Read Online Every Waking Moment by Chris Fabry - Free Book Online Page A

and nightstand, the circumference of his limited world. “I was reading earlier today,” he said, picking up a dog-eared book. “A sentence jumped out of a novel at me. Arrested me. I thought of you.”
    “What did it say?”
    He flipped to a bookmarked section. “Here it is. ‘Scared money can’t win and a worried man can’t love.’ Marvelous, isn’t it?” He read it again. “What do you think that means?”
    She sat, unmoving except for her eyes, mulling the words. “The first part has something to do with gambling. If you want to win, you have to risk. Put your money where your mouth is?”
    “Good.” He nodded. “And what about the second part? ‘A worried man can’t love.’”
    Her head swayed like a blind performer’s, with no concern for who noticed. “If you worry, you can only think of yourself. You can’t love someone else.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because love is not about what you receive. It’s about what you give.”
    “How do you know this, Treha?”
    She shrugged. “There are some things you just know.”
    He turned his head to look at the ceiling for a moment. “That’s very insightful. Maybe that’s why it jumped out at me. It brought back all the mistakes. Things I regret.”
    “What regrets do you have?” she said.
    He waved a hand and the splotches on his skin shone in thedim light. Other signs of unwanted age too   —the weary movement, the misshapen nails, the telltale wrinkles and sags.
    “There are things in my life I would like to do over. I used to look at my life as a long tunnel, a hole in the side of a huge mountain that I entered and couldn’t see the light on the other end. It felt like it stretched forever. But now I can’t see the light behind me. And the rest of the tunnel is very short, I’m afraid.”
    “Can you see the light ahead?”
    “Yes, and I think it’s a train.” He studied her as if to see any hint of joy or laughter. “When I read that sentence, I saw for an instant what has held me back.”
    “From what?”
    “From living fully. The choices you make when you are younger . . . there is no way to undo them. You can ask forgiveness. You can beg pardon. From others you hurt, from God, even. But there is no way to erase what happened. There is no way to untie the knots of a life. There are so many strings and they’re pulled together so tightly.” He held up his arthritic hands. “With these, you can’t get the threads apart. And you can’t distinguish the individual strands with your eyes because you can’t focus. Do you understand?”
    She nodded. “What is it you would like to erase?”
    “Little decisions. A thousand things I said or did. To my children. My wife. My patients. Little decisions always lead to bigger ones, of course. You take a wrong turn on a road and you can quickly head in a direction you shouldn’t go. But there aren’t many off-ramps to life.” He remained in that far-off place, reflecting. Then he returned and ran his tongue over his dentures. “I was talking with Elsie. She said you have memories of your mother. Do you recall this?”
    “I recall telling Elsie, yes.”
    He dipped his head and waited like some wizened prophet.
    “My mother was not a nice woman. I became angry with her. Very angry.”
    “About what?”
    “I don’t know. It may not have actually happened. It could be a memory I’ve stolen.”
    “True. But I think you know the difference between what is real and what is imaginary. What actually happened and what has been appropriated.”
    “I’m not as sure as you.”
    “You know you were not left in an ice cream shop. You know that is my story.”
    Treha remained silent.
    “Why do you think you do this?” Crenshaw said. “You co-opt these shared histories. Do they give a structure to your life? A past, a way to become comfortable?”
    “If you say so.”
    “I’m asking about your childhood. What is the real story?”
    “Why is it so important?”
    He seemed frightened by her