Every Waking Moment

by Chris Fabry

  Toward the end, her mind wandered and she couldn’t hold those thoughts. She would repeat herself time and again. The same stories. The same memories. The same questions.

  Still photo of Miriam and her mother.

  Watching someone grow older teaches you things about yourself. Things you don’t anticipate learning. Things you never wanted to learn. Like how to be patient with the woman who diapered you, how to answer her questions ten times in the same sitting without getting huffy.

  I remember the day she took a turn. I didn’t see her when I drove up, and she wasn’t in her usual place. I walked to her room and found her sitting on the bed, staring out the window, without a stitch of clothes on. She was in some other place.

  I used to wonder what it would have been like if both my father and mother had been here. I like to think they would have been a lot like the Lovebirds.

  Shot of Lovebirds kissing in the dining hall.

  It’s not easy to say good-bye to family. It’s not easy turning the page on your life. There’s real fear about . . . the routine. How it will change. What that will be like.

  CHAPTER 12

  MIRIAM AWAKENED at the first sign of sunlight through the bedroom window and lay still next to her husband, Charlie. It was a dog’s name. Or an uncle’s, maybe. And that was exactly what he had become—an old dog, a ubiquitous uncle with a perpetually empty stomach. It had crossed her mind more than once that it would be to her advantage if she were to put him to sleep, just like an old dog, but the authorities didn’t look kindly on euthanizing a spouse and she probably would miss him. She needed someone to bring in the salt for the water softener.

  They had moved from the north side of the city shortly after his retirement from Raytheon. Both had wanted to be closer to the country and have a little more privacy. They agreed on this but not much else.

  Miriam made a mental list of what she needed to do before she left for the day, then a mental list of what Charlie would do. She would make the coffee and shower and get ready. He would awaken and pour the first cup and turn on Bloomberg in the kitchen to watch the futures crawl across the bottom of the screen. Other men watched football or NASCAR or were glued to the University of Arizona sports schedule. This time of year was high and holy because of college football and the end of the baseball season. Other men followed batting averages and box scores. Charlie’s passion was the stock market, and he seemed to get a little depressed on the weekends or holidays when the market was closed. After the opening bell, as he sat studying his portfolio and opening e-mails from subscription services that told him what was going on behind the scenes and how he could take advantage of rising or falling gold or oil futures, he would turn on his conservative talk radio. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the mind-numbing cacophony of the stock market or the shrill, cutting voice of Rush Limbaugh. Charlie loved him, had even called in and spoken with him after the shooting in Tucson. Then it was Hannity, and the afternoon ended with a re-air of Glenn Beck. The conservative trinity.

  She watched the rising and falling of his chest and listened to his slightly clogged nasal passages. What would life look like when she was home all day? He would retreat into his office, the third bedroom at the back of the house, and probably stay there. They would find some kind of rhythm; she was sure of that. They always had. There was a chance they would grow closer, that their relationship would deepen, but there was also a chance it would snow in September.

  Miriam turned her head, scanning the nightstand and the half-finished mystery novel she was working through. It was a diversion that kept her mind from focusing on things she couldn’t change and might not want to.

  Years ago she’d had a sit-down with Charlie, a confrontation. She told him this was not what she had signed up for, that marriage was meant to be more than what they had become. To her delight, Charlie had responded, had actually moved toward her. It was easy to accuse him of going through the motions, of just changing for selfish reasons, but the truth was, his movement had forced her to respond, had forced her to look at herself. She thought of herself as the catalyst for good in their marriage. But his response had shown her own issues, her own retreat. She knew he liked her to do little things, like make him a sandwich. She had stopped that, mainly because she didn’t want to be his mother. Let him get his own food.

  So she feigned contentment and they carried on with their lives, their careers, their home empty, void of children and any measured love. They were faithful to each other, and to outsiders, their relationship looked fine—close, even.

  As she lay in bed, something in her heart stirred, but it was not hope. It was more a crushing reality pressing down. A feeling that as she looked at the mountain of happiness and contentment above them, this was as high as they would climb. She wished she had convinced him they should have children. They could have adopted. She would have been such a good mother.

  Such old, useless, dried-up feelings, she thought.

  More tired than when she fell into bed the night before, Miriam gained momentum and rolled her feet to the floor, trying not to disturb him, and made coffee, showered, and dressed. She would get something to eat at the hospital as she checked on Dr. Crenshaw.

  As she was leaving, Charlie hobbled from the bedroom with his EIB baseball hat pulled low, the wrinkled khaki shorts he always wore hanging to his pasty-white knees. Black socks halfway up his calves and moccasins worn through. He did not have an ounce of pride about his clothes. She loved and loathed his self-confidence, his ability not to care what others thought, the way he had settled into himself.

  He poured a cup of coffee. “You were late last night.”

  She nodded. “I’m heading to TMC.”

  “Somebody sick?”

  She told him about Dr. Crenshaw. Charlie had fallen asleep before she had come home the night before. As she spoke, his eyes glazed while a reporter gave the latest unemployment numbers. He raised his mug again and drank, then told her to drive carefully.

  “Will you be there this afternoon?” she said.

  His face betrayed him. He hadn’t remembered. A milestone in her life and it wasn’t even on his radar.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “There’s no pressure.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss your big send-off. I’ll be there. What time is the party?”

  She told him, though it grated on her that she had to remind him. She had to remind him of everything. Names. Dates. Bills due that he forgot. She had given up on her birthday and their anniversary, and it was hit or miss whether he would expend the energy to get her something, whether he would look at the calendar and remember. He’d always been this way. Something about that side of his brain. He’d been a brilliant engineer, a meticulously scrupulous worker who could cross every t and dot every i, but he couldn’t remember her birthday.

  He took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we could go out to eat afterward. To celebrate. Sizemore’s?”

  Sizemore’s was a buffet-style family diner that sat next to a Dress Barn in a strip mall. All you could eat. Miriam hated it. She hated the fried food, the tables and booths, the clientele, the aroma. But Charlie loved the senior discount and the variety. Fish or steak and all the mashed potatoes he could eat. Just once she wanted to go somewhere nice. She wanted to be whisked off her feet and taken to a restaurant with white tablecloths and well-dressed waiters instead of being part of a herd waiting for another slab of ribs.

  “That would be nice,” she said.

  Miriam navigated the parking garage at Tucson Medical Center near the university and walked toward the horseshoe driveway. It was early, but the heat of the day rose as the sun spread shadows from the Rincon Mountains in the distance. Exhausted hospital workers passed her on their way home or to get their kids off to school. The end and the beginning right here in front of her.

  As she neared the revolving door, she noticed someone sitting cross-legged on the pavement, arms around knees, a bicycle chained to a bench behind her. The woman’s hea
d swayed.

  “Treha?”

  She turned and shielded her eyes from the sun. Sheer bewilderment on her face.

  “Treha, what are you doing here?”

  The girl stood. “I came to see Dr. Crenshaw but they said I couldn’t go in because I’m not related.”

  Miriam hugged her, but Treha stood with limp arms. “Come with me.”

  They walked to the front desk, where Miriam presented her identification and asked for two visitor passes. The older woman at the front scrolled through a screen to find the room of James Crenshaw, and when she hesitated, Miriam’s stomach clenched.

  “When I left him last night, he was in ICU—I assume he’s still there.”

  “Oh, I see him.” The woman handed over the badges, and Miriam gave a sigh of relief, leading Treha to the elevator.

  “That’s quite a bike ride for you all this way, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not that far.”

  Miriam had a vague idea of where Treha lived, a hazy concept of the apartment and neighborhood and the dangerous traffic she navigated with each dark ride home. They rode up to the ICU and Miriam talked with the head nurse while Treha stared through the observation window at a row of beds and curtains. There were other rooms near the nurses’ station and Miriam assumed Dr. Crenshaw was in one of them.

  “We’ve seen no signs of improvement since last night,” the nurse said. “The doctor scheduled tests later, but only if he’s up to it.”

  Miriam told the nurse they hadn’t made contact with the family but that she had been approved to make decisions in lieu of next of kin. She handed the paperwork to the woman.

  “Who is she?” the nurse said, looking at Treha.

  “A friend of Dr. Crenshaw. She works with us at Desert Gardens.”

  “Is she . . . ?” Her voice trailed as she searched for the word.

  “She’s like a daughter to him. I know he would love to see her.”

  “He’s shown no reaction. No response at all. I don’t think it would be . . .” The nurse made eye contact and saw the look on Miriam’s face. “All right. If you think it would help, you can go in.”

  Miriam took Treha by the arm. “Would you like to see him?”

  Treha’s face showed surprise and perhaps a little hope. It was the most emotion she had seen from the girl.

  The nurse led them down the hall to the room, and Treha stared at the lifeless body with the tubes and monitors. A ventilator hooked to a large plastic tube made his chest rise and fall.

  Treha looked at Miriam, her eyes moving, her body swaying.

  “You can touch him. Talk with him, if you’d like. See if you can make a connection.”

  Treha gingerly walked to the bed and put a hand on the man’s arm. She touched his hand and squeezed it, but there was no response. She bent over him and spoke his name, rubbing his shoulder, struggling to get around the wires.

  Miriam watched Treha’s face. Her lips moved but Miriam couldn’t hear the words. The girl’s face inched closer, straining, trying to break through. Miriam watched for any sign of change—a more rapid heartbeat or a difference in the breathing, fluttering eyelids or some hand or foot movement. There was nothing.

  Finally Treha turned from Dr. Crenshaw and said pitifully, “He’s not there.”

  Miriam tried to smile and put a hand on Treha’s shoulder. “I’m sure he can hear you. You simply can’t see his response.”

  Treha looked back at him. “He gave me a letter to mail. I forgot about it.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself about a letter.”

  “I let him down.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  She nodded.

  “We can just mail it today. There’s no harm in that.”

  Miriam put an arm around her and led her out of the room. She spoke briefly with the nurse, giving her a card with her contact information and asking her to call with any change in the man’s condition. Treha paused at the nurses’ station and looked back at the room as if she had forgotten to do one last thing, make one last try.

  In the elevator, Miriam told Treha to wait at the front and she would give her a ride to Desert Gardens. Miriam navigated the tight garage and got in line in the horseshoe, waiting for a van to unload a disabled passenger. She put her emergency flashers on and parked in front of Treha, but when she hit the button for the back hatch, she noticed something was wrong.

  “Treha, where’s your bicycle?”

  Treha’s voice was soft, her eyes vacant. “It’s not here.” She held up the clipped chain.

  “Maybe the security guard moved it.”

  Miriam spoke with the man, who said he hadn’t touched the bike and that it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. She tried to keep her composure, tried to shove down the anger and outrage, and made her way back to Treha.

  “I wasn’t sure we could get that bike in the back anyway,” Miriam said. “Come on; we’ll file a police report later.”

  Treha shook her head. “They don’t care about bicycles.” No emotion, simply fact. “I should have been more careful.”

  “It’s not your fault how the world is. You locked the bike; you did everything you could. Some people don’t have an ounce of decency.”

  Miriam thought of stopping at a thrift store near Desert Gardens and finding another bike, then thought better of it. She wanted to rescue, help the girl find her way, do something for her, when that might not actually help Treha. She pushed the urge aside.

  “Tell me about the letter,” Miriam said. “It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

  Treha nodded.

  “There’s a post office up ahead. Do you have it with you? We’ll drop it in the slot.”

  Treha pulled a torn page and envelope from her pocket. “A man at the Laundromat ripped it last night.”

  “Are you worried that Dr. Crenshaw will be upset?”

  Treha looked at the street ahead. “I read it.”

  “And you think he’ll sue you?” Miriam said it with a smile, but Treha didn’t react.

  “I think he was writing about me,” she said. “I wanted to ask him. I have to find out what he meant.”

  Miriam pulled into the parking lot at Desert Gardens and took the letter from the girl. She read it, then studied the address on the envelope.

  “What does it mean?” Treha said. “Do you know what Phutura is?”

  “It’s a major pharmaceutical company.” Miriam folded the letter and tucked it into her purse. “It’s clear Dr. Crenshaw was upset about something, something this Mr. Davidson will know about. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  “What does he mean about the lawsuit?”

  “I’m not sure. There are lawsuits filed all the time. You know how he kept up with the daily news—nothing got past him.”

  “Do you think he is talking about me at the end?”

  Miriam turned in the seat. “Treha, Dr. Crenshaw cares a great deal about you. We’ll find out what this means. Let’s take it a step at a time.”

  Streams from Desert Gardens

  scene 3

  Music up.

  Fade in from black to sign of Desert Gardens, Catalina Mountains in background.

  Switch to unstable camera shot panning from security guard window through entrance, showing reception area.

  Cut to hallway shot.

  Cut to dining hall and people seated/talking.

  Music swells, then goes under voice-over by Elsie Pratt.

  I came here—what was it? Twenty-five years ago now. It’s the most beautiful place in the country, as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve been a few places. My husband said something about Tucson being a good place to retire, and my first reaction was “It’s too hot. It’s too close to the Mexican border. Too many cowboys. I don’t want to live in the desert.” I had all these excuses.

  Still shot of Elsie and Harold wedding photo.

  So he let it go and then I saw this brochure on the kitchen table one day. It looke
d like the most beautiful place in the world with mountains all around and lemon trees and soaring palm trees.

  Cut to Elsie speaking/gesturing.

  I said, “Harold, what’s this?” And he said, “It’s a brochure.” And I said, “I know it’s a brochure, but where is this place?” Do you know what? He had put that brochure where I could see it but he didn’t say a word about it because he knew moving to a place like this would have to be my idea. So that’s what he did. He let it be my idea. Just waited for me. Isn’t that something?

  Fade to black.

  CHAPTER 13

  ELSIE PRATT sat at the empty table, her food untouched, watching the parking lot for Miriam. No one had said anything about Dr. Crenshaw. The workers Elsie questioned shook their heads. If anyone would know, it was Miriam. She cared.

  Elsie hadn’t slept well and couldn’t get the memory of the emergency workers wheeling her friend away out of her mind. She couldn’t bear to think of them ending this way.

  Perpetually jovial, outgoing, loquacious even, Elsie had fallen into the abyss of silence. She kept the television off in her room, unable to endure the noise and laughter and commercials. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn on the local Christian radio station. At breakfast she stared out the window at birds flitting from branches of a lemon tree, heat radiating from the east-facing window. She took her Bible with her each morning, but today it lay closed before her, next to the cold oatmeal.

  When she saw Miriam pull into the parking lot, she hurried, as much as a woman of her age could, to the lobby.