by Chris Fabry
Perhaps the letter from Treha’s mother would give them something to work with. Or they might never find the woman. They might never know.
Miriam stood and tucked the folder under her arm. That would be okay. If this was as much as they discovered, that would be okay. It would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 42
TREHA SAT in her apartment with the lights off, listening to the traffic and eating to the bottom of a white Chinese food carton. Mrs. Howard had helped her clean up a little when she dropped her off and they had gone to the grocery store and then picked up Chinese from a restaurant around the corner. Mrs. Howard had ordered extra for Charlie.
The time spent at Mrs. Howard’s house had given Treha a taste of what a family was like, something missing from those years in foster homes. Something she had blocked out or forgotten altogether. The doctor said there was a reason she couldn’t remember certain things and a reason why her mind worked so well at others. Relationships, living and existing with other people, would always be a challenge. But life was more meaningful with a challenge.
There was talk from Mrs. Howard of Treha moving in with her. Treha could stay as long as she liked or permanently. Charlie was fine with it. He’d actually said it was a good idea, that he wanted Treha there with them. They had the extra room, Mrs. Howard and Treha could ride to work each morning, it would be easier to get to her rehab appointments, and it would bring life to their humdrum evenings. He also said if they played Scrabble, Treha would have to play blindfolded.
One day she might be able to get her own car. She couldn’t imagine the freedom that might bring.
Treha’s lease was up at the end of the month. Everything fit together, hand in glove.
But something felt off-kilter. Maybe it was the feeling of dependence that was growing between her and Mrs. Howard. She was taking the place of the mother Treha never had. So what was wrong with that? Or perhaps it was that Treha was losing her life, losing what she had scratched and clawed to bring together, which wasn’t much, but at least it was hers.
Treha finally decided it was fear. What if Miriam, as she asked Treha to call her now, rejected her? What if she abandoned Treha like her mother had? What if Charlie got tired of watching her eyes? What if there was something sinister behind all of this and they were using Treha? She knew that wasn’t true, but this was how her mind worked, how it went over the puzzles and questions. And this was where Treha knew she had to choose. She could choose fear and live alone with the consequences, or she could place her trust and faith in someone else and, with that, move toward others and away from isolation.
She put the carton in the empty trash bag and walked outside to stand by the railing, listening to the noise, the cars passing, families huddled in their apartments and homes, the music and laughter and shouting and arguing while television screens lit the faces of children. She drank it in.
Du’Relle and his mother had gone back to North Carolina for the funeral. Vivian Hansen from James 127 House had stopped by and delivered some supplies and a book to them, and Treha had told the woman the developments in her life. But there was no one to hang around her apartment and pester her. No one to say bad words and have her correct him. Miriam said as soon as Du’Relle’s mother came back, she was going to offer her a job at Desert Gardens. She might be able to move to a nicer place. Treha hoped it would happen.
She retreated to her room and opened the book she was reading. The stories seemed to get into her bloodstream and show her what the world was supposed to look like, supposed to feel like. They were her guide and guise. She lived in them as much as they lived in her.
She lay there with the overhead light on, that harsh bulb staring down as she tried to focus on the words, unable to concentrate because of the envelope on the shelf. She had put it at the end of the row, wedged between the edge of the shelf and a worn copy of Little Women. There was something about having the letter there, the physical presence of it, that gave her hope. At any point she could open it. But if she read the entire letter in one sitting, the mystery would be over. The voice of her mother would come through, and maybe she wouldn’t like the things she said.
There, on the shelf, it was like her mother was asleep. Just an envelope with her name on it.
Treha closed the book, walked across the room, took the envelope from the shelf and held it, studying the formation of the letters of her name. Perhaps there was nothing inside. Perhaps her mother had written a nasty note saying she never wanted children in the first place and good riddance. Perhaps it wasn’t from her mother at all but from some state agency telling her where to apply for assistance. Or it was a trick by Janice.
Treha examined the paper, just a plain, white envelope with the flap tucked inside. But in the center of the flap was a slight tear, as if the note had been sealed with her mother’s own mouth—a lick on the underside. A quick kiss that had been broken by Janice opening and reading and then forgetting.
Her mother had touched this envelope. She had held it in her hands. Had no doubt thought about this moment when Treha would open it and read the words, decipher the lines and try to read between them.
She could tell from the way her name was written on the front that the handwriting would be elegant, unlike her own. But would she sign her name? Would she give an old address or phone number or some location where Treha could find her? Surely there would be a clue to her identity.
Treha opened the flap and pulled out two sheets of paper. The words flowed, letters rolling and gliding across the page like a dancer on a smooth floor. She took in the whole page with a glance, then the next, trying not to focus on any sentence or word, standing back from her mother to gain some perspective before she drew close.
She held the pages to her nose and smelled the smoke from Janice’s house. There was also a musty, dusty smell. But somewhere in the fibers, somewhere in the deep recesses of that long-ago-written page, she caught a faint scent of perfume. Sweet and tangy and full of life.
Treha closed her eyes, took a deep breath as though it were a prayer, and opened them.
My dearest Treha,
I don’t know when you will read this letter. I don’t know when your mother will give it to you, but I’m praying you will be ready to read it. I imagine your head is full of questions about yourself, about the family you’ve grown up in, and about me.
You are my heart. You are everything good in the world. And my heart breaks in writing this because I will not know you. Your first steps, your first words. I won’t get to hold you or take pictures or see you off to school and cry over you.
I have given you only two things, your life and your name. And now I give you one more gift, though I’m unable to peer into the crystal ball and know how old you are or anticipate all your questions. Words are such simple things, but they are the best. So I will give you these words.
First, an explanation of your name. An anagram is a word that you make using the letters of another. I wrote at the beginning that you are my heart. So I took those letters, I took my heart, and I fashioned “Treha” from them. I don’t know any other person in the world who has this name. And one day, I believe I will look in a newspaper at a famous young woman who has just won the Nobel Prize for some great discovery, and I will see your name. But you don’t have to accomplish anything great in order for me to be proud, because you are part of me, part of my heart. And I pray you feel my love through these markings of my soul.
Treha, remember this: your mother, the person who has raised you and provided for you and loved you—honor her. Honor them. My only request for you other than your name was that you be brought up in a home that would care for you with the love of God at the center.
Now I must ask you, if there is some bitterness in your heart about me, to forgive the choice I made. I didn’t want to give you up. I wanted to hold you and keep you. I wanted us to make a life of our own, but that wasn’t possible. Do not be angry at God for this. He is a loving Father and I pray you
will come to know him more and more as you grow older. He is not the author of evil or abandonment. He is good and loving and gentle and kind.
But the world is not, Treha. The world is cold and cruel and crushes what is good. The world will rip your heart from you. Perhaps you know this. I pray you will not have to learn the hard way as I did.
I made a tragic, terrible mistake. I trusted someone with my heart. This was a good thing, to trust and reach out for love from another human being, but that other person was not trustworthy. My heart was broken and a series of events happened that I deeply regret. I went into a fog so thick that I couldn’t see. I thought I would never come through.
But know this, my daughter. All the bad, all the heartache and pain—I would go through it again and a thousand times more because the end of it all was you. The end of it all was something good and lovely and true. You were not a mistake. You were the morning sunrise after the dark night of my soul. You were the stone rolled from the tomb.
I gave you life. Your name. And now I give you these words: I love you. You are loved, Treha, though you may not feel that from me and you may have many questions. For your own good, I have stepped away from you, but I will pray for you every waking moment, and every night before I go to sleep, I will speak your name. If God allows it, one day I hope you will run into my arms and I will hold you and speak these words. And ask you to forgive me if I’ve caused you pain.
Until then, you are forever in my heart.
With all my love,
Your mother
Treha put the second page behind the first and read the letter again all the way through, running the word heart through the grid in her mind. With all the puzzles she had solved, all the word jumbles, she had never considered her own name as a jumble, but now it made sense. She read the letter from beginning to end five times and then neatly folded the pages and placed them back in the envelope and held it to her chest.
“I have a mother,” Treha said aloud. She spoke it into the room so the light could hear, and her books and the bed and the walls. “I have a mother.”
As she closed her eyes and drifted off, the woman came to her, sun-drenched and smiling, a billowing dress. And as Treha dreamed, she whispered, “Mother. Mother.”
CHAPTER 43
DEVIN GOT to the chapel at Desert Gardens early and found Jonah getting the screen ready. They adjusted the color and brightness so that the faces on-screen were vibrant with the lights out. People began to arrive a half hour early, shuffling through, saying hello and greeting the two as if they were long-lost grandchildren.
Chaplain Calhoun arrived and went through the order of service. Devin asked if the video could be played at the end and the man was happy with that. Dr. Crenshaw’s son and daughter-in-law arrived with two children and sat uncomfortably in the front.
Miriam Howard hugged Devin and Jonah warmly. “I’m so glad you could make it to his memorial.”
Jonah gave Devin a look. “She doesn’t know?”
“We have a little surprise prepared for you,” Devin said.
Miriam raised an eyebrow. “And how is the documentary coming? I don’t want to miss the world premiere.”
“We’re closer than we’ve ever been. We’re trying to finish in time to get it to a film festival, so fingers crossed and all that. Trying to get it there by the day of the deadline.”
“Sounds like a horror film, doesn’t it?” Jonah said. “Day of the Deadline.”
“It felt like a horror film going to that lady’s house again,” Devin said. “You know, Janice.”
“You got her to sign the release form?”
Devin nodded. “It took a little coaxing and a couple of Ben Franklins, but I got her signature so we can use her voice. It’s the most gripping moment, when Treha discovers she’s not her real mother. Other than the voice-over of her mother’s letter at the end.”
“Did Devin tell you we got Meryl Streep to read it?” Jonah said.
“Really?” Miriam said.
“No, my mother read it. But she sounds kind of like Meryl Streep.”
Elsie wheeled past, accompanied by Treha, and the two took seats near the front.
“She’s looking good,” Devin said, nodding at Treha.
“The rehab work she’s doing is intense. She’s exhausted at the end of the day. But I can already see a difference.”
“How much better do you think she’ll get?” Devin said. “Do the doctors say?”
“We’re taking it a day at a time,” Miriam said. “She’s content, which is a gift. But she’s willing to work hard to move forward. I have hopes that . . .”
“That what?”
“Maybe someday she can go to school. Put that intellect to work. But at the same time I’d hate to lose her.”
Devin crossed his arms and studied Treha.
“What are you thinking?” Miriam said.
“I thought when we first started shooting that this place would hold the story. And then I thought showing Treha’s gift was the story. Now I think there was something bigger going on all along.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Like she was the one being awakened. It was making Treha come out that was the point.”
“And she still changed us. She really did.”
Chaplain Calhoun stood at the front and welcomed them to the memorial service for Dr. Crenshaw. Devin surveyed the crowd as the chaplain spoke. He had come to know these people through their memories, their intertwining lives, but now he was seeing them differently. There was something deeper than just their stories, something more they had shared. But what?
The minister began with a reading of the Twenty-third Psalm and Devin felt the verses wash over him. The green pastures, the valley of the shadow of death, and dwelling in the house of the Lord forever. The man then read the words of Jesus, who, Chaplain Calhoun said, was the Good Shepherd.
“‘I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die. Do you believe this?’”
Devin recalled the words from the Garrity funeral. In the face of death, terrible loss, there was life. This was irony. And beauty.
They sang two songs and the Opera Singer performed a solo. Miriam Howard stood with hands full of tissues and gave a tribute. The chaplain read more Scripture and gave a brief sermon about the care of the Shepherd, the comfort of the Shepherd, and the compassion of the Shepherd. Devin looked at the Lovebirds and wondered how long it would be until one of them was in this same room bidding farewell to the other. He shook that off but still wished he had the camera for one more shot of them. That was the trouble with a documentary: there was always more to the story. More to observe.
“We have something special for you to end with today,” Chaplain Calhoun said after he had given the mostly silent congregants time to remember. “You know Devin and Jonah have become a fixture around here. And they have a presentation they’d like to make. Devin?”
The man invited him to the front with a wave and Devin stood. He hadn’t prepared anything; he only had the video. But something drew him forward as Jonah smiled.
Devin rubbed his hands nervously. “Dr. Crenshaw was one of the first people we interviewed when we came here. And as we put the film together, we went back and unearthed some things I think you’ll appreciate.”
He smiled at Treha. “Our stories intertwine in ways we can’t know when we first hear them. And maybe the point of all this is that we’d do well to listen. I hope you enjoy this tribute.”
The lights went out and the screen was dark when the music began to swell, a plaintive piano tune. Then Dr. Crenshaw’s name and dates of birth and death faded in and out as his voice-over began.
“My name is Jim Crenshaw. And if it’s stories you want, I have a lot to tell. I’ve delivered babies in the dead of night. I once delivered a calf for a farmer who got me out of bed at three in the morning because he said if I could birt
h boys and girls, I could certainly birth his Guernsey.”
Close-up of Dr. Crenshaw. The lines in his face. The age in his eyes. The camera told so much of the story, but the words were the avenue to the heart.
“The things I remember . . . ,” Crenshaw continued, looking past the camera, connecting them with the memories as he spoke. “I remember the trembling legs of mothers exhausted from labor. The first sign of the crown of the child’s head. And the tears and anguish and the encouragement, telling them one more push. Just once more. Then the baby in my hands, slippery and wet. They talk about catching babies—it really is that way. I never fumbled one, but I came close.”
A few people chuckled and white-haired heads nodded. Elsie wiped at the tears on her face.
“I’ve never forgotten putting the child on the mother’s chest. No matter how long she had been struggling, no matter what that mother had been through, there were always tears of joy. This is the moment I remember most. A mother looking into a child’s face for the first time. All that weight gain and swollen ankles and food cravings had been worth it for this moment, this connection between mother and child.”
The music faded and Crenshaw’s voice was all there was because it was all they needed. Just his voice and the movement of his hands when he spoke and the light on his face.
“I have accomplished a few good things in my life. And I’ve done some things in my past that I’m not proud of. I used to think I could never rid myself of those things. That whatever you have done is like a saddle put on you, or one you put on yourself, that is cinched tightly around you and then this becomes who you are. It marks you. Impossible to release. But now I know that’s not true. A dear friend helped me understand it.”
Devin looked at Elsie and saw her shaking in her seat, Treha with an arm around her.
