by Neta Jackson
Another sigh. “It’s Rochelle again. She showed up an hour ago with Conny, just as I was leaving to come here. Dexter came back; another big mess, I guess. I probably should have stayed home to find out what’s going on, but Peter insisted I keep going and he’d take care of it.” She grimaced. “I’m just a little worried what ‘take care of it’ means.”
33
We will pray right now. Venido! Come!” Delores waved us out of our seats to gather around Avis. “Nonyameko. Pray protection for Avis’s daughter and the baby.”
Nony led out with pieces of Psalm 91: “O Lord, we say on behalf of Rochelle and little Conny, that You are their refuge and fortress, their God in whom they trust! Cover them with Your feathers; under Your wings they will find refuge. Your faithfulness will be their shield and rampart—”
Yo-Yo poked my leg. “What’s a rampart? ” she whispered.
“It’s, uh, some kind of wall, I think,” I whispered back. “I’ll look it up.”
As we found our seats after our prayers, Delores pointed to the door. “Avis, go home. That’s where your heart is right now. It’s all right.”
We all murmured assent. Avis hesitated about two seconds, gathered her stuff, and slipped down Stu’s front stairs.
Delores spread her hands. “So, now,who else needs prayer? ” She smiled. “We are ‘warmed up,’ as you say here in the States.”
“Mi be needing de prayer big-time!” Chanda blurted. The puddles lurking in her eyes spilled over as she recounted the visit to the cancer doc and the upcoming surgery later that week. “He—he tink it might be de cancer,” she hiccuped. “Won’ know till he get in dere—mi might wake up wit’out me breast!” She really blubbered then as several other Yadas passed her tissues. “Why God be letting dis ’appen to mi? ” she wailed. “Everting goin so good for we now! Dis not s’posed to be! Oh pray, sistas! De devil be attacking me body—an’what mon want a ’oman wit only one breast? Ohhhhhhh . . .” And fresh tears flowed.
Hoshi and Stu, sitting on either side of Chanda on the futon, murmured words of comfort and held her hands as she cried. But no one prayed. What was going on? I was hoping someone else would pray, because I wasn’t sure how—or for what. For healing? Well, sure. That it was a misdiagnosis and not cancer? Still a possibility. But I wasn’t sure about what Chanda said.Was God “letting” this happen? If so, for what reason? Was it an attack from the devil? Or just “bad things happen to good people too” ?
The Voice in my spirit seemed to whisper in my ear. God doesn’t waste anything.He uses everything to accomplish His purpose. So pray.
OK. That’s right. It was our job to pray and God’s job to answer in His own way. So I prayed aloud for Chanda, asked God for healing, asked for a good report of no cancer. But I also prayed that God would work His purpose out in Chanda’s life. “Bring her closer to You in this time, Lord,” I prayed. “Closer, closer, closer . . .”
I was surprised at the hearty amens from others as I closed my prayer.
Our prayers continued—for Ruth and her unborn babies, we praised God for Becky’s new job, prayed for the merger of Uptown and New Morning churches, for continued healing of Nony’s husband from his severe head injury, patience for Adele as MaDear slipped further into senility, for the high school students who had stopped by the lemonade stand . . .
That last prayer from Edesa jiggled my private stash of good intentions. I had told God I needed to apologize to Yada Yada for pushing the lemonade stand idea so hard without adequate confirmation and preparation. As the prayers tapered off, I told myself I should really do that tonight—though Avis wasn’t here now, and she’d had the most reservations.
But Hoshi’s soft, cultured voice broke into the momentary silence. “Lord Jesus, I want to pray for the girl named Sara in my honors history class. She sits by herself, doesn’t talk to anyone, yet she is obviously very bright. She seems so alone.Give me an opportunity to show her Your love—as Nonyameko and Dr. Smith did for me.”
As we ended our prayers, I leaned toward Hoshi to ask, “Tell us more about Sara,” but never got a chance, because just then Stu and Becky came waltzing into the room carrying a frosted cake with candles blazing. “Happy birthday to youuuuu . . .” they sang.Others joined in as Becky thrust the cake in my face. “Happy birthday, dear Jodeeeeeeeeeeee . . .”
I was dumbfounded. My birthday seemed like weeks, maybe months ago, overshadowed by Josh’s un-birthday.
“Blow!” Becky hissed. “Them candles ain’t gonna last all night.”
Did I have a wish? Couldn’t think of anything on the spot, so I just blew. Out they went. “That’s not forty-four candles,” I joked.
“Yes it is,” Becky insisted. “See? Those make a 4 and the rest make another 4.”
Stu handed me a computer-made card with a flourish. “To our very own naming expert.” She grinned. “Your name.”
The card said Jodi Marie in a beautiful flourish on the outside, and the words Grace and Rebellion on the inside. The second word startled me so much I didn’t even see the little love notes and signatures of my Yada Yada sisters all around the inside of the card. Was that the meaning of Marie? Why had I never looked that up?
I offered a wry grin. “Guess we oughta be careful what we name our kids, huh? ”
“I told Stu not to include your middle name.” Becky glared at her housemate.
“Hang on to your booties,” Stu said. “I thought Jodi would get it—see? Without ‘grace’ you’re just ‘rebellious’—”
Florida snickered. “Now you’re sayin’ it.”
“—but the meaning of Jodi—‘grace’—changes everything!”
Yo-Yo nodded. “Hey, that’s kinda cool.”
I managed a smile, still a bit taken aback. “Uh-huh. Guess you’re right, that’s who I am without God and who I am with God.” I looked at the card again. “Aw, these notes are sweet.”
After Becky cut the cake and passed it around—her third chocolate cake creation—people started drifting home. But before Nonyameko and Hoshi left, I pulled Nony aside. “Nony, how do people at New Morning feel about the merger next week? Several people are leaving Uptown because of it.” I knew my anxiety was leaking, but I was starting to wonder: Are we doing the right thing?
Nony, slipping into a simple black jacket with gold buttons, made a face. “I have to confess, Jodi. We have not been going to worship at New Morning.”
She must have seen the alarm in my eyes, because she chuckled. “Only because Mark has not been able to manage the steep stairs at Uptown. Once New Morning begins to meet regularly in their new space, we will come.” Her eyes twinkled. “Next week, right? Mark is very excited about our two churches becoming one.”
I nodded. At least somebody was excited. I gave her a hug, catching a whiff of an alluring perfume. Sandalwood or something. “Thanks, Nony. See you Sunday then.”
Stu made me take the rest of the cake downstairs to Denny and the kids. I set it on our dining room table and stared once more at the inside of the handmade card. What was my mother thinking when she gave me “rebellious” for a middle name? !
WE FINALLY KINDA SORTA HAD A BIRTHDAY DINNER for Josh on Monday night. I baked a chicken with an apricot jammustard glaze and made mashed potatoes, and Denny picked up a French silk chocolate pie at Baker’s Square on the way home. Josh said, “Sweet!” when he opened the CD case from us and made a huge fuss when Amanda gave him three autographed CDs from bands they’d heard at Cornerstone. “You got these autographed? Wow,Amanda.” Then he clutched his chest. “You mean you’ve had these stashed away since last July? When I could’ve been listening to them for three whole months? Oh, you’re cruel! Cruel!”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Mom, he’s adopted, right? ”
I handed him a package from my parents and a card from Denny’s. “Aha,” Josh said, pulling out a long, knitted winter scarf which looked alarmingly identical to the one my mother had made for me, except longer—much longer. He wrapped it aroun
d his head like an untidy turban and opened the next gift, a book about “how to keep your faith in college” and signed, “Love, Grandpa.”
Amanda patted him on the shoulder. “They mean well, bubby.” Which cracked all of us up—until Josh opened the card from his other grandparents. A card simply signed “Harley and Kay” and a check for twenty-five dollars. I saw Denny’s lips tighten. Guess “Harley and Kay” were still annoyed about the college tuition check we’d sent back.
But Josh just grinned and waved the birthday check in the air. “Now this one I’m gonna keep.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Well, thanks, people. Can I use the car tonight? A buddy at work invited me to see a movie. Not a prob, is it? ”
Well, so much for lingering at the table. But I smiled. “Sure, go, go. You need some fun after your stressful weekend. Who’s your buddy? ”
“She works in accounting. Her name’s Sue.”
YOU COULD’VE KNOCKED ME OVER with a limp noodle. A buddy named Sue? “Well, could be a good thing,” I told Denny as we cleaned up the kitchen. “I mean, for him to go out with other girls, not be so fixated on Edesa.”
Denny was tackling the encrusted roasting pan with a bedraggled wire soap pad. “I think,” he grunted, scraping away, “Josh and Edesa are just good friends. Hasn’t she made it pretty clear? ” He scowled at the pan and left it to soak.
I snorted. “What do I know? They’re awfully chummy. But this Sue would have to be a quality person if Peter Douglass hired her, right? ”
“Yeah. Maybe. I’d say Josh has a good eye for quality himself.” Denny snickered and snapped me on the rear with his dishtowel. “But I sure never called you my ‘buddy’ when we were going out. Nope. Nope.”
CHANDA’S SURGERY WAS SCHEDULED for Friday to give her time to do all the pre-op stuff—a complete physical, chest X ray, EKG, blood work. “What dey need all dat stuff for, Sista Jodee? ” she complained when I called her midweek. “Seem like de only ting mi do all week is go to de doctor!”
We scrambled to cover things for Chanda—a bit tough, since most of us worked or went to school. “Doesn’t Chanda have any family here in Chicago? ” I complained to Avis in her office that week. “She used to leave the kids with a sister, I thought. But where is she now, when Chanda really needs her? ”
Avis shrugged. “Chanda said her sister went back to Jamaica. But whether that was just for a visit or for good, I don’t know.We’ll just have to cover somehow.”
To my surprise,Nony offered to take Chanda to the hospital on Friday and stay until she was out of surgery. Mark must be doing better for her to leave him all day, I thought—though I found out later that Hoshi only had one class on Friday, leaving “Dr. Smith” alone only a couple of hours. Still, the fact that Nony felt she could be away all day was good, I hoped—for both Nony and Mark.
Florida offered to keep Chanda’s kids over the weekend but didn’t know how to get them after school in north Evanston down to Rogers Park. I wasn’t any help; Denny usually didn’t get home with the car till six or six thirty, earliest. They could stay in afterschool care, but . . .
My brain ached as I headed for school Friday morning. I felt badly that Chanda’s kids had to stay in after-school care so late. Best-case scenario, Chanda might be able to go home that night, the lumpectomy done as an outpatient.
Or not.
It all depended on what the doctors found when they went in.
34
Avis appeared at my classroom door twenty minutes after the dismissal bell as I was cleaning off the markerboards. Still had to straighten desks and toss leftbehind lunchboxes, sweaters, and jump ropes into the Darn Lucky Box before I could leave for the weekend. The principal of Bethune Elementary leaned against my desk, arms folded across her soft, rust-colored sweater-tunic. “Nony called,” she said. “The lump was malignant.”
I stared at my boss, openmouthed.
“That’s the bad news. The good news is that the lymph nodes were clean. It hadn’t spread. So all they did was take out the lump and sentinel nodes. But they’re still going to keep her overnight for observation. She was pretty sick when she came out of the anesthesia.”
My insides sank. “Poor Chanda.” OK, God, what happened to the “no cancer” report we prayed for? Still, there was some good news. She’d been so afraid of waking up with only one breast. And they’d found it before it spread. Then I had a memory jolt. “Wait a sec. That’s exactly what you went through, wasn’t it, Avis? A lump that was malignant but hadn’t spread? I mean, you didn’t have a mastectomy, and you’re fine now.”
“That’s right.” Her businesslike manner softened. “I’d like to run up to the hospital to see her, give her some encouragement. Want to ride along? ”
Ten minutes later, I met Avis in the parking lot and we headed north toward Evanston Hospital in her black Toyota Camry. Wasn’t often I had Avis to myself for five minutes, much less fifteen. Might as well stick my foot in it. “Um, how’s Rochelle, Avis? You and Peter doing OK? ”
Avis was a long time answering. Uh-oh, I thought. “Sorry. You don’t have to—”
“No, no, it’s all right, Jodi. I’m just not sure how to answer.” She concentrated on spiraling the Camry up the ramps of Evanston Hospital’s huge parking garage. We finally found a space on the roof.
Avis turned off the ignition and sighed. “Let’s just say Peter and I don’t see eye to eye on how we should respond to Rochelle ‘when she comes crying to us about Dexter,’ as he says. He gave her an ultimatum last weekend—told her we’re not a halfway house; she needs to get an order of protection, and if Dexter violates it, she needs to call the police or go to a shelter.”
“So what happened? ” I gasped.
Avis shook her head. “Rochelle was so mad, she just left, was gone before I got home from Yada Yada.Went to stay with a friend, I guess. Called me to say Peter wasn’t her dad, and he had no right to boss her or tell her she couldn’t come home to Mama. Hung up on me when I didn’t immediately take her side. At least I have her cell number, but . . .” The pain in Avis’s eyes was almost more than I could bear. “What do you think, Jodi? Feels like I’m having to choose between my husband and my daughter.”
I had no idea what to think! “Oh,Avis,” I moaned, and gave her a hug. A few moments later, she picked up her Bible and purse, got out of the car, and marched into the hospital. All-business Avis again.
We got lost coming into the hospital from the top floor but finally found Chanda in the right wing. Ruth Garfield sat in the corner of the private room, a garish orange maternity top announcing her expanding tummy, knitting away on what vaguely looked like baby booties. Chanda snored gently against a pile of pillows, clear liquid from plastic bags dripping into her arms, bandages peeking out of the top of her hospital gown.
“Hey,” I said to Ruth, leaning over to give her an awkward hug. “How are you? ”
“How should I be? ” she grunted. “Not yet seven months and already seven tons. That Delores, she better be Solomon.”
“The eating must be working. You look better,” I teased. All I got was a humph.
On the other side of the bed, Avis was anointing the sleeping Chanda from a little bottle of oil she always carried with her and starting to pray. “Where’s Nony? ” I murmured to Ruth. “Is Ben here? ”
“Left when we arrived,Nony did. To pick up Chanda’s children and bring them here to see the mother.” The knitting needles never paused. “Ben, he’s noshing on bagels and coffee in the cafeteria. He doesn’t do hospital rooms too good.”
ONLY ON THE WAY HOME with Chanda’s kids belted in the backseat, headed for the Hickmans, did I realize how beautifully God had smoothed out all the complicated juggling for Chanda’s children. Ruth “just happened” to arrive in perfect time to sit with Chanda so Nonyameko could pick up Chanda’s kids from afterschool care and bring them back to the hospital to see their mother. Chanda managed to wake up long enough “to kiss me t’ree babies,” after which Avis and
I offered to transport them to the Hickmans, who were waiting for the kids with open arms and home-fried chicken, no doubt. I started to hum a little thanksgiving to God.
“Sing it,” Dia demanded from the backseat. “I know that song from Sunday school.”
I grinned. “God is so good . . .” I started. Dia joined in, practically yelling in my ear. “God is so good! God is so good! He’s so good to us!” I couldn’t remember the verses, so we made some up. “He loves my mommy” . . . “He gives us friends” . . .We added “our family,” new cars” ( “Mommy’s Lexus!” the kids shouted), “lunchboxes” ( “Lunch money,” Thomas corrected). From there it got a little silly—pizza, birthday parties, toilet paper (giggles from the backseat). At the end of each “verse,” even Avis couldn’t resist smiling as the kids shouted the rousing last line: “He’s so good to us!”
When we’d delivered our lively cargo to the Hickman abode, Avis and I rode home in silence, grateful for the golden hush. I wondered what she was thinking. About Rochelle, no doubt. About her new marriage and the stresses bombarding it so soon. But an echo still seemed to fill the car: God is so good . . .He’s so good to us.
CHANDA HAD SOME “MINOR COMPLICATIONS” that she declined to describe, and the surgeon kept her in the hospital until Sunday. Yeah, I knew about those “minor complications.” Probably just trying to “go” again to the nurses’ satisfaction, who said inane things like, “Did we have a BM yet, sweetie? ” ( “We” ? ) But just as well. I’d offered to bring a lasagna for Chanda’s first night home, but Nony called on Saturday. She said Pastor Cobb and Pastor Clark wanted to have a special “fellowship hour” after the worship service tomorrow with coffee, tea, and munchies, and could I make something? I decided on chocolate-chip cookies—who didn’t like chocolate-chip cookies? —so ended up Saturday afternoon mass producing two lasagnas, two foil-wrapped bullets of garlic French bread, and a doublerecipe of my mom’s best-ever chocolate-chip cookies.