Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  The woman looked up at her daughter, then back at Treha. It looked like the circulation was cut off to Treha’s hands.

  “That’s right,” Treha said. “You are home.”

  “Yesssssssss,” Ardeth said, nodding. “Hoooommmme. Hoomme.” She sat back, a look of confidence spreading. And then instead of many syllables, it was just one.

  “Home.”

  The two ladies turned from their puzzle, their hands together, faces beaming. Dr. Crenshaw chuckled and shook his head and thumped his Bible on one knee. Behind him, the sun broke through the cloud cover.

  “This feels like . . . home to me,” Ardeth said, punctuating the words by raising and lowering Treha’s hand. She laughed.

  “I can’t believe it,” the man whispered. “I thought she’d never talk again.”

  “It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” Miriam said.

  The daughter stepped forward to look at Treha. Miriam searched the girl’s face for any hint of joy or sadness or longing, but there was only a blank stare.

  “Treha, how did you do that?”

  “How did I do what?” She said it sincerely.

  “What you did. The breakthrough. You reached her.”

  Treha looked at Ardeth, then back to the daughter. “I just spoke to her. I showed her I would listen.”

  Ardeth held on to Treha’s hands and studied her through glistening eyes. “You’re a nice girl. Such a sweet face. You look like my granddaughter.” She glanced up. “Celeste, she looks a little like Tiffany, don’t you think?”

  The daughter patted her mother’s arm. Overwhelmed, overcome. “Yes, Mom. You’re right—she does look like Tiff.”

  “Such a beautiful girl.”

  The husband touched Miriam’s arm and the two retreated. “Does she work here full-time? Would she be seeing my mother-in-law regularly?”

  Miriam smiled. “Treha is in high demand. She spends time with a number of people. I’m sure she would visit Ardeth.”

  The man looked back at the three, his wife now kneeling by the wheelchair. “Does it work like that for everyone? I mean, if she can break through to Ardeth . . .”

  “It depends. I’ve seen people with mild dementia come alive, like today. I’ve seen Alzheimer’s patients connect for a time. Even the most severely affected have some kind of response.”

  “How long does it last? She could go right back into herself at sundown, right?”

  Miriam studied the scene, taking in the unity that had replaced the discord. Three separate individuals, in pain, uniting around the words of an old woman.

  “It’s not really up to us,” Miriam said. “Or Treha, for that matter. It’s up to the person she’s reaching. You have to want to be reached. To respond.”

  The man’s eyes searched the room for nothing in particular. “I’d like to see the contract, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Streams from Desert Gardens

  scene 6

  Wide shot of security guard Buck Davis in uniform, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair.

  The day Mrs. Howard began was the same day I was hired. I told her she’d never regret it. I like to say she never would have made it this long if I hadn’t come along. Been here every step of the way. We’ve grown up together. Not grown old, mind you, just grown up.

  You learn a lot of things working at a place like this, if you’ll let it teach you. It’s just like anything in life—you have to open your mind. Have to see what’s not there as much as what is.

  Tight shot of Buck’s weathered hands, then back to wide shot.

  We had one fellow years ago, Mr. Pennington. He was some high-powered banker or investment man who made lots of money, but his wife had died and his children didn’t want him around, so they put him here.

  Every morning he would get up and have his breakfast, read the paper, and get dressed in his suit and tie. He’d head toward the front gate and right on out to the street. The first time it happened, we sounded the alarm and everybody got agitated until we ran him down and brought him back. He wasn’t too happy about it, either. This was a man who was used to being the boss. So we tried to explain he couldn’t go walking off like that. He said he was sorry, that he was a little mixed up, and that he wouldn’t do it again.

  Still photo of Mr. Pennington.

  Well, you know what happened the next day. Here he was again going toward the gate. So Mrs. Howard and I put our heads together and pretty soon we figured out he wasn’t hurting anybody by taking a walk. It was actually doing him some good. So she would phone me of a morning and tell me when she saw Mr. Pennington was dressed and coming out of his room. I’d say good morning to him when he passed me and then I’d get in the car and follow him until he got tired, which was usually down at the Walgreens unless it was the summer. I’d pull up like I was his chauffeur and give him a ride back, ask how his day was. He’d reach in his pocket to give me a tip and tell me he forgot his wallet. And I’d say, “That’s okay,” and he’d go in and take a nap.

  The next morning, same time every day, he’d be dressed and ready to go. Except for there at the end, he would be late by a few minutes or forget to put his pants on and we’d have to go to plan B.

  Wide shot of residents in the dining hall as voice-over continues.

  People are creatures of habit, every last one of us. You can make your rules and try to get everybody to follow in lockstep and control every little thing they do, or you can treat people with some dignity and go with the flow. That’s what Mrs. Howard has always been good at. Taking people where they are and working with them to make this place a little like home.

  Tight shot of Buck, misty-eyed.

  I’m going to miss her. I thought maybe one day she would just move in here with her husband, but that’s probably going to be a few more years, I guess.

  CHAPTER 6

  MIRIAM EXITED the dayroom but stopped abruptly when she saw Jillian Millstone peering through the mountain on the glass wall. The woman was stocky, with a matronly build and short hair that seemed a little too dark for her age. She kept each thinning strand under tight control and wore dark, slim-fitting pantsuits that made her look less attractive than she was, Miriam thought. She was unmarried, had no children, and seemed able to catalog every duty for the job except compassion. But the board of directors had made their decision and Miriam trusted their judgment. Even if they were making a mistake.

  “Ms. Millstone, I was hoping I’d see you. We have a prospective member of the community I’d like you to meet. I was going to get the contract and go over it with the family.”

  Millstone held up a hand. “I don’t want to interrupt. Are you certain she’ll be staying?”

  There was an edge to her voice. Miriam sidestepped it like dog waste on the sidewalk. “They seem impressed with the facilities and the people. There will be money concerns, of course.”

  The woman moved toward the door. “What is she doing?”

  “Treha? What she always does. She’s our one-woman welcome wagon.”

  No smile. No reaction. “That’s not her job.”

  “No, we certainly don’t pay her what she’s worth.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I’m sure you’ve been able to pick up by now that Treha is one of our greatest assets.”

  Millstone stared through the glass at the fuzzy images.

  “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”

  “Just a moment, Mrs. Howard. Do you think it’s proper? In your opinion and with your experience, do you think it’s wise to have an untrained employee working so closely with the residents? She’s a janitorial worker, is she not?”

  Miriam nodded, but the woman wasn’t looking at her. “I hired her because she does everything we ask.”

  “She’s not scrubbing toilets and tile, is she? Most of the time she’s engaging patients.”

  “She is the most beloved person on staff. Once we discovered her gift, I didn’t give her as much to clean. We didn’t want to waste
her ability.”

  “You’ve supported this because the ends justify the means. If something works, don’t question it—is that right?”

  “Ms. Millstone, I’m not sure you fully understand what Treha offers.”

  The woman turned to face her. “I understand quite well. There is a liability issue. I’m surprised you haven’t seen that.”

  “Well, that’s absurd. Treha—”

  “When something happens—and I mean when—this facility will be held responsible.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  A glance through the glass again. “I understand you had a dog once. You used it for therapeutic purposes.”

  “Yes. Bailey.”

  “What happened to Bailey?”

  “He grew old. We had to euthanize him.”

  “Not before he bit a child. Visiting a grandparent, as I understand it. How much did that family receive in the out-of-court settlement?”

  “The child was hitting the dog with a cane. Bailey reared back to protect himself and one of his claws scratched the child—”

  “There was a settlement, wasn’t there?”

  “Yes, we did take responsibility.”

  “And you were vulnerable because you decided taking in this animal was worth the risk.”

  Miriam smiled. “I’m sure you’ve seen the studies. You can’t measure the reparative impact of an animal to . . . Bailey brought life to these halls. Smiles, joy.”

  “Many residents were traumatized. The attack made them question your judgment.”

  Miriam looked at the floor.

  “If he was so therapeutic, why didn’t you replace him?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “The board told you not to bring another animal into the facility, didn’t they? I would think patients deserve a life without ticks and fleas and animals that use the hallway as a restroom. Certainly seeing little children attacked can’t contribute to their long-term well-being.”

  “Ms. Millstone, there is no comparison between Treha and an animal. There is no risk. And there’s no end to the reward she gives.”

  “I was looking through the personnel files. What we know is alarming. And what we don’t know, the unanswered questions—that’s even more frightening. You obviously didn’t take this into consideration.”

  “I think everyone deserves a chance.”

  “Agreed. And maybe even a second chance. In the proper context. With the proper education and supervision. And she has neither. That makes everyone vulnerable.”

  “You can’t judge someone simply by reading a file.”

  “Isn’t the safety of our residents the primary job? One day this girl will snap. She’s a volcano ready to erupt. There’s no predicting when that will be.”

  Miriam knew this was not the time or place for a battle over Treha. She wanted Millstone to understand, to realize how wrong she was. Perhaps over coffee she could get her to see. With a gentle, soft voice and a slight step forward, she spoke.

  “I’ve learned a lot over the years that I could never learn in a classroom or from a book. Mistakes, yes. Lessons taught by the diminishment of each life. The medical community views individuals as patients to be cured. But when people age, they’re not looking for a cure as much as they are for encouragement to continue. Our work here is not about curing. It’s about the dignity of each person wheeled from breakfast back to their room.”

  Millstone studied her hands.

  “Before coming here,” Miriam continued, “I served in a VA trauma unit. I was frustrated with the care the patients received. There was a man, thin and hardly breathing . . . They were working with him to find a vein for an IV. I simply spoke to him. Calmed him while they worked. He had won the Congressional Medal of Honor. But he was just an old man in a wheelchair to me when I started.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Value people not just for the income they provide us. Value them because of the lives they’ve lived. Value each person who pushes a broom or cleans a bedpan. And value the girl whose life is marred, yes, but who gives these people more than any doctor ever will.”

  Millstone smiled, sickly sweet. “And this is the Miriam Howard shorter catechism?”

  Miriam’s eyes narrowed; then she composed herself. “Ms. Millstone, you can run this facility any way you want. But you’ll be making a big mistake if you hamper that girl from doing what God has gifted her to do.”

  She turned and walked briskly down the hall and didn’t slam a door until she was in her office.

  CHAPTER 7

  DEVIN SLUNG his backpack toward the chair he had bought on sale at OfficeMax, and it rolled back on the plastic mat. The cherry desk and hutch had been 50 percent off. These were the only things that were “new” in the office. The rest came from Goodwill. A gray desk from a WWII battleship sat in the corner.

  Devin had jumped at the chance to sign a year’s lease in a strip mall that had seen its better days. Businesses had come and gone and there were several storefronts that had nothing but red For Lease signs in the windows. This office had previously housed a tax preparer who had moved to a busier intersection and hired a woman to dress up in a Lady Liberty costume and stand by a nearby stoplight twirling a sign. An insurance agent occupied the office before that, and the first tenant had been a carryout pizza restaurant. There were still sauce stains on the ceiling, and a doughy odor lingered in the carpet.

  Instead of installing new walls and configuring the office the way he wanted, Devin had negotiated the rental price down a hundred dollars per month. And then he made Jonah a full partner. It was the least he could do since Jonah and his mother had done so much for him.

  Devin studied the battered phone and the unlit message light. The phone system was a leftover from the tax preparer, as were the plant and two tattered chairs that sat in what was termed the lobby.

  Jonah Verwer stepped into Devin’s office with one hand in the pocket of his khakis and the other around a twenty-four-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew Code Red. He was pudgy, dutifully carrying the extra weight of his sedentary life. He spent much of his day in front of a screen consuming high-sugar and immensely caffeinated beverages, along with fries and burgers from the dollar menu at a local fast-food restaurant. He was probably thirty pounds over what might be considered a moderately healthy existence, but Devin knew he wouldn’t change until the heart attack twenty years down the road.

  “Let me guess. The bank offered you a loan and you’re frustrated because you don’t know which editing software you want to buy.”

  Devin moved his backpack and sat in the chair that tilted a little too much to the left. “We didn’t get it.”

  “Shocker. What excuse did he give?”

  “The same. Bad business model.”

  “We have a business model?” Jonah ran his hand along the impressive collection of DVDs lining a dusty bookshelf. “So where do we stand?”

  Devin told him about the Garrity funeral and how the family had responded. He tried to show grit and fight in the face of hurricane odds.

  “Did you ask for a check?”

  “Come on, it was a funeral. You think I’d ask to be paid when the casket is still open?”

  “You should’ve held the video until they paid. Like a ransom.”

  “I’ll remember that next funeral.”

  “They’ll pay eventually,” Jonah said. He leaned against the table that held Devin’s printer, but it wobbled and he didn’t sit. “Mr. Garrity was a peach. Sad to see the old guy go. He’s been our best so far. Didn’t even have to ask that many questions—I just turned on the camera and he took off.”

  “I wish you could have seen the reaction. Your music made it sing. It took you right there, you know? Just like I’d pictured. If that banker had been there, he would have written a check on the spot.”

  Jonah took a swig from the bottle and screwed the cap back on. “Sullivan dropped by.” He burped.

  Devin’s shoulders slumped and he closed h
is eyes. “Did you let him in?”

  “I tried pretending I didn’t hear his knock, but it didn’t work.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s ready to change the locks by the end of the week.”

  “Great.”

  “How much are we behind?”

  “Two months. Three next week.”

  Jonah stared at the stack of bills on the desk. “What about the electricity? If they cut that—”

  “I’m current with Tucson Electric. Well, maybe a month behind. I know we have to have juice in order to power the machines and the air-conditioning. We’ll be okay.”

  Jonah turned toward the window overlooking concrete and asphalt and the finely manicured desert that had gone to seed. Some kind of thistle had sprung up in the wash and taken over. Tall and green and resistant to Roundup. “Even the eternal optimist has to come back to reality when they’re changing the locks, don’t you think?”

  “You can’t change the locks on a person’s outlook on life,” Devin said.

  “Where’d you read that?”

  “I made it up.”

  “Nice.”

  “You know what I’m looking forward to?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The day that banker comes in here and stands right where you’re standing. I can see it. He’s going to stand right there and beg us to set up an account. No, he’ll be crawling. Hands and knees. Offering an interest-free loan. ‘Please let us give you money.’” Devin laughed, but it was more from worry than mirth.

  Jonah turned the crank on the window blinds and the room darkened. “I want to be here when that happens. But it doesn’t look like anybody’s beating the door down right now. Clients or lenders.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence of men in transition. Men confronted with themselves and each other.

  “I was thinking that . . . maybe it might be a good idea if . . .”

  “A good idea if what?”

  “If Sullivan locks the place up—”