by Chris Fabry
The woman pulled a tissue from a full, decorative box on the nightstand and wiped at her eyes.
“Our goal is to give each resident the best care,” Miriam said. “Late at night, early in the morning, all of those who work here strive to give the attention each person needs. If you decide this is the best, you can rest easy. Ardeth will lack for nothing.”
A bead of saliva pooled at the edge of the old woman’s mouth and gravity did its work. Her daughter leaned forward, taking another tissue to catch the bead as it ran down her chin.
“I don’t want her to be in bed all day,” the daughter said, her voice breaking, her tone accusatory. She caught herself and put a hand on her chest. “But that was happening at home. I hated leaving her in front of the television, but I have things to do and I can’t take her with me.” She was whispering now.
Miriam knew it was time to be quiet.
The daughter went on. “I want her to do the things she loves. Gardening and reading. She loves life. She loves our children. You only see her this way, the vacant stare, but there’s a vibrant woman in there. Giving and kind. But she gets upset when she can’t remember things and then she gets angry, and I can’t . . .”
More tears. Head down and retreating to tissues.
Miriam scooted to the edge of the bed and leaned toward the daughter. Trust was her most important commodity. The family had to place their full faith in her and the staff. “I know exactly what you’re going through, and I wouldn’t blame you if you took your mother and got in the car and drove home. This is the hardest decision I ever had to make.”
“You’ve done this?”
“Yes. My own mother. Of course, it was easier bringing her here, knowing I’d be working with her every day. But seeing her lose that independence, that sense of dignity—it felt like giving up. Like one more loss in a long line of them. And you want the losses to stop. You just want the old life back. The person you knew.”
The woman nodded. “Exactly.”
It was time for words again. Miriam felt the spotlight. The moment when things either came together or disintegrated.
“I want to be honest. As I look at you, I see that strong woman your mother was. Confident and caring and full of life. Only wanting the best for those you love. I want that person you knew to return. But the truth is, this may be the best we achieve. Today, having her here and comfortable and not agitated . . . that may be as good as we get. Are you okay with that? If this is as good as it gets, can you let go and rest in that?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking.”
Miriam leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “Your love for your mother is not conditional on her response. You love her for who she is. You don’t love her because of the things she can do for you.”
The daughter nodded.
“So no matter what happens—if she improves, remains like this, or if she regresses—her condition is not the point. We always hope and pray for progress. But if you don’t get the response you’d like, are you willing to accept that and just love her? That’s where I see you struggling.”
The woman’s face clouded. “You’re saying I don’t love my mother if I don’t let her stay here?”
The man put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let’s cut the sales job, Mrs. Howard. Your job is to convince us to spend the money Ardeth has saved and put it into this place so you can keep building your little geriatric empire.”
Miriam pursed her lips. The anger wasn’t new. She had heard much more creative and acerbic accusations. She disregarded the charge and focused on the daughter.
“Let me try again. What I’m calling you to do is to see reality. Not how things might be or could be, but how they are. This is the baseline we work from. And when you embrace that, not requiring change but accepting where you are, where she is, then wonderful things can happen. Your heart can rest. You won’t feel guilty about what you’ve done or haven’t done. You can simply love her.”
The daughter thought a moment, ruminating on the words. Processing.
Miriam wished she could film this interaction for her successor—it was a classic scene she had seen repeated a thousand times with varying results.
“My biggest fear is that she’ll fall. That if she stays with us, she won’t be safe. But you can’t guarantee . . .” There was raw emotion in the words. The daughter looked up, pleading, almost begging.
“Our highest priority is her safety and comfort. But our goal for Ardeth doesn’t stop there—or with her surviving a few years. We want her to thrive. And in whatever ways she can integrate into our family, our community, we’re going to help her do that. We’ll give her opportunities to be involved at whatever level she’s able.”
Her husband leaned forward. His voice was high-pitched and came out nearly whining. “This is not making her part of your community. It doesn’t take a village to care for my mother-in-law, especially when it costs this much.”
Miriam turned to him with a smile. “If the best place for Ardeth is your home or some other facility, I would not want her to move here.”
The old woman leaned in her chair, her body ramrod straight but listing like the Tower of Pisa.
Miriam addressed the daughter again. “You mentioned reading. What does she like to read? What music does she enjoy? We can provide recorded books and music. That adds such a quality of life.”
The daughter’s eyes came alive. “You could do that? When she was younger, she read Little Women to me. I hated it. Now it’s one of the treasures of my life.” She rattled off several other book titles and music from the 1940s—Benny Goodman, George Gershwin, Glenn Miller, and Tommy Dorsey.
“Oh, great,” the man said. “You charge extra for CDs of the big band era?” He walked to the window and stood, looking out.
“My mother loved ‘Indian Summer,’” Miriam said, ignoring him. “I still have some of those CDs. Bing Crosby. Frank Sinatra. The Andrews Sisters.”
It was a rapturous look, the face of the daughter, and Miriam knew she had opened something, a pathway leading to a connection with another resident.
“I don’t want her wasting away in an institution. She’s gone downhill so quickly. It’s hard to watch.”
“The process is never easy. But you’re not losing her.”
“That’s what it feels like. Even if she gets to read books and hear music, it feels like she’s moving on without us.” The woman’s eyes misted and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway and Miriam glanced up as Treha passed the room. Miriam called to her, and the young woman took three heavy steps backward in a modified moonwalk, her blue scrubs swishing, and stood in the doorway. She stared at a spot just above the floor and swayed, her brown hair gathered in a clip on top of her head, emphasizing her strong features—high cheekbones, a well-defined nose, dark brows and lashes, and ears that bent forward, as if her parents might have been elves.
Miriam spoke to the daughter. “This is a young lady who works with us. She would be one of the caretakers for your mother.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” the daughter said.
The girl nodded and her cheeks jiggled, but she didn’t make eye contact.
“She is a special young lady,” Miriam said. “A very hard worker. Would you mind if I introduce her to Ardeth?”
The daughter spoke tentatively. “I suppose it would be all right.”
The man studied the girl’s name tag and tried to pronounce it. “Is it Tree-ha?”
“Tray-uh,” Miriam corrected. “Why don’t you step inside a moment?”
The girl shuffled in, the untied laces of her black-and-white canvas Keds clicking on the tile. She glanced up at the woman and her husband and then quickly found another spot on the wall, her head swaying slightly.
“Treha, I want you to meet Ardeth. She may be coming to live with us.”
Treha looked at the old woman instead of averting her eyes. She tilted her head to one side and leaned f
orward, speaking in a soft voice like a timid actress unsure of her lines. The words sounded thick and unformed on her tongue.
“Hello, Mrs. Ardeth.”
The old woman didn’t respond, and Treha took another step and angled her body away. She leaned closer as if trying a different frequency on the woman’s receiver.
“Would you like to take Ardeth to the dayroom?” Miriam said.
Treha looked up, questioning with her eyes, asking and receiving something unspoken. She nodded, then gave Ardeth a light touch on the arm, the slightest feathery movement with a pudgy hand. There was no response.
Treha released the wheel locks and pushed the chair through the door with ease, gliding confidently, her body one with the chair and the old woman, as if they were made for one another.
“What will she do?” the daughter said.
Miriam tried to hide the smile, the inner joy. She didn’t want to promise something Treha couldn’t deliver. “Come with me.”
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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, including the recent bestselling novelization War Room. His novels Dogwood, Almost Heaven, and Not in the Heart won Christy Awards, and Almost Heaven won the ECPA Christian Book Award for fiction.
You can visit his website at www.chrisfabry.com.
Discussion Questions
Paige believes “there is no greater power on earth than a mother’s love,” but as the story goes on, she modifies this to include “unless it’s a mother’s fear” or “a mother’s guilt.” How do all three emotions—love, fear, and guilt—play roles in the mother-daughter relationships in Looking into You?
Treha has spent much of her life as an outsider, and while she comes to Bethesda hoping things will be different, it begins to seem she’ll be just as misunderstood there. Have you ever tried for a fresh start but been disappointed? What was the result? If you were Miriam—someone who loves and wants the best for Treha—would you have advised her to stick it out at Bethesda or come home?
Paige teaches her class that “writing is pain. . . . Writing is joy, as well. Writing is learning and discovery. If you let it, writing will change you.” How do both Paige and Treha process their experiences and change through the written word—especially words they write themselves? Does writing shape the way you see the world or your own life? Or, if not, is it something you’d consider trying?
Paige’s mother begs her to leave the past alone, arguing that no good can come from revealing herself to Treha. What do you think is behind her desire to keep the family’s secret buried? Do you tend to agree with her that the past is better left alone?
When Paige learns Treha will be in her class, she considers ways to remove herself or her daughter but eventually acknowledges, “I allowed time and my own indecision to make the decision for me.” What do you think she should’ve done? Was she right to ultimately reveal herself to Treha? Did she go about it in the right way?
Treha longed for her mother but found the reality of meeting her different from what she’d expected, what she’d created in her imagination. When have you struggled to reconcile something you’ve imagined with the reality? In the end, which version was better?
Paige and Treha both have people who push them forward—Dr. Waldron, Ron, Beverly, Miriam, Anna, Elsie. Which of these characters did you think were most helpful? Did any of them come on too strong, or too soft, in the challenges they presented? Do you agree with Beverly that “love sometimes looks like a kick in the pants”?
Paige confesses to her class, “I’ve been living under the belief that I have to impress [God], 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.” How do these fears align with or contradict what you believe about God?
At a crossroads in the story, Paige wonders if it’s fair to force someone else to deal with his or her past. How would you respond if she came to you with this question? What did you think of her decision?
When Paige asks how much of the past she has to dredge up, Beverly replies, “How much of your past do you want God to redeem? . . . How much of your regret and sorrow do you want him to forgive and use? For your good and his glory?” Do you think her “math” here is correct—that God will redeem and use as much of the past as we give him? How have you seen this principle apply in your own life, whether in things you’ve turned over to God or things you’ve held back?
DOGWOOD
Small towns have long memories, and the people of Dogwood will never forgive Will Hatfield for what happened. So why is he coming back?
JUNE BUG
June Bug believed everything her daddy told her until she saw her picture on a missing children poster.
Christy Award finalist
ALMOST HEAVEN
Some say Billy Allman has a heart of gold; others say he’s odd. Sometimes the most surprising people change the world.
THE PROMISE OF JESSE WOODS
Years after the most pivotal summer of his adolescence, Matt Plumley returns to Dogwood and to memories of one fateful night, determined to learn the truth behind the only promise his first love, Jesse Woods, ever broke.
NOT IN THE HEART
When time is running out, how far will a father go to save the life of his son?
BORDERS OF THE HEART
When J. D. Jessup rescues a wounded woman, he unleashes a chain of events he never imagined.
Christy Award finalist
EVERY WAKING MOMENT
A struggling documentary filmmaker stumbles onto the story of a lifetime while interviewing subjects at an Arizona retirement home.
LOOKING INTO YOU
As Treha Langsam sets aside the search for her birth mother, Paige summons the courage to reach out to her daughter, never dreaming her actions will transform them both as she faces a past she thought she’d laid to rest.
THE TREHA COLLECTION: EVERY WAKING MOMENT / LOOKING INTO YOU
An e-book–exclusive collection, these novels will introduce you to the unique gifts of Treha Langsam.
Reading group guides available in each book or at www.bookclubhub.net.
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