by Chris Fabry
Treha shook her head, but Miriam wondered if it was the truth.
“Why do you want to help me?” Treha said.
“I would hope you know by now how much I care. And now I have a lot of extra time on my hands. We both do. It would make me feel good to know I’m doing something constructive.” Miriam leaned forward. “You’ve learned the histories of many people at Desert Gardens. Maybe it’s time to learn yours.”
“I don’t think it will be a very nice story.”
“We won’t know unless we try.” She smiled at the girl and wadded the wax paper that had held her sandwich.
“There was a place near the interstate where I stayed. Before I moved to my apartment.”
“Is that the reference you gave?”
Treha nodded. “James 127 House. I listed the woman who ran it.”
Miriam’s heart quickened. “Do you remember her name?”
“Vivian Hansen.”
“Do you remember where the house is?”
“I’m not good with directions.”
Miriam’s cell rang. She looked at it but didn’t recognize the number. “I should take this.”
“Miriam, this is Devin Hillis. I thought you should know I’ve made contact with Calvin Davidson.”
The news stunned her. “What? Devin, I asked you to find out more information, not—”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to show you I’m serious. I drove up to Scottsdale because he had an unlisted phone number.”
“You drove there? When?”
“This morning, early. Miriam, I really want to work with Treha. I can’t explain this feeling, but something says we need to follow her story. I thought if I could find information about her, you’d see how serious I am.”
There was no denying his commitment. . . . “What happened with Davidson?”
“The old guy’s a paranoid kook. Thinks people are tapping his phones. Probably has a date set for the apocalypse. Lucid in some ways, but in others . . . He kind of lives like a hermit in a big house. Wants nothing to do with the outside world.”
“You knocked on the door and found all this out?”
“He shoved a gun in my face and told me to leave. So I did.”
“What do you want from me, Devin?”
“She trusts you. You can help us.”
Miriam glanced at the girl as she gathered bits of lettuce with her fingers and ate them. “I don’t know.”
“I’m just going to let her tell her story or help her discover what that story really is. If it leads nowhere, at least we tried.”
Miriam was beginning to feel the same way, but she didn’t want to tell him that. “I’ll call you back,” she said.
CHAPTER 23
THE ANSWERING MACHINE came on when Miriam called home, and she spoke as if Charlie were listening, asking him to answer. He always had an ear to the phone, the TV, the radio. When he didn’t answer, she hung up and walked toward the car. Treha was waiting.
Her cell rang. Charlie.
“You need something?”
“I’m trying to find an address. Do you think you could look it up?”
“Sure.”
She told him the listing and he quickly found a website and the address and phone number. The location was northwest of Tucson in the town of Marana. He gave her the exit from I-10 and the cross streets. “Looks like it’s out in the boonies. Farm country. Why are you interested in this place?”
“Treha used to live there.” She hesitated, then forged ahead. “Charles, what would you think of having Treha stay with us for a few days? In the guest room. It would only be temporary.”
“What for? I thought she had an apartment.”
“She does, but I may be spending more time with her.”
“I don’t understand it, but I guess I don’t have to. It’s fine.” He said it without much emotion, but she could hear the lingering questions. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t value her opinion, her heart.
“I’ll be a little longer than I thought,” she said.
“Take your time.”
James 127 House was a ministry run by Vivian Hansen and her husband, Jake. Their vision came from a message their pastor had given at the local megachurch from James chapter 1. Before that, the couple had been on short-term mission trips across the border and had been drawn to orphans. They’d even tried to adopt two boys from Russia, but when that fell through, they decided God had other plans. That was twenty years ago.
Miriam gleaned all of this from the brochure in the entryway of the home before she met Vivian. During that morning message at the church, their focus had gone from orphans to orphans and widows. The spark had come at the same time, God invading with a combination ministry to children who had no parents and lonely widows in grief.
Jake, who was a contractor by trade, building houses in a market that didn’t need them, had focused his energy on their five acres in the middle of farms and subdivisions. He took a three-bedroom house and expanded the three-car garage to two levels and the 2,500-square-foot home suddenly jumped to nearly 5,000. He built another garage with a small apartment over it behind the house and their ministry began.
The first girl who had come to them was now in her twenties, married with children—there was a picture of Vivian and Gabriella on the back of the brochure. Miriam was touched by the stories of those who had come through the house, the testimonials. It crossed her mind that Devin and Jonah should set up shop here.
When Vivian saw Treha, her eyes lit. She gave the girl a hug and wouldn’t let go, even though Treha didn’t return it.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” Miriam said.
“Not at all—it’s so great to see you! I’ve wondered how you were doing, Treha. I’ve been praying for you.”
Vivian gave a quick tour of the main house, which was just like the pictures. The ministry vision hadn’t changed. There was a young widow with two children living in the apartment over the garage. Four other children lived with the Hansen family, including two boys of their own. The most recent family Christmas picture on the refrigerator incorporated everyone. There were smiles all around, but even the casual observer could detect pain behind the snapshot. For a house with that many people in it, things were relatively quiet.
Vivian’s “office” was her kitchen table and she offered them something to drink. Both said they were fine. She sat and looked at Treha with fascination. “So tell me what you’ve been doing since you left us.”
Treha gave a thumbnail sketch of her life at Desert Gardens with a little of the drama that had unfolded. Miriam picked up the story and explained their relationship.
“I’m so glad to hear this,” Vivian said. “I’ll bet you fit in with the people at Desert Gardens. I was really concerned when you moved away, but you seemed ready to make a new start.”
Miriam spread her hands on the table. “We’re trying to connect the dots of Treha’s past. She has very little memory of her early life, her own family. We thought you might be able to help.”
Vivian gritted her teeth as if she needed to apologize. “We try not to pry. If children want to talk, we’re here. Many of them have come from the foster system and don’t want to. You were fostered for a time, weren’t you, Treha?”
Eyes shifting, head weaving, staring at the table. “I don’t know.”
Vivian rose and went to a built-in desk on the other side of the kitchen island stove. There was a corkboard above the desk with notes and a calendar filled with scribbled writing—doctor’s appointments and phone numbers all scattered under a Bible verse at the top. She pulled out a plastic box of papers and files divided by year, unclasped the top, and riffled through the pages.
“This is the best I can do. The last place Treha lived before coming to us is listed here.” She handed a folder to them and Miriam studied the forms inside. They were from a state program in Arizona with the words Department of Economic Security emblazoned at the top. Toward the bottom was the name Treha Langsam and a
list of symptoms and disorders the child had been diagnosed with, including “violent behavior.” She was described on the back of the report as “unreachable.”
“My understanding was that Treha had been in a series of foster homes from early childhood. The state doesn’t give us information about that.”
“Did anyone ever come looking for her?”
“No. We had her all to ourselves from the time she arrived.”
Miriam looked at Treha. “How old were you when you came here?”
A slight shake of the head.
“You were about ten, right, Treha?”
Miriam forged ahead. “Did you notice any of these symptoms after Treha moved here?”
Vivian folded her hands. “There were several outbursts early on, but we learned to cope. Avoid the triggers. Treha, do you remember any of that?”
She shook her head.
“What were the triggers?” Miriam said.
“Sensory things. Noises. Other children being too loud. We gave her certain clothes to wear—a nice jumper outfit, a dress with ruffles—but if she didn’t like them, she wouldn’t put them on. It may have been the color, the fabric, or a combination. Now that I see you wearing scrubs, it makes me think you always did best in cotton.”
Miriam nodded. This must have been why Treha was wearing scrubs when she first came to Desert Gardens.
Vivian continued, “It’s our policy not to turn anyone away. We’ve had to improvise a time or two when we’ve come up against things we’ve never experienced. But once Treha came, and she saw our commitment to her, she integrated.”
“Did she go to school?”
“I used to teach middle school, so I homeschool. Piecemeal education. We have some who are only here for a few months. Others stay for years. My goal for Treha was to have her get her GED before she left, and she exceeded my expectations. She was a great reader before she ever came here. Must be in her genes. Do you remember taking the test?”
Treha nodded.
“She was off the charts. We were so proud when she did so well.”
“Did you ever notice any special abilities she displayed while she lived here?”
“Like what?”
“The way she is with people who are different.”
Vivian thought a moment. “There was a little autistic boy we cared for. His father had passed and he and his mother moved in. One day we couldn’t find him and the mother got worried. He was in Treha’s room, having a conversation. Now this was a boy who could hardly say his own name. And he was sitting there talking with her like . . .” Her voice trailed as she remembered the scene. “It just astounded us.”
Miriam glanced at Treha. Her head was down.
“She was always good with words, too. She could memorize like nobody I’ve ever seen. Such a bright thing. Others couldn’t see it, of course.”
“But as far as her history goes, you can’t shed any light,” Miriam said.
“No. But I do have the person’s name from Child Protective Services who suggested Treha come here. She’s a friend. She knows how to identify and place children who have fallen through the cracks.” Vivian handed her a scrap of paper with a phone number and the name Sharon Gavineau. “I doubt Sharon knows any more than I do, but it wouldn’t hurt to talk with her.”
She looked at Treha again, cocking her head to one side. “Treha, we’ve missed you. Jake will be sorry he didn’t get to see you. I’m so glad you came back to visit.”
“Thank you.”
Vivian took a picture of the two of them to show her husband and prove Treha had actually been there. Then she pulled Miriam aside and whispered, “Thanks for taking an interest in her. I’ll be praying you find the answers.”
It was a silent ride back to the interstate. Clouds were forming above the stately Catalinas. Miriam wondered about the lease on Treha’s apartment and if she’d be able to pay the rent. How would she get another job? It really would be easier if Treha came to live with her for a few days, but she wasn’t sure if the girl would balk.
Treha interrupted Miriam’s thoughts. “I heard what the man said on the phone.”
“Excuse me? What man?”
“The documentary man, Devin. I heard you talking to him.”
“How could you hear what he said?”
“It’s not hard; the voice comes through. Maybe it’s my ears—I don’t know. I heard him talk about Mr. Davidson. The man Dr. Crenshaw wrote to. I want to talk with him.”
“All right. But if you heard the conversation, you know this Davidson fellow threatened Devin. I don’t think you’ll be talking with him anytime soon.”
“Threatened him how?”
“He had a gun. You didn’t hear that part?”
“He is scared.”
“You bet he’s scared, and he’s not going back there.”
“Not Devin. I mean Mr. Davidson is scared.”
“Well, I don’t care how he feels; I won’t put you in that position.”
“You aren’t putting me in any position. I want to speak to him.”
“How do you know he won’t pull a gun and shoot you?”
“I don’t. But I believe I can get through to him.”
Miriam glanced at the girl and she looked the same—her facial expression was set, her eyes moved—but there was something off, something different now. Something present that hadn’t been there. Treha had gone along with whatever others had told her. Now something was rising, a will of her own. And Miriam wasn’t sure she liked it. It was easier to deal with a compliant Treha.
“I suppose I can talk with Devin and see—”
“Let me use your phone,” she interrupted. “I’ll call him. He wants to interview me. He will agree.” She held out her hand.
“Treha, is there anything you’re not telling me?”
“About what?”
“About any of this. About your past. About Dr. Crenshaw—he was the one who contacted you about the job at Desert Gardens, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Miriam could tell she had stepped over the line, had turned to accusing rather than questioning, and she regretted it. She took the phone from her pocket and handed it to Treha.
CHAPTER 24
DEVIN HAD TO HOLD the phone away from his ear because of the volume of Jonah’s voice. It was early, at least for Jonah, and he was always cranky when Devin called.
“Why in the world would you go back to Scottsdale? Do you have a death wish?”
“She wants to go,” Devin said.
“She? Since when do you take orders from anyone? I can’t even get you to pay me, but she speaks and you jump. What’s up with that?”
“Jonah, listen to me—”
“If she wants to go to Scottsdale, let her go. She can ride her bike.”
“She doesn’t have a bike—it was stolen.”
“Then let her walk. It’ll expand her life expectancy.”
“Jonah, calm down. This Davidson guy wasn’t that crazy.”
“Devin, he pulled a Luger on you.”
“It wasn’t a Luger.”
“It was a gun from some German foxhole. It was probably loaded with the Führer’s hollow points. And don’t tell me Davidson’s a bad aim. The guy is not stable. He probably has a medicine cabinet full of bottles he can’t even open. Anyone who’s been off their medication can do damage.”
“You sound like you know. Are you not telling me something?”
“Acid reflux is all I have.”
“I want you to come with us.”
“What? I thought you were calling to get the camera. Devin, this is crazy.”
“I need you to shoot the whole thing.”
“Shoot is the operative word, but we’re not the ones who’ll be shooting—we’ll be dodging. Do you want me to bring the first aid kit, too, the one with all the bandages? Maybe a little morphine to dull the pain?”
“Did you watch Saving Private Ryan last night?�
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“No, that was two nights ago. Devin, we don’t need this right now. We need a paying gig. You haven’t answered the phone in a couple of days. Maybe there’s something waiting. Something we could use to pay the rent.”
“I know this is hard for you to believe, but I need you to trust me. If you’ve ever trusted my instincts—”
“Let’s see—this whole Desert Gardens idea was a sure thing, as I recall. You estimated we’d get a hundred contracts at five grand each. That’s the last sure thing I remember.”
“Jonah, this is it. I can feel it.”
“Devin, I’m numb from the number of times you’ve said you can feel it. I can’t feel it.”
“Meet me at the office.”
“We don’t have an office!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you last night. There’s this little piece of paper on the door and the locks have been changed. But I’m sure you felt that.”
“What about the equipment? Our stuff?”
“When you didn’t come in yesterday, I got scared and loaded the computers and equipment in my car. But I didn’t touch your stuff. I assume you have your laptop with you.”
“Yeah. Wow, I didn’t think Sullivan would do that.”
“It happens when you don’t pay bills. I told you he was serious.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up at your mom’s house.”
“Devin, it’s over. This is the third strike.”
“No, this is a setback. It’s a hurdle. It’s every story we’ve ever recorded that’s worth telling; don’t you see?”
“I’d say it’s more than a hurdle.”
“I’m not letting this stop us. We move forward.”
“I’m okay moving forward, but Davidson feels like a bad idea. What do we do while we’re driving up there for two hours, watch her eyes go back and forth?”
“Now you’re being mean.”
“I’m being real. It’s like watching a human windshield wiper. She gives me the willies.”
“You don’t have to marry her—I just want you to shoot her. Film her, I mean. I don’t care what you do on the way. Listen to your iPod. Sleep. I’m here at her place now. I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.”