Every Waking Moment (25 page)

A bag rattled and they heard the sound of photos being dropped in one by one. Miriam thought it was the saddest, loneliest sound she had ever heard.

“Thank you,” Treha said.

The front door opened and Treha walked out alone, followed by the two dogs yipping and barking. She carried a small lunch bag. Devin recorded her walk to the car.

She opened the door and set the bag on the seat beside her. “Did you hear what she said?”

“Yes.”

“She’s not my real mother.”

“I’m happy for you and sad at the same time,” Miriam said. “It seems the questions we ask lead to more questions.”

“I wanted to see the letter.”

“I know. I can’t believe she lost it.”

Devin put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You were great in there. Amazing.”

“Do you want her to sign a paper?” Treha said.

“Let’s wait on that,” Devin said.

Miriam started the car and was pulling away when the front door opened and the woman rushed out, waving. Miriam got out and navigated the dogs to get to Janice, who stood wheezing on the porch, a cigarette smell hanging heavy in the air.

“You must be Miriam.”

“Yes.”

“I ought to punch you for lying. I don’t know how you found me, but you should have told me you were bringing her here. I could have prepared.”

“I didn’t lie. We’re just looking for answers.”

“This is the only other answer I have,” Janice said. “Give this
to her. It’s a letter from her mother. I had it in the strongbox. I remembered I put it in there. Kept it for her all these years.”

She said it as if she deserved a medal or some kind of payment for her trouble.

Miriam took the faded envelope and glared at the woman. “What’s the name of the pastor who helped you adopt Treha?”

“Pastor? He’s been dead for years. Turnquist or something like that. Swedish man.”

“Do you know the church where he pastored?”

“You’re driving down a dead-end street. I suggest you turn around and try not to waste your time.”

Miriam walked back to the car and handed the envelope to Treha. She put it in the paper bag and they drove away.

Streams from Desert Gardens

scene 27

Handheld shot walking toward front door of Desert Gardens, Devin walking slightly in front of camera.

Jump-cut to door opening, security guard waving a hand.

Tight shot of Jillian Millstone in doorway.

Tight shot of inside door, where several residents have gathered, including Elsie.

Buck Davis moves into shot, holds out his hands, and smiles at the camera.

Fade out.

ELSIE PRATT’S
blood pressure rose and her heart rate accelerated as she pushed her walker past the reception area of Desert Gardens down the long hallway. She was dressed in the floral-print blouse Harold had bought for her birthday the year before he passed. She’d worn it on two occasions, her birthday celebration that year and their wedding anniversary, both times wearing it to please him. She wasn’t fond of floral prints and the material was so thin she felt naked. It made her sweat just looking at it. After Harold moved on to glory, she couldn’t put it on; it brought back too many memories and she’d go into a tailspin seeing it, so she shoved it in the back of the closet.

Putting the blouse on now gave her hope, made her think he was watching, somehow. Made her feel warm inside and that he would be proud of how she had carried on without him, proud of what she was about to do.

The usual gaggle of residents, those who were ambulatory and had at least half of their hearing, were gathered in the dayroom with the glass etching rising magnificently behind them. Around the outer edges of the wall was a bench of sorts, like a geriatric shelf. Some sat on chairs, others on the shelf, which seemed appropriate to her. When she walked through
the door, the men who could stand did so and someone actually applauded, starting a wave of response. Applause from the elderly was always muted but twice as appreciated, and she smiled and tried to get them to stop, but she couldn’t let go of her walker until she reached the fireplace at the front. By then the noise had fluttered to a single clap.

Buck Davis, who had come at her behest, was out of his uniform for the first time Elsie could remember. He wore jeans and a nice buttoned shirt that was freshly pressed. Black shoes. He handed her a wireless microphone and her voice sounded much too loud in the room as she began.

“I asked Buck to come down here today on his day off, so if you’re going to clap for anybody, it ought to be him.”

Another wave of applause. Buck flashed a white smile and stepped back to lean against the fireplace.

“He’s the one taking the biggest risk today because this is his livelihood. He’s worked here . . . How long has it been, Buck?”

“Thirty years,” the man said, nodding and smiling.

“Well, we thank you for what you’ve done for us over the years.”

“My pleasure,” he said softly.

Elsie gathered her thoughts and looked at the faces around the room. “You all know that I’m a Christian. I don’t keep that a secret from anybody. And I believe the Bible talks about obeying the authorities God has instituted
 
—the government, even bad bosses who are over us need to be honored. So I’ve struggled with this. I’m not a pushy person by nature. I’ve been a good girl, a nice lady. But there comes a time when you have to speak up. And today is the day.”

More scattered applause around the room and then a murmur rose from the back. Elsie saw the movement through the
window, the imposing figure of Jillian Millstone, distorted by the tree etching and the ironic words by Emerson. Elsie was beating a new path and hoping to leave a trail.

“I lean on the Lord for strength every day,” Elsie continued. “And I lean on him for direction. Proverbs 3:5 and 6. ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.’ I have done that at every turn over the past weeks, and there has been what I call a holy discontent in my heart. The straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, was when Treha was let go.”

“For helping Ardeth!” someone shouted.

“That’s right. She didn’t do a thing but help us and talk to us.”

There were nods around the room and a positive response, except for those in the back who saw Ms. Millstone opening the door. Elsie could feel the air in the room shift, a low-pressure system changing things. She looked away, pretending not to see Millstone, and forged ahead.

“Now the Bible talks about how to settle disagreements. This is for two Christians who have a dispute. You’re supposed to go to that person you have a disagreement with and have a talk. And if you can’t resolve things and they won’t listen, you take two people with you and you talk, and hopefully that person will listen
 
—”

“Elsie, what’s the meaning of this?” Ms. Millstone said from the back of the room.

Those who were seated in chairs turned or craned their necks and gave an audible gasp. Followed by the murmurs of the aged, much louder than whispers because of their hearing problems.

“There she is.”

“I knew this would happen.”

“Elsie’s in trouble now.”

Millstone walked forward. “Mr. Davis, did you set up the sound system?”

“I turned it on, yes, ma’am. Miss Elsie asked if I would help her.”

Millstone set her jaw and turned to Elsie as if saying she would deal with Buck later.

“Don’t you blame him,” Elsie said. “He came down here on his day off because I asked him to give me a ride after this meeting. If you want to get mad at anybody, get mad at me.” She spoke to the crowd again. “Now as I was saying, I went to Ms. Millstone and laid out my case. And when she wouldn’t listen, a few of us got together and wheeled our way to her office
 
—”

“That’s quite enough, Elsie.” Millstone turned to the gathering. “This is an unscheduled and unapproved meeting. We’re adjourned now. You can all go back to your rooms. Go on.”

A few struggled to stand. They were stopped short by a lone voice near the window.

“Stay where you are,” Hemingway said, his hair kinked on one side and his beard white as the snows of Kilimanjaro. “Since when did we give up our rights as citizens to congregate?”

“That’s right,” another said behind Millstone.

“Since when do we have to ask your permission to talk to each other? To get together for a meeting?” Hemingway continued.

“Your rights are not absolute,” Millstone said. “The rules are here for the good of all. It’s why we have traffic lights. This meeting is adjourned. Mr. Davis, help me clear the room.”

Buck kept his arms crossed.

“Mr. Davis?”

“This is his day off,” Elsie said.

Millstone’s jaw flexed and she stared daggers at the man.

“Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee,” Hemingway said.

Elsie saw her chance and started speaking in the microphone again. “I’ve asked all of you here today in an effort to
 
—”

“I said that will be quite enough,” Millstone snapped, reaching for the microphone.

Elsie pulled it out of reach. “It’s not nearly enough,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve heard a word we’ve said since you arrived. You treat us like sheep, herding us from one place to another, and expect us to thank you for it. Well, we’re not going to be treated that way any longer.”

“It’s true,” Henry, half of the Lovebirds, said. He was clutching Ruth’s hand and she was patting his with the other, both looking up from their wheelchairs. “When Mrs. Howard was here, she treated us
 
—”

“Mrs. Howard is not here,” Millstone interrupted. “And she’s not coming back. I know that change is difficult for people like you. But I was given this job and I’m going to do it to the best of my ability. Now if you have a grievance, I’m willing to talk in a civilized manner. But this meeting is unauthorized.” She held out a hand. “Give it to me.”

Elsie set her jaw. “You can have it when I’m finished.”

Millstone looked at Buck. “Shut off the sound system.”

Buck lowered his head and turned toward the equipment. All he had to do was flick the power switch. But he hesitated and caught Elsie’s eye.

“It’s okay, Buck. We understand. You do what you need to do, but what I have to say won’t go unheard because you turn off the power to a microphone.”

Buck folded his arms and nodded.

“If I have to call security to clear this room, I will. I’m doing this for your own good.”

There was an awkward silence and no one moved. Then Hemingway cleared his throat. “Who are we, Ms. Millstone?” His voice was gravelly and razor-like.

“What?” Millstone said, her brow furrowed.

“You just said that change is difficult for ‘people like you.’ I would like to know what type of people we are.”

“I wasn’t making any value judgment; I was just stating that any kind of change is difficult for the elderly
 
—it’s difficult for all of us.”

Hemingway walked slowly through the room, the tie around his robe dragging behind him. His leather slippers scuffed the wood flooring until he stood before Millstone. He really did look like Ernest Hemingway in this light.

He took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. “I wrote something this morning. It might be appropriate now.”

“I don’t think we need to hear your rambling verse
 
—”

“Let him read it,” the Opera Singer said.

Hemingway turned and nodded a thank-you, holding the page a little farther away as his eyes adjusted. “‘I know what it’s like to live in fear. And I know what it’s like to live with love. Not many men have the courage to drink deeply from both. I wait for the morning sun each day, wondering if this might be my last sunrise. And when the evening sun reaches the Catalinas, I make a choice to fear what the night will bring or to embrace it and pull it to my bosom like a lover. All our stories, if you follow them long enough, end at a graveyard. This is no secret. What happens between here and that sixteen-legged walk is what matters, and to keep that from you would be an abrogation of my sacred duty.’”

He folded the page and looked at Millstone. “I will tell you who we are. I will tell you what sort of people are before you. We are brave and fearful human beings set adrift on a skiff in an unending sea filled with predators and prey. And the sun beats down on us and leathers our skin. Everyone here, every face, every beating heart has a story behind it you will never know. Because to you, we are simply ‘those people,’ a class unto ourselves. You feed us and house us and protect us from everything out there, until you finally decide to protect us from everything in here.” He pointed to his chest. “You protect us from ourselves. You try to take our dignity. And this is your miscalculation. Because there are some things a person cannot take. No matter how hard you try, you cannot take our dignity if we will not offer it to you. And today, I believe we are saying we will keep this, this one thing. Though it’s all we have left, we will not let you take it from us.”

Elsie saw something in Hemingway’s eyes, some spark of knowledge, a recognition that he was no longer running with the bulls, that he was fully here. And she loved him for it. She clapped and others followed. Millstone stood her ground but seemed to shrink before them.

“That was beautiful,” Ruth said, patting Henry’s hand.

Elsie spoke into the microphone. “I have a meeting set up today with the head of the board of directors of this place. I am going to deliver the petition that many of you have signed, and if you didn’t sign it and you want to, it’s here.” She pulled folded pieces of paper from her purse. “The first few sheets are for residents and the rest are for family members and people who care
 
—”

Millstone grabbed the microphone quickly and the speakers clanged loudly above them. Elsie was surprised but not shaken. She raised her head and her voice.

“If you haven’t signed, come on up here and do it before I leave.”

Millstone raised the microphone to her lips. “That’s quite enough. Go back to your rooms. The party’s over.”

“You got that right
 
—the party is over,” someone said in the back.

“I can take you treating me as less than a real person,” the Opera Singer said with perfect diction. “I can live with your edict of quiet times when there can be no singing in our rooms. But when you treat workers like Treha as chattel, those who are under you will rise up.”

“We’re the ones who pay your salary,” someone said.

There was a general chorus of “That’s right” around the room.

Millstone tried to appear in control, but she was outnumbered. When she turned back to Elsie, she wagged a finger in the old woman’s face. “You will lose privileges.”

Elsie’s head shook
 
—from age or fear or her own will, she didn’t know. “You’re not king around here anymore, sister. In their infinite wisdom the board decided it was time for a change. They can certainly change their minds again, and I’m going to see that they hear about your decisions.” She pulled out another sheet of paper. “I have a list I’m going to read them, starting with the cleaning out of Jim Crenshaw’s room after he was taken to the hospital.”

“I have the full support of the board,” Millstone said.

“I doubt that’ll be true after today.” Elsie stepped closer and the woman retreated a step. “Do you know how long I’ve been here? And do you have any idea how many people have come here because of what I have said about this place? This was an oasis, the best place on earth to grow old. But in a short time,
you’ve taken the life away. I don’t wish evil on you; I pray God will bless you. But I pray he’ll bless you right out the front door.”

Buck Davis moved toward Ms. Millstone. “Come on, ma’am. Let these folks have their meeting. It means a lot to them.”

Millstone’s eyes shifted from Hemingway to Elsie and the others. She handed the microphone to Buck, turned, and walked out.