Looking into You

by Chris Fabry

  “He’s battled some serious temptations through the years. Perhaps it’s better to say he hasn’t battled well. But I think he really wants the marriage to work. He says he’s committed to doing . . .” She paused and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “You thought I might be making a play for your husband,” I said. “I can understand that.”

  “I don’t know what I thought.”

  “I can assure you I’m not here to renew a relationship. Finding Treha has sent me on this journey I never expected. I reached out because of her. Only because of her.”

  “But if you thought he was dead until recently, isn’t there part of you that . . . ?”

  I leaned forward. “Kathy, I’m not interested. Period. What happened feels like another life. I’m not a threat.” As I said it, I knew it was the truth. The David I remembered didn’t exist in this world.

  “Thank you for that,” Kathy said. “That’s reassuring. But what about your daughter? I’m not sure what we can offer as a family. . . .”

  I nodded. “Treha’s financial needs are covered. I’m hoping she’ll want to stay with me. It’s still early in the game—I’ve only recently met her too, and there’s so much we haven’t figured out. I honestly think just knowing her dad exists is enough for her.”

  Kathy wadded the tissues tightly in one hand. “I’d like to meet her at some point. It’s just that now doesn’t feel . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “Maybe down the road?” Kathy said without hope in her voice. “I just can’t imagine bringing her into our family right now.”

  I studied the woman’s face. “You need time. I’ve had years to respond to this and it’s been so hard. I’ll help Treha understand. She’ll be fine. Relieved.”

  Kathy gathered her things and rose. She gave me a polite hug and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 38

  Paige

  On the drive back to Arizona, Treha told me a story she had heard from a man speaking in chapel about a sick mule near death. The farmer, thinking the animal had died, shoved him into an old well and began burying him. The mule, awakened by the fall, stood and, as every shovelful of dirt hit him, shook off the dirt and stepped up on the pile. Eventually the mule used the dirt meant to bury him to climb out of his pit.

  “You got to shake it off,” Treha said, imitating the man who had spoken.

  I chuckled. But at the same time I was thinking that’s what David and Kathy were trying to do. And so was Treha. So was I.

  With these thoughts came the realization that if Treha could shake off her past and step up, I could do the same. The past is like grace. It’s not enough to know about it. We all know what happened back there. Grace allows you to see yourself in light of the past, not in the shadow of it. You see the truth about yourself, your need. On that drive toward Tucson, the past began to lose its grip on my soul.

  Miriam organized a going-away party at Desert Gardens. Elsie was much warmer toward me. She took me aside and gave me a pep talk about becoming Treha’s mother.

  “It’s not your right, it’s something you earn,” Elsie said. “You keep Treha’s best interests at the front and you won’t go wrong. And you should speak with Miriam. She’s been the closest thing to a mother that girl has ever had.”

  When I had Miriam alone in her office, I told her how much I appreciated all she had done for Treha. “I want you to be as much a part of her life as you want to be.”

  “As she wants me to be,” Miriam corrected.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It took courage for you to move toward her. To come out from the shadows. You will need more for the days ahead.”

  “One step at a time, right?”

  “Yes. With Treha it will be slow, deliberate steps. You’re going to be a different woman because of her, Paige. You know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen to her. She will tell you things without you knowing.”

  I thought about Miriam’s words as we listened to Middlemarch together on the plane ride. There were tears in my eyes when we finished. Treha looked out the window and took out her earbud, just staring at the clouds.

  I replayed the last paragraph again for myself:

  Her finely touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on earth. But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and the rest in unvisited tombs.

  Eliot was right. And as I thought about my own contribution to the planet, my shouting into the void, I saw that my unhistoric act of moving toward my daughter was part of the courageous legacy I might leave. The best “hidden” life was lived in full exposure to those I loved.

  It was toward another set of hidden lives that we were compelled on what I believed was the last leg of our journey, or at least this first journey together. I had phoned my mother and told her I was going to take Treha back to Tennessee and sort through the issues surrounding my teaching and moving ahead with life, but she gave an invitation I couldn’t refuse.

  “Come here, Paige,” she said. “Your father is not well. He’s agitated and drawing into himself. It may be your last chance. It may be her last chance . . . Treha’s, I mean. We can help with the tickets.”

  Hearing my mother say her granddaughter’s name was enough. But I wasn’t idealistic about the visit. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. In fact, the prospect of Treha meeting her grandparents made the trip to Colorado look like a picnic.

  Treha was visibly nervous, probably sensing my tension. “Do I look like them?” she said as we waited in the aisle to deplane.

  She had her hair pushed behind one ear, and her facial structure and ears looked so much like David’s that I couldn’t help but smile. “You have my father’s love of words, that’s for sure.”

  “And his eyes? You said that once.”

  “Yes, and his eyes.”

  “Is your mother really okay with me coming?”

  “If she’s not, it’s too late now,” I said. Then I put an arm around her. “She’s going to love you, Treha.”

  “What should I call her?”

  “Call her whatever you feel comfortable with. Grandmother, Grandma, Mrs. Redwine. Or nothing at all. She’s invited you to see your grandfather. She wants you there.”

  A friend of my mother’s met us at the airport and drove us to the house. She was pleasant but prepared us for the worst. “I wouldn’t expect too much from either one of them. The stress has been unbearable on your mom, Paige.” The way she said it sounded like a friendly warning instead of an accusation. That Treha had worked with older people gave me hope that nothing we encountered would shock her. In fact, I would probably lean on her.

  My mother’s friend let us out in the driveway and watched us walk to the door. The moment we entered the house, it felt like we were in an alternate universe. It was the stillness that arrested me. Like a funeral waiting for the organ prelude.

  Mom hugged me and I hugged her back. The trip with Treha and the invitation to bring her had helped temper my anger, at least a little. We’d have to deal with the truth, over time, but I kept the advice from Miriam and Elsie at the forefront. Do what was best for Treha. Let her meet her grandmother.

  After the embrace I stepped aside and ushered my daughter forward. “Mom, I want you to meet Treha.”

  Treha stared at the floor. My mother looked at her, reaching out with misty eyes before her hands followed. But before she could embrace her, there came a muted wail that led to racking sobs, and she wobbled and put her hands to her face, over her glasses. Tears flowed like a swollen stream. My mother had always been the picture of composure and control, but th
e weight of the emotion drove her to the ground, and she reached out for support as she slipped to her knees in front of Treha with me trying to hold her steady.

  My daughter knelt on the floor with my mother and it was more than I could take. Treha patted my mother’s shoulders and arms, cocking her head and making a shhh sound. There were no words. Sometimes, I have found, you don’t need words. The heart is enough.

  When my mother had recovered, she stood and cradled Treha’s face, shaking her head and looking at me as if she couldn’t believe what she’d missed. Then she said, “Come in here, honey. I want you to meet your grandfather.”

  For a woman who once couldn’t speak her granddaughter’s name, it was quite a transformation. I didn’t know what had happened in my mother’s heart, but at that moment, I didn’t care. She took Treha by the hand and led her into the living room, which had been converted into my father’s personal hospital. A metal bed with railings and the accoutrements of convalescence. A box of plastic gloves and bottles of medicine and adult diapers and the smell of alcohol. All the old furniture had been shoved into a corner. My father sat like a statue in a mechanical chair, staring out the window as if he were in the stands waiting for a game that would never begin.

  My mother brought Treha around in front of him, like a child who wanted to show off a new puppy. She leaned down to his face. “John, this is your granddaughter. Treha has come to visit us.”

  Treha knelt and put a hand on his armrest. His head didn’t move, his eyes didn’t follow her, but Treha seemed unconcerned as if she had seen this a thousand times.

  “Hello, Mr. Redwine,” she said softly. “Hello, Grandfather.”

  She touched his arm and then a shoulder and spoke gently, whispers I couldn’t hear. There was no response, no eye movement or recognition like I’d seen in the documentary. Part of me had hoped that Treha would come into our lives and call him back to us and we would be whole again, a family, connected. But to be honest, I didn’t have the faith to believe it could happen. My father was too far gone. He had launched out onto his own sea and the sails had disappeared over the horizon.

  My mother stood beside me and hugged me, still weeping. “You brought her home, Paige.”

  “It’s been such a long journey.”

  “For all of us,” she said. She looked at me. “We’re all guilty, aren’t we?”

  “And we’re all forgiven,” I said, and I could tell, deep in her heart, she knew I meant it. Thank God for mercy and forgiveness, even though it makes your face puffy.

  That tender moment was broken by a shriek from my father. His arms flailed and Treha fell back against the wall, her head hitting the window trim. It took my father three pushes to make it out of the chair, but before my mother or I could snap out of our shock to reach him, he was walking stiff-legged toward the stairs.

  CHAPTER 39

  Treha

  Treha put a hand to her head and tried to get up, but the room spun. Her grandmother was on one knee, peering into her face. “Are you all right, honey? Did you hit your head?”

  There were squiggly lines in her field of vision, but Treha made it to her knees and looked across the room at her mother wrestling with the old man—that was the only way she could describe the struggle. He was reaching out, trying to grab something, and her mother had her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

  “Dad, you can’t go up there!”

  He didn’t speak, didn’t yell; he just fought, resolute in his desire.

  Standing, Treha saw the gate at the bottom of the stairs, the kind used to block pets or young children from a fall or climb. The old man grabbed for it. He turned to Paige and with both hands pushed her away, a wild look in his eyes.

  “This is how he gets,” her grandmother said, her voice trembling. “I can’t control him.”

  Paige staggered backward and her father took the gate and tore it loose, scarring the wall and railing.

  “Let him go, Paige. Just let him go!”

  Like a man walking on stilts, the old man took the steps one at a time, looking at his feet, breathing heavily, a death grip on the railing. He looked like a toddler on a trapeze. Treha’s mother gathered herself and followed, ready to catch him. When he made it to the top, he swayed backward and for a moment it looked like they would both tumble. Treha hurried to them, her grandmother right behind her. The old man regained his balance and continued.

  “Where’s he going?” her grandmother said.

  “Toward the office, I think,” Treha’s mother said.

  “Let him go, then. When he’s in there, close the door and hold on to it so he can’t get out. I’ll call the home nurse.”

  Treha followed her mother to the office door. It was open just a crack and they could see her grandfather moving around inside. Locking him in there didn’t seem like a good idea, but wrestling with him seemed out of the question. His strength was surprising.

  “What if he tries to break a window?” Treha’s mother yelled.

  “He won’t. He’ll just rummage around. He’s done it before.”

  Treha heard her grandmother pick up the phone and speak with someone. She closed her eyes. The squiggly lines were still there but better.

  “I’m sorry about this,” Paige said. “Are you all right?”

  Treha nodded. “That’s never happened. The people at Desert Gardens got upset, but I was always able to calm them.”

  “It’s almost like you had the opposite effect here,” her mother said absently, looking through the door again.

  “Can I go in? I want to try again.”

  “I don’t think you should. Let’s contain him and let him cool off.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s over by the closet for some reason.”

  “The nurse is on his way,” Treha’s grandmother said, holding her chest as she came up the stairs.

  Behind the door Treha heard a thump, then a crash.

  “Oh, John, no,” her grandmother said.

  They found Treha’s grandfather on the floor, his arms up in the air and his feet moving as if he were still climbing the stairs. A box lay beside him, one edge crumpled from the fall.

  When he noticed them there, fire ignited in his eyes and he rolled over and pushed himself up until he could stand, then turned to the closet and reached high for the shelf.

  “What’s he looking for?” Treha said.

  “God only knows,” her grandmother said. “John, please stop. Please come over and sit down before you hurt yourself.”

  He shook his head as if he understood the words but kept clawing at the shelf above the hanging clothes. Another box clattered down, bouncing across the room.

  “Dad, stop it! You’re going to get hurt.”

  “I’ll see if the nurse is here,” Treha’s grandmother said. “Just try to stay out of his way.”

  “He’s looking for something,” Treha said to her mother.

  “He probably thinks he’s back in New Guinea. That he has more translation work to do.” She moved to the desk and brought back a leather Bible and held it out to him. “Dad, is this what you’re looking for? See? You finished. You completed the whole thing.”

  He stared at the book, then pulled a wheeled chair from the desk and tried to raise a foot to stand on it.

  “Dad, no! You’re going to break your neck.”

  Paige pulled the chair away and the man gritted his teeth.

  Treha touched her mother on the arm and moved past her with a different chair, sturdier, wooden. Four legs with no wheels.

  She put a hand on her grandfather’s shoulder. “Let me help. Whatever you’re looking for, I can get it for you.”

  Still breathing heavily, he looked at Treha. His breathing slowed and his muscles relaxed.

  “Is it still up there?” Treha said, coaxing him closer. “The thing you’re looking for?” She rubbed his arm with one hand and looked into his eyes. “Do you want me to find it?”

  His lips pressed togethe
r and opened. Then he did it again. A sound emerged like from an infant learning to make noise. “Buh . . . buh . . . buh . . .”

  Treha put both hands on his arms, rubbing gently, looking deeply into his eyes. In her peripheral vision she saw her mother put a hand to her mouth.

  “What’s in the closet? What are you looking for, Grandfather?”

  More consonants came rat-a-tat-tat from his lips, the b’s like a repeating rifle. “B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b . . .”

  Finally he stopped and took a breath and looked directly at Treha. “Box,” he said, elongating the vowel. When he got it out, he smiled like it was a splinter stuck in his brain that he had tried to remove for decades. The familiar logjam she had seen break and open a cascade of words.

  “Good,” Treha said. “A box. But there are a lot of boxes. Tell me when I find the right one.”

  She stood on the chair and her head barely reached the level of the shelf. Her arms were short and she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach what had been stored so many years.

  “Let me do that,” her mother said. “My arms are longer.” She climbed onto the chair and pulled out a shoe box and held it up.

  “Is that the box?” Treha said to her grandfather.

  A blank stare on his face but his tongue touched the roof of his mouth as he blinked and struggled to speak.

  “Try another one,” Treha said.

  Paige pointed at a bigger box. When there was still no response, she tried to move it, but it was stuck, wedged between the ceiling and something underneath. She moved the chair closer and managed to get her hands under the box. After several tries she scooted something small and wooden to the edge of the shelf and extracted it.

  “It’s my keepsake box,” she said. “He made this for me from a tree that grew in our backyard. I didn’t know we still had this.” She held it out so Treha could see the intricate design of a tree near a stream and her name carved at the top.