller. We’re calling it Dry Hard.”
Charlie didn’t smile, didn’t get the joke. He picked a piece of corn from his teeth and said, “Who wants to watch old geezers? The whole reason we put people away is because we don’t care about their stories. We don’t want to hear them.”
“Charles,” Miriam said.
“It’s true. I don’t want it to be true, but it is. We don’t want to see them, so we pay other people to care for them. So they won’t be in our way, hold us back.”
Miriam reached out to touch him, but he pulled back. She saw it then, just as starkly as she saw it at Desert Gardens. It wasn’t just in the gray hair and stooped shoulders or the wrinkles or shuffling feet, in the canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. Age showed most in the eyes, in the hunched-over inability to see or perhaps to even look. Set and immovable. Veins and yellowing of the whites. The color of the irises faded too. She remembered Charlie’s eyes vibrant blue as the ocean. Now they were dull puddles, graying just like the sky and his hair.
“It’s okay,” Devin said. “But, Charlie, you’re making my point. My thesis is we don’t realize what we’re shutting out, what we’re losing. Our hope is, by creating a film like this, it will awaken people.”
Charlie took a sip of coffee and shook his head. “I’m not seeing it. I appreciate your concept. I applaud it. Not many young people would go to the trouble. But who’s going to watch? And how do you know—? You could collect stories from now till kingdom come and not know you’re done.”
Jonah held up a pudgy hand as if he wanted the floor. “A few years ago, a group decided to make a documentary about firefighters in a New York engine company. A guy was going to shoot a day in the life of these men. The fresh rookie right out of the academy, the grizzled veteran who’d seen it all. They just happened to be shooting on September 11 when the call came in about the North Tower being on fire. They didn’t plan any of what happened. But you can bet they knew when they were finished that they had something riveting. Something amazingly human and tragic.”
“You’re saying you’re waiting for a terrorist attack at Desert Gardens?” Charlie said, eyebrows raised.
Jonah smiled and grabbed the nearly empty bottle of Heinz and patted it until some spilled onto the plate.
Devin continued, his eyes on fire. “We’ve followed several residents and the changes they’ve been through in the past few months. Dr. Crenshaw was one of them—we have interviews with him going way back. Elsie is another. And we’ve talked with you, Mrs. Howard. I thought several times that the hook to bring all of this together was you—your transition to retirement.”
Miriam gave him a startled look.
“It’s true. The residents are watching you handle this change. They know there’s something unfair here. They’re so attached to you and they can’t understand this switch to Millstone, who is less than warm.”
“She’s as warm as this pudding,” Charlie said.
“This is the thread that runs through the stories: handling change, taking what life throws at you, responding with grace, fighting back when you have to, or being content. Knowing things might not get better. And that they’re probably going to go downhill. I wanted to follow these threads, but if we have no access to Desert Gardens, we have to go another direction.”
He glanced at Treha, who seemed in another world. Her head swayed as she ate, and Charlie was studying her typing fingers. Then she looked around the room and rose.
“The restroom is straight to the back,” Miriam said, and Treha headed for it.
As soon as she left, Devin leaned forward. “I’m sorry we horned in on dinner tonight, but I wanted to broach something with you. I’m not sure . . .”
“Go ahead,” Miriam said.
“I’ve been thinking. What if our focus is something else? Someone else?”
“Who?” Miriam said, following his eyes toward the bathroom. “Treha?”
“That might be a short movie,” Charlie said. “Without much emotion.”
Miriam studied Devin. “What are you thinking?”
“You mentioned her gift. I think I saw it in the chapel. What if we captured her calling someone back? What if we told her story?”
Miriam put down her fork. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Several reasons. I won’t see her exploited, for one. And if you were to catch what she’s able to do on video, you’d have the whole world knocking at her door.”
“Exactly,” Devin said. “This would be big.”
“But you’d change everything. You’d change her. She couldn’t handle that.”
“How do you know?”
“What are you two talking about?” Charlie said.
Miriam held up a hand to him, a signal she hoped he would interpret.
“If you’ve trusted us with the residents at Desert Gardens, why wouldn’t you trust us with her?” Devin said.
“She’s different. You show Treha in action and that will go viral. You’ll turn her into a cliché, a video of an idiot savant. I won’t have that. She’ll be invited onto TV shows and hounded by desperate family members. You’ll kill the thing that makes her special.”
Devin sat back and gave a puzzled look. “I know you feel responsible and that you care, but what if she wants to do this? What if she wants to tell her history, how this gift came to her?”
“She doesn’t know,” Miriam said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she doesn’t know her history.”
“Time-out,” Jonah said. “I’m with Charlie. What does Treha do?”
“She brings people back,” Devin said. “Dementia, Alzheimer’s patients—she makes a connection and gets them talking again.”
&
nbsp; “You’ve seen this?” Jonah said to Miriam.
Miriam nodded.
Jonah rubbed the stubble on his chin. “If you’re worried about people discovering her identity, we can make her anonymous. Block her face or blur the image. Change her voice, her name. Shoot from behind her. There are all kinds of things we can do.”
“But if you can’t go back to Desert Gardens, what’s the point?” Charlie said.
Devin glanced at the bathroom and leaned closer. “Maybe she’s been the story all along. All this footage has prepared us for her story. Where she came from. How she developed her gift. And we meet someone with dementia or Alzheimer’s.”
Jonah gestured wildly, suddenly fully engaged. “What about Crenshaw? That would be the perfect bookend—we interviewed him, we saw him wheeled away, and Treha could wake him up. Does she do comas?”
Miriam was glad someone was interested in Treha, but not this way. She felt protective of the girl and had questions of her own. Questions about Dr. Crenshaw’s file and the man named Davidson. “I don’t think Dr. Crenshaw will be returning.”
When she said it, she knew from their faces that Treha was there, that she had heard. Treha sat, glancing around the table, wary.
“Think I’ll get a little dessert,” Charlie said, scooting back from the table. “Got my eye on that banana cream pie.”
“Yeah, I’ll join you,” Jonah said.
Miriam looked at Devin and tried to communicate. She couldn’t allow something as pure and innocent as Treha to be used.
They finished the meal and Charlie paid the bill. Devin said he would leave the tip and Charlie let him.
As they exited, Devin put a hand on Miriam’s shoulder and pressed a business card in her hand. “Please think about it,” he whispered. “I really want the best for her.”
Charlie drove them to Treha’s apartment and the girl got out without thanking them for dinner or the ride. Just walked up the stairs.
