by Chris Fabry
“Where is he now?” I said.
“The hospital. They’re still observing him.” She went into what the doctors had said, the possible reasons why he had wandered away, and then moved on to what floor he was on and the minutiae of medication changes and procedures and things I didn’t need to know, but I let her talk and the more she did, the more calm she grew, more sane. When she came up for air, she said something that shocked me.
“Have you talked to her?”
“Have I talked to whom?”
“The girl. Your daughter.” She nearly choked on the word.
“When I got your message, I was in the middle of a conversation.”
“So she knows?”
“Not yet. I want to be sensitive to her and not just blurt things out.”
“I think that’s wise. You need to give it time. Choose the right moment.”
I had been waiting a couple decades for the right moment. I had waited more than a year from the time I discovered where she lived to make contact, and even then it wasn’t from my volition. Would there ever be a “right moment”?
I steered the conversation back to my father, but she wouldn’t let go. “I need to know you’re not going to tell her. Just for now, until we get through this crisis with your father.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do. I know you want to get this off your chest and I can understand that. I really can. I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t want to hold you back from what you need to do. But can you wait until we get through this?”
“Did you talk with Dad about it?”
“Paige, he doesn’t understand. You haven’t seen him like this. I’m not accusing—this is just reality. I talk with him. I have this running conversation about his medication and appointments and what he wants to eat. I don’t have anyone else, so I talk to him, but he doesn’t take it in. He’s like a rock. My words bounce off.”
“But you told him I found his granddaughter.”
“Of course. Who else am I supposed to talk to? I can’t share this with anyone except him and God.”
“And what does God say, Mom? What does he think about this?”
“How can you be so cruel? I’m at my most vulnerable. My lowest point. And you want to kick me.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” I took another breath and put a hand to my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I love you. I want to be there for you. I’m hopping on the next plane.”
“No, don’t do that. You have your classes.”
“Someone else can take my classes. I’ll call the department head and explain. It’s a family emergency.”
“You have your writing. I know that’s taking up a lot of your time.”
Not enough of it, I thought. “There are more important things than my dissertation. You’re one of them. If I can be there to help—”
“It’s going to be too expensive to fly on short notice.”
That was all I needed. “When is he being released?”
“Wednesday, perhaps. That’s what the doctor said. Best-case scenario. But they want me to install some locks and have some safety precautions so he can’t do this again. They’re talking about a home health nurse to monitor him. I don’t know how much that’s going to cost.”
“I’ll make the reservation and be there tomorrow. I’ll help you sort out the insurance and everything.”
“Yes—but I don’t think it’s necessary.”
“I’m coming, Mom.”
“Well, if you insist. Just let me know when your flight arrives and I’ll—”
“I’ll rent a car and come to you. You won’t have to do a thing.”
“Now that’s an added expense you don’t need.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’m a big girl. We’ll figure this out together, okay?”
“Yes—well, all right.”
I thought that was the end. I thought the possibility of my presence would soothe her, but she returned to the original request.
“Will you promise me you won’t talk with her before you come? Can you promise that?”
I hadn’t done well with promises. I had promised that I would guard my purity when I was younger. I’d worn the ring my father had given me. But that ring was off and buried somewhere in a keepsake box in their condo’s attic. I had promised myself and God that if he ever gave me the chance to meet my daughter, I would take it. And that hadn’t worked out too well.
“All right, Mom, you win. I won’t talk with her before I leave.”
“You don’t know how much that comforts me, Paige. Thank you for doing this.”
I hung up and found D. C. outside the office and thanked him.
“Is everything all right, ma’am?”
“It’s my father. I need to head down there for a few days. I think he’ll be okay, though.”
“I’m glad you’re doing that, ma’am. That sounds like a good plan.”
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was saying yes because I wanted to reach out to my parents. Maybe I had said yes because I wanted to run away.
CHAPTER 15
Treha
Treha awoke to rain and a crack of thunder in the distance. The sound made her want to stay in bed and hide from the world. It made her want to stay in bed the rest of her life. The pitter-pat of water against the window brought a certain comfort, a repetitive tick-tick-tick that soothed her brain. She envied others who could awaken, yawn, then roll over and go back to sleep. She’d never been able to do that.
There was a chill in the air, an early portent of the approaching winter. But there was something cold in her soul that had nothing to do with the rain or falling temperatures. It was warm beneath the covers, so she stayed there a few moments, thinking about what had happened the night before.
She hadn’t laid out her clothes, and she’d slept in what she’d worn all day Monday. She needed a shower. Her hair was tousled.
Forget her hair. Forget brushing her teeth. What was the point? She just had to start moving before Shelly did.
The thin carpet was cold when her feet hit the floor and she stood there, a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was angry with Shelly for the way she treated her. She was angry that Shelly could draw guys like honey draws ants. But that wasn’t the real problem. What angered her most was that Cameron could be interested in Shelly, would think that she was a good fit.
Treha went to the trash where she had tossed the card but it wasn’t there. She stared at the trash can. Had she tossed it down the chute? She was sure she had thrown it here by her desk. Her heart fluttered when she thought of it mixed in with the other trash in the basement bins and what it would take to find it.
She had to let it go, just move on without letting it consume her. Everyone made mistakes. Her heart was broken. Cameron would understand.
As she moved toward the commons, doubt crept in. Would she have the nerve to tell him what she had done? She sat in her regular booth and pulled out her journal. The thoughts spinning in her head would make a good column, if she decided to write for the paper. “When Others Let You Down” could be the title, with the point being that everyone was fallible. Everyone made mistakes. Trust God, not people. But that sounded harsh and was probably not best for public consumption.
She started writing anyway, just for herself, and was so focused that she didn’t see who approached and sat across from her.
“Hi,” Cameron said. “You’re up early.”
His voice startled her. “I’m always up at this time.”
“That’s a good habit. Some people pull all-nighters, but I have to wonder if they’re really getting anything done or if they’ll retain any of that information.”
Treha nodded. When she didn’t speak, Cameron shifted in his seat.
“How did you like the salad?”
Treha shrugged.
“Yeah, I’ve had some of their food before and it wasn’t the greatest. . . .” He hes
itated, then said, “So . . . I was wondering if you had a chance to talk with Shelly.”
He looked like a nervous cat. And then she noticed the dimples. The smile. Hair with a mind of its own, but what a wonderful mind. One look was all it took to draw her back into the illusion. He was so easy to look at. And Treha knew she had a choice. She could tell him what she had done or give him only a shade of the truth. She was ready to give him the whole truth but when she looked in his eyes, her resolve crumbled.
“I didn’t see her last night,” she said. “I went to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.”
“What a relief!” Cameron wiped his face with his hands and sighed, slumping down into the booth. He laughed. He actually laughed through his hands. “You won’t believe this. I was up all night worried about it. What she’d say. How she’d react. The fact that I didn’t sign the thing. I put this goofy drawing at the bottom. It was infantile, the whole thing. Asking you to talk with her was a weak thing to do. So don’t say anything. I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”
“It’s okay. I didn’t talk with her.”
“Great. I can sleep again. I just need the card back. Do you have it with you?”
“No . . . I must have left it in the room.”
“Okay. Could you get it? I know it’s a lot to ask. I just need to have it.”
The rain was coming down sideways outside. “I usually don’t go back to the room before class. I don’t like to disturb her.”
“But can you just slip in? It would mean a lot.”
“I can’t. But I promise she won’t see it.”
There was pain on his face now. “Girls want a man, not a boy. And I was acting like a scared kid. The more I thought about it, the more I want to wait. Do this my own way. You know, be strong.”
“Well, it’s probably better that you talk with her. We don’t have the best relationship. She doesn’t want to be my roommate.”
“Why not? I would think you’d be the perfect roommate.”
The words warmed her. Funny how something said so innocently could feel like a microwave inside. “I’m not the perfect anything.”
“Treha, you’re amazing. You’re one of the coolest people on campus. If she doesn’t think you’re a good roommate, there must be something wrong with her.”
Now he was on the right track. Now he was getting it. Shelly wasn’t the right person for him.
“So when can you get the card back to me?”
She looked at her notebook as if her schedule were there. “Later. Maybe after dinner? It’s a busy day.”
“Okay.” He wrote something on a piece of paper. “Here’s my phone number. Call or text me as soon as you have it, okay?”
Treha nodded.
Before he left, he turned and said, “I really appreciate you not saying anything. You’re a good friend, Treha.”
She tried to smile, but smiling wasn’t easy. When he left, Treha headed for the dorm trash bins.
CHAPTER 16
Paige
The plane was full and I sat beside a mother with her two-year-old, who clearly didn’t understand the concept of personal space. I was hoping for some time to think and prepare myself for what was ahead, but instead I encountered screaming and tantrum throwing and cereal tossing and ugly stares from people around us who evidently thought I was part of the problem. Missing this part of motherhood was not a bad thing.
Dr. Waldron had been understanding when I informed him of my sudden departure. He said the right words and even conveyed the compassion due the situation, and yet I sensed unease.
“Let me get on the ground and find out where this is going,” I’d said. “I’ll know more when I get there.”
“Yes. I know you need to do this, Paige, and I’m glad you’re going. I really am.”
But. Such a small word that hangs in the air of most conversations. But our agreement stands. But you need to finish the writing. But your employment is on the line.
I heard the but resounding in my head as I stared out the window and remembered the long, tortuous trip from New Guinea. I had taken a series of unending flights, my stomach bulging and everything falling apart around me. There’d been stares on those flights as well. People looking at my age, my youth, and my pregnancy. I’d wanted to crawl into an overhead bin.
When I pulled up in my rental car, my mother met me at the door of their condo and gave me a tepid hug and a side kiss. I could tell some of the weight had lifted from her as I walked inside, but the past few days had taken their toll. No, the past few years.
“Any news?” I said.
“They’re saying tomorrow morning. They think he’s stabilized.”
“That’s good.”
“The man from the security company is coming—should be here within the hour. They’ve had a lot of experience with this kind of thing—that’s what they told me—so I’m hoping they can help us keep him corralled. I’m not sure of the cost, though.”
“Mom, we’ll do what we need to do.”
“Yes—I’m nervous about punching all the numbers. I’ve seen these things in a friend’s house and there’s so much to remember. If you don’t do it correctly, the alarm rings and they send out guards.”
My mother had skinned wild hogs and cooked them over a spit. She’d killed snakes that weighed more than she did. But until recently she hadn’t been able to pump her own gasoline. She didn’t know how to swipe her credit card and punch in the zip code. The world had gotten more complicated and left her sitting in the slow lane wondering where the next rest area might be.
“I can help you with that, Mom. Don’t worry. They’ll make it as easy as they can. We’ll write everything down.”
We talked about Dad’s condition and I asked to see the scrape on her arm. She protested, said it was nothing, said it was hard to see it in a long-sleeved shirt. Finally she relented, and the bruise took my breath away. It extended from her wrist to her elbow and had turned a deep purple.
“You look like you went a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. This is awful.”
“It’s nothing, really,” she said.
“Did you have that looked at? It could be broken.”
“I’d be in more pain if it were broken. I was a nurse, you know.”
She had worked as a nurse in the jungle, though she’d had scant training before leaving the States. She did know injuries when she saw them. Bones protruding. Inadvertent machete gashes. She’d even done an amputation, though the patient hadn’t lived long afterward. I insisted she go to urgent care, but she wasn’t having it.
Finally she said, “Paige, we need to stop bickering and pull together. Our mission is to get your father home and get him settled. Let’s put our differences aside. And don’t try to boss me like I’m a child.”
“I’m just concerned. For both of you.”
“Well, we’ve been doing all right without you for quite a while.”
So much for pulling together, I thought. If my father was a connoisseur of words, my mother was an aficionado of guilt. She baked with it, stirring and folding it into every relationship, and to be honest, it was working.
“Now, while I wait here for the security company, you go up to your father’s study and get some work done. We fixed him a nice room up there before he got sick.”
“You make it sound like I’ve never seen it before.”
“Of course you have, but I’m just saying—have a look. It’s a shame he can’t go there. I keep a gate here in the closet, the kind to block little children. It’s been more than a year since he’s been up there.”
“You shouldn’t be living in a two-story.”
She gave me a look and I put both hands in the air. “Sorry. One for all and all for one.”
“It’s nice and peaceful there. When he takes a nap, I go up and look over some old manuscripts and woodworking projects. It brings back good memories.”
“I don’t think I can work on my dissertation right now, Mom.”
&n
bsp; “Yes—well, if you can’t work, go up there and rest. You remember the hammock he made—we hung it in the corner.”
“The one we put between the hoop pines? How in the world did you get it?”
“It’s a long story—a villager found it and gave it to a family returning for furlough. Your father used to sleep in that hammock. His favorite spot. Go on, you have to have a look.”
I climbed the stairs and quickly ducked into their old bedroom, the one they’d had to abandon after the disease set in. It’s hard watching your parents age. As a child I felt they would always stay the same, just like they thought about me. They’d been so vibrant, so full of life and questions. Now there were handrails along bathroom walls and telltale sights and smells of aging. The bedroom downstairs was used for easier access, but there were still signs of them in here. My mother’s shoe collection. My father’s shirts and pants that weren’t worn any longer in baskets on the closet floor.
Down the hall was the extra bedroom they had turned into a study, and walking inside felt like going back in time. Pictures of people and scenes from our lives covered the walls. I closed my eyes and they came to life. The sounds of voices and insects and rain and wind and kumul birds in the trees. The feel of the earth under my bare feet.
On Dad’s desk were his carving tools and several ink pens and raw pieces of wood, like someone had interrupted him in the middle of a project. Dementia is like Vesuvius. It strikes in the middle of whatever you’re doing.
Next to his woodworking tools were the manuscripts, and beside them was a copy of the Bible, translated into the Sio language. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. Rarely can a person hold the words of one father, let alone two.
Finally I turned to the corner. Attached to two walls by metal hooks was the hammock, made from military green fabric, something my father had fashioned from leftovers of a forgotten war. I knelt on the floor and smelled the musty, musky fragrance still trapped in the cotton fibers. Immediately I was at the beach, in that hammock with him. Not my father. Treha’s father. It was one of the places we’d gone on moonlit nights with the surf pounding the coral reef. I had seen my daughter the day before and now I was seeing the place where she had been conceived. Or at least one of the possible places. It could have been on the beach. It could have been in the L-shaped tree we climbed. In my room when my parents were away one morning. Good Christian girls are not supposed to do that. Especially missionary daughters. And if it happens, it’s only supposed to happen once. And you’re not supposed to enjoy it. You’re supposed to come under such conviction that you stop. But we didn’t.
