Every Waking Moment (9 page)

“Looks like she’s not gonna answer you, dawg,” Hoodie said.

“Aw, she’s just a scared white girl. Judging us by appearance. Ain’t that right, big girl?”

The Laundromat was eerily silent except for the
sludge-sludge
of water in washers and the tick and rattle of dryers.

Bowling Ball grabbed the book from Treha. She didn’t react, just kept her head down.

Du’Relle jumped. “Give it back!”

Treha calmly, evenly took Du’Relle by the arm and guided him back to the seat. “Sit.”

“You leave her book alone, creep!” Du’Relle said, spit flying, fire in his eyes. Thin muscles tensing.

“Calm down, little man,” Bowling Ball said. “All I’m looking for is a little respect.”

Hoodie cursed. “She’s as fat as you are, dawg. What you been eating, girl? Everything?”

“And why you move your head like that?” Bowling Ball said. He looked at Hoodie. “You see that? It’s like watching a tennis match, back and forth, back and forth.”

Cornrows came out of the bathroom and slowed as he approached. “What’s going on?”

Bowling Ball looked at the book cover, then back at Treha. “You a college girl? Or you just trying to act smart?”

She didn’t move, except for the regular motion. “You don’t get respect by imposing your will. Respect is earned.”

The three moved back an imperceptible distance, visibly shocked at the voice, at the resolve.

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew who you were talking to,” Cornrows whined.

Bowling Ball edged closer and made a gun with his hand, thumb up, index and middle fingers together, and put them against her temple. “I can put a cap in your skull right now and walk away and never think twice. You understand me?”

“Hey!” the man in the red shorts yelled. He stood, the paper
dangling by his side. “Get on out of here. Give her the book and get out.”

The women kept folding, heads down.

Bowling Ball cocked his head sideways like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He took a step toward the man. “You telling me what to do?” He pulled the sweatshirt up, revealing the butt of a gun.

“We’re asking you nicely. Just leave. Let us do our laundry. Let her read her book.”

“Man, these people need to be taught a lesson,” Hoodie said.

Treha closed her eyes. Something stirred inside, the old feelings, the old increase in heart rate she had managed to keep reined in. She spoke again, and the words were the release. “You act like you don’t care that your pants are dragging on the ground, but you do care. You want to look tough.” She glanced above them and their eyes followed. “When the police watch the surveillance video from the camera, they’ll see that you’ve violated your parole. And they’ll come looking for you.”

Bowling Ball leaned close, his voice like gravel. “You have no idea what I can do to you.” He slammed the book into her chest. “Take your eyes back, Jane.”

He glanced at the table and saw the wet letter. Treha lunged for it as he grabbed it. The letter tore in half as she ripped it from his hands.

“Fat and stupid,” Bowling Ball muttered.

The others laughed as they walked out of the laundry and into the night.

It was nearly eleven when Treha and Du’Relle walked home, the clothes still damp and stuffed into the mesh bag. Du’Relle trained the flashlight in a circle, hitting the pavement as well as the buildings.

“How you know about guys like that?”

“I read a lot.”

“How’d you know the big guy had been to prison?”

“I didn’t. I guessed. If he hasn’t been to prison, he’s heard stories and doesn’t want to go, in spite of his bravado.”

“His what?”

“Bravado. It means false courage. He was sure of himself because he had a gun.”

“You like to take chances, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t. But I don’t like bullies. Especially when the person being bullied is me.”

“Well, next time let me handle it.”

They walked through the moonlight and the jiggling high-intensity flashlight. Du’Relle was quiet, deep in thought. Finally he spoke.

“Why did he call you Jane and say that about your eyes?”

“He saw the title of my book. He thought it said
eyes
on the front, but it doesn’t.”

“What’s it called?”

“
Jane Eyre
. It’s a novel.”

“What’s it about?”

“A woman named Jane Eyre.”

He shrugged. “She go to the Laundromat a lot?”

Treha sighed. “It’s about a girl who is orphaned and falls in love with a man who is married, and she won’t compromise.”

He rolled the words around and she saw his lips moving, saying,
“Compromise.”

“What’s that mean?” he said.

“Compromise is when you know something is wrong but you do it anyway. And you make yourself think it’s okay.”

Du’Relle nodded. “So you like that book?”

“It’s my favorite.”

They walked farther. When they came within sight of the apartment, Du’Relle said, “How can you read if your eyes move like that?”

“You can do whatever you want if you want to badly enough.”

“Is that why you don’t go to college? Because you didn’t want to go bad enough?”

They crossed the street.

“You ask too many questions.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“Let me ask you a few.”

“Okay.”

“When is your father coming home?”

Du’Relle hesitated and the flashlight went off. The string from the bag cut off Treha’s circulation, so she shifted the clothes to the other shoulder.

“Mama doesn’t talk about it. I think they’re having problems.”

“You think they’re getting a divorce?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I hope not. He’s all the way over in ’ghanistan and they talk on the computer sometimes.”

He moved into the shadows as they came to the stairs and the fractured concrete that led to her apartment. Du’Relle leaned against the railing as if his tour of duty was complete.

“You were brave back there,” he said. “Standing up to those guys. You didn’t look scared.”

“That’s because I wasn’t.”

“How could you not be scared? I was ready to pee my pants.”

A car pulled into the parking lot, one headlight out and the other so cloudy the light was a muted brown. The engine knocked and pinged and sputtered after Du’Relle’s mother turned off the ignition.

“Good night,” Treha said. “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Good night, Miss Treha,” the boy said. He flipped on the flashlight and ran to the car, arms swinging. When he reached it, he opened the door and hung on to it until his mother climbed out.

Inside, Treha stared through the plastic window blinds that were always slightly askew. There were voices in the night, the sounds of late-night television programs and laughter. They passed through the walls and vents and down corridors. Passing sirens and car alarms.

She watched and listened, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter. She would never have opened it. It was a crime to open other people’s mail. It pained her to think she had let Dr. Crenshaw down and hadn’t mailed it like she said.

She turned on the light and pulled the ripped page from the envelope.

Piecing the thick paper together, she studied the man’s “doctor’s scrawl,” as he called it. The words were tiny and slanted upward on the unlined page. Some were smudged by the water and others were almost illegible because of the shake of the man’s hand, but after a few moments she relaxed and followed the scribbling.

The lawsuit has added to my thinking on this, of course. I’ve read about the legal action and the progress in the case against the company. I believe my information might help the plaintiffs. I know it would damage Phutura.

My intent is not to blame or stir up trouble. I’m simply wondering if you have similar misgivings. I’ve come to the point in my life where I can see more clearly. I suppose age will do that. It would be easier to forget, move on, and put all that behind. But the truth has a way of hanging on to you. I’ve experienced a change deep in my soul. I’m no longer concerned about ramifications. I want to make things right.

There is one other reason for contacting you
 
—a young lady I’ve found. You will remember the test case that was abandoned. This girl is remarkable but impaired. I believe we are culpable. I will explain further if you call me. Perhaps we could talk. My contact information is at the bottom of this letter.

I hope this reaches you and that you are well.

James Crenshaw, MD

Treha let her eyes rest, as much as they could, on the sentence that said,
a young lady I’ve found
. Could he be talking about her? Was she the “impaired” person he described?

She studied the letter as if it were a word puzzle. Did he know something about her life that she didn’t? If so, how? And if he died or was in a coma, how would she ever get the information from him? He was leaving a riddle, a life jumble, and she couldn’t decipher it.

Streams from Desert Gardens

scene 12

Wide shot of Miriam Howard’s office.

Miriam rummaging through books, putting them in boxes.

Close-up of nursing textbooks.

Close-up of Miriam’s hands.

The people who come here are like family. It’s a very spiritual place. A caring place. I brought my own mother here when she couldn’t take care of herself, although it was an arduous process to get her to consider it. She put up a real fight after my father died, but it was the last fall she had that helped her see: She wasn’t safe. She couldn’t do it anymore.

So she came here and made friends, much to her surprise. And she thrived and was a real part of the community in those last few years.

Wide shot of Miriam pulling into the parking lot, getting out, walking to the front door.

Toward the end, her mind wandered and she couldn’t hold those thoughts. She would repeat herself time and again. The same stories. The same memories. The same questions.

Still photo of Miriam and her mother.

I remember the day she took a turn. I didn’t see her when I drove up, and she wasn’t in her usual place. I walked to her room and found her sitting on the bed, staring out the window, without a stitch of clothes on. She was in some other place.

I used to wonder what it would have been like if both my father and mother had been here. I like to think they would have been a lot like the Lovebirds.

Shot of Lovebirds kissing in the dining hall.

MIRIAM AWAKENED
at the first sign of sunlight through the bedroom window and lay still next to her husband, Charlie. It was a dog’s name. Or an uncle’s, maybe. And that was exactly what he had become
 
—an old dog, a ubiquitous uncle with a perpetually empty stomach. It had crossed her mind more than once that it would be to her advantage if she were to put him to sleep, just like an old dog, but the authorities didn’t look kindly on euthanizing a spouse and she probably would miss him. She needed someone to bring in the salt for the water softener.

They had moved from the north side of the city shortly after his retirement from Raytheon. Both had wanted to be closer to the country and have a little more privacy. They agreed on this but not much else.

Miriam made a mental list of what she needed to do before she left for the day, then a mental list of what Charlie would do. She would make the coffee and shower and get ready. He would awaken and pour the first cup and turn on Bloomberg in the kitchen to watch the futures crawl across the bottom of the screen. Other men watched football or NASCAR or were glued to the University of Arizona sports schedule. This time of year was high and holy because of college football and the end of the
baseball season. Other men followed batting averages and box scores. Charlie’s passion was the stock market, and he seemed to get a little depressed on the weekends or holidays when the market was closed. After the opening bell, as he sat studying his portfolio and opening e-mails from subscription services that told him what was going on behind the scenes and how he could take advantage of rising or falling gold or oil futures, he would turn on his conservative talk radio. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the mind-numbing cacophony of the stock market or the shrill, cutting voice of Rush Limbaugh. Charlie loved him, had even called in and spoken with him after the shooting in Tucson. Then it was Hannity, and the afternoon ended with a re-air of Glenn Beck. The conservative trinity.

She watched the rising and falling of his chest and listened to his slightly clogged nasal passages. What would life look like when she was home all day? He would retreat into his office, the third bedroom at the back of the house, and probably stay there. They would find some kind of rhythm; she was sure of that. They always had. There was a chance they would grow closer, that their relationship would deepen, but there was also a chance it would snow in September.

Miriam turned her head, scanning the nightstand and the half-finished mystery novel she was working through. It was a diversion that kept her mind from focusing on things she couldn’t change and might not want to.

Years ago she’d had a sit-down with Charlie, a confrontation. She told him this was not what she had signed up for, that marriage was meant to be more than what they had become. To her delight, Charlie had responded, had actually moved toward her. It was easy to accuse him of going through the motions, of just changing for selfish reasons, but the truth was, his movement
had forced her to respond, had forced her to look at herself. She thought of herself as the catalyst for good in their marriage. But his response had shown her own issues, her own retreat. She knew he liked her to do little things, like make him a sandwich. She had stopped that, mainly because she didn’t want to be his mother. Let him get his own food.

So she feigned contentment and they carried on with their lives, their careers, their home empty, void of children and any measured love. They were faithful to each other, and to outsiders, their relationship looked fine
 
—close, even.

As she lay in bed, something in her heart stirred, but it was not hope. It was more a crushing reality pressing down. A feeling that as she looked at the mountain of happiness and contentment above them, this was as high as they would climb. She wished she had convinced him they should have children. They could have adopted. She would have been such a good mother.

Such old, useless, dried-up feelings,
she thought.

More tired than when she fell into bed the night before, Miriam gained momentum and rolled her feet to the floor, trying not to disturb him, and made coffee, showered, and dressed. She would get something to eat at the hospital as she checked on Dr. Crenshaw.

As she was leaving, Charlie hobbled from the bedroom with his EIB baseball hat pulled low, the wrinkled khaki shorts he always wore hanging to his pasty-white knees. Black socks halfway up his calves and moccasins worn through. He did not have an ounce of pride about his clothes. She loved and loathed his self-confidence, his ability not to care what others thought, the way he had settled into himself.

He poured a cup of coffee. “You were late last night.”

She nodded. “I’m heading to TMC.”

“Somebody sick?”

She told him about Dr. Crenshaw. Charlie had fallen asleep before she had come home the night before. As she spoke, his eyes glazed while a reporter gave the latest unemployment numbers. He raised his mug again and drank, then told her to drive carefully.

“Will you be there this afternoon?” she said.

His face betrayed him. He hadn’t remembered. A milestone in her life and it wasn’t even on his radar.

“It’s fine,” she said. “There’s no pressure.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss your big send-off. I’ll be there. What time is the party?”

She told him, though it grated on her that she had to remind him. She had to remind him of everything. Names. Dates. Bills due that he forgot. She had given up on her birthday and their anniversary, and it was hit or miss whether he would expend the energy to get her something, whether he would look at the calendar and remember. He’d always been this way. Something about that side of his brain. He’d been a brilliant engineer, a meticulously scrupulous worker who could cross every t and dot every i, but he couldn’t remember her birthday.

He took another sip of coffee. “Maybe we could go out to eat afterward. To celebrate. Sizemore’s?”

Sizemore’s was a buffet-style family diner that sat next to a Dress Barn in a strip mall. All you could eat. Miriam hated it. She hated the fried food, the tables and booths, the clientele, the aroma. But Charlie loved the senior discount and the variety. Fish or steak and all the mashed potatoes he could eat. Just once she wanted to go somewhere nice. She wanted to be whisked off her feet and taken to a restaurant with white
tablecloths and well-dressed waiters instead of being part of a herd waiting for another slab of ribs.

“That would be nice,” she said.

Miriam navigated the parking garage at Tucson Medical Center near the university and walked toward the horseshoe driveway. It was early, but the heat of the day rose as the sun spread shadows from the Rincon Mountains in the distance. Exhausted hospital workers passed her on their way home or to get their kids off to school. The end and the beginning right here in front of her.

As she neared the revolving door, she noticed someone sitting cross-legged on the pavement, arms around knees, a bicycle chained to a bench behind her. The woman’s head swayed.

“Treha?”

She turned and shielded her eyes from the sun. Sheer bewilderment on her face.

“Treha, what are you doing here?”

The girl stood. “I came to see Dr. Crenshaw but they said I couldn’t go in because I’m not related.”

Miriam hugged her, but Treha stood with limp arms. “Come with me.”

They walked to the front desk, where Miriam presented her identification and asked for two visitor passes. The older woman at the front scrolled through a screen to find the room of James Crenshaw, and when she hesitated, Miriam’s stomach clenched.

“When I left him last night, he was in ICU
 
—I assume he’s still there.”

“Oh, I see him.” The woman handed over the badges, and Miriam gave a sigh of relief, leading Treha to the elevator.

“That’s quite a bike ride for you all this way, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that far.”

Miriam had a vague idea of where Treha lived, a hazy concept of the apartment and neighborhood and the dangerous traffic she navigated with each dark ride home. They rode up to the ICU and Miriam talked with the head nurse while Treha stared through the observation window at a row of beds and curtains. There were other rooms near the nurses’ station and Miriam assumed Dr. Crenshaw was in one of them.

“We’ve seen no signs of improvement since last night,” the nurse said. “The doctor scheduled tests later, but only if he’s up to it.”

Miriam told the nurse they hadn’t made contact with the family but that she had been approved to make decisions in lieu of next of kin. She handed the paperwork to the woman.

“Who is she?” the nurse said, looking at Treha.

“A friend of Dr. Crenshaw. She works with us at Desert Gardens.”

“Is she . . . ?” Her voice trailed as she searched for the word.

“She’s like a daughter to him. I know he would love to see her.”

“He’s shown no reaction. No response at all. I don’t think it would be . . .” The nurse made eye contact and saw the look on Miriam’s face. “All right. If you think it would help, you can go in.”

Miriam took Treha by the arm. “Would you like to see him?”

Treha’s face showed surprise and perhaps a little hope. It was the most emotion she had seen from the girl.

The nurse led them down the hall to the room, and Treha stared at the lifeless body with the tubes and monitors. A ventilator hooked to a large plastic tube made his chest rise and fall.

Treha looked at Miriam, her eyes moving, her body swaying.

“You can touch him. Talk with him, if you’d like. See if you can make a connection.”

Treha gingerly walked to the bed and put a hand on the man’s arm. She touched his hand and squeezed it, but there was no response. She bent over him and spoke his name, rubbing his shoulder, struggling to get around the wires.

Miriam watched Treha’s face. Her lips moved but Miriam couldn’t hear the words. The girl’s face inched closer, straining, trying to break through. Miriam watched for any sign of change
 
—a more rapid heartbeat or a difference in the breathing, fluttering eyelids or some hand or foot movement. There was nothing.

Finally Treha turned from Dr. Crenshaw and said pitifully, “He’s not there.”

Miriam tried to smile and put a hand on Treha’s shoulder. “I’m sure he can hear you. You simply can’t see his response.”

Treha looked back at him. “He gave me a letter to mail. I forgot about it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself about a letter.”

“I let him down.”

“Do you still have it?”

She nodded.

“We can just mail it today. There’s no harm in that.”

Miriam put an arm around her and led her out of the room. She spoke briefly with the nurse, giving her a card with her contact information and asking her to call with any change in the man’s condition. Treha paused at the nurses’ station and looked back at the room as if she had forgotten to do one last thing, make one last try.

In the elevator, Miriam told Treha to wait at the front and
she would give her a ride to Desert Gardens. Miriam navigated the tight garage and got in line in the horseshoe, waiting for a van to unload a disabled passenger. She put her emergency flashers on and parked in front of Treha, but when she hit the button for the back hatch, she noticed something was wrong.

“Treha, where’s your bicycle?”

Treha’s voice was soft, her eyes vacant. “It’s not here.” She held up the clipped chain.

“Maybe the security guard moved it.”

Miriam spoke with the man, who said he hadn’t touched the bike and that it wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. She tried to keep her composure, tried to shove down the anger and outrage, and made her way back to Treha.

“I wasn’t sure we could get that bike in the back anyway,” Miriam said. “Come on; we’ll file a police report later.”

Treha shook her head. “They don’t care about bicycles.” No emotion, simply fact. “I should have been more careful.”

“It’s not your fault how the world is. You locked the bike; you did everything you could. Some people don’t have an ounce of decency.”

Miriam thought of stopping at a thrift store near Desert Gardens and finding another bike, then thought better of it. She wanted to rescue, help the girl find her way, do something for her, when that might not actually help Treha. She pushed the urge aside.

“Tell me about the letter,” Miriam said. “It really bothered you, didn’t it?”

Treha nodded.

“There’s a post office up ahead. Do you have it with you? We’ll drop it in the slot.”

Treha pulled a torn page and envelope from her pocket. “A man at the Laundromat ripped it last night.”

“Are you worried that Dr. Crenshaw will be upset?”

Treha looked at the street ahead. “I read it.”

“And you think he’ll sue you?” Miriam said it with a smile, but Treha didn’t react.

“I think he was writing about me,” she said. “I wanted to ask him. I have to find out what he meant.”

Miriam pulled into the parking lot at Desert Gardens and took the letter from the girl. She read it, then studied the address on the envelope.

“What does it mean?” Treha said. “Do you know what Phutura is?”

“It’s a major pharmaceutical company.” Miriam folded the letter and tucked it into her purse. “It’s clear Dr. Crenshaw was upset about something, something this Mr. Davidson will know about. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“What does he mean about the lawsuit?”

“I’m not sure. There are lawsuits filed all the time. You know how he kept up with the daily news
 
—nothing got past him.”

“Do you think he is talking about me at the end?”

Miriam turned in the seat. “Treha, Dr. Crenshaw cares a great deal about you. We’ll find out what this means. Let’s take it a step at a time.”