Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  “You’ve been talking to me all this time while you’re driving to her apartment?”

  “No, I’m at Miriam Howard’s place. Treha’s staying there for some reason.”

  “I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t—you love me. And you’re going to love what happens with this. You’re going to read a long, flowing tribute to me one day at the Academy Awards and tell me how much my friendship and mentoring have meant to you and how you would never have realized your dream without my tutelage.”

  “Tutelage?”

  “Trust me.”

  “We’re going to get shot.”

  “No, we’re not. Be ready in forty-five.”

  Devin rang the doorbell and Mrs. Howard answered. Charlie was behind her with a coffee mug in hand. He raised it and nodded, which felt like as much communication as Devin would get from Treha for the next two hours.

  Mrs. Howard stepped outside and closed the door behind her. “I’m concerned, Devin. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Or you.”

  The world was suddenly filled with nervous Nellies. They hadn’t been concerned about her riding a bike to work through gang-infested neighborhoods, but an old man in Scottsdale was going to be her undoing.

  “I understand. Believe me, I won’t take any chances with Davidson.”

  The woman pursed her lips. “I’m looking into her past and some things are becoming clearer. Not all of it is rosy. Some of it’s disturbing.”

  “Disturbing?”

  “Treha looks innocent, an agent of good in a bad world. But a tame tiger is fine until it gets angry or hungry. Or both.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think we’re dealing with someone neither of us understands.”

  “You think she’ll go Stephen King on me? You know, start a fire or tip over buckets of blood?”

  She didn’t understand the reference. “I’m just telling you to be careful. She’s been in a stable environment and I think that’s why she hasn’t regressed.”

  Devin wanted to ask what regressed meant, what Miriam had uncovered, but the tiger opened the door and stepped out in her scrubs. She didn’t look at Devin, just headed for his car.

  “I think I should go with you,” Miriam said.

  “We have room, if you don’t mind equipment at your feet.”

  “No,” Treha said. “I want to do this alone.”

  Miriam was going to respond, but Treha opened the passenger door, got inside, and buckled.

  “You want me to bring her back here?” Devin said.

  Miriam nodded. “Call me. Tell me what happens.”

  Devin got in the car and prepared for the silence. He reached for the radio but was surprised when Treha spoke.

  “Tell me about Mr. Davidson.”

  Devin described him, the house, the neighborhood, his gun—everything he could remember. Treha drank in the information.

  “The trick will be getting him to trust us. And maybe you’ll have more luck.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “Yes. Dementia, perhaps. Paranoia. Talking about the government. He’s not drooling yet, but he’s close. He may be a black-helicopter conspiracy theorist. Wouldn’t surprise me if he leaned that way.”

  “Black helicopters?”

  “It’s how some deal with uncertainty. They make up theories about water contamination and that Wi-Fi is bombarding us with hidden messages. They think the government attacks citizens and starts earthquakes and floods.”

  “So he spoke with you.”

  “If you can call it that. I wouldn’t classify it as a conversation, per se. It was more like me saying hello and him giving the theory of relativity. In Swahili.” A pause as Devin pondered how much to tell. “He brought a pistol to the car. Waved it around and said I was harassing him. I understood that part.”

  Devin tried to keep his mind on the road but the questions were getting to him. A sign straight ahead said Photo Enforcement.

  “Why are you helping me?” she said. “Why are you going to this trouble?”

  A light flashed in his rearview and he cursed under his breath. He didn’t need another Tucson traffic ticket.

  “I have a theory, Treha. Things happen for a purpose. People meet, they come together at just the right time. If you’re paying attention, good things come. I’m looking for an opportunity to watch you break through to someone like Miriam says you can. I have a good feeling about you and Davidson. We’re picking up my camera guy, Jonah, and then we’ll head to Scottsdale.” He leaned over and opened the glove compartment. “In the meantime, here’s some paperwork. It’s a release form that says we can film you, interview you, and use the material we get.”

  She looked at the pages, her head swaying. “I can’t read this in a moving car.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. We can talk about it later.”

  “Is there payment?”

  The question took him aback. His first thought was how Jonah would kill him if he offered this girl money.

  “We’re actually not fully funded right now, but as soon as we start the editing process, I’m expecting investors to come alongside.” Not sure who that might be, but it sounds good.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said.

  “How much do you want?”

  “How much do you pay someone in a documentary?”

  “I don’t think people usually get paid—I mean, we could work out a percentage after we recoup our initial investment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means if you invest your time with us now, you’ll get paid back later if the movie is a success.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  They pulled up to Jonah’s house and parked. “Jonah is a little sensitive about the money thing right now. So let’s not talk about that on the way.”

  She looked at him with those wandering eyes and for a moment Devin wondered what he had gotten himself into. Was there any way this girl could salvage his business, his movie, his dreams?

  Jonah got in and put the camera equipment beside him.

  “Got everything?” Devin said.

  “Oh yeah, camera, batteries, memory card, bulletproof vest—I think I’m set.”

  CHAPTER 25

  MIRIAM WATCHED Devin and Treha drive away, feeling she had lost something. The emptiness wasn’t just that Treha was gone; it was more. She went for a walk, then halfway down the block turned around and came back to the house and dialed the number Vivian had given her the day before.

  Sharon Gavineau had a pleasant voice, but she was all business and seemed standoffish when she realized Miriam was asking about a past client.

  “I understand the rules of confidentiality,” Miriam said. “But I have a young lady here, Treha Langsam, who has no idea where she came from. Vivian Hansen thought you might be able to put some pieces of the puzzle together.”

  Her response was firm but kind. “I remember Treha. I knew if anyone could help her, Vivian and Jake could. I’m glad to hear she’s progressed and is able to be on her own. But as far as her puzzle goes, I’m afraid I don’t have information. I don’t have pieces . . . I don’t even have the box. I applaud you for wanting to help, though.”

  “Is there someone you can suggest?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Howard.”

  Miriam hung up. Another closed door. She decided to go on and not think about Treha, not try to play bloodhound on the trail of her past.

  She went to Treha’s room. The girl had packed an overnight bag. Literally, a plastic bag from Ross with drawstrings. One pair of scrubs lay on the floor, and another in the bag. Both the same color as the pair she’d worn to Scottsdale.

  Miriam picked up the dirty clothes and was thinking of washing them when she noticed something in the morning sunlight. Treha had left her apartment key on the dresser. A single key on a lanyard that said Arizona Wildcats. She put the clothes in the washer with another load and returned. Farther down in the bag she found a clean p
air of socks and underwear and at the bottom a copy of Jane Eyre with a $1 Goodwill sticker. She sat on the bed and opened to the bookmark, about halfway through. There were underlined passages and dog-eared pages. She couldn’t tell if this was Treha’s work or the previous owner’s, but the book moved her. Such a lonely girl reading about an orphan passed from family to family, looking for her place in the world.

  Inaction bred hopelessness, so Miriam put the book at the bottom of the bag and dialed the hospital. Ardeth Williams had made a turn for the better, it sounded like, and the hip surgery had gone well, though it would be a long rehab. She spoke with Ardeth’s daughter, who was glad for the change but disgruntled with Desert Gardens. Miriam couldn’t blame her and told her how sorry she was about what had happened.

  The on-duty nurse in ICU said Dr. Crenshaw’s condition had not changed, and Miriam could tell from her voice that she had very little hope he would ever awaken. His son was there, or had been, and they were simply waiting for the inevitable.

  Through the wall Miriam heard the telltale voices of financial wizards giving opinions about the market. Like the weather forecasters who predicted sunshine, unless there were clouds and rain. It all seemed endless, a financial merry-go-round that never changed, never went anywhere, just kept going up and down and round and round, and she wanted to get off, wanted Charlie to get off and walk in the real world rather than the world of numbers.

  She tried to lose herself in the news of the day, checking her computer, but all she found was useless information about celebrities breaking up or getting back together or a child swallowing a Civil War medallion alongside other reports of genocide and human trafficking. As if all of those were equal.

  She wound up on Facebook, which felt equally empty. Smiling people who had met for coffee or dinner having a wonderful time at the beach or the mountains. Pictures of weddings and graduations, children and grandchildren and puppies. Facebook was an online billboard that only reinforced the pain of her life, the truth of her loneliness.

  As much as Miriam tried to think of something else, Treha kept coming. She felt confident that uncovering the truth would help the girl. Discover the past and it would eventually unveil the future. Dr. Crenshaw had somehow found her, so why couldn’t Miriam? From the conversations with Vivian and Sharon, it was clear the hoops through which Treha had jumped in the foster care system were now closed, the information hidden. So what was the next logical place? She could return to Desert Gardens and paw through Jillian Millstone’s office . . . No, she couldn’t do that.

  The next logical source was Treha herself. Perhaps the girl possessed information she didn’t realize, couldn’t decipher. Records she had in the apartment. Clues. Perhaps Treha was hiding from herself. Perhaps she really didn’t want to know her past.

  Miriam couldn’t invade the girl’s space any more than she could waltz into Desert Gardens. She couldn’t intrude without asking. Pilfering wasn’t ethical or loving. It would be a breach of trust. If Treha ever discovered it . . . what would she do? Pout? She never showed emotion. Except in the past, if Vivian and the foster care documents were right.

  She walked to Charlie’s door and peeked in. He was staring at the computer screen, feet up on the desk. Across the room, mounted on the wall, was a TV perfectly placed where he could watch both at the same time with a simple head tilt. She wanted him to talk her out of the trip. Talk some sense into her.

  She decided the risk was worth it. Treha would never know. And besides, she wasn’t doing this selfishly; she was doing it for the girl. To help her.

  Miriam grabbed her purse and drove to Treha’s apartment, turning the radio up loud and trying to drown the guilt with music from the eighties. She sang along as loudly as she could, remembering the feelings the lyrics stirred. But the guilt returned when she parked, and a bigger twinge overcame her as she walked up the concrete stairs and heard a pitter of feet behind her. Du’Relle.

  “Treha’s not here,” the boy said.

  She tried to think quickly. How could she get him away from the apartments? Perhaps send him on an errand to a store. Anything to keep him from seeing her enter the apartment. Anything to give her enough time to search.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” she said.

  “I’m sick today.”

  “You don’t sound sick.”

  “You can ask my mama. She told me I should stay home.”

  “Well, if your mother says you’re sick, then I suppose you are.”

  “We got bad news.”

  Now he was engaging her, leaning against the railing, feeling with both hands along the metal, reaching out for something. She didn’t want to encourage him, but she couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Is that so?”

  “My daddy’s not coming home no more.”

  This stopped her. She studied his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. Where is he?”

  “He’s over in ’ghanistan. But he’s not coming back. These men in uniform came here last night and I told them Mama was at work. I knew he had died, but they wouldn’t tell me. She says they’re having a funeral and we get to keep a flag.”

  Miriam’s knees gave way and she sat on the stairs. “You poor thing.” She was at eye level now, and there was no emotion on his face.

  “They told Mama last night at work but she didn’t tell me till I got up this morning.” He pointed at the apartment behind him, on the bottom level. “She’s in there crying.”

  Miriam didn’t know what to say. It was clear the boy was in pain but was more worried about his mother than himself. He was hanging on the railing, almost to the point of falling, it seemed, and she wanted to grab him and hug him and take the hurt away. Like she had done with her own mother. But the hurt was there no matter how hard she hugged, no matter how much she loved or cared. She could only hope to soothe it and make it a bit more bearable. This was the equation of pain: doing the work alone is unequal and impossible. There must be team lifting, like they suggest for appliances.

  “I thought they was going to split up,” Du’Relle continued. “I thought that was the worst that could happen, them getting a divorce. Then I woke up today. I asked her why he had to die and she said we can’t know the answers to some questions, that only God does.”

  “Your mother’s right again,” she said.

  Miriam looked at her purse and thought of Treha’s key. Somehow getting inside the apartment didn’t seem as important. And then she thought of what Devin had said about stories intertwining with each other and what we learn about ourselves from hearing others’ stories. Was it enough to listen? Was there a response required?

  “What does your mother like to eat?” Miriam said. “If she could have anything she wanted, what would it be?”

  “I expect if she could have anything, it would be her mother’s fried chicken, but you’d have to fly to North Carolina to get that. Around here, I’d say she likes Chinese. There’s a little place over that way that we go to sometimes on Sundays because they have this special and you get an egg roll with your fried rice or whatever. But we haven’t been there in a while.”

  “What’s her favorite dish?”

  “Mama, she likes the kung fu chicken, but I like chicken fried rice. With that sweet red sauce they make. I pour that over it.”

  Miriam smiled at the boy’s mistake, but she couldn’t stifle the emptiness she felt for his loss. This day would mark the rest of his life. How would he remember it? His mother’s tears? Waking to news of his father’s death?

  She put a hand on his head, cradled his cheek, and told him what a brave young man he was and that it was okay to cry if he needed to.

  “I already done that, but I figure I’ll wait till Mama goes to work to finish.”

  “What time does she leave?”

  He told her, adding that his mother worked the evening shift.

  Miriam told him to go back to his mother and sit with her. She would return soon with some lunch for them.

  She foun
d the Chinese restaurant in the general direction he had pointed, just a little hole-in-the-wall place with a few tables and a view of the kitchen occupied by a thin man wearing a dirty white apron and a disposable paper hat that should have been disposed of weeks ago. She ordered the fried rice, kung pao chicken, egg rolls, and then something for herself. She absently handed her credit card to the woman behind the register without hearing the total, signed the receipt, added a tip, and waited a few minutes for the brown bag.

  Du’Relle was nowhere in sight when Miriam returned. She thought of leaving the feast by the door. Then panic struck and she wondered if the boy might have lied. Perhaps his father would come to the door and she’d feel duped. Or he was just making up the story to cover his truancy.

  She knocked on the door and a middle-aged woman opened it a few inches, just enough for Miriam to see her dark complexion and red eyes.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “I was speaking with Du’Relle earlier and he told me of your loss. I’m so sorry.”

  The door opened a little wider.

  “I’m friends with Treha, who lives upstairs.”

  The woman looked at the brown bag, then back at Miriam’s face. “What did Du’Relle tell you?”

  “About your husband. I brought this for you. For lunch. I know you may not feel like eating, but you can refrigerate it.”

  The woman held out a hand. “I’m Samantha. Come on in.”

  Du’Relle appeared behind her and looked at the bag, then retreated to the kitchen.

  Samantha took the bag from Miriam. “This is kind of you. You don’t even know us.”

  “I know enough,” she said. She touched the woman on the shoulder and forced a smile.

  “Please, stay and eat with us. If you’re a friend of Treha’s, you’re a friend of ours.”

  Miriam smiled and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 26

  TREHA LISTENED to the two men banter as they drove toward Scottsdale. Jonah sounded truly fearful of Davidson. Devin was acting like the brave one, but she could tell he was also uncomfortable. She closed her eyes when Devin chose some music. She hadn’t slept well at Mrs. Howard’s house and the music and the noise of the road lulled her.