Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  Treha felt neither hope nor despair but something wedged between. This was her job now, her calling. A resolution to life, as if she were scrubbing dishes or sweeping a floor she had promised to finish. She took short steps from one side of the table to the other, pulled out a chair, and sat. She placed her hands on the table, her index fingers nearly touching Ardeth’s. The comparison was startling. On one side were wrinkled and blemished hands. On the other was clear, smooth skin. The old woman’s nails were polished, but Treha’s were cut to the quick, not clipped evenly but jagged and rough.

  Treha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them, her eyes shifted and reset, the involuntary movement of her life. Walls and floors blurring and leaning. A vibration that shuddered through nerve endings. Then the swaying and quick jump, the return of a typewriter carriage in her head.

  She waited, closed her eyes again, shook her head slightly, and looked up. Still there. Still moving. But the room settled as she swayed to compensate. The eyes of the old woman were clouded, barricades of age and confusion, but she knew that behind the cloud were the words. Treha could feel them even if they couldn’t be seen. Words floating, disembodied, perhaps only unformed letters and memories drifting like smoke.

  Treha searched the old woman’s eyes and saw a chasm of darkness, a shadowed veil suspended between the inner, unseen world and the self-evident one. She lifted a finger, and then her hand hovered over the wrinkled one.

  There was no jolt of electricity, no sound or feeling other than the meeting of skin. But something happened. There was a reaching, a leaning response from the old woman’s body, moving closer.

  Treha sat forward and placed both hands on Ardeth’s. The ladies had quieted their chattering as if they could sense what was happening. Dr. Crenshaw turned his chair toward them.

  “Mrs. Ardeth,” Treha whispered. A pause. A stroke of the hand. She rubbed the woman’s wrist as her head continued its movement. And then came a loosening of the muscles in the woman’s arms and color moving through the pallor. Scales falling.

  “My name is Treha,” she said.

  She let the words hang between them and leaned forward, closer, to see the woman’s eyes, to see the storm that would release the rain.

  “What is she doing?” the son-in-law said, his voice reflected by the glass wall with towering trees. Treha stared, eerily transfixed, as if preparing an experiment or to read the woman’s fortune. “And why is she shaking her head like that?”

  “She has a condition called nystagmus,” Miriam said. “It’s involuntary. She can’t help it. She compensates by moving her head so the room doesn’t spin.”

  The old woman’s daughter glanced at the fireplace, the picture frames and blown glass and snow globes arranged on the mantel. She crossed her arms.

  Miriam stood transfixed by the girl. “Treha has a gift.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “An ability to . . . connect. I’m not sure what else to call it.”

  “She stared at the floor the whole time she was in the room,” the man said. “I’d hardly call that a gift.”

  “She’s unusual. I’ll admit that.”

  “She looks like she can’t even take care of herself. How can she possibly take care of others?”

  “I don’t like her,” the daughter said.

  “Treha is a very private person, as you can tell. I know more about her than most, but I still only know a little.”

  “What is she doing?” the daughter said. “Is she massaging her? Some kind of physical therapy?”

  Miriam turned. “You and I think of communication as words and nonverbal signals. Stimulus given and received. But your mother is a labyrinth. A closed system. She’s unable to break through the walls in her mind, and the longer she stays closed, the thicker the walls get.”

  “So you’re saying she’ll never come back to us? You haven’t even evaluated her.”

  “I asked Treha to speak with your mother because she has keys to the locks. I’ve never seen anything like her.”

  “She’s saying something,” the woman said. “What is she saying?”

  “Don’t go inside yet. Let her work.”

  “I don’t like this.”

  The husband stepped beside his wife and placed a hand on her shoulder. “We should leave.”

  “Give her just a moment,” Miriam said.

  “What if she upsets Mother? She gets uncomfortable in strange places. She’ll never forgive me.”

  Miriam faced the glass. “I’ll have Treha stop if you’d like.”

  The daughter wrung her hands and narrowed her gaze. “Yes, that’s what I want. I want my mother out of there and I don’t want her—”

  “Wait,” the man said. “Honey, look.”

  CHAPTER 4

  DEVIN STARED out the window of the Bank of America office and watched the vintage Chevrolet Impala pull in. He placed it in the early 1960s. Rounded top. Whitewall tires. Sweeping lines and contours. Then it headed into a space outside the window and he noticed the double headlights and the wide grille. It nearly took his breath away. A 1959. He had seen pictures of his grandfather driving that exact model. Clark Gable mustache and white starched shirt and skinny tie. If he closed his eyes, he could watch it pull into the driveway and imagine his own father as a boy standing at the door, waiting.

  Devin glanced at the newspaper on top of the magazines strategically spread across the waiting room table. On the front page were stories about an oil spill and the money being doled out by the company. A deadly virus had spread through several communities in the Midwest, but doctors were hopeful that it was now contained. And a lawsuit against a big pharma company was finally going to trial with doubts about whether a company like Phutura would ever lose. Lawyers, it seemed, were the only ones assured of making any real money these days.

  “Mr. Hillis, sorry to keep you waiting.”

  The man was short and stout, a little teapot. He held out a meaty hand and Devin shook it. Soft. A banker’s handshake. The nameplate on the desk said, Jeffrey Whitman, Vice President.

  “No problem. Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Whitman.”

  Devin could tell from the man’s face and averted eyes that things weren’t good. Whitman opened a folder, pulled out the paperwork, and pushed his glasses down. He spoke with a guttural rattle as if his nasal passages were blocked by marbles, and Devin wondered what it had been like on the playground when he was a child, what inhuman things the older kids did to him. The names they called him, the games they played without little Jeffrey.

  “I’ve reviewed the loan application and talked with our senior vice president.” He pushed his glasses back and looked up. “If documentaries are what you want to do, shouldn’t you be seeking funding from other sources?”

  Devin dug into his briefcase and handed the man a DVD in a white sleeve. “We’re doing that. But watch this. I just came from a funeral—which is no reason to be excited, don’t get me wrong. Death is final; it’s dark and grim. But what I saw was a beautiful display of exactly what we’re trying to do.”

  Devin described the service and the reaction to the video. Whitman looked puzzled as Devin scooted to the edge of his chair and put his hand on the desk.

  “I’m a story collector. It’s my passion. Most baby boomers—people in your age bracket—don’t know their parents. They don’t value their stories. And a lot of them are being forced to decide if they’re going to connect with the previous generation or stay at a distance.”

  “How much were you paid for this video?” Jeffrey said.

  “The total bill, if memory serves me, is somewhere between—”

  “Not how much do you charge—how much have you been paid?”

  “Well, we haven’t been. Not yet. Out of deference to the family and their loss, I’m waiting for the death benefit.”

  “How long have you worked on that man’s story?”

  Devin thought about it. “I first shot video with Mr. Garrity a year
ago. Maybe eighteen months.”

  “And this is your business model? Interviews? Story collecting for funerals?”

  “No. The goal is to make films. Art that people years from now will watch and cry over. I want you and your family to go to a theater and come away changed. That’s the goal. What I’m doing now is a beginning. This is how I’m going to pay for the documentary I’m making. Instead of getting a big grant, I’m working at it each day. Think of it this way: the people I’m interviewing are really investing in the future project, and the bank is just helping my business get off the ground.”

  “Why this retirement home? Why these people?” Whitman scratched his neck. “I know creative types like you. I have a brother who’s a writer. Great mind, but he doesn’t think in a linear way—he’s all over the place. And financially, being all over the place is not good.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I’ve only seen one documentary in my life. It was about the guy who strung a wire from the South Tower to the North Tower and walked across it.”

  “Man on Wire. Great film.”

  “Yeah. It was fascinating. So why aren’t you going after someone like that? Or an issue—illegal immigration. Gun control. Anything but old people sitting in a nursing home. I’m not saying we’d fund it, but it would be more compelling.”

  “I’ve studied film all my life. I’ve told you about the awards from my student work.”

  “This is not about awards; this is about money.”

  “Understood, and I see your point. My goal is a feature film. I’ve invested in the equipment.”

  “Using money from your parents’ estate.”

  “Yes, and from my grandfather. That’s how I wound up at Desert Gardens in the first place. I went to see him and met people with fascinating stories, like Mr. Garrity.” Devin ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t have an agenda, but I know we’re going to find the right thread, the right focus in the midst of all the possibilities.”

  “You’re not going to find a man on a wire. Not in there.”

  Devin sat back, trying to figure out how to explain art to a number cruncher. The man asked if he’d given the film a title, and Devin told him.

  “Streams from Desert Gardens?” Whitman repeated with a scowl. “Mr. Hillis, the account you have with us has dwindled. Your inheritance is almost gone. I’ve been waiving the checking fee because you haven’t even been able to hit the minimum withdrawal on your credit card.”

  “Mr. Whitman, in ten years people are going to come to you and ask if this is the place where that filmmaker got his start. Seriously. I have an incredible guy working with me. Jonah’s a genius. He’s piecing together the documentary as we go, while at the same time working on these shorter pieces. We’re advertising aggressively on social media and in some strategic areas . . .”

  “You’re advertising the documentary?”

  “No, these short films about people’s lives.”

  “Devin, you put up flyers in nursing homes. You have seventy-five friends on Facebook. I’m one of them. I don’t call that aggressive.”

  “It’s a start,” Devin said.

  “Well, I’d really like to help you—”

  “Look, all I need is someone to catch the vision, to understand what we’re doing.”

  “Any teenager with a laptop can do what you’re doing. The music, too. Free. I have a teenager of my own. And you want people to shell out thousands for—” he tossed the DVD onto the desk—“a family video?”

  Devin put a hand up. “Indulge me. Five minutes.” He raised his eyebrows. “Please.”

  The banker put the folder down and leaned back.

  “Okay, thank you,” Devin said. He rubbed his hands on the armrests. “I believe in the cosmic story. That all of us are connected—our lives, our relationships. Everything we do, everything happening in our lives, is like water on the planet. The oceans, lakes, rivers, rain from above, it’s all flowing and gushing. It looks haphazard—rain, snow, a trickle here and then a monsoon. But it’s not. All of it is ordered and managed, cascading around us. Through us. We are part of the cosmic story being told every day with each of our lives.”

  “What’s the point?”

  Devin stood and leaned forward, his hands on the desk. “We are preserving stories. We are connecting family and friends and neighbors and every person on the planet. The world is shrinking, Mr. Whitman. People are closer to each other than ever before, but with the explosion of information, we actually know less than ever. You know what your sister had for dinner last night because she put it on Facebook. But you don’t know your sister.”

  The man seemed unimpressed, nonplussed. Devin took off his jacket and folded it across the chair.

  “My belief is that everyone wants to make sense of their story. You, me, the old man in the nursing home, the doctor in the ER. Each wants to know there’s a purpose, a reason we’re walking the planet. And that’s what we provide. Context. A record of having lived. Substance and meaning for every life.”

  “It’s a DVD of old people talking.”

  “No. This is not a talking head.” He picked up the DVD. “This is art. It’s not something a kid can do on his computer after visiting Grandma. I mean, a talented teenager can do some amazing things, and I’m sure your son—”

  “Daughter.”

  “I’m sure your daughter does amazing work. I might hire her as an intern this summer—that’s the beauty of this: there are so many possibilities.” His mind wandered and he had to close his eyes and rein it in, narrow his focus before he galloped off the reservation. “We’re not cataloging lives or just collecting information. We’re turning stories into a symphony. We’re deciphering the days of this older generation or the young father with a terminal illness or a mother with breast cancer who has a few months to live or a child with a tumor whose parents want to hang on to life. Make sense of the pain. We’re taking all of that and putting it into understandable bits of video and music and story. This is a holy endeavor.”

  “This is about your grandfather, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re having a hard time dealing with his death. With what happened to your parents, I don’t blame you. It’s a tough thing to lose someone like that.” Jeffrey picked up the DVD again. “I like your passion. I’m not trying to denigrate your idea. I hope you make a million. I hope you’re the next Steven Spielberg.”

  Devin bit his tongue. He did not want to be Spielberg. He wanted to be better than Spielberg could ever hope to be.

  “I appreciate how hard you’ve worked and what you’re willing to do to fund your art. But this is a DVD that will go on the shelf and collect dust. And just as you have to represent your vision, I have to represent the bank’s. In this economy, investing lots of money in an artistic endeavor makes no sense.”

  Devin took a deep breath and swallowed his pride. “I was drawn to this because of my grandfather; you’re right. And I could be cataloging border issues or the drug wars or a thousand other more sexy subjects. But if this catches on, there are retirement communities and areas of the country—look at Florida. California. The Pacific Northwest. It’s an untapped reservoir and not just because of the money. I can see this getting bigger, with reps on both coasts and in the Midwest. And the more stories we record and tell, the more word gets out, the more affordable we make it. The documentary will be the best way to publicize what we’re doing. It will bring awareness to the project.”

  “Just like Tom Hanks did with WWII veterans,” Whitman said, barely able to cross his legs.

  “Exactly,” Devin said. He lifted his thumb in the air like Atticus Finch at the jury box. “I’ve always heard if you do what you love, the money will follow. If you do something with passion that comes from deep inside, you’ll never really work a day in your life. I could pitch you five different ideas that would make me a successful entrepreneur in a year or less. But I want to do something that lasts. I want to make
a difference. These are the stories I was meant to tell. I can feel it. And if you’ll help us, I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

  When he finished, his hands were balled into fists.

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “With everything in me. This can’t lose. And not only will we make money and get the documentary going; we’ll make the world better. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  Devin glanced out the window as the Chevrolet backed out of the parking lot and pulled away. There was something about seeing the taillights that both unnerved and invigorated him.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE TRANSFORMATION—and that was the only word that could adequately describe what Miriam observed—came slowly, as if a flower were opening. It showed in the old woman’s eyes as she tilted her head like a dog hearing a strange noise. A train whistle. A siren. First came the head tilt, then a more precise stare, a studying of the force of nature near her. She leaned forward, as close to the girl as she could, dipping her head, her chest against the table.

  The daughter opened the door and rushed into the room, leaving her husband behind. Miriam followed.

  “Mrs. Ardeth, do you know where you are?” Treha said.

  The old woman squinted and gave a hint of a smile. She tried to form words through an open mouth, her tongue moving.

  “It’s okay,” Treha said. “Be patient. We have lots of time.”

  The words hung thick on Treha’s lips, but they were said with such kindness. She didn’t look up or acknowledge their presence. Treha locked on to the woman as if she were the only person on the planet.

  Ardeth slipped a hand on top of Treha’s. Then she did the same with the other and squeezed. The husband caught up as Ardeth’s tongue slipped forward. She struggled, squeezing her eyes shut, and spoke with the force of a bursting dam.

  “Hoooo . . . mmmm.” The word came out in multiple syllables, and when she finished, she sucked in air like she hadn’t breathed in days.

  “She spoke,” the daughter gasped. She leaned closer. “What did you say, Mom?”