Looking into You Read online

“I don’t think of myself as gifted.”

  My eyes threatened to fill. I turned away for a moment, acting like I was picking at something in my eye. Then I said, “The best writing gets out of the way and lets the reader into the story. That’s what pulls people in and makes them turn pages, makes them want to experience your life, your thoughts. That’s what you did in this essay. May I see it again?”

  Treha handed me the paper and I read her words about her mother, willing my voice not to shake. “I love this part. ‘I wanted all my questions answered and everything wrapped and tied with a bow. But life is not neat bows and nice packages. Life is messy and you don’t get all your questions answered.’” I gave the essay back. “That really sums up life in a way that most people your age don’t get. How did you learn this?”

  “I don’t know.” Treha put up a hand. “Wait, I said that to get more time to think.”

  I laughed. More than one student had already been challenged with my rule about those words. Apparently she had been paying attention. “All right, go on.”

  “I learned from the people I’ve worked with. At the retirement home. I picked up a lot from one woman, Elsie, and from Miriam.”

  “And who is Miriam?”

  “She’s the one who gave me a job at Desert Gardens. She and Charlie let me stay at their home. Charlie is her husband.”

  “They sound like wonderful people.”

  Treha nodded. “I miss them. I miss talking with them. Learning from them. I have people who care. Maybe that’s what you mean when you say I am gifted.”

  I reached out to take her hand but stopped myself at the last second. “Can you tell me about your mother? What do you know?”

  “My adoption was private. She gave me away when I was a newborn. I don’t know anything about her except for a letter she wrote. We’ve tried following the trail, different leads, but I don’t think I’ll ever know.”

  “Do you still have that letter?”

  Treha unzipped her backpack and pulled out a worn envelope. “My friend Miriam kept the original, but I made this copy. I keep it with me.”

  I took the envelope, started to open it, then hesitated. “Do you mind?”

  When Treha shook her head, I unfolded the page inside, staring at the cursive writing.

  My dearest Treha,

  I don’t know when you will read this letter. I don’t know when your mother will give it to you, but I’m praying you will be ready to read it. I imagine your head is full of questions about yourself, about the family you’ve grown up in, and about me.

  You are my heart. You are everything good in the world. And my heart breaks in writing this because I will not know you. Your first steps, your first words. I won’t get to hold you or take pictures or see you off to school and cry over you. . . .

  So many emotions returned as I read the letter. Hurt. Anger. It was a bottle I had thrown into the ocean of my life and never expected to have return, but here it was. I stared at the words, my own handwriting, and the feelings came back like an ocean wave. The depression. The medication I had taken. I had put my daughter at great risk, though the doctor assured me there was none. That letter was the only gift she had from me, other than her eye color and her love of reading.

  I reached into my purse for a packet of tissues and held one to my nose.

  “Allergies are terrible,” Treha said.

  I wanted to hug her. I wanted to envelop her. In my bursting heart was the inclination to cross the boundary between professor and mother, to let the curtain fall or rip from top to bottom. But I knew for Treha’s sake I had to tread lightly.

  I glanced at the pages again. “Have you always had this?”

  “No, the woman who adopted me had it. I thought she was my real mother. But when I found out she had adopted me, I was glad. I don’t want my mother to be like her.”

  Looking down at the wad of tissues in my lap, I said, “What do you want your mother to be like, Treha?”

  Treha shrugged. “I don’t . . . I guess I don’t need her to be like anything. I want her to be herself.”

  “But if you could choose some qualities, if you could choose someone you know to be your mother, who comes close?”

  She thought a moment. “My friend Miriam. She’s like a mother. She helped me find a job and let me stay at her house when I was fired. I think that’s what a mother is, someone who finds you. Who sees you. Even though I’m not everything a mother would want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not like everyone else. My roommate. The other students. The families I lived with. I’ve always known I make people uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want to have a daughter like me.”

  “Treha, that’s not . . .” I started to reach for her again but settled for clutching the tissues. “In your essay there was this longing to find her. Talk with her. I’m just wondering . . . If you could meet her, when you saw her, what would you say?”

  Treha closed her eyes. “I wouldn’t say anything.”

  “Really? I would think you’d have a thousand questions.”

  “Yes, I would. But if I found her, I don’t think the questions would matter. It’s like my theology professor says. We think we’ll have questions for God when we get to heaven, but when we actually see him, we’ll understand it’s not about getting our questions answered because the questions won’t be important. We’ll finally be with God. So I would just look at her. And if she let me, I would hug her. For a long time.”

  I turned my head and pulled another tissue from the packet. When I thought I had myself under control, I looked at my daughter again. “Treha, I need to tell you something.”

  Her face wasn’t angelic or cherubic. It was plain. It was pale and friendless, her eyes twitching slightly, searching.

  The door opened at the front of the room and a hulk of a man entered. Darnelle Carter, the Bethesda security chief—a no-nonsense but gentle soul that everyone called D. C. Biceps like phone poles and the thighs of an NFL running back.

  “Pardon me, Ms. Redwine.” He spoke with a bit of a drawl and resonance like a bass drum. “We had a call for you at the office. An emergency.”

  His voice echoed through his chest and into the empty room.

  “What emergency?”

  “It’s your mother, trying to get in touch. She said she couldn’t reach you on your cell.”

  “My mother?” Right—my cell phone had beeped earlier in class. I fumbled in my purse and eventually found the phone and turned it on.

  “It sounded important, ma’am, or I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’m glad you did. I just . . .”

  There was a voice mail but my phone wouldn’t retrieve it properly.

  “The reception can be spotty in here, ma’am. Would you like to use the phone in our office?”

  “Sure.” I stood and gathered my things, wondering what might be awaiting me on the other end of the phone line. I turned to Treha. “I’m sorry.”

  “Go, call your mother,” Treha said.

  The words stung. I was calling my mother when Treha didn’t have one or didn’t know she was standing right in front of her.

  D. C. opened the door again and let Treha go ahead of us.

  With each footstep I felt like I was losing something, an opportunity perhaps. I nearly called out to her and asked her to wait. I could see it in my mind. Hugging her. Looking in her eyes. Saying, Treha, I’m your mother. I’m so sorry it’s taken me this long to reach out to you. Something like that.

  But I didn’t. I let her go.

  When we were outside, I tried my phone again but the reception still wasn’t good. It wasn’t until I reached the security office that I realized I had kept Treha’s copy of my letter to her.

  CHAPTER 13

  Treha

  After her talk with Ms. Redwine, Treha felt hungry and went to the commons but everything was closed. She didn’t want to eat from a vending machine so she walked across campus
to a gas station/convenience store. Students came here when they missed meals or needed snacks. She looked for fruit and a premixed salad.

  She chose a large green apple after looking through the entire batch. The salad looked wilted and the stale date was today, but there wasn’t a good alternative, so she went to the register at the front. Passing the candy aisle, she heard a familiar voice.

  “Treha!”

  Goose bumps rose on her flesh and she rubbed her arms but forgot she had an apple and a salad in her hands. “Hello, Cameron.”

  “You’re hungry too, huh?” he said. “I drew the short straw with the guys. We were watching the football game and needed some chips and something to drink.” He looked at the salad and apple. “You don’t need much, do you?”

  “No, just something to make me not hungry so I can sleep.”

  He got out his wallet. “Here, let me pay for that.”

  She started to say no, but he took the salad and apple and put them on the counter before she could.

  “Anything else for you two?” the cashier said, looking at both of them as if they were a couple, and Treha thought it was a most wonderful feeling to be seen with someone like Cameron and be mistaken for his girlfriend.

  The cashier put their things in bags and Cameron swiped his card. In the parking lot he rearranged things, putting Treha’s apple and salad in a separate bag. They walked back to campus together, and Cameron chatted about his classes, the discussions and reading he’d found most challenging. Treha tried to think of something to say, some way to respond that would show how interested she was in him, that would invite him into her life. But all she could do was nod.

  “I must sound pretty boring.”

  “I like to hear you talk.”

  He smiled. They were on the quad now, standing in front of the tower under the oak tree that spread out like a canopy. Light from the tower and well-placed lamps illumined the quad in a soft glow, and the moon was full and gave its own luster to the surroundings. The days were getting shorter as they moved toward fall and winter.

  Cameron turned and looked at her. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  Treha felt her heart flutter. The voice, the smile, the dimples, the hair. In a flash she could see herself with him. She really could. And it wasn’t something she had manufactured. She’d just run into him at the convenience store. He had noticed her. It was all here, something that could never happen but was happening. A fairy tale come true. She wanted to call Miriam right then.

  “I’m a little nervous to bring this up,” he said, “because I don’t know how you’ll respond.”

  She searched his eyes. She could see them with children who were not like her but normal and happy. People would marvel that a guy like him, who could have any girl, would choose her.

  “Go ahead,” Treha said. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

  He switched the bags with soda to the other hand and flexed his fingers. “Okay, I’ll just come out with it. You’re roommates with Shelly, right?”

  Treha stared.

  “I had one class with her last year and I could never get up the nerve to even talk to her. But I can tell she’s really amazing and I’d like to get to know her better.”

  “That’s what you wanted to ask me?”

  “Well, I wanted to see if you would put in a good word for me. Like, maybe suggest that it would be a good thing if we would go out or something.”

  Treha looked up at the tower. She could see it through the trees, the light leaking through and casting a romantic glow.

  Cameron put down the bag with the soda in it and reached into his pocket. “And I have this.” He pulled out an envelope. “But I don’t want to give it to her until it’s the right time, you know? Until I know she might be interested.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s just a card with some things I’ve noticed about her. I mean, I don’t want to scare her and make her think I’m stalking her. But I can’t get her out of my mind. I think maybe God wants us together. I had a dream one night . . . Now that will really freak her out—a guy dreaming about her. I don’t want to come on too strong. Do you think you could, I don’t know, maybe talk with her?”

  Treha held out a hand. “Let me have it.”

  Cameron handed the card to her and smiled. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means.” He reached out and drew her in, hugging her. “You’re so easy to talk with, Treha. I wish talking with Shelly were this easy.”

  She smelled the musky cologne he wore and his hair brushed her face. She didn’t look up or return the hug, but he didn’t notice.

  “Don’t give her this unless you’re sure she’s interested. You know, talk to her . . . Of course you will. I trust you.”

  She slipped the card into the bag with the dinner he had paid for.

  “Thank you so much,” he said.

  Treha watched him run to his dorm, plastic grocery bags flapping as he leaped up the steps and bolted into the building. She turned and went into the commons but her regular booth was occupied. People in every area and she wanted to be alone. She went back to the dorm and found her room empty.

  She dug the envelope out of the bag. On the front he’d written Shelly. She never would’ve imagined how one word could cut so deeply. His handwriting wasn’t that good. Just scrawl, really. She sniffed the card and smelled his cologne. Then she closed her eyes and felt his embrace. If only this card had been written to her. If only he had hugged her because he was interested in her. But who was she kidding. Why would any guy be interested in her?

  The flap was sealed. She got her finger underneath and tried to pry it open, but it tore at the top and she was so angry that she ripped the whole thing. Then she regretted it and wondered how she could ever explain.

  She pulled out the card. It was printed on recycled cardboard, eco-friendly. That’s what it said on the back. There was a little heart on the front, raised off the surface. Just two red lines that didn’t connect.

  The inside had no words printed but plenty scrawled. The sentences began on the left side and went all the way to the right in an upward slant and started over again.

  Shelly,

  I remember the first time I saw you. I remember the feeling deep inside of seeing the most beautiful girl in the world. All I could do was stare. At your hair and how silky smooth it was.

  Treha felt sick. Cameron actually wrote about Shelly’s hair? He should try to live with the smell of the shampoo she used wafting through their dorm.

  I’ve tried to get up the nerve to talk with you, other than just saying hello, but I can’t. Each time you asked a question or spoke to your friends, each time I heard your voice, it was like Elizabeth when Mary came to her house—something inside leaped within me.

  Treha rolled her eyes. She couldn’t read the rest. It was like all the bad, sentimental writing of romance novels. Glancing at the bottom, she noticed he hadn’t signed it. Just drew a smiley face that kind of looked like the heart-swish on the front. She closed the card and looked at the bag with the food Cameron bought for her. She couldn’t eat it. Not after seeing his shallow heart.

  She tossed the card into the wastebasket by her desk, then took the bag with the food in it and dropped it down the trash chute in the hall. She heard Shelly’s voice and quickly returned to her room, crawling into bed without changing and feeling like her life was over.

  CHAPTER 14

  Paige

  D. C. handed me the phone and left me alone in the security office. I took a deep breath as I dialed.

  “Yes—hello?”

  A mother’s voice is supposed to soothe and calm. A mother’s voice is supposed to convey love at the deepest level of our existence. But a mother’s voice can also feel like fingernails on the soul’s blackboard.

  “Mom, it’s me. What’s wrong?”

  Her voice shook. “I tried to call your cell phone. I left a message. And when I didn’t hear back, I got worried. I didn
’t mean to alarm you.”

  “It’s okay. What’s wrong? Has something happened to Dad?”

  “Yes—oh, Paige, I don’t want to burden you with any more than you already have. . . .”

  “What happened?”

  “Something’s not right. He’s been agitated. I thought it was a reaction to his medication or something he ate. But he took a turn and became aggressive.”

  “That’s not like him.”

  “Of course it’s not. He’s the gentlest soul ever.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, he would never do that.”

  “Mom, be honest. This is the disease, not him. Did he hurt you?”

  “He left the house, Paige.”

  “Left? I thought he couldn’t walk.”

  “Yes—well, evidently he can, and when I caught up to him outside, he pushed me. I don’t think he knew what he was doing.”

  “Did you fall?”

  “It’s nothing. Just a scrape on my arm.”

  “Mom.”

  More emotion in her voice. “I’m scared. About what might happen. What’s going to happen.”

  “Mom, this was inevitable. I told you things would get worse.”

  “Don’t tell me ‘I told you so.’ You’re not living this. I am.”

  I closed my eyes. “Where is he now?”

  “I called the police and they found him wandering around. He only had his bathrobe and his boxers on. His slippers. He’s not in his right mind, Paige.”

  She broke down and her sobs reached an empty place in my heart. I wanted to be angry at her. I wanted this to be some imagined crisis she was making up. I wanted to reassure her that everything would be all right. But I couldn’t.

  “I’m coming down there.”

  “No, I don’t want you to worry. I know you have your teaching, your classes, the dissertation. I have friends at church who are helping. We’re going to be fine.”

  “I need to be there.”

  “Paige, that’s not why I called.”

  “I don’t care why you called. I want to be there.”

  I said it more forcefully than I intended, but sometimes Mom will only listen to a raised voice.