by Chris Fabry
“What did you do?”
“I called the neighbors for help. I didn’t know what to do. They rushed over here and found him sitting at the table. It was three thirty at that point. They helped calm him down and cleaned up the pantry. When they saw everything was under control, they got ready to leave. He calls out, ‘Why are you taking off so early?’ We were all exhausted. He was ready for me to make lunch.”
I couldn’t help smiling, thinking of him bewildered that anyone would be leaving the house.
“Now I’m waiting for the next episode. I don’t want to keep him drugged so heavily he’s a zombie, but I need to sleep.”
I kept watch over him that first night and let her rest. After he had taken his medication and was ready for sleep, I sat beside him, held his hand, and read to him from the Bible. The words washed over him and there was a feeling of calm and peace in the room. When I stopped, though his eyes were closed, he squeezed my hand as if willing me to continue. I picked up the closest book, an aged copy of My Utmost for His Highest, and turned to a devotion in the middle. He listened intently and when I closed the book in fatigue, he reached out again and took my hand.
“You like it when I read, don’t you?” My eyes were tired and burning, but I was not about to squander the chance of a response from him after watching him all day. So I closed my eyes and began the routine he had performed with me when I was little. “Once upon a time there was a boy who wanted to change the world. Many people who lived before him had tried to change the world, people who built bridges and flying machines and ran companies and countries and did great things, wonderful things, but never really changed the world the way he wanted to change it.
“So the boy decided he would follow God, and he listened closely and carefully to what God told him to do. And do you know what he heard God telling him? ‘The power is in the Word.’ He remembered the verses that say, ‘The Word of God is alive and powerful. It is sharper than the sharpest two-edged sword, cutting between soul and spirit, between joint and marrow. It exposes our innermost thoughts and desires.’
“The boy devoted his life to the words that can change the world. Words that can change the heart. He took the words on the pages of the Bible and words from people who lived in the jungle and exchanged them. And the people had never seen such a thing. But when they began to read, something wonderful happened. One by one, hearts changed, and there was mercy and forgiveness and grace. And that’s how the boy changed the world.”
My father was asleep, breathing rhythmically, his stomach rising and falling like a newborn’s. I sat back in the chair and started to pray, something else he had done with me as a child. I prayed for the people we had known in the jungle, the names of those I remembered. I prayed for other missionaries and extended family members he would know. I prayed for the president and members of Congress and governors, just as my father taught me, even though he had big differences with most political leaders. My voice grew softer in this audience with God and my father. And the longer I spoke, the more my prayer became a whisper and my heart turned toward my daughter.
“Oh, Lord, you know the struggles that Treha has been through. You know that her life is not easy, that the things she has seen and experienced have scarred her, and yet I believe you are good and that all of these things can work together for her and our eventual good. Would you encourage her in her studies tonight? Would you come alongside her and help her understand you better, understand your will for her life? And, Lord, would you give me the strength to show her that she does have a mother who cares, that she does have a grandfather and grandmother who love her? Give me the opening I need to reach her. Give me the courage I need.”
I prayed so hard, concentrating on the inner image of Treha’s face, that I didn’t feel the movement beside me. I heard bedsprings creak and looked up to see my father leaning over me, eyes wide-open. He startled me and I jerked back, but when I looked more closely, I saw his mouth moving. He was trying to get words out but couldn’t.
“What is it, Dad?”
There was pleading in his eyes, tears, but I couldn’t reach him. No matter what I said, he was locked away. I whispered encouragement, trying to coax him out of the shell, to no avail.
Finally I stretched out a hand and caressed his stubble-covered face. “Do you want me to pray for you? Is that what you want, Dad? Do you want me to read to you again? I didn’t even know you could hear me, but I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we can be together again.”
His eyes begged in the muted light and the struggle continued. Then, exhausted, he sat back on the bed and let his arms dangle. I gently lowered his head to the pillow and he drew his legs to himself in a fetal position.
I returned to the Bible and read him Psalm 23. “‘The Lord is my shepherd; I have all that I need.’”
As I did, I recalled the letter I had written to my father shortly before Treha’s birth. I hoped the letter had reached him, but I was never sure. We never talked about it, simply moved on, one foot in front of the other and no looking back.
“‘He lets me rest in green meadows; he leads me beside peaceful streams. He renews my strength. He guides me along right paths, bringing honor to his name.’”
I apologized to my father in that letter for letting him down, for letting God down. For my failure.
“‘Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me.’”
I’d told my father what I planned to name my daughter and that I hoped she would carry that name with her the rest of her life as a memorial. That one day I hoped to find her doing well and following God. And that perhaps one day he would meet her.
“‘You prepare a feast for me in the presence of my enemies. You honor me by anointing my head with oil. My cup overflows with blessings.’”
Things came back to me in that night watch. Memories and thoughts stirred by the mere presence of my family. Hopes and dreams that had been muted like my father’s condition.
“‘Surely your goodness and unfailing love will pursue me all the days of my life, and I will live in the house of the Lord forever.’”
The next morning my mother was anxious to hear how things had gone. I told her Dad hadn’t moved the rest of the night until first light when I was awakened by him sitting up and trying to get out of bed. I’d helped him to the bathroom.
When he was settled in front of the TV, I pulled her aside. “Something else happened last night. It was almost as if he was trying to tell me something or responding to something I said.”
She asked what I had said and I ticked off the things I had read him but told her that I felt it was during my prayer that he became somewhat coherent. That’s when he had gotten in my face.
“Mom, have you ever considered that maybe he was reacting to you in some way when he pushed you? When he became aggressive? Maybe he understands more than we’re giving him credit for.”
“I want to believe you’re right, but you haven’t seen him like I have.”
“Take me back. What was going on that day?”
“I was talking to him. Our little running conversation. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“What about? Politics? Sports? Did it have anything to do with me?”
Sometimes it pays to observe because at the moment I asked the question, my mother looked away. “Maybe you can remember every conversation, but I can’t. Not at my age.”
“Mom, please. Try.”
She dried the dishes while we talked and it looked like she was doing extra duty on the water droplets. I let her clean, just standing there until she turned and saw me staring at her.
“I have a question for you,” my mother said, her mouth flat and inexpressive. “If you tell your daughter, will you help her contact her father’s family?”
“I haven’t crossed that bridge yet.”
The words fell in the space between us and were swallowed by the past and all w
e had done to make it go away.
CHAPTER 19
Treha
Treha put Cameron’s card in his mailbox and hoped Shelly’s anger would subside. But that didn’t happen. The girl moved out of their room and slept on a friend’s floor down the hall the first night.
Jill tried to keep things calm but Shelly had gone to the administration, which set off a formal complaint protocol that brought Treha in front of a counselor she had never met, Mrs. Tanholme.
The woman asked Treha a few questions about school and how classes were going, then got to the meat of the problem.
“She hasn’t liked me from the first day,” Treha said. “I think she wanted a different roommate. So I’ve tried to stay out of her way.”
“Is that why you took the note from her and opened it?”
“I didn’t take the note from her.”
“Did you write the note yourself, Treha?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
“I’ve explained this. It was someone interested in Shelly who gave me the card. He thought I could help him get to know her. I was upset that he didn’t like me, so I threw it in the trash. And when I thought about it and decided I’d made a mistake, it was gone. Shelly took it from my trash can.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him no, that you didn’t want to give her the card?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t think that fast.”
“And you opened the card because . . . ?”
“I wanted to see what he wrote. I wanted him to say those things to me, and then I got angry.”
Mrs. Tanholme nodded. “I understand. That must have been a little traumatic.”
“I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up about a boyfriend.”
“Why is that?”
“Because no one would want to be my boyfriend.”
“Oh, Treha, I don’t think that’s true. What was it about this boy that interested you?”
“I don’t know. I just liked him. He talked to me.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“He’s a student here.”
“Treha, why don’t you just tell us who the boy is? We won’t embarrass him.”
“I promised him I wouldn’t tell.”
“You’re in trouble. Surely he would help you.”
“I try to always keep my promises.”
The woman came from behind her desk and sat beside Treha. “I know coming here has been a big transition. This year has been filled with changes. And since you’ve come from a difficult background, it’s hard to integrate into a new social network. I’d hate to see anything like this derail your education.”
“What do you mean, derail?”
“I mean these accusations. The questions. They hang over you and your studies. Cause stress. And you have enough of that already.”
“The answer is simple. Shelly doesn’t want me as a roommate. She’s moved out. Things should go better now for both of us.”
“I’m afraid Shelly isn’t going to let this stop at a different room assignment. She’s told us some other things that have us concerned.”
“What things?”
“She said some of your class assignments weren’t really yours.”
“That’s not true. I haven’t handed in anything that wasn’t my own work.”
“Let’s just get this card issue behind us first. Give me a name so I can go in confidence and speak with him.”
Treha thought a moment. “I made a promise. If I went back on it, who would be able to trust me? How could you trust what I say?”
“Would you be willing to ask him to talk with me?”
“I could try.”
“Good. Excellent. I’ll take that.” She handed Treha a business card with her phone number on it. “Have him call me or stop by the office. The sooner the better. Okay?”
Treha walked through the halls and felt every eye on her. She felt guilty. She found Cameron in the cafeteria at dinner that evening and sat a few tables away and tried to catch his eye. She waved once and thought he had seen her but wasn’t sure. When he stood to leave, she followed.
“Can I talk with you?” she said.
“I’m kind of busy, Treha.”
“It won’t take long. I need your help, Cameron.” Just saying his name was painful.
He dumped his trash, then followed her to the back of the room.
“Shelly accused me of stealing. She found the card you wrote and said I stole it. Then she accused me of writing it.”
“Writing it? She thinks you’re in love with her?”
“She went to the administration. I’m in trouble with them.”
Cameron closed his eyes and shook his head. “I knew it. I never should have given that to you. It was so dumb.”
Treha handed him Mrs. Tanholme’s card. “Can you call the counselor and tell her the truth? Or go to her office?”
He stared at the name. “Treha, I don’t want Shelly to know. It’s so embarrassing. If she finds out I’m the one who actually wrote it, I’ll get laughed out of school.”
“The worst that happens is she’s flattered by what you wrote but isn’t interested.”
“That’s easy for you to say. That’s not the worst that can happen. I mean, I appreciate you not telling anyone. I do. You kept your word. But I don’t want her knowing.”
“The counselor said you could just talk with her in confidence. You don’t have to—”
“I’d like to help but I can’t.” Cameron walked away from her and through the double doors.
Treha returned to her empty room. Shelly’s things had been moved. No more needing to go to the commons each morning. She could stay and work at her own desk. She moved it next to the window on Shelly’s side, the one Shelly had claimed for herself before Treha arrived. She looked out the window at the changing color of the leaves and thought this felt like a new beginning. Or the beginning of the end.
CHAPTER 20
Paige
After a late-night flight on Sunday, I got through my Monday classes at Millhaven and drove to Bethesda to grab something to eat in the commons. I picked at my meal, searching for Treha but not finding her in the trickle of students that passed.
I should have called her, should have invited her to dinner. Should have bought a plane ticket for Tucson as soon as I’d seen the documentary. After all the lost time and delays and interruptions, I didn’t want to squander another day without my daughter knowing, no matter what the consequences.
I usually try to be fashionably on time for class, not too early, not too late, but I couldn’t help rushing there tonight. I didn’t want to embarrass Treha; that wouldn’t be fair. We needed to be alone when she found out, but I just wanted to see her. Talk to her.
The class filled. The clock ticked. Treha’s seat remained empty. I welcomed the students and stalled, checking the door every thirty seconds. I mentioned that I had been out of town for a few days and went into a devotional about my father and the legacy of words. When my voice caught, I switched emotional gears and rehearsed his career as a translator, the safe parts of his story that I could speak through without weeping.
Finally I checked the roll and asked if anyone had seen Treha, and from the back came a timid hand. “I think something’s going on in her dorm.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw a security guard and the RA in her room.”
I knew I had to continue the class, that I couldn’t abandon them, but I also couldn’t abandon Treha. I had prepared a writing prompt for the end of class but quickly pulled it out and put it on the screen and gave them a timed assignment. Some looked confused but I told them I needed to leave for a few minutes, then hurried toward her dorm.
The door was locked, but a student at the desk buzzed me in.
“I’m looking for Treha Langsam’s room. Do you know her?”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Yeah, but she’s not there. They took her to the admin building.”
I rushed there and made it as far as the security office. There was a flurry of activity in an office that should have been quiet this time of night. The young man at the front asked if he could help me, but I saw D. C. behind him and got his attention.
“I’m looking for one of my students, Treha Langsam.”
“She’s here, ma’am. There’s been an incident at her dorm.”
“What kind of incident?”
“We’re waiting on the dean.”
“What happened?”
Treha looked through the open door of D. C.’s office, her eyes red and puffy. My heart melted. I wanted to envelop her and never let her go. “I need to see her.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea, ma’am.”
I tried to speak, tried to come up with words that would convince him or at least to communicate with my eyes. Finally D. C. nodded and I walked past him and closed the door behind me.
“I’m sorry I’m not in class,” Treha said. Her fingers were moving on her lap as if she were typing out her defense without a keyboard.
“Treha, what happened?”
“They came into my room.”
“Who?”
“The RA, Jill. And the security people. They went to my closet and lifted up some of my clothes and found some jewelry. I guess it was Shelly’s. A necklace and some earrings.”
“They’re saying you took them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No. I’ve never seen them before.”
It sounded like a setup, and the bile rose in my throat. It would be a case of she-said, she-said. And who would believe a loner like Treha?
“I just want to go back to Arizona. I don’t belong here.”
“I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”
“She was upset with me about the card she found, too.”
“What card?”
Treha described the prior conflict with Shelly. Searching for something to say, something that felt right, I sat beside her. “It’s not true that you don’t belong. You do.”
“How would you know that?”
