Looking into You

by Chris Fabry

  “That’s okay. I can hold up both ends for a while.”

  A group passed, unloading their trays and tossing trash. One was Treha’s roommate, Shelly, who glanced at her and then said something to the others before they exited.

  “Shelly’s a piece of work,” Anna said. “What happened with her?”

  “I think she thought she was supposed to be with another roommate. She called me a freak.”

  “To your face?”

  “No, I heard her say it down the hall, to the RA.”

  “Brutal. Doesn’t surprise me. She’s never lived on the island of misfit students. That’s why we have to stick together. Strength in numbers.”

  “There’s only two of us.”

  “‘Where two or three are gathered,’ right? It’s a start. And I know my way around. I can tell you every class to take, the best professors, the ones to avoid. Who’s your adviser?”

  “Dr. Beckwith.”

  “English major?” Anna said.

  Treha nodded.

  “She’s a good teacher. She cares about the material, cares about students. How are you going to use your English degree? You know, after you graduate.”

  Treha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I just know I like to read.”

  “Good. But do you want to teach? Become a writer? There must be something.”

  “That’s what I’ve come here to find out.”

  Anna put her fork down and pushed her plate away. “Okay, I get it. Talk with Dr. Beckwith. She’ll give you good direction.” She handed Treha a business card she had clearly made herself. “You should consider writing for the school newspaper, the Tower.”

  “Why is it called that?”

  “The founder’s great-grandfather or somebody way back built a church here and named it Bethesda, for the biblical town. It means ‘house of mercy.’ The bell tower in the church was used during the Civil War to spot Union soldiers coming over the ridge. They saved the tower and worked it into the construction of a new church back in the early 1900s. The architect was the same guy who designed the Ryman in Nashville. You’re looking all glazed over now, am I losing you?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “That church became the chapel and they built the administrative wing onto it and made it the anchor for the whole school. . . . You’re on overload with the new information, right? Let’s make a list of questions, things you don’t know, things you need to know. Like employment. Do you have a job yet?”

  “No.”

  “I can show you where to apply. Have any work experience?”

  “I’ve worked as a janitor.”

  “Perfect. If you know how to clean and aren’t afraid to work in the evening, you can get hired.”

  Treha nodded and looked down at her food, feeling something stir in her stomach that might have been hope.

  CHAPTER 4

  Paige

  “We polished off the cherry pie, but there’s still blueberry delight and chocolate mint cake in the kitchen,” I announced to the group in my living room. “And I don’t want the temptation in my refrigerator all weekend.”

  I had made a fire in the pit outside but a slight chill in the air forced us in for dessert and wine on the leather couch and love seat and scattered chairs. My home is an oasis of books and candles and hardwood floors. The Harpeth River meanders through the countryside nearby and I find solace in the used kayak I purchased that lets me drift downstream.

  Six women attended our inaugural fall meeting, though it wasn’t officially fall yet. Begun as a book club by Dr. Beverly Beckwith, my mentor at Bethesda when I was a student, the group’s structure had loosened over the years but stayed true to the love of writing and literature it was founded on.

  Beverly was the only other English professor in the group. Ginny Baylor had brought the oldest member, Esther Richards, a woman from her church who had never been to college, let alone taught. Madalyn Palmer was there too, along with one other friend, all of us joined by a common bond with words and the warm feeling of a community. This band of women gave me a mooring, an anchor.

  I sat on a sheepskin rug in front of the blackened fireplace, aged with smoke and ash. Mozart was on low in the background, another staple of the evening. Yellow firelight danced across varnished beams and hardwood.

  Our official agenda dictated that each person read something from a chosen poet or novelist. Tonight I’d read a selection from Proust. Esther was up next. Sipping tea, she opened a hymnal that was falling apart and slowly worked her way through the reading of all five verses of “And Can It Be,” stopping to punctuate a phrase or accentuate a word. Her crackly voice filled the room, finishing with “‘Bold I approach th’ eternal throne, and claim the crown, through Christ my own.’”

  A weight of silence followed and Ginny smiled broadly. “I want everyone to remember I was the one who invited her.”

  “That was beautiful,” Beverly said.

  As the praise continued for Esther’s choice, I went to the kitchen to refill a couple of wineglasses. I came back to hear Beverly saying, “Based on her testing, she’s off the charts intellectually, but socially awkward. And there seems to be so much going on beneath the surface.”

  “Speech 101 will help her come out of her shell,” Ginny said. “That’s how it happened with me. Showed me I had something to say.”

  I handed Ginny her glass. “Who are we talking about?”

  “One of Beverly’s new students,” Ginny said.

  Beverly frowned. “I don’t think it’s a matter of priming the pump. It’s deeper. I’m her adviser, and in our first meeting . . . I can’t find the combination to the lock. I can’t draw her out.”

  “Well, if anyone can, it’s you,” I said.

  “What’s her name?” Madalyn said.

  “Treha Langsam. She’s from Arizona.”

  My heart kept beating, I’m sure of it, and I was still breathing, still seeing, though my hearing went down and all I could sense were my fingertips and the stabbing, aching pain inside my skull that had begun as soon as I heard the name Treha.

  “That’s such an interesting name,” Esther said. “I’ve never heard that before. Is she Eastern European?”

  No, I thought.

  “I’m not sure she knows,” Beverly said. “I helped her choose her classes—actually, I worked with someone she knows in Arizona to choose them. Paige, I had her sign up for your evening writing class.”

  I nearly dropped my glass of wine. Nearly choked.

  “I didn’t know you were teaching at Bethesda,” Ginny said.

  “We corralled her through the extension department,” Beverly said. “It’s one class, the camel nose under the tent. We hope.”

  I put down my glass and headed toward the kitchen again.

  “Is something wrong, Paige?” Beverly said.

  “No, I just need to visit the little girls’ room,” I said.

  I stumbled into the back bathroom and locked the door. The room spun and suddenly I felt untethered, unhinged, unglued. This couldn’t be. Had she found me? Had someone helped her uncover the truth about my identity? Found me in Tennessee? This couldn’t happen by chance. Was God punishing me?

  For two decades I had lived with the hope or illusion that she was better off not knowing her origin, better off loving her adoptive parents. But the truth about her life, depicted in the documentary I had seen, had been a cruel revelation. She had not thrived; she had been abandoned again. She had withered like a weed, but even weeds grow through cracks in the concrete. That’s what I told myself to assuage my guilt.

  After seeing the film that featured Treha, I had considered flying to Arizona, finding her and explaining my choices and why I hadn’t reached out to her. But no matter how tightly I wrapped myself in sheets in the dead of night, tossing and turning, I couldn’t push the button to buy the plane ticket. I couldn’t say yes to her. And days had turned into weeks and then months, as if looking away from a bill that had come due could make it go a
way.

  Now, in some cosmic act of God or coincidence, the girl had returned to me.

  Who was I kidding? There is no coincidence. There is punishment, retribution. Or perhaps love and mercy and grace. Which was it?

  I finally made my way back to the group and sat, numb, as their words filled the room and Mozart continued softly in the background.

  “You got awfully quiet,” Madalyn said at the sink later. It was eleven thirty, and she had dried and stacked the dishes I had dutifully washed.

  “Just taking it all in,” I said.

  She smiled and hugged me; then I watched her taillights disappear down the gravel driveway. I tossed the empty bottles and hung the wineglasses and turned off the lights but let the music continue. Through the trees were stars, light from a distance, ambassadors of another galaxy, untouchable, yet still seen. Why would God allow us to see something we can’t touch?

  I couldn’t change clothes, couldn’t brush my teeth. I could only look in the mirror at my skin in harsh light, at wrinkles and creeping gray. The color tide was turning, and not in my favor. My eyes were red-veined and tired.

  In the top drawer of my dresser I found the ticket stub from the documentary and stared at it. I slid to the floor, grabbed my reading light, and focused the beam on a layer of impossible dust under the bed. Wedged underneath a quilt and wrapped in a plastic bag was an aged shoe box. It had housed a pair of boots I bought shortly after returning to the US. Those had been tossed long ago, or given to Goodwill, but the box survived. I untied the shoelace that secured it and removed the top. Inside, two rubber bands held a manuscript together, a flailing attempt I had made to put my life on safe pages to squirrel away. The paper was yellowed and thick, with perforation marks at the side. The letters were small, just individual dots that made each letter whole. The printer had been an Epson, an old dot matrix.

  Under the manuscript was a journal, given to me by the counselor provided by my parents’ mission.

  I leafed through the pages, moving past the painful trip back to the States and the lonely feelings that leaked, page after page. Emotion and questions, screaming with my pen. The depression had gotten so bad that I had gone to a doctor—again, provided by the mission.

  Dr. Crenshaw gave me medication today. He said I wouldn’t have to pay, that it was experimental, and it wouldn’t hurt the baby. I signed the document. I just want to feel better and not so alone with all of this.

  That same doctor had showed up on the documentary, had revealed a puzzle piece to Treha’s life, and had shown me reasons why I had trouble trusting authority figures.

  I placed the journal in the box and put the ticket stub on top, then covered it and slid it back to its rightful place.

  There is no greater power on earth than a mother’s love, unless it is a mother’s guilt.

  CHAPTER 5

  Treha

  Monday was the longest day of the week for Treha. She had morning classes and worked in the afternoon. Then she just had time to grab something for dinner before her evening class started. Treha loved schedules, loved the flow of the day, but she hated hurrying and her empty stomach made it worse.

  She’d just settled into a booth in the commons when her cell phone vibrated. She could count on one hand the times that had happened, in comparison with other students who seemed to constantly be on the phone.

  “You’re not in class or anything, are you?” Miriam said. “Is this a good time?”

  “This is good.”

  “I’ve tried to hold back from calling. You can ask Charlie, it nearly kills me. But I love your e-mails and the pictures of the campus are gorgeous.”

  “I’ve never been around so many trees.”

  “I imagine there’s a lot different there. How are classes?”

  “Okay. Tell me about Charlie.”

  “Charlie is a rascal. He’s driving me to work every day and picking me up. And he’s latched on to this book we’re going through together on marriage.”

  “Does he still listen to talk radio?”

  “Of course. He’s trying to keep me informed on all the political shenanigans.”

  “That sounds like a word he would use.”

  Anna plopped down across from Treha and immediately began texting and eating yogurt with a plastic spoon. Treha covered one ear and turned away to concentrate.

  “He talks about you all the time, Treha. And Elsie and I get together and compare notes on your e-mails. That woman is praying for you constantly. I hope you know that.”

  Treha touched her phone as if she were reaching through to Miriam.

  “How’s the roommate situation?”

  Treha wanted to tell Miriam how hard it was with Shelly and a hundred other things that flashed through her mind, images and feelings coming alive because she was alone in a strange place and only had her journal. And Anna. “It’s okay. I try to stay out of her way.”

  “Good for you. I’m glad you’re making the best of it. Sometimes the biggest lessons in life are learned outside the classroom.”

  “I got a job.”

  “You what?” Miriam couldn’t hide her excitement. “That’s great, Treha. Doing what?”

  “I’m doing the same thing I did at Desert Gardens. I’m on the cleaning crew. It’s not much but—”

  “No, that’s wonderful! I wish we could have given enough that you didn’t have to work for some extra spending money.”

  “It keeps me busy and my mind occupied.”

  “I’m so happy for you. I can’t wait to tell Elsie.” After a moment of silence, Miriam said, “It’s so good to hear your voice. I just wanted to hear you. And let you know I pray for you every day. And I meet Elsie at breakfast and we storm the gates of heaven for you and all the students.”

  Anna paused her furious texting and looked up at Treha.

  “I think I’d better go,” Treha said.

  “All right, dear. Just wanted you to know how much I’m thinking about you.” There was a smile in the woman’s voice. “Love you, Treha.”

  She clicked the End button.

  “Somebody from Arizona?” Anna said.

  Treha nodded.

  “The lady who took you in?”

  “She and her husband did.” Treha put her phone away.

  “They sound like nice people.” Anna got another text and as she answered it, she took another bite of yogurt and ate as she talked. “Probably want you to come back there over the Christmas break. Do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

  Treha shook her head.

  “You can stay at my dad’s house with me. I usually go there for Thanksgiving and then to my mom’s for Black Friday and the rest of the weekend. It feels like it’s a long way away, with school barely started, but it’s really not. It’ll go fast.”

  “Your parents are divorced?”

  “Yeah. My mom learned a hard lesson. Don’t pick the first guy that makes your heart flutter. That’s what she did. They were on the same page early on, going to change the world and all that. Then one day Mom said she woke up alone. And Dad was still there. He had a midlife crisis and needed to ‘find himself’ and said stuff like ‘This is not your fault. This is about me.’ It was brutal. He finally went off the deep end. Found a group of guys and went howling into the woods. No, seriously, they literally went into the woods and howled.”

  “But you wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t gotten married.”

  “Yes, and the world would be such a darker place, wouldn’t it?” Anna gave a wry smile.

  Treha looked at the clock. “I have to go. I have a class tonight.”

  “What class?”

  “Reading and Composition. Dr. Beckwith said I should take it.”

  “Huh. Who’s the prof?”

  “Someone named Ms. Redwine.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Paige

  For more than twenty years I had waited for my daughter to walk through the classroom door of my life. Proverbially. And now it was going to happen.
The anticipation wrapped around my soul like a three-stranded cord of longing, dread, and angst.

  I arrived early on the Bethesda campus and sat in the commons to see if I could catch a glimpse of her. Twice I thought I saw her. In the film her face had been blurred, so I had to imagine. The friends and laughter and good-natured conversation were things I prayed my daughter might experience. The vision of them talking and having a “normal” life gave me hope that maybe Treha had improved and put the past behind her.

  There was, of course, the possibility this was what I wanted for myself. If I could see her functioning well . . . if I could watch from a distance and know that she had turned out all right despite my mistakes, I could go on with life. Since learning that Treha would be in my class, I had considered every permutation to avoid her. I could drop the assignment and rightfully say I was too busy. Beverly would understand. Instead I allowed time and my own indecision to make the decision for me.

  As I was leaving the commons, someone called my name. I turned and the Bethesda tower was framed in the background along with a stately oak tree in full bloom—the perfect picture.

  “I was hoping I’d run into you,” Ron Gleason said, smiling. “How does it feel to be back on campus?”

  I was taken off guard and had to think quickly, which is not my strength. “It’s . . . interesting. A little scary, but good. How are you?”

  “Fine. Great. Can I carry that to class for you?”

  He reached for my computer bag but I didn’t offer it. “I’m fine, Ron. But thank you. Trying to get my game face on for the lecture.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve been through the material many times but coming back here is kind of unbalancing. Some things I have to work through.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be praying.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then came the awkward silence, the moment when I had to choose whether I would take care of him or myself, and I took a step backward, toward the academic hall.

  “This is probably not the best time, but have you thought more about what we talked about?” he said.