Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  “I can feel it. Unplug it. Quickly. Don’t just turn it off; unplug it from the outlet. They have ways of monitoring you can’t begin to imagine.”

  Charlie went to a cabinet in the kitchen to show Davidson the wireless router and unplugged it. Miriam offered to make them something to eat, but Davidson waved her off. “We’re not hungry.”

  “I’m starving,” Jonah said. “I’ll take anything. A piece of bread. Moldy cheese.”

  “I have no idea how much time we have, but we can eat later. Set up your camera. We need to get started.”

  “I’ll make you something while you prepare,” Miriam said, putting a hand on Jonah’s shoulder. “What’s the urgency, Mr. Davidson?” she said as she opened the refrigerator.

  “The urgency is I won’t be here much longer. And the truth, what Jim was talking about in that letter, what we’ve covered for so long, needs to be told.” He turned to Treha. “She needs to be told.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re part of this. More than you know.”

  Jonah fitted the old man with a microphone, running it behind him and up through his shirt so the black cord wouldn’t be visible. The wireless microphone was still clipped on Treha’s scrubs. Miriam placed a sandwich near Jonah while he focused the camera, and as soon as it was running, he wolfed it.

  “We’re rolling,” Jonah said through the sandwich.

  “All right, where should I begin?” Davidson said.

  Something took over that Treha couldn’t explain. An inner sense, a knowing that she needed to ease the man into the truth.

  “Tell me about your health. Are you sick?” she said.

  “Do I look ill?”

  “What about medication? Have you been prescribed anything?”

  “Is there anyone my age who isn’t on medication? That’s part of the problem.”

  He sounded agitated, scattered. She tried to bring him to himself. “Tell me about your childhood. When were you born?”

  He pursed his lips and looked at the floor. “I was born in 1932. My mother had complications after birth. The doctor was not skilled or perhaps was not as interested in a poor woman. Two months later she died.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were reciting the names of the presidents or the capitals of all fifty states.

  “I was passed around in the community, a small town in northern Ohio, to whatever nursing mother was available. It wasn’t such a bad deal getting all that attention from so many women. But as a child there was a void. A missing piece.”

  “Your mother.”

  “Yes, and my father, too. He took my mother’s death very hard. He retreated. From life. He worked hard but wasn’t home much.” Telling this seemed to calm him a little, relax his muscles.

  “What did your father do?”

  “He worked at a mill. He tried farming, but the weather would take out a crop and you were left with nothing. There was work in the mines to the south, but he knew that would kill him. The mill was dangerous but you didn’t have to climb into the earth for a paycheck every two weeks.”

  “Did he blame you?”

  “For what?”

  “Your mother’s death.”

  He waved a hand. “No, I don’t think so. It must have occurred to him that I was the reason he no longer had a wife, but I don’t think he held back his love for me because of that.”

  “Do you know anything about your mother?” Treha said.

  “I don’t remember anything, if that’s what you’re asking. But I know she was beautiful from the picture I have. I know the perfume my father bought her, even though he could barely afford to feed us. She would sing songs from her childhood as she worked around the house. And she loved flowers. Lilies and dandelions and anything with color. She came alive when her children brought her flowers. Clover or weeds, even. Everything about her embodied life and love. And she was a very smart woman, even though she had little education.”

  “How do you know about her if you were an infant when she died?”

  “Sister told me. She had the most vivid memories. The other children had foggy recollections. They would get things mixed up, attribute some saying to my mother when it was actually an aunt or a teacher who said it. That’s the way children are, I suppose.”

  “Is your sister the one who took care of you?”

  “Yes. Well, all of my siblings did. There were four who were born before me. Two boys, two girls.” He looked at Treha as if he wanted to hold something back, to construct some kind of dam here in the story or turn away, but he kept opening. “My brothers and sisters also grew up without a mother, you see, and they had to fill in the missing pieces for each other. No child should have to do this, but it was all we knew.”

  “Tell me about this sister of yours. The one who cared for you.”

  The old man smiled and lines formed on his face, making him look like a kindly lion. “She was the oldest. She was ten when I was born, when Mother died, and she stayed home with me; she stopped going to school. I don’t know if this was something my father asked her to do or made her do. Part of me thinks she did it of her own accord and he allowed it.”

  “What did you do all day, when the children were at school?”

  “I suppose we played little games. But the thing I remember the most is her reading to me. I was reading before I ever set foot in the schoolhouse. It was her example, her finger following the words on the page from left to right, that accomplished that. She told me much later that one day she didn’t put her finger on the page. She wanted to see what I would do. And I put my finger there and followed the words. She said it was then that she knew I was special. Even though I grew up without a mother, I felt special to someone. We grew quite close.”

  Treha watched the man’s eyes twinkle and she followed the light.

  “What was her name?”

  “Evelyn. But I couldn’t say the word as a child. I said ‘Eleven’ and everyone would laugh. So I called her Sister.” His eyes darted as if searching for his childhood in the recesses of the mind. “It’s funny what you remember when you talk of these things. I can still smell the aroma of the meals Sister cooked for us. And see the way she . . .”

  “The way she what?” Treha said.

  “How she looked out the window every day. There was a longing in her. For something out there, something on the horizon she couldn’t see.” The twinkle was gone and in its place was wetness at the memory. “She died several years ago. She was the first of us to go. The first to part after my father died. And now I am the only one left.”

  He leaned forward. “You asked if my father held me responsible for my mother’s death.” He shook his head. “But I felt responsible for Sister not going to school. For never having the life she could have had.”

  “She didn’t go back to school?” Treha said.

  “By the time I was in first grade, she was a young woman. When I went to school, she began working, first cleaning houses for the women in town and babysitting their children. And then she went to work at the mill. She and my father would go off together each morning, very early, before the sun came up.” He sat back. “I don’t like to think of those days. It was a difficult time for the family, but the struggle and the hardship make you strong. You know? You don’t realize it at the time, but the pain propels you. Too many people today think that life is supposed to be easy. We look for the easiest route to get from one place to another with the machines they place in the cars and the Internet telling you which roads to take.” He waved a hand again. “I guess it’s all good for us and helpful. But there is something you miss about struggle and hardship by having everything laid out for you on a piece of paper or on a talking box telling you every turn.”

  He looked up from his diatribe, like a turtle realizing his head is out of the shell. “I suppose I’m sounding like a cranky old man now.”

  Treha pulled him back to the past. “You did well in school?”

  “Yes. And I credit
Sister. She read books to me. She explained everything she knew about science and how plants grow and the wonders of the world. I asked her so many things. She said once that my spine was formed in the shape of a question mark.”

  The two sat in silence, Davidson folding his wrinkled hands and staring at them and Treha sitting ramrod straight.

  “Where did your education take you?” she said.

  “To the university. I studied chemistry and wanted to find some cure—like Jonas Salk did. In school I was given an internship with a small company which was called Stonegate at the time. Eventually it became Phutura Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Is this how you met Dr. Crenshaw?”

  Davidson glanced at the camera. Then a dip of the head. “Yes. I met him through Phutura. He was part of some drug trials we conducted. I like to think we helped many people over the years, even though there were regrets.”

  “Did Dr. Crenshaw contact you recently?”

  The man looked as if he had been punched in the gut. “I know he wrote me a letter that never reached me.”

  “Did he call you? Send another letter? Some other communication?”

  Davidson shook his head. “No.”

  “What did you do together?” she said.

  He moved his mouth to swallow and struggled for a moment. He seemed stuck, somehow.

  Miriam spoke. “Mr. Davidson, would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee? Or something to eat?”

  “Yes, coffee, please. Thank you. And maybe if I stand and stretch a little to get my blood and old bones moving again.”

  CHAPTER 33

  MIRIAM POURED the coffee as Mr. Davidson glanced around the kitchen. He was still holding his gun but Miriam hoped he might put it on the table while he drank. Maybe forget about it.

  “She’s very good at this, isn’t she?” Davidson said.

  “Treha? Oh, I think she has a gift.”

  A grimace from the old man. Perhaps something in his memory bank that had overdrawn him.

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Davidson? Is there something I can help you with? Maybe something you know about her that’s hidden?”

  “We’re all hiding something, aren’t we? The best of us, the worst of us.”

  “Earlier you seemed to think we were in danger. You talked about being monitored. What did you mean?”

  Davidson acted as if he were hearing the words for the first time. Then his face changed and he put a withered hand on Miriam’s shoulder. “I’m just a silly old man with a confused mind. My story isn’t important.”

  “I think it is. I think it’s important to her.”

  He nodded. “Where did you find her? When she asks questions, I feel as if I am under some kind of spell. Perhaps it is her captivating eyes. Or that she reminds me of a granddaughter. I almost get lost speaking with her, running through the fields of my youth. It’s as if she’s forcing me to remember. Not coercing, but something akin to drawing blood for analysis.”

  “That’s a good analogy. I’ve seen her work with many people. She calls them from wherever they are. She brings them out. Like she’s calling you out to play, like your sister.”

  He smiled at the mention of her. “I wish I could show you a picture. I have them at home in photo albums. In one she is fifteen or sixteen, in her uniform, as she called it. What she wore every day to the mill for many years. It was all she had. Her hand was bandaged in that photo. She had lost a finger in an accident. I believe she missed a half day of work.”

  “Those were different times,” she said.

  “Yes, it was a difficult life. But you did what you had to do to survive. Just like now.”

  He strained as he sat at the table. Miriam had poured half a cup of coffee, anticipating his shaking hands. He still nearly spilled it as he lifted it to his lips with his left hand. He set it back down, put the pistol on the table, and picked the mug up with his right hand.

  “Why are you so interested in her? In her past?” Davidson said.

  Miriam sat next to him, as near to the pistol as she could get, and cradled her own coffee mug. “She’s like a daughter to me. A daughter I never had. And I think there is help for her. Hope for something better.”

  “She is impaired?”

  “You’ve seen her. The eyes, the body movement, the disconnection.”

  “The gift.”

  “Yes. I think there is more in life for her, and I wonder if, perhaps, you have a key to help us unlock that.”

  He put the mug down and pushed his tongue under his dentures and stared at the tablecloth. It was the perfect chance for her to grab the pistol; she saw it there like ripened fruit.

  Her cell phone rang. Davidson looked up.

  “Excuse me,” Miriam said, glancing at the screen. The number was listed as private.

  “No, don’t answer it,” he said.

  “I have to—it might be about Treha.”

  He put a hand to his head. “I forgot to have you shut them off when I came. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Miriam moved past Davidson into the small hallway leading to her bedroom. Behind her, she heard Treha and the others go to Davidson, try to help him.

  “Miriam, this is Kara Praytor. I saw your message on my blog.”

  “Thank you,” Miriam said, catching her breath. “I’m surprised you called so quickly.”

  “What’s this about?”

  Miriam collected her thoughts. It sounded like the others had Davidson under control, so she continued. But what to say? If she asked if she could call back, she was afraid the woman might balk.

  “Kara, I’m trying to piece together some information about the girl you wrote about in your blog. You called her Julie.”

  A pause on the other end. “Oh. Are you related to her?”

  Miriam closed her eyes. “No, but I think I know her.”

  Kara hesitated. “I’m sure you’re legitimate, Miriam, but I’m not comfortable talking about former cases. Plus, that was a really long time ago.”

  “I understand. And if this were just my curiosity, believe me, I wouldn’t trouble you. I’m trying to help this girl by finding out about her past, why she’s damaged. And then give her hope for how to move forward.”

  “You say you know her. What is her name?”

  “Treha Langsam.”

  Silence on the other end. “Treha. Oh, you don’t know how I’ve prayed for that girl to find a friend. How is she? Where is she?”

  Miriam told her as quickly as she could about Treha’s life and about her gift. “Through the years she has co-opted the stories of others, people at the retirement home where she worked. She stole their stories because she has no past she remembers.”

  Sniffling on the other end but a smile in the voice. “I can’t believe this. She’s come back to me. Is there a way I could talk to her? Hear her voice?”

  Miriam said she was sure there was, but that Treha was involved with something at the moment. “She’s here with me. Staying at my house in Tucson. Can you tell me anything about where you found her? Where she came from?”

  Miriam listened to the woman for a moment and then ran to the kitchen for a pad of paper and a pen.

  CHAPTER 34

  TO TREHA, the old man seemed more tired when he sat down in front of the camera again. That wasn’t supposed to happen after you drank coffee. He still carried the pistol, which didn’t concern Treha as much as it seemed to bother Jonah and Devin.

  “Rolling,” Jonah said.

  Davidson leaned forward. “Before we begin, would you mind if I asked you a question or two?”

  Treha blinked but didn’t answer.

  “I’m told you have a gift for this, for drawing people out as you have done with me.”

  “People can become locked away in their minds. I help open the door.”

  “You must have been highly valued at your workplace. Desert Gardens.”

  “I was, but then I was let go.”

  “Why? If you have so much to offer, why woul
d they jettison you?”

  Treha turned to Devin. “You wanted me to ask him questions.”

  Devin smiled. “It’s okay; we want to hear.” He whispered something to Jonah.

  “I don’t know why,” Treha said, facing the old man again. “The person who runs the facility said I was a danger to the residents, which isn’t true.”

  “A danger?”

  “She said there were things in my record. She didn’t want to take the chance of me hurting someone.”

  “Have you ever hurt anyone, Treha?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Have you ever lost your temper? Do you remember anything like that?”

  “Perhaps when I was younger.”

  “How did getting fired make you feel?” Davidson said.

  Treha shrugged.

  “It sounds like you enjoyed working with Dr. Crenshaw and the others.”

  “I did.”

  “And when you were let go, you didn’t feel anything? No anger? No pain?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Surely you felt something. If you had friends there, you must miss them. You must feel a certain injustice in being treated this way.”

  Treha gripped the arms of the chair, digging her fingernails into the soft leather. “They told me not to come back, so I didn’t.”

  “You must be upset that you can’t use your gift. Are you angry?”

  Treha glanced back. They had focused the camera on her profile and suddenly she felt awkward. The intensity of the old man’s gaze stirred something inside she didn’t like.

  “Treha, do you ever get angry? Are you ever happy or sad?”

  She looked away from him and stared at a spot on the floor, her jaw clenched, muscles flexing.

  “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

  “You’re not,” she said, her voice tight. “Can we get back to you?”

  The old man cradled the pistol in his lap. “Tell me something that makes you angry or upset. Or happy. Do you have a happy memory?”

  She looked at her fingernails. “My mother took me to an ice cream shop when I was a little girl and let me order a bowl. I sat on the chair and she told me to stay; then she walked out the door and never returned.”