Every Waking Moment (24 page)

She turned back to the road and watched the signs flash by.

Devin smiled wide enough for both of them.

Streams from Desert Gardens

scene 31

Outside courthouse. Wide shot of lead attorney for plaintiffs, Jerilynn Caruthers, on bench in sunlight, with shaded trees in background.

But there were those on the legal team who had real doubts. And certainly the attorneys for Phutura, this vast array of suits, gave us no indication that we could prove our point, no indication that they wanted to settle or even entertain the possibility. They fight these kinds of cases every year and have never lost.

We had to show a direct causal link between the research fifteen years ago and the toxic dump that happened two years ago, and match that with the illnesses of the students. Despite having good evidence, we never felt like we could tie it all together
and show conclusively that Phutura held the smoking gun. Show, without any doubt,
why
this exposure had done so much damage.

Until Treha.

Tight shot on Caruthers.

Cut to B-roll footage of Ezra Hollingsworth leaving corporate headquarters with reporters surrounding him.

Back to tight shot of Caruthers.

MIRIAM PARKED
her car in front of a double-wide trailer off a dirt road. There were many of these types of roads in Arizona, where the blacktop and covenants ended and the chain-link began. Chicken wire ran around the entire front yard and a large black dog prowled at the gate. Devin was in the backseat trying out a new piece of equipment, a wireless microphone that had better reception. Jonah was home editing their footage, working to shape it with the music he was also composing.

The woman’s name was Janice Sadler. She was twice divorced and somewhere back there she had been a Langsam. On the phone she sounded rough and grizzled, a hardscrabble woman who carried a chip on her shoulder and probably for good reason.

“We’re finally here,” Miriam said.

Treha nodded, staring at the house.

“You may not be able to use this; you know that,” Miriam said to Devin. “This will be a private moment, and if Treha doesn’t want this in the film, it won’t be.”

“Understood,” Devin said. “In fact, we’ll need the permission of the mother at some point too. We’ll have to get her signature if we do use it.”

“Are you ready?” Miriam said to Treha.

She nodded.

“Which makes you more nervous, the trip to Phutura or this?” Devin said.

Treha stared at him, then got out of the car. She walked with Miriam to the gate, and the dog barked and snarled. It was overweight by at least twenty pounds and appeared to have lost eyesight in one eye, if not both.

“Like I said, she knows I’m coming, but she doesn’t know you’re going to be with me. And she doesn’t know what this is about. I expect her to be surprised.”

“I understand.”

Miriam reached for the gate latch but Treha stopped her. “I want to go alone.”

“Oh,” Miriam said, taken aback. She tried not to show it. “Yes, that’s fine, Treha. That’s probably a good idea. I’ll wait in the car. If you need me, just wave. Or call. I’ll be able to hear through the microphone. Is it okay with you if we listen?”

“Yes.”

Miriam wanted to hug the girl, kiss her forehead, say something that would change what she assumed was about to happen. She wanted to prepare her more for this meeting and the fallout from it. But maybe Treha was right. Maybe this was something she needed to do on her own. She had met with the legal team for the plaintiffs in the Phutura case by herself. They had paid for her to undergo testing, the blood and neurological work at the hospital, and she had done that alone. She could do this, too.

Treha hesitated and Miriam asked what she was thinking.

“What do I call her?”

“Her name is Janice. I think that would be a good start.”

Treha nodded and walked through the gate, past the barking dog, and up the wooden steps to the porch. It was enough to tear Miriam’s heart out. Treha looked out at a broken swing set and Miriam could almost read her mind. Had she played here? Had she known any animals the family had as pets?

Miriam wanted to take away her pain and hurt, the loneliness and uncertainty. But there are some things even a friend can’t bear. This was also the equation of pain, she thought. Some things had to be done alone.

Treha reached out to knock, then held back, looking at the car. Miriam opened the driver’s side door and sat, closing the door with a clunk.

“That takes an incredible amount of courage,” Devin said.

“Yes, it does. You don’t know how much I wanted to tell her that her mother was dead. After talking with the woman, I wanted to spare Treha this. She has enough trouble without that woman as her mother.”

Devin was shooting video of Treha knocking at the door, balancing the camera on the headrest and shooting through the windshield. He took off his headphones and turned up a small speaker on the receiver so Miriam could hear.

When Treha knocked, there was more barking inside, higher-pitched, and a small dog ran out through a hole in the front door and jumped on Treha, dancing and yipping.

“Can I help you?” a woman said through the screen. Her voice was gruff with more than a little twang. “If you’re selling something, we don’t have any money to buy. You best move on down the road. There’s some Mormons on the next street that seem to buy everything. All the football players selling their discount cards to the car wash and burger place. I don’t get my car washed and don’t have the money for cards or magazines.”

“I’m not selling anything,” Treha said, barely audible through the speaker over the barking dogs.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not selling anything,” she repeated.

“Well, what in the world do you . . . ?” The woman’s voice trailed like she had seen something she hadn’t expected. “Wait a minute.” The door opened and she stepped outside. She wore pajama pants and ratty slippers with a bathrobe wrapped tightly around her. “Punkin? Is that you? . . . Why, it is. How in the world did you find me? And what are you doing here?”

The woman shielded her eyes from the sun and looked at the car.

“My friend Mrs. Howard helped me,” Treha said.

“Land sakes. Is that the lady who called me?”

Treha nodded.

“She never said anything about bringing you.” The woman cursed and gave a heavy sigh. “You might as well come in. As long as you’re not looking for money. If that’s what you’re here for, you might as well go over to
 
—”

“I don’t want money.”

“All right.” Janice said it in one syllable and it sounded like “ahhite.” She opened the door. “Jee-miny, those eyes of yours used to give me the willies. I remember now. Get in here before the dog beats you to it. Come on.”

Treha disappeared inside and Miriam could only imagine what she was seeing. She closed her eyes and listened as the little dog barked and scampered about until it settled down.

“Is this where I lived? Where you raised me?”

“No, that was . . . another place down the road a piece. You remember any of that?”

“I think I was too little.”

“You were a handful is what you were.” Rattling of papers. “You sit there. You want something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, I could use something, now that I’ve seen your face again. You’re about the last person on earth I expected to be showing up at my front door.” The woman’s voice grew distant. “I heard they put you in an institution. Locked you away. Is that right?”

“Not that I know of,” Treha said. Her voice was soft now, mousy.

“What was that?” the woman said across the room.

“I don’t think I was put in an institution. I went to live in foster homes. That’s what I’m told.”

“You’re told? Why can’t you remember?”

“I don’t know.”

A clink of glass. “Well, I half wondered if somebody would come here and tell me you were dead or something worse. I just don’t want you coming back blaming me because I kept you as long as I could. It’s a miracle I put up with all the shenanigans as long as I did. It was superhuman, to tell you the truth. The screaming and crying and throwing stuff. You were a real hell-raiser is what you were. Demon child, my husband called you. Ex-husband now. And then to watch your eyes go back and forth like that was like riding on a riverboat that never settles down. Made me seasick to feed you a bottle.”

“How old was I when you . . . let me go?” Treha said.

“About four, four and a half, probably. I felt bad about it, if you want to know the truth. But I couldn’t take it no more. You get to a point where you have to think of yourself, you know? And it liked to tear our marriage apart having you with us.”

“There is a reason why I acted the way I did.”

“I’m sure there was. Some doctor give you a diagnosis? They give you some pills?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting to find out what they think is the matter.”

“Well, you seem to have settled down all right for now. It looks like you’ve become a nurse of some sort. Is that what you do?”

“No, I wear this because I like the way it feels.”

“Well, you look like a nurse.” The woman swallowed several times
 
—probably downing her drink
 
—and sighed afterward.

“Janice . . .” The word was thick on Treha’s tongue but she regained her composure and kept going. “I have a question for you about Dr. Crenshaw.”

“Dr. who?”

“Dr. Crenshaw. The man who prescribed the medication you took for depression. Do you remember him?”

A pause. “I don’t remember no doctor prescribing anything for me except some antibiotics when I come down with pneumonia a couple years ago. And how in the world would you know what doctor I had?”

“It’s a long story, but a friend of mine was your doctor before I was born. He prescribed medication that hurt me.”

“Back up, back up. You talked to a doctor who treated me . . .”

“When you were pregnant with me. Your obstetrician was Dr. Crenshaw.”

“Honey, I ain’t never needed no obstetrician. I ain’t never had no kids. That’s how come I got you.”

A long pause.

“Do you think I’m your real mother?”

“That’s what Mrs. Howard said.”

“Mrs. Howard evidently don’t know everything. Didn’t any
body ever tell you? I guess they wouldn’t have. Your mother gave you up as soon as you was born. Me and my husband adopted you. I’m not your
 
—what do they call it . . . ? Birth mother . . . Biological
 
—that’s it. But we took you in and treated you like our own, until we couldn’t care for you anymore with all the behavior problems.”

“My name. Why did you name me Treha?”

There was a noise as if someone was getting off a creaky piece of furniture. “You stay there. I might have something for you.”

Miriam looked at Devin. He had the camera rolling, capturing all of the audio. There was something in the speaker, a noise like someone whispering.

Devin turned it up. “She’s talking to herself.”

Treha repeated over and over, “She’s not my mother. She’s not my mother.”

Miriam imagined Treha with her eyes closed, typing on her lap. She didn’t look at Devin. She couldn’t. She put her head in her hands and listened to Treha’s voice.

A couple minutes passed before Janice returned and plopped something heavy down. “These was all the pictures we took of you. This is you coming home. Here’s the little swing we got you. This was before we knew you were the way you were, of course. That’s Bill
 
—he’s your daddy or your stepdaddy or whatever you call somebody who adopts you and gives you their name.

“That’s you in your pink outfit. You never liked anything pretty or frilly; you’d just cry and cry. And eat
 
—you couldn’t get enough to eat. I swear you came out looking fat as a pumpkin. Which is why we called you that. When you turned two
 
—here’s one about that time; see how big you were? And see that shirt?
If I didn’t put that shirt on you, you’d take off every stitch of clothes and walk around naked. I swear you were a pill.”

“Why did you name me Treha?”

“Oh yeah, I’m getting to that. The adoption was a special arrangement. It was legal, mind you, but we didn’t go through some government agency or anything like that. This reverend at a church nearby, he’s the one who heard about your mama. Knew some doctor who set the whole thing up. Something happened with your mama
 
—he couldn’t tell us what it was, but part of the agreement was we wouldn’t ask.

“We both wanted a baby real bad. I can see now I kinda thought it would hold the two of us together, but we got you and it backfired. My plumbing never worked right to begin with. I had a surgery when I was younger and things got messed up, so we knew we’d never have a child the normal way. So the reverend came and told us about this special deal. He had heard about us from somebody in his church who knew my sister, something like that. Convoluted as all get-out. He called it a God thing, but in the end you turned out to be the baby from hell.”

It was all Miriam could do not to run to the house right then and chew the woman out. But she knew she couldn’t. This was Treha’s life, her questions.

“Anyway, the agreement was we would take you and raise you in a Christian home. We did everything we could to bring you up right. We kept our end of the bargain. And we had to promise we’d never tell nobody how we came to get you or come looking for the mother. When we walked away from the hospital that day, you were ours and there was no turning back.

“Well, the only things we took from that hospital was a bottle of formula, your little blanket
 
—which one of the dogs chewed up
 
—and a letter from your mother.” Rustling and shuf
fling. “I meant to send it with you when we gave you over to the county, but it was a pretty stressful time.” More rustling and shuffling. “Well, maybe I didn’t keep it after all.”

Miriam closed her eyes.
Please, God, this girl has nothing to her name. Please give her this one shred of her past, this one piece of hope.

Janice must have dumped the pictures out.

“What did it look like?” Treha said.

“It was just a white envelope with your name on the front of it.”

“Did you ever read it?”

“Yeah, I think so. But I don’t remember what it said. That was what I was going to tell you. The mother wanted two things: a Christian home and that we give you the name Treha.”

Devin shook his head. “One for two isn’t bad.”

“Shh,” Miriam said, holding up a hand.

“You could have our last name, but your first name had to be Treha,” the woman continued. “She wrote it out, how to say it and all. I have no earthly idea what she was thinking or if she meant to write something else and misspelled it, but as I said, we lived up to our side of the bargain.”

“Did she know who you were?” Treha said.

“No, it was anonymous on both sides. We didn’t know her and she didn’t know us.”

There was a pause in the conversation and glass clinked again. Finally Treha said, “Could you have put the letter in some other place?”

“No, if it’s not here, I don’t know where it would be. Bill wouldn’t have taken it with him when he cleared out. But you can have any of those pictures you want. I’ll get you a poke to put them in.”