Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  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 forward, 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.r />
  Miriam tried to hide the smile, the inner joy. She didn’t want to promise something Treha couldn’t deliver. “Come with me.”

  CHAPTER 2

  DEVIN HILLIS crossed the half-full parking lot at Heritage Acres Funeral Home, Mortuary, and Cemetery and walked up the stone pathway of remembrance, with names carved into rocks along the wall, past the finely manicured lawn and rose garden, and into the main building. A receptionist greeted him warmly and asked if he was there for the Garrity gathering, and he nodded.

  The service was nearing the end when he took a seat at the back of the small auditorium. The officiating pastor wore a black robe and sonorously spoke of the life of the departed as if he did not know the man well. Vague references to “the family” and his life as a “devoted father and husband.” He mentioned the man’s wife, but when he used her name, it sounded stiff, as if he were reading a cue card. He concluded with verses from the book of John—the story of Lazarus being raised from the dead.

  “In what must have echoed in the heart of our Lord, he says to the sister of Lazarus, ‘I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?’”

  He looked at the crowd. “Jesus asked this of Martha and I ask it of you today. Do you believe this?” He looked strategically and dramatically about the room.“Your husband, your father, your grandfather believed this, and on the authority of God’s Word I tell you, he is not here but is at this very moment in the presence of his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And he is more alive now than ever.”

  Sniffles and soft sobs and nods of agreement. The man prayed. Devin shifted in his seat and glanced at his watch.

  Then the lights dimmed and Devin held his breath as the screen above the casket came to life with words listing the birth and death dates of Martin Garrity. The music was a sparse mixture of piano and orchestral instrumentation that sounded like a Thomas Newman sound track. It evoked emotion but not too much. The plaintive tune had been composed and performed by his videographer and musical jack-of-all-trades, Jonah Verwer, and perfectly set the mood. The screen looked a little washed-out because the curtains on the right weren’t closed all the way. It was all Devin could do not to stand and hold them together, but he kept his seat, transfixed by the scene he had imagined.

  Music up. Screen dark. Garrity voice-over.

  I was born in 1927. Grew up smack-dab in the middle of the Depression.

  Tight shot of Garrity’s face.

  You learn a lot about life when you don’t have much. And we didn’t have much.

  Still-shot photo of Garrity’s parents.

  My mother and father were hardworking. My mother made do with whatever he could bring home.

  Photo of brothers at the swimming hole.

  My brothers and I would go down to the creek and skinny-dip.

  Tight shot of photo of brother.

  Ross was the only one who could float on his back.

  Tight shot of Garrity speaking, smiling.

  He’d float there with his hands behind his head and yell up at us, “Last pickle on the platter!”

  The congregation laughed and exchanged glances as the image of Garrity lingered on the screen, smiling, wet-eyed, remembering his brother. The pause was perfectly timed.

  As the viewers settled, Garrity’s wedding picture flashed on the screen, and just as Devin had imagined, congregants glanced at the man’s widow, then back, as if drawn by some unseen director.

  Garrity voice-over.

  In 1943 I met the love of my life. I saw her across a classroom in high school. . . .

  Cut to still shot of wedding ceremony/eating cake.

  It was Latin class. Funny thing. My heart came alive studying a dead language. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

  Garrity tight shot.

  She wouldn’t have anything to do with me. But a year passed and there was a dance coming up, the fall homecoming or some such thing.

  Still shot of yearbook picture.

  I don’t know how I did it, but I got up the nerve to ask. I about fell over when she said yes. She made me feel like a million dollars. Anytime I was near her. She still makes me feel that way.

  An audible “Awwww” rose, mostly from women. People wiped at their eyes. Devin took it all in. It was one of those moments he could predict as they shot the video. The lighting, the crisp speech, the lines in the man’s face, the timbre of his voice. Devin had chills as they filmed that day and had known exactly how to put it together. Now, he had chills experiencing the emotion of the room. It was a holy moment, the fruition of piecing together an old man’s disparate memories.

  When the music swelled at the end and the frame froze on Garrity’s face, smiling and happy with the memories he had divulged, it was perfection. There was nothing left to say but good-bye. The family filed past the casket one final time with the still frame of the man on the screen above.

  Devin rose from his seat and walked into the hallway, wiping tears. Tears celebrating the connection between life and art and how such things penetrated the soul. He had made a connection with the old man and had called from him something lasting, something of beauty. The perfect benediction. Martin Garrity had been here, had walked the earth, had a voice, had a story. His heart beat with love and concern, and that truth could be played over and over.

  He checked his watch again and stood aside as mourners exited, smiling at cousins and distant relatives. A door opened and one of Garrity’s sons moved toward the men’s room. Devin followed and waited at the sink, washing his hands twice.

  “Devin,” the man said, glancing at him. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I slipped in toward the end of the service. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “That video . . .” He shook his head. “That was incredible. You captured him perfectly. The photos and music and him talking about his faith . . . My mother will talk about that for the rest of her life.”

  Devin beamed. “That was my hope. I knew the spiritual component was especially important to him. I couldn’t be happier. It all worked so well.”

  The man dried his hands and shook Devin’s. Then an awkward pause. Devin reached for the door, then turned. “I know this is a really bad time to talk about payment . . .”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I didn’t do this for the money. That’s not what—”

  “My understanding was that you were making a documentary over at Desert Gardens.”

  “Yes, that’s how I met your father. And when I saw him deteriorate, I thought we could use some of the footage . . .”

  “To make a little money.”

  “No. It’s not like that. But your father and I had an agreement.” He left it there.

  The man frowned. “You’ll be paid, Devin. The death benefit from his company has been filed. My mother will use that to reimburse you.”

  Devin opened his mouth to speak again but decided against it. He opened the door and the man walked past him.

  “You did an excellent job,” he said.

  Devin nodded and glanced at his watch.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE DAYROOM WAS A QUIET and secluded spot toward the north end of the building, down a long, tiled hallway. Across the hall was a room with a large-screen television and areas to park wheelchairs for “exercise” sessions. Pristine yoga mats were still in plastic and equally pristine dumbbells languished. Lining an end table by the television were dusty videos with covers featuring smiling octogenarians. Strengthening the Core, Easy Elderly Pilates, Jane Fonda’s Low-Impact Aerobic Workout, Move What You Can—all in a similar state of neglect. There was no treadmill, but three exercise bikes sat idle by the large window.

  Etched into the glass wall at the entrance to the dayroom on the opposite side of the hall was a mountain scene that rose like Everest. Trees with towering boughs spread above, inspiring, almost breathtaking in their grandeur and artistry. Th
e old woman who was pushed past it didn’t seem to notice.

  The door was heavy and clunked when Treha tugged at it, making it open automatically. At eye level on the door, easily visible to anyone in a sitting position, was a quotation by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

  Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.

  Treha waited for the door to fully open, then pushed the woman through, her shoelaces clicking. A fireplace with an oak mantel centered the room. It was flanked by two six-by-six-foot windows that looked out on the expansive lawn and an iron fence that surrounded the acreage. A flagpole at the far end of the property rose to heights that suggested the need for a beacon on top to warn incoming planes. The huge American flag that usually hung limp waved and flapped in the stiff breeze, rippling and fluttering.

  Along the walls ran bench-like structures for larger meetings. They were empty now, but two ladies sat beside each other at a long table at the end of the room, choosing edge pieces from a puzzle box and speaking loudly, engaging in the conversation with grunts and chuckles and bodily noises forgiven without asking. One was Miss Madalyn, the one called the Opera Singer, and the other was a newer resident Treha hadn’t met. On the other side of the room sat Dr. Crenshaw looking out the window, staring at the golf course grass—as if he, too, longed to be planted. He held a Bible on one knee and a folded newspaper on the other, and when Treha walked inside, he smiled and nodded and turned back to the view.

  Treha maneuvered Ardeth’s wheelchair safely up to the table, then took one of the woman’s hands and rested it on top. She did the same for the other, and the skin on the woman’s arms sagged, bearing the telltale flaking, cracking, and splotching of too many summers. Limp and compliant, she kept her arms exactly where Treha placed them as she stared at the wall.