by Chris Fabry
“When you accept the love of God, the forgiveness he offers, it’s like he takes that saddle off you and frees you up to run and gives you a new life. Then death transforms from something you hate to talk about or think about into the final stage of your final birth.”
He waved a hand and gave a wry smile. “I don’t know why I’m talking about this; you’ll probably never use this rambling. But it’s true. I no longer fear death. And when these people around here read my obituary, I want them to know it’s just the beginning. The umbilical cord has been severed and I am looking into the face of the One who created me. So don’t weep for me when that time comes. I’ll be starting a journey I’ve waited for all my life.”
The video faded to black and the music returned, covering the sounds of sniffling and soft sobs in the room. And suddenly there was another face, eyes moving, no emotion. Devin had shot the interview in Treha’s apartment a few days after the death of Dr. Crenshaw.
“I miss my friend,” she said, trying to look at the camera, her fingers typing. “Because Dr. Crenshaw was my friend. He gave me riddles and we played word games. And he made me feel like I was a real person. Not someone with a problem. Or someone to fix. Just someone to love.”
Treha looked beyond the camera as if to ask if that was okay. If what she said was what they were looking for. And then she continued.
“I used to say I don’t know what it’s like to have a father or a mother. Because I never had them. But I can’t say that anymore.”
Fade to black.
Epilogue
SHE SLIPPED into the Avant Garde, a fine-arts theater that served wine and beer in plastic cups and whose seats were just as worn as those at the Second Run across the street, the cheap theater where you could see films that were coming out on DVD the next week. She stayed close to the wall and kept her head down as she walked up the stairs, glancing once at the sparse faces trained on the screen. Mostly middle-aged and wealthy. People hungry for art but only enough to assuage their guilt over watching too much television.
She held the sticky railing and ascended to the last row, where she sat, watching dust particles rise through the flickering light. A trailer was playing, a Focus Features film with children, it seemed. The same ages as most of her students. Girls in skintight jeans and boys in baggy pants. Hair hanging down in faces and mumbled lines with lips barely parted. This said something about the next generation, but she wasn’t sure what.
She didn’t go to the theater much. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate good cinema—she did. Immensely. But she preferred not hearing the crunch of popcorn and conversation about work or the latest video game controller or some elderly person with bad hearing asking what the character had just said. She preferred to watch alone in the comfort of her own home, with the sound as loud or as soft as she wanted. To lose herself in the setting and characters and story without the ravages of other people to pull her from the experience.
Something had drawn her to this documentary. Colleagues had raved about its humanity and beauty. And because it was crafted by a couple of amateurs, a David-versus-Goliath effort, two young men with a camera and a dream, these stories of individuals at the end of their lives became even more compelling.
But this was not what drew her to the theater. No, it was the girl she had heard about, had read about in the reviews. This strange, blurry-faced creature. A force of nature. With a name they had never heard before.
But she had.
She settled into the creaking chair and realized she was trembling, literally shaking with anticipation. Suddenly she was in the delivery room, and the sweat and pain came back to her. The shaking legs and sheer exhaustion like she had never felt before and the loneliness of it all. The gritted teeth and the promise that she would not scream, would not cry, would not give in to the pain. She would manage this, simply push through and push on, but her death grip on the bed railing had given way to surrender. Wails. Screams. Tears coming from some subterranean ocean she didn’t know existed inside her.
Then like a sunrise it began, bringing her back. Images on the screen. Words and music and voices. Magic. Every wrinkle, every musical punctuation of the film, every choice of camera angle that pieced together the disparate lives of the actors on the stage engrossed her. And the pauses. The moments when the old people would stop and lose their train of thought, like a dog pulling away from its owner on a walk, the leash only a few feet ahead but moving farther and faster until you knew the dog would either run away forever or have to turn of its own accord.
Finally she heard the girl’s name spoken and held her breath as she appeared, shot from behind. The dark hair. The small, pudgy build. A gentleness to her with the old people. Though she couldn’t see the girl’s face, she imagined it. Sweet and inviting and kind.
As the film progressed, the story became less about the elderly and more about the girl, the questions her life brought to the surface for everyone around her. She felt her chest rise and fall with each labored breath, wondering, hoping, inwardly cheering for the girl. Wanting to shout, wanting to reach out to the screen or jump inside and look her full in the face, with no blurring, no hiding of the truth. No hiding her abnormality. No hiding the broken places.
In one shot, the director filmed her eyes, shifting, moving, involuntarily taking in life. She saw herself in those eyes. And him. And she wanted to run, her heart nearly beating out of her chest.
The film took the audience back and forth between the elderly and those who had been injured by a pharmaceutical company, then returned to the girl, connecting their lives, their stories. And then, in a setting that should have held no cinematic suspense, shot from inside an automobile looking at a ramshackle house, they had captured audio of the conversation taking place inside.
When the girl whispered to herself, “She’s not my mother,” it was the end. She couldn’t take it any longer, couldn’t stay in that seat in that theater.
She rushed down the stairs and out the front, clutching her purse to her chest like a newborn.
“She’s not my mother” echoed in her head and through her very being as she ran toward her car and fumbled with the fob to unlock it, holding back the dam. And she fell in, literally fell into the car.
“Treha,” she whispered and managed to close the door before the racking sobs surfaced.
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK was a labor of love because of how closely the story parallels some of our personal journey as a family and the big questions raised by Treha’s life and condition. “If this is as good as it gets . . .” is a question we continue to ask, and this book is part of the processing of the answer. Thanks to Andrea for encouragement throughout and for sharing the journey, and to my children, who continue to amaze me.
Special thanks to my Tyndale family for allowing me to dive into Treha’s story. To Sarah Mason, Stephanie Broene, Shaina Turner, and especially to Karen Watson for helping rescue Treha from a lesser fate. This story is much better because of your input and direction and I’m grateful.
About the Author
CHRIS FABRY is a 1982 graduate of the W. Page Pitt School of Journalism at Marshall University and a native of West Virginia. He is heard on Moody Radio’s Chris Fabry Live!, Love Worth Finding, and Building Relationships with Dr. Gary Chapman. He and his wife, Andrea, are the parents of nine children. Chris has published more than seventy books for adults and children. His novel Dogwood won a Christy Award in 2009. In 2011 Almost Heaven won a Christy Award and the ECPA Christian Book Award for fiction.
You can visit his website at www.chrisfabry.com.
Discussion Questions
Every Waking Moment begins with a vivid scene between Treha and her mother—a scene we later learn Treha has “borrowed.” Why do you think she takes other people’s stories as her own? Have you ever been tempted to change your story or to live vicariously through the stories of others?
When characters first encounter Treha, they’re often uncomforta
ble or even disturbed. What was your impression of Treha early in the story? Did your perspective change as you got to know her?
Devin frequently runs into tension between following his creative vision and trying to make a living. Do you identify more with Devin in his artistic idealism or with those like Charlie, Jeffrey Whitman at the bank, and even Jonah who encourage him to think more realistically? Can a balance be struck between creativity and practicality?
How did you react to Treha’s gift for calling people back to awareness and mental clarity? Do you think such awakenings are possible? Miriam tells Treha, “I think what you offer is safety. . . . You listen. You validate.” What does this story suggest about the value of listening? Are there aspects of Treha’s gift you could apply?
Miriam approaches her retirement with sadness and anxiety about this new chapter in her life. Have you ever had to face a change that wasn’t your choice? How do you respond to new phases in your life? With dread? Fear? Excitement?
Why do you think Dr. Crenshaw searched for Treha? Do you agree with the way he approached helping her? What eventually changed his mind about telling her the truth? If Devin could have had one more interview, what do you think Dr. Crenshaw would have said?
Early in the story, Miriam expresses her regret that she and Charlie never had children. How do you think this influences her desire to help Treha? Does Miriam find what she’s looking for in their relationship?
Do you think Treha was right to stand her ground against the three men in the Laundromat? Why wasn’t she afraid of them? If you were a bystander in that scene, what would you have done?
Elsie says that “[God] lets us go through deeper waters so that we cling to him; that’s the whole point of having faith. If we could handle everything, there would be no reason for us to need God.” Do you agree or disagree? Has there been a time in your own life when it felt as though God was giving you more than you could handle? If so, what was the result?
What was your reaction to Miriam’s attitude about Charlie and their marriage? At one point, she confesses that “it is hard to see the good in a person when all you can see is what isn’t there.” Have you experienced this yourself?
In the search for Treha’s story, we meet people like Vivian Hansen and Kara Praytor, who each played a brief role in Treha’s past but continued to care and pray for her even once she was gone from their lives. Looking back, can you think of similar people God placed along your path? Or are there people from your past you still wonder about and pray for, even if they’re long out of your life?
Devin believes that “a good film draws you in because it feels like life.” Do you agree? Would Devin’s documentary appeal to you? Why or why not?
When Du’Relle tells Miriam about his father’s death, she wonders, “Was it enough to listen? Was there a response required?” What do you think is the answer to those questions? If you’ve been in a situation similar to Du’Relle and his mother, what acts of kindness did you find to be particularly helpful?
What did you think of Treha’s decision to confront Ezra Hollingsworth, the Phutura vice president? Was justice served in the Phutura case? If not, what do you think would’ve been a better outcome?
We don’t know much about Jillian Millstone before she came to Desert Gardens. What life events do you think might have precipitated her arrival and caused her to manage things the way she did? Were any of her criticisms of Miriam’s management valid? What do you imagine Millstone went on to do after leaving?
This story shows several perspectives on how the elderly are treated in today’s society. How do you feel about facilities like Desert Gardens? Do you think Devin’s vision to preserve the stories of previous generations is an important one? How else could society better value the elderly?
By the end of the story we learn the truth about Treha’s biological mother. If for some reason you had to give a child up, what requests would you make of his or her adoptive parents? Would you want to sever contact forever or be open to the possibility of meeting your child sometime in the future? Why?
Both Treha and Miriam contemplate whether they’re content with their lives as they are or if they want something more. What does each woman ultimately decide? How do you see other characters in Every Waking Moment asking similar questions? Look back at Chaplain Calhoun’s description of contentment on pages 80–81. Can you look at your own life and say, “If this is as good as it gets, I’m okay with that”? Do you see this as giving up on life or embracing it?
