by Neta Jackson
I cocked an eyebrow at Hoshi. “Delores is here?”
Hoshi smiled, her silky, black hair falling over one shoulder. “Delores is with Nonyameko in Dr. Smith’s room.” Hoshi simply couldn’t call her college professor by his first name. She peeked out the waiting room door. “I do not see any nurses at the desk. Why don’t you go on in? I know Nony would want to see you.”
Before following Avis down the hall, I pulled Hoshi aside. “How are you doing, Hoshi? I mean, you still have school, you’re taking care of the boys . . .”
She smiled from the inside out. “Today, I go to my classes while they are at school. It is no problem. It is . . . how do you say it? It is joy.” Her gaze fell fondly on the tops of the boys’ heads as they busily worked on their pictures and signs. “Like little brothers.”
I hustled to catch up with Avis, and together we peered into Mark’s room. Even though I’d seen it all before, I still felt overwhelmed seeing Mark lying so still on the bed, his head and eyes bandaged, wires and tubes still connected to various body parts. The dark mahogany of his bare arms lay in stark contrast outside the pale hospital blankets. Delores and Nony, standing on the far side of Mark’s bed, both looked up.
Delores smiled big and leaned close to Mark’s head. “Señor Mark! You have visitors! Avis and Jodi are here.” She made a sucking sound with her teeth. “So popular you are.” And she laughed.
I stared. “Is he . . . can he . . . ?”
Nony shook her head, trying her best to smile. “Still no response. The doctor said he is in a coma. They do not know for how long. But Delores—and the nurses too—say we should talk to Mark as though he can hear.” Her voice wobbled. “Maybe he can. Maybe he can’t. They don’t know.”
30
Maybe he can . . . maybe he can’t . . . Nony’s words haunted me all week. It felt bizarre talking to Mark, who lay wrapped and rigid on the bed in ICU like an Egyptian mummy. Chatting with him about the boys’ pictures taped all over the walls, describing the colors and designs, reading their “I love you, Daddy” messages to him, over and over. Reading aloud the “Thinking of You” and “Get Well Soon” cards that piled up in a basket on the windowsill. Making jokes about the hospital having to enlarge the ICU waiting room to accommodate all his visitors. Joking that we really had to stop meeting like this!
Delores insisted, “Don’t talk about him. Don’t talk as if he’s not here. The doctors are not sure why he’s in a coma or how long it might last. It is, how do you say? No saben. They do not know. But if he can hear us, or even if he can’t, we need to touch him. Let him know we’re here. Speak to his spirit.”
I swallowed the thought that pushed at the edges of her words. For how long, Delores? Will he ever wake up?
At Peter Douglass’s suggestion, he and Denny, Carl Hickman, and Ben Garfield agreed to take turns staying all night at the hospital so that Nony could put Marcus and Michael to bed and get a decent night’s rest. The nurses shrugged and said it wasn’t necessary for anyone to stay; they would call Mrs. Smith if there was any change at all.
There wasn’t. Monday . . . Tuesday . . . Wednesday . . . Thursday . . . came and went in a mechanical blur. I knew Nony was grateful that someone was with Mark during the long night hours. Grateful that someone was there to get a report when the doctors and interns came by on their early morning rounds.
Each day, I prayed several of the “healing Scriptures” Avis had given to us. “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits—who forgives all our sins and heals all our diseases. . . .” “He was wounded for our transgressions . . . by His stripes we are healed.” “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done.” (Oh God! Mark will not die but live! And we will all proclaim what the Lord has done!)
But they stuck in my throat on Thursday morning when Denny called me from the hospital at seven thirty to say he was going straight to work, and to tell the kids to take the city bus to school. The guys were already starting on their second rotation of hospital nights.
“Any change in Mark? Any response?” I tried to sound hopeful.
Denny’s silence lasted only a heartbeat. But his hesitation spoke even louder than his words. “No. The same.”
For some reason those words—“The same”—got my dander up. “OK, God, I want a word with You,” I muttered darkly as I headed for Bethune Elementary half an hour later, eating up the sidewalk as if my walking shoes were motorized. “I don’t understand this suffering You’re putting Mark and Nony through. They’re the good guys! They’ve got kids who need their daddy! Mark was finally going to take Nony to South Africa! Mark stood up to those White Pride people at the rally! The police haven’t even arrested anybody yet! Are the bad guys supposed to win? What’s the point?”
A senior-citizen crossing guard holding his bright red stop sign glared at me suspiciously, as if I might be some not-quite-all-there street person, mumbling to herself. I pasted on a cheerful smile. “Good morning, Mr. Krakowski!”
“Oh. It’s you, Mrs. Baxter. Nice day—hey!” A kid on a bicycle diverted his attention. “You get off that bike and walk it across!” the old man bellowed. “You know the rules!”
Nice pair of lungs for a fellow his age. In my head, I added his bellowing tone to the prayers I was sending heavenward.
I had words with God all day. Forgot all about praising and did mostly ranting—mentally, anyway. If I’d said aloud the things I was thinking in front of a classroom of thirty impressionable young minds, the powers-that-be definitely would have had me hauled away in a little white jacket.
Huh. The kids, of course, got away with yelling stuff a whole lot worse all the time.
When I got home at four o’clock, I let Willie Wonka out the back door and poured myself a glass of iced tea from the fridge. “Sweet tea, Flo,” I mumbled, holding the glass aloft in a salute to Florida in absentia, who’d made sure I was reeducated in the fine art of making real southern iced tea. “You’d be proud of me.” I took my glass out onto the back porch, hoping to enjoy a moment of solitude, maybe get my prayers in working order.
“Hey, Jodi.” The voice startled me. I looked up. Becky Wallace was sitting halfway up the outside stairs going to Stu’s second-floor apartment, smoking a cigarette.
“Oh. Hi, Becky. Nice day to be sitting out.” Oh, that was lame, Jodi. She’s probably dying for conversation, home alone all day every day, and all you can think of is “Nice day”? “Whatcha doing?” I groaned inwardly. That was even dumber. What did it look like she was doing! But what was I supposed to say? “Nice smoke rings you’re blowing there”?
I tried again. “Would you like some iced tea? Already sweet.”
“Yeah. That’d be nice.” She craned her neck as a car came down the alley, then she settled back against the railing as it slowly passed.
Was she waiting for somebody? I slipped back into the house, poured a glass of iced tea, and took it back outside. Wonka had lugged his stiff, arthritic legs up the steps to our back porch and was enjoying a behind-the-ear scratch from Becky, who’d slid down a few steps to our level. She took the glass. “Thanks.”
“You’re good with dogs. Dogs know.”
She dragged on the cigarette. “I like dogs. Never had one as a kid, though.” She looked away. “If I get little Andy back, I’m gonna get us a dog. A gentle one, like Willie Wonka here.”
Becky wasn’t looking at me. Maybe not looking anywhere. Seemed to be looking at something within, a place out of my reach. But suddenly she swung her gaze back toward me. “Uh, feel kinda dumb askin’, but . . . if you got that Bible you said you was goin’ ta get for me, I should probably give Ms. Avis her big ’un back. I know she’s missin’ it.”
I slapped my forehead. “Becky! I am so sorry. I really meant to! Tell you what. I’m going to get you one tonight. That’s a promise.” It isn’t that far to the Mustard Seed bookstore on Sheridan Road. They’ll be open tonight. Could even walk if I have to. I suddenly felt rash. “And i
f you’d like, maybe we could read the same book, one of the Gospels or something, and talk about it a couple of times a week—when I get home after school.”
She nodded, pulled once more on her cigarette, then tossed the butt into an empty flowerpot that sat on the porch, waiting to be filled with flowers . . . someday. Huh. Another one of my good intentions paving the road to—
“Cool,” she said.
DENNY HAD BAGS UNDER HIS EYES when he got home late from West Rogers High that evening. No wonder. The previous night was the second time he’d kept vigil in the reclining chair in Mark’s hospital room. He just grunted when I said I needed the car to go to the bookstore, took his supper plate into the living room, and flicked on the TV. Didn’t seem to notice I’d made his favorite pasta salad—the one with bow-tie pasta and shredded roasted chicken, spiced up with pecans, red grapes, spinach, and lemon dressing.
I had good success at the Mustard Seed bookstore. Found a hardcover Women’s Devotional Bible in a modern language translation. Not too pricey. The whole process took about forty-five minutes. Felt pretty dumb that I’d promised to get Becky a Bible a good three weeks ago.
Better late than never. Stu’s car was in the garage when I got home. I climbed the outside stairs to her apartment and peeked into the kitchen through the glass window in the back door. Stu was standing in the middle of the kitchen, purse still slung over her shoulder, car keys in her hand, glaring at the sink. I gave a timid rap on the window. She glanced my direction, rolled her eyes, and opened the door.
“How hard would it be for Becky to wash her dishes?” she hissed at me in a whisper, jerking her head to the overflowing sink. “She’s here all day, for cryin’ out loud!”
I put on a sympathetic face. “I thought you guys made an agreement about stuff like that?”
“Yeah, well. You want something? I just got home.”
I held out the Bible. “Just picked this up for Becky. She here?” I stifled a laugh. “Guess she better be.”
Except she wasn’t. I knocked on her bedroom door; no answer. Not in the bathroom, not in the living room . . .
Suddenly worried, Stu tried the front door of her apartment. Unlocked. Without a word we both hustled down the stairs to the door at the bottom. It stood open . . .
Becky was sitting on the front steps, her back to us, hunched forward, blowing smoke from a skinny cigarette. A sweet, pungent smell hung in the air.
Stu was at her side in two angry strides. “Becky Wallace! Are you smoking weed?” She grabbed the cigarette out of Becky’s hand. “Where’d you get this?” She sniffed the pitiful stub then threw it out to the sidewalk. “Has someone been here giving you stuff? We agreed: no drugs! Remember! Remember?”
Becky wiped her nose on her sleeve and looked up, her eyes bleary in the thin light from the streetlights. She shrugged and shook her head. “I know, Stu. I know. Jus’ . . . I miss my baby, Stu. Ain’t doin’ nothin’ but treadin’ water here. Can’t hardly stand it anymore. Feel like I gotta get Andy back or . . . I’m gonna drown.” Her hand snaked out, and she clutched the pant leg of Stu’s pantsuit. “Please, Stu. You my only hope. Talk to that new caseworker. His grandmama don’t pick up the phone when I call. Please.”
“Why should I?” Stu was practically yelling. “DCFS won’t bring your kid back into your life until you’re clean for more than two minutes! We had a deal! I stuck my neck out for you, Becky Wallace! What part of ‘no drugs’ don’t you understand? Huh? N-O. None! Zip! Nada!”
Becky’s head sank into her hands. Her shoulders began to shake. I hugged the Bible I’d just bought for her against my chest, feeling helpless, kicking myself. This sad, hurting mother practically lived under my roof, but it’d been too much bother to get her the Bible I’d promised, much less spend time with her. I took a step forward, but Stu waved me back impatiently.
Miserable, I crept back up the front stairs to Stu’s apartment, laid the new Bible on Becky’s bed, and went down the back stairs to our own apartment.
THE TV WAS BLARING in the front room—some stupid police drama. Probably why Denny didn’t hear Stu yelling on the front porch. For once, I didn’t fan the flicker of irritation I felt. God, I know Denny’s hurting—but he’s not talking to me about it. He has his own way of coping.
I hadn’t been in such good shape all that day either. I leaned my forehead against the doorjamb between our kitchen and dining room. Oh God, we’re all hurting—Becky and Stu, Josh and Denny, Nony and—
I pushed myself upright. I really should call Nony to see how she’s doing. The kitchen phone, however, was missing—as usual. Impatient, I knocked on Amanda’s door and opened it without waiting for her to answer. “Don’t hog the phone, Amanda,” was out of my mouth before I realized she wasn’t in her bedroom.
No Amanda. No phone.
I knocked on Josh’s door and waited this time. “Yeah?” On this side of the door, Josh sounded a lot like his dad. When did that happen? I opened the door. Amanda was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her face pulled into a big pout. Josh was sprawled on the bed, earphones clamped on his ears, obviously trying to ignore her. Seeing me, she hopped up and dragged me over to the side of the bed. “Mo-om! Lane Tech’s prom is next week, and Josh says he’s not going! You told me I should go to the dance last weekend, that Dr. Smith would want us to, you know, go on with normal life stuff.” She folded her arms, huffing self-righteously. “It’s his senior prom! He’s gotta stop being so weird.”
Josh rolled his eyes. “What’s it to you, shrimp? I told you already, I don’t want to go, and even if I did, it’s too late to get tickets. Besides . . .” He pulled off his earphones, giving us all an earful of the thumping music he’d been listening to. Probably that Jesus People band, Head Noise or something. “I told Mr. Douglass I’d spend the night at the hospital that night. He’s putting me on the rotation, starting tomorrow night. So lay off.” Both of you hung unspoken in the air.
I hooked a finger at Amanda and backed out the door. She followed me into the hall. “The phone?” I held out my hand.
“Oh. Yeah. Uh, I left it somewhere.” She disappeared into the bathroom and came out with the phone. Oh brother. I didn’t even want to ask.
I called the Sisulu-Smith household first, but Hoshi said Nony was still up at the hospital, waiting until Ben Garfield arrived for that night’s rotation. I called the hospital, got the nurse’s desk in ICU, and asked for Nonyameko Sisulu-Smith. I waited. Finally an extension picked up. “Nonyameko speaking.”
Her distinct South African accent gave me a pang. South Africa . . . it must seem so far away to her now. “Hi, Nony. It’s Jodi. Just wanted to check in on you and Mark. Any news today?”
Silence.
“Nony?”
“Yes, Jodi. I am here.” Another long silence. Then, “Mark is the same. Every day the same. No response. Just lying there. Like he’s”—the soft crying began—“like he’s dead. And it’s my fault. It must be my fault.”
“Nony!” I spoke sharply and immediately regretted it. “Don’t talk that way! None of this is your fault!”
“But it must be so. Why else does God not answer my prayers? I . . . I did not want to face it. But I was reading some Scripture to Mark, some of the ‘healing Scriptures’ Avis gave to us, and . . .” Her weeping increased; tears gathered in my own throat. I could do nothing except clutch the phone receiver, sweaty in my hand, and wait until she was able to continue. “And the verse in James cut my soul.”
“What verse, Nony?”
“Chapter five, verse sixteen.” Her voice dropped, and I had to strain to hear. “It says to confess our sins to each other so that we may be healed. And it cut my heart, Jodi. Because . . . maybe Mark won’t be healed until I confess my sin.”
“Confess? What are you talking about? What sin do you need to confess, Nony?” This was ridiculous! Nony sin? She was one of the most Scripture-filled, God-fearing women I’d ever met in my life.
“I pushed Mark. ‘Take me to
South Africa,’ I said! ‘Let me go to South Africa! I’ll die if I don’t go home to South Africa!’ Finally he says, ‘All right, we will go.’ But we didn’t ask God together. I pushed; he gave in. God had to do something to stop us. So God—”
“No!” I shouted into the phone. “Nonyameko! Stop it right now!” I didn’t know about pushing and giving in. I didn’t know if the Sisulu-Smiths were supposed to go to South Africa or not. Maybe their decision making needed some work. But I did know one thing: God didn’t do this to Mark Smith.
That was a lie straight from hell.
31
Willie Wonka stuck his wet nose in my face at six a.m. I rolled over and groaned. It couldn’t possibly be morning already! All night my dreams had been bumper to bumper with beeping heart monitors, nurses wearing prom dresses, and police raiding my house looking for drugs. I forced my eyes open, hoping consciousness would calm my psyche—but reality wasn’t much better.
Denny lay on his side, facing away from me. I wanted to reach out, caress his skin, pull him close to my heart, but his back seemed like a wall. Counting all the hours he’d spent working late at the high school, keeping all-night vigils—twice now—in Mark’s hospital room, or numbing himself in front of the TV, I’d barely seen him the entire week. I’d tried to tell him last night about Nony feeling guilty for what happened to Mark, about Becky smoking a joint on our front porch (which she got from some no-good buddy) and sending Stu into conniptions. But he’d just grunted “Uh-huh,” as if our connection had static on the line.
I squeezed my eyes shut once more. God, I’m tired. Mark has only been in a coma for one week. But what if it’s months? Or years? I don’t know how to support Nony through something like this! And she’s not the only one. Denny is hurting; Josh is struggling—and I don’t know how to kiss it to make it all better. Don’t know what to do about Becky and Stu either . . .
Wonka whined. I sighed and swung my feet off the bed. Not smart to put a geriatric doggy bladder on hold. I grabbed my Bible off the nightstand, let Wonka out the back door, and followed him as far as the porch swing, working the morning kinks out of my left leg as I went. Might as well get in a few licks of Bible reading while the dog did his business by the back fence.