by Chris Fabry
“I’ve been around schools and students long enough to know. Trust me. Don’t give up just because life has gotten a little difficult.”
“A little?”
“A lot.”
She looked like a fish out of water, scooting forward on the chair and rubbing her hands against her jeans. How anyone could mistreat someone like Treha was beyond me.
“I want to call my friend. Do I get a phone call?”
“You’re not being arrested. You can call anyone you want.”
I got out my cell phone and handed it to Treha. She waved me off and said she had her own. But before she could dial, D. C. walked in.
“I’m supposed to take you up to see the dean.”
“D. C., this is a setup,” I said. “Surely you can see that. How did you find out about the missing items in the first place?”
“Her roommate told her RA that some items were missing. She came in one day earlier in the week and startled Treha. She was hiding something, acting strange. And she thought she saw her hiding something under her clothes.”
“That’s not true,” Treha said.
“I’m telling you what we were told.”
“I want to go home,” Treha said, her eyes vacant, the fingers typing again.
“Come with me, Treha,” D. C. said.
“Can I go with you?” I heard myself say.
D. C. shrugged.
“Aren’t you teaching the class?” Treha said.
“I’m fine. This is more important.”
I stood and followed them to the elevator and we rode to the top floor. The carpet was so thick I nearly lost my shoes. Along the hallway were pictures of school presidents and members of the board. Understated furniture, but not too understated. I had been to this floor twice as a student and it looked basically the same. D. C. led us to a conference room where the dean of students, Jared Douglas, waited. I knew Jared from our student days. He was also one of Ron Gleason’s best friends.
“Paige, I didn’t expect to see you,” Jared said. He was a wiry man with glasses, impeccably dressed. Even at this time of night his tie was perfect and his shirt still creased from the last ironing.
“Well, these are extraordinary circumstances,” I said. “I wanted to make sure Treha has a chance to tell her side of the story.”
“I see.” He gestured toward the open seats and looked at his file. “Treha, you signed an agreement at the beginning of the year. A code of conduct. Do you remember that?”
“Yes. And I haven’t broken it.”
“If we find otherwise, it’s an immediate dismissal. And you forfeit the money that’s been paid for the semester. So I urge you to consider this carefully.” He glanced at me and it was all I could do to not respond. “Everyone makes mistakes. There’s certainly forgiveness for what you may have done, but there are also consequences. When a case is brought against a student like this—”
“Jared, could I see you in the hall a minute?” I said, an edge to my voice. He acted as if I’d just tossed a dead fish into his manila folder, but he finally nodded, and when he’d closed the massive door and we stood in the carpet that was as deep as a snowfall, he pushed back.
“Paige, I’m all for teachers taking an interest in their students, but I don’t understand why you’re inserting yourself into this.”
“The girl is alone. She has no advocate. Shelly’s family has a lot of pull with the administration. You know that. All things being equal, she’s the one they’ll believe.”
“If you’re suggesting we play favorites, you’re wrong. I resent that insinuation. We’re capable of handling this fairly and without favoritism.”
“I’m not calling your judgment into question. I just don’t think she needs—just listen to her side of the story.”
“I’ll do that. I’m getting to that.”
“She needs to know someone believes in her. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
His brows knit together and made his forehead crease like an old map. “And how do you know this? I have her RA and the head of security and a student who used to be her roommate and some missing jewelry. How could you possibly know if she’s stolen something or not?”
There are some things a mother knows. The words tried to rise up from deep inside me but I held them back and instead put a hand on his arm. “Please. All I’m asking is that you would hear her side.”
He nodded but clearly wanted to ask more. I opened the door and quickly moved to the table. Jared sat and folded his hands over the file and asked Treha to give her side of the story. I expected a tear-filled, jittery speech, but Treha was surprisingly calm and collected, though she did type with her fingers on the table in front of her as she spoke.
She explained what had happened from the first day. Jared listened and asked follow-up questions about the jewelry. The note that Shelly had found was another damning piece of evidence but Treha answered that with aplomb. She didn’t give the identity of the author, but as she described the event, it was clear this wasn’t some rehearsed speech but the truth.
“All right, I think I have enough information to go on,” Jared said. “You’ve been helpful, Treha, and I’m sorry you’ve been put through this.”
“Does that mean you believe her?” I said.
“That means I have more fact-finding to do. I want to talk with the other parties.”
“You can see she’s telling the truth,” I said.
“There are some serious questions we need to deal with. Sometimes you need the wisdom of Solomon to sort out such things.”
“And sometimes you just need a little common sense. And resolve.” I glanced at the clock. “Treha, our class is still in session. Should we go?”
Her eyes were moving now as she stared at the table in front of her. “I don’t know if I can go back to the class. They all think I’m a liar.”
“Nonsense. Most of them have no idea about this. You can’t let what other people think dictate your life.”
I stood and waited to see what Treha would do. After a few seconds, she got up and followed me to the elevator.
CHAPTER 21
Treha
Treha stood a little closer to Ms. Redwine as the elevator doors closed. It felt good to have someone believe her story and take her side. She hadn’t experienced that since being with Miriam and Elsie in Arizona.
“This young man who wrote the card to Shelly,” Ms. Redwine said. “Is he cute?”
The question surprised Treha. “Extremely,” she said.
“Really? What is your definition of extremely cute?” There was a smile to her question and when Treha didn’t answer, she asked another. “I mean, is it the way he looks, his eyes, his muscles, or something intangible?”
“It’s everything. The way he looks and the way he acts. He noticed me.”
Treha thought she saw tears in the woman’s eyes, but Ms. Redwine looked away and quickly resumed the conversation.
“Well, it sounds like he chose to use you to get to Shelly. I’m sorry that happened. Obviously extreme cuteness does not automatically give one discernment.”
“I liked that he talked with me.”
“That is a good start to a relationship, isn’t it?”
They crossed campus and just before they entered the classroom, Ms. Redwine stopped and turned. “Treha, you’re probably wondering why I went with you to that meeting.”
She nodded. “You can’t do that for all of your students or you would never teach a class.”
“Right. But you’re not just any student. You’re one of a kind.” The woman bit her lower lip. “Could we go for coffee or something after class? I’d like to talk more.”
Treha considered this. She had an empty room to return to in the dorm. She also had an empty stomach and she felt alone. Just the possibility of another person to talk with sounded wonderful. Especially someone who had treated her kindly.
“I’d like that,” Treha said.
Walking into the classroom with all the people look
ing at her wasn’t quite as difficult when walking in with Ms. Redwine. The teacher apologized to the other students for taking longer than the timed writing assignment, then launched into the lesson.
“There’s a reason why I chose fear as the topic of your writing prompt. As a writer this is something you must attack and wrestle. When you give voice to your fear, when you expose it, as vulnerable as that makes you, you give others the same permission. You give them courage to believe there’s more to life than cowering. You give hope. And my guess is, when you tackle your inner fears, you will eventually tackle what’s holding you back from who God intended you to be. Your fears lead you to who you really are.”
Ms. Redwine’s voice cracked and Treha noticed she was staring straight at her. The teacher composed herself, turned toward the front screen, and said to the class, “So who’s brave enough to tell me what they wrote about?”
Silence in the classroom, but eventually students began to raise their hands. They talked about fears of failure, of not doing well in school, of letting down their professors or their parents or God. Treha listened intently but kept her eyes on her desktop.
“This is all very good,” Ms. Redwine said. “To write is to be vulnerable. To be willing to learn more than you wanted about your fears. About yourself.”
A student near the back of the room raised his hand. “What would you have written about, Ms. Redwine? What is your fear?”
Treha looked up in surprise. She wondered if the teacher would answer the question.
Ms. Redwine stared at the student, then at the floor, rubbing her hands and tapping a pen against her thigh. “That’s a good question.” She moved to the desk and leaned against it. “My fear . . .” She chuckled. “Maybe I should have spent time writing this down.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about—”
“No, that’s all right. Thank you for the question. It’s fair to push those who try to teach you. I’ve just come from my parents’ home in Florida, where things have pretty much fallen apart, so I’m a little emotional. My father is older now. He has a disease. Years ago he called it ‘old-timer’s,’ but it’s not so funny anymore.”
She looked at her hands, then studied the pen closely. “My answer to this question might have been different a few years ago. It might have even been different a few days ago. But that’s the thing with God. He uses circumstances, struggles, to do things in us.
“My fear was that because of past mistakes and failure, I was less than usable to him. I’ve been living under the belief that I have to impress him, that I have to make every right choice from now on. That I’ve used up his grace, and one more mistake and I’m through. So my fear has held me back from trying.
“I’ve been working on a thesis for years. I had a sabbatical and it nearly killed me because I tried to put down my ideas, but every time I looked at my notes, I couldn’t. I was afraid. Now I think the fear wasn’t about writing the wrong thing. It wasn’t about not getting it right. It was about disclosure. Unveiling and letting others see.”
“What’s your thesis?” another student asked.
“It’s about mothers and daughters in literature. Healing strained relationships between parent and child.”
Treha wondered if that was why Ms. Redwine had asked questions about her mother, because of her thesis. The woman seemed genuine, but was she trying to use Treha for her writing, as Anna had done?
Ms. Redwine glanced at the clock. “I think that’s enough for tonight. We can end a few minutes early.” She gave the next assignment and dismissed them. And as the class filed out, she asked Treha to join her in the commons for the coffee they’d talked about.
Treha hesitated for a second, then nodded.
CHAPTER 22
Paige
There were tables and chairs strewn about the commons, ghosts of conversations past. The smell of brewed coffee lingered. Students talked or studied or both.
I chose a booth along the side, behind a pillar I thought would give us privacy. As I placed my things on the bench, I wondered what to say and how to say it, wondered how Treha would respond. I sat down across from her, feeling as though the question from class still hung in the air. What is your fear? The part of me that wanted to stay hidden, the part that made my heart want to beat out of my chest and run and hide and retreat, would not win tonight.
Treha sat too and looked at the tabletop.
“Treha, I have something I need to tell you.” When she didn’t look up, I opened my purse. “You showed me a letter from your mother. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to take the copy with me.”
Treha looked up at me. “Do you want to use my story in your thesis? Is that why you’re talking to me?”
“What do you mean?”
“My story is just like the paper you’re writing. The relationship between mothers and daughters in stories.”
“Oh. No, this isn’t about my dissertation.” I held the letter out, my hands shaking. “I’ve written one good essay from the heart in my life, and I’ve lived in fear that someone would discover I wrote it. But I’ve also lived with a hope that you would be that person.”
Treha searched my eyes, hers filled with confusion. I reached out and touched her hand. “I remember the night you were born. I remember your first cry. It broke my heart when they took you away.” Tears formed but I didn’t push them away. “I remember the smell of the hospital. I remember it was raining when they took me to my room. I asked if I could see you. They said I couldn’t. That if I saw you, I’d want to keep you. I promised I wouldn’t. I begged to hold you.”
I fought the tears and a whisper escaped through the broken places of my heart. “Treha, you’re my daughter.”
Her voice was flat, not questioning but stating. “You’re my mother.”
I could feel the distance between us and tried to close it with words.
“I should have told you. I should have come looking for you. I was afraid. I’ve watched you here, read your essays. I’ve fallen in love with you. Again.”
Treha’s fingers began to move on the tabletop and I heard noise around us, behind us, but I focused on her. I was desperate to ask her questions, to embrace her, but I held back, trying to wait for her to be ready. We sat for several minutes, not speaking, just me looking at my daughter, her looking at me. I wiped away tears but Treha had none.
Finally Treha said, “Elsie told me this would happen. She believed I would meet my mother.”
“Elsie was right.”
“I have so many questions,” Treha said.
The whispers behind me had grown louder and I glanced back at a group of students in the next booth. They quickly dropped their eyes to the table or their phones. My heart sank. Were they close enough to have heard us?
I turned back to Treha. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
CHAPTER 23
Treha
Treha tried to look into the eyes of her mother, tried to see some reflection of herself. Ms. Redwine was beautiful. Her face looked nothing like Treha’s—she had a smooth complexion, thin lips, silky-smooth hair. Her eyes didn’t move and she looked like she’d never struggled with weight.
Ms. Redwine drove off campus, and they found an IHOP a few miles away.
“You knew it was me because of my name, didn’t you?” Treha said once they’d ordered. “Your letter said that was how you’d know.”
“Yes. I always thought one day I would read a story about you, this girl with the strange name. You’d be quoted in a newspaper article after discovering a cure for some exotic disease.”
“But I haven’t.”
Ms. Redwine smiled. “You don’t have to cure anything. You’re my daughter.”
Their food arrived and Treha sat in silence, adding butter and moving it around her pancakes with a bent fork. Ms. Redwine leaned forward. “What is it, Treha? What are you thinking?”
“Are you sure?”
“About what?”
“That you’re
her. There are others who have told me I’m their daughter.”
“Treha—”
“You don’t look like me.”
“We can have a DNA test, but that’s my letter you’ve been carrying. And you have my father’s eyes.”
Treha stared at her. “Really?”
“The color is uncanny.”
“My grandparents. Do they know about me? That you found me?”
“My mother does. My father has been struggling with dementia. Alzheimer’s. But I’m sure if he were aware that I’d found you, he would want to give you a big hug.”
“What about your mother?”
“My mother . . . she would love you too. It was hard for her when I got pregnant. She was upset and felt betrayed. She had waited so long to become pregnant after she and my father got married. And there I was, a teenager, having a baby.”
“How did you feel?”
“Ashamed. A million pounds of guilt. I didn’t want to let my parents down. Especially my father. When they decided I should fly back to have you—from the mission field, where I grew up—I felt it was best.”
“And to give me up for adoption.”
Ms. Redwine’s brow creased. “I thought I was placing you in the loving hands of someone who could give you a good life. Obviously, that didn’t happen.”
“Did you have brothers or sisters?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“I might be able to help your father. Sometimes, at Desert Gardens, I could help the residents.”
Ms. Redwine put down her coffee. “I would like you to meet him, but I don’t want you to feel pressure. I didn’t tell you this so you would fix my father. You’re under no obligation—”
“What if I want to help him?”
“If that’s what you want.” She patted Treha’s hand a little awkwardly. There was a buzz in the woman’s purse but she ignored it and took another sip of coffee.
Treha had been ravenously hungry in class, but now she could hardly think of food. “I met Dr. Crenshaw. He was your doctor, wasn’t he?”
