by Chris Fabry
“Mom, I’ve thought of her every day. I’ve wondered what happened. I’ve prayed for her. Surely you’ve done the same.”
“Of course I have, but I would never drag her into my life when that’s not the best thing.”
“She wants to know her mother. She wants a relationship with me.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Yes—I’m sure it is, and it’s going to get longer and more painful if you do this. I’m begging you, Paige. Nothing good can come from this.”
“And what if God is the one who is drawing us? What if he is the one who brought her to me?”
“Don’t blame God for your mistake.”
I felt my jaw clench. “I’m not blaming him. I’m saying this whole thing has to be something he’s orchestrating. I found out about her last year. I left her alone. I wanted to pick up the phone or hop on a plane, but I didn’t have the strength. But now she’s in my life, through no finagling. She’s my student, Mom. I have to tell her.”
“You can’t be sure of that. It’s probably a mistake.”
“No, it’s no mistake. It’s her.”
“Paige, don’t you see what this will do to us.” It was a statement, not a question. An indictment. “This will kill your father.”
“How? He doesn’t recognize me. He can’t speak. How will it kill him?”
“You made a promise.”
“I was a child. I felt guilty. And I wanted you to forgive me.”
More silence on the line.
“We’ve never really talked through this, Mom. Dad and I had a couple good conversations before I came to the States. He helped me see that my life didn’t have to end because of a mistake. I’ll always love him for that.”
“And what did you get from me? Condemnation? I did nothing but love you and hope for the best. And you promised you would close this door and leave it closed.”
“It was a foolish promise.”
“It was the right thing. The kind thing. This girl probably has her own life, with her own parents. Can you imagine the shock this is going to be if she doesn’t even know she was adopted?”
“She knows. But the adoption didn’t turn out the way—”
“And what’s to keep her from coming to us for support?” she said, interrupting. “We’re barely making it, Paige. And you’re not in any position to help financially. This is going to cost so much time and energy and finances and emotion. Don’t rush into it. Think through the ramifications. You could make a hasty decision you’ll regret for years.”
“I made a decision I have regretted every day.”
“Placing her for adoption? Is that what you mean? You were a child; how would you have cared for a baby?”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point? What are you accomplishing other than bringing more pain?”
“I know it will be painful, Mom. Why can’t you trust me?”
“I did trust you. That’s how we got into this mess.”
Cruel. That was the only way to describe it. I’ve always heard that people in pain lash out. But there was something else, a different fear I couldn’t pinpoint behind her words.
“I guess I’ll have to move forward without your blessing.”
“Is that why you called? To receive my blessing?”
“I was hoping you would support me, even if you thought it a bad idea. Something like ‘I don’t agree, but I’m here for you.’ Maybe that’s too much to ask.”
“Of course I’m here for you. That’s why I’m asking you to reconsider.”
“It’s not fair to her to keep hidden. She deserves to know.”
More silence. The machines turning, the inner translator interpreting the words, the history between us, the pain.
“When she asks, what are you going to tell her about her father? You know she’ll have that question, Paige.”
She said my name like it was a four-letter word. I wanted to hang up. I wanted to jump in the time machine and go back to the second before I dialed the 7. The second before I signed the paper to place my child in a stranger’s arms. The second before I first met him.
I put a hand to my temple and pressed on the beginnings of a migraine. “I’m sure you’re right. She’s going to ask. And I’ll simply tell her the truth.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re stepping into something that’s way over your head. You have enough on your plate with your dissertation and your classes—to add this doesn’t make sense. Press forward. Move on.”
“Mom?” I said it to get her to stop. I said it as a plea—something almost like a prayer. “What do you think Dad would say?”
Another long pause. “We’ll never know, will we?”
CHAPTER 11
Treha
Anna’s voice rang down the hall as Treha walked resolutely away. “Please stop. I have something important to say.”
Treha stopped near the stairwell of her dorm but didn’t look at the girl. Couldn’t look at her.
“I know you’re still ticked off. I understand. You were right. I shouldn’t have run with your interview. I should have asked you or I could have interviewed someone else. The editor asked me to apologize. She’s really sorry you feel bad.”
“She’s sorry I feel bad or she’s sorry for what she did?”
“The second one. She sees it was wrong. And we’re all learning here, we’re not professionals.”
“What about you? How do you feel?”
“I told you I was sorry.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Okay, I thought I did. I’m sorry. I’m profusely sorry. I’m unbelievably filled with remorse. To the brim. Remorse is spilling over. How do I get you to believe me? Seriously, Treha, if I’d known how hurt you’d be, I would never have run it. I’m sorry.”
Treha looked at the floor. “All right.”
Anna handed her a printed page. “Look at this.”
Treha glanced at it. “What is it?”
“Read it. They’re all letters responding to your article. The praise is effusive. Like that word? They’re talking about how real and honest you were. How it took courage to say what you said. This doesn’t excuse my mistake—I’m not saying that—but people really liked it. Are they saying this to your face?”
“Some have said nice things,” Treha said.
“Look at the last one. Down here at the bottom.” Anna took the letter and held it up to the light and read. “‘Treha is one of the reasons I’m glad I chose this school. You can hear her heart coming through. Honored to be attending Bethesda with her.’”
“That’s nice.”
“No, look at who wrote it.”
Treha stared at the name under the sentences. Cameron Goodman.
“That’s right! Your heartthrob. He’s practically asking you out in the school newspaper. You can read right between the lines.”
Treha’s face flushed and she took the page back to study the words.
“My editor said she wants to see anything you write,” Anna said. “Even if it’s a grocery list.”
Treha was reading Cameron’s words again. “You said you could introduce me to him.”
“Well, I kind of stretched the truth.”
“Anna.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think I have this big relationship with him. But I’ll see what I can do.”
“No, don’t. Let it happen naturally. That would be better.”
“Are you sure? I can put a note on his lunch tray or something.”
She shook her head. “Can I keep this?”
“The letters? Sure. And what do you think of writing for the paper? I could help you get started on something. We have a weekly column that any student can guest write, or you could do an opinion piece.”
Treha stared at the page as she walked into the stairwell and didn’t respond. She read Cameron’s words again and sat with the paper in the courtyard
with the wind swirling and the leaves in the trees swaying in the sunshine. The whole day somehow looked a little brighter.
Treha was in the cafeteria when it happened. With her back to the buffet line and a lunch of salad and yogurt. Someone passed her table—just a shadow at first, then she spotted Cameron, all dimples, white teeth, and those eyes. She had heard that the eyes were the windows to the soul but most people kept the shades drawn. Cameron didn’t. He was an open book.
“Is this seat taken?”
She shook her head.
He reached out a hand. “I’m Cameron.”
She shook his hand and looked at her salad.
“I saw the interview you gave in the Tower. Sounds like God is doing some good stuff in your life.”
Treha stared at her fork, unable to speak.
“I can see it now,” he said. “Your eyes. I see the movement. But it’s not that bad. I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t talked about it in the interview.”
She looked up, just a little, and focused on his hair. Wavy, curly, with a mind of its own. Like he could get up in the morning and not even put a hand through it and it would look like that.
“It’s better than it used to be. But it’s not totally gone.”
“Have you always had it?”
She nodded. “As long as I can remember.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
“The doctors weren’t sure. It might be my genes. Or it could have been the drugs my mother took before I was born.”
She hadn’t told anyone at school about this, and here she was giving away the most intimate information to someone she barely knew. But those dimples and that smile and those eyes dragged the truth from her.
He took a bite of pork barbecue and crunched his chips. So free. So effortless. Everything seemed to glide with Cameron—the way he walked, his speech, the way he ate. Treha looked at her food and suddenly worried that she would do something wrong, that she might find an awkward piece of lettuce.
“How did you discover that? I mean, if you don’t know who your mother is, how could you know she took drugs?”
“She wrote me a letter and told me some things. And there was a doctor I knew, an old man I cared for, who was the one who gave my mother the drugs.”
“This was in Arizona?”
“Yes.”
“So you don’t have any idea who your father is either, right?”
Treha nodded, then shook her head, confused as to how to communicate. “I don’t know my father either. That’s right.”
“Do you want to know?”
“I suppose.”
“Not knowing makes knowing your heavenly Father even more important, huh?”
“I’m learning more about that.”
“Have you read Psalm 68?”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is really cool.” He dug into his backpack and came up with a Bible that was falling apart. He flipped to the middle while he took another bite of barbecue, effortlessly turning the pages with a free hand. “I read a couple of psalms each day, and this was one from yesterday—no, two days ago.”
He read the passage and his voice was like music, gentle and soft and inviting. “‘Father to the fatherless, defender of widows—this is God, whose dwelling is holy. God places the lonely in families; he sets the prisoners free and gives them joy.’ Isn’t that good?”
“Yes.” Something inside Treha felt like it was coming to life. She took a bite of yogurt and finished her salad as they talked. Maybe it wasn’t something coming alive as much as it was her getting used to the possibility that she could actually fit in here. Or maybe fit with someone like Cameron.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to get going. Maybe I’ll see you around at the commons?”
“Okay,” Treha said.
She watched him glide toward the rear of the cafeteria and put his dishes away and ease through the back door. And she couldn’t suppress the warm feeling that spread through her and made her want to smile. She wanted to talk with someone about it, but Anna wasn’t the person. She wanted to call Miriam or talk with Elsie, but would they understand?
Treha hadn’t learned much about prayer before coming to Bethesda, but Elsie had modeled a simple, everyday conversation with God where you simply talked with him like a friend. Her professor for Spiritual Life and Disciplines, a required course for every incoming student, said writing out your prayers was a good way to discover what was really on your heart. So Treha dug out her spiral notebook and started to write.
God, I can’t think of anything else but C. And this frustrates me because I know deep inside that it’s probably just a dream, just an infatuation, and that he could never really like someone like me. I’m not pretty and I have a hard time talking to people and looking them in the eye. But I can’t help thinking that these feelings are something you put inside. There’s something good about them. But if I can’t study because he’s all I’m thinking about, that’s not good. So would you help me focus on what’s important and true?
The professor had given them a verse from Philippians to memorize. Treha didn’t know it by heart yet but she carried it on a scrap of paper with her and pulled it out.
And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.
Treha went back to her notebook and wrote, I just realized that with C. overwhelming my thoughts, I haven’t been thinking as much about my mother. Thank you, God, for letting me think of something else for a change.
CHAPTER 12
Paige
Resolve is a terrible thing to waste, especially after talking to your mother. And so, throughout the restless nights leading up to my second class with Treha, I wrestled with the how of approaching her. Finally I opted to write a note on her essay, asking her to stay after class. My hands had trembled as I put the words down.
Treha was one of the last to arrive Monday night, and I worried that she wouldn’t come. As I waited, glancing at the clock, still holding Treha’s essay, I saw her picture on the front page of a student’s copy of the Tower. It looked like a cross between a student photo and a mug shot. Beside it were the words “New Students Sound Off.”
I considered asking to look at the article, wanting to read every word, in between the lines and in the margins. But right then Treha walked into the room and hurried behind me toward her seat. I held out her essay and said her name. She looked at me with a frightened deer look, took the paper, and headed to her seat.
Tonight’s discussion was about conflict in stories, conflict in people’s lives, and how that propels the writer and reader. The irony was not lost on me.
During my lecture I heard a phone beep, which irritated me. But when it beeped again, all I could do was sheepishly dig in my purse and say, “I’m not sure how to handle a professor who doesn’t follow her own rules about cell phones.”
The class laughed.
I turned the phone off and kept going. It was a good discussion, though I wished Treha would participate. I longed to engage with her, to hear her thoughts—about literature, about anything. She spent most of the class with her eyes on the desktop. I thought her posture looked like she was tuned into the discussion, but it was hard to tell.
At the end I gave their next assignment. They were to write an essay about a conflict in their own lives that had propelled them toward change. While others used their phones or computers to record the assignment, Treha wrote it in her notebook. She lingered at her desk as the other students headed for the door.
When we were the last two left, she pulled out the essay I had returned to her. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “I wanted to tell you how much I liked your essay. And what you’re bringing to this class. Would you like to take a seat?”
Treha gathered her things and moved to a desk in the front row. I pu
lled my desk chair up to sit in front of her.
“I can tell from what you’ve written that there’s a lot to your story. I’m looking forward to reading the Tower article about you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Treha said.
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t want an article. I was told my picture wouldn’t be there and my name wouldn’t be used. I said things I wouldn’t have.”
“I don’t think anyone will fault you for being honest.”
“My roommate does.”
“I see.”
The silence between us deepened and I felt a tug on my soul, a frayed thread that begged to be pulled. “Sometimes opening up and revealing yourself is a good thing,” I managed. “You could think of it that way.”
She shrugged, picking at the strap on her backpack. “My friend wants me to write something for the paper.”
I nodded. “I think you should. I’ve only read one essay, but in it you showed an ability to write lean and clean. That’s not the norm. Most creative writing students are taught that good writing is effusive and . . .” I glanced at Treha.
“I know what it means.”
“Right. Of course you do. In high school you’re taught that the more adjectives and adverbs and descriptive words you use, the better. A wide vocabulary usually wins writing competitions. I have to retrain students to not write every big word they’ve learned. Less is more.”
“Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t go to high school.”
I felt my eyes widen. “You didn’t?”
“I went to elementary school when I was in the foster system, but when I reached middle school, I was moved around so much I didn’t finish.”
“Then how were you able to come here?”
“I learned how to read on my own, mostly, and once you learn to read, you can do anything.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “I agree. So you got your GED?”
Treha nodded.
“That’s wonderful. You’ve done so well, Treha. You’re gifted; I hope you know that.”
