by Neta Jackson
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I apologized. “Just didn’t want to forget to give this to you—you asked about a Christian camp on the e-loop, remember?”
“Oh, yes. Let me see.”
Nony took the large brochure I handed to her and opened it up, disclosing a colorful display of photographs of kids zipping down a water slide, made up in clown faces, doing crafts, and riding horseback, sprinkled amid descriptions of the different age groups and specialty camps. “My kids have attended this camp for years,” I put in. “They love it! It’s got all sorts of great activities—parasailing, canoe trips, a ropes course, even a horsemanship camp—on top of the regular stuff. And they bring in lots of popular youth speakers. Amanda would probably be going this summer, except she’s going on a teen mission trip to Mexico, and the dates conflict.” I lowered my voice in that parent-to-parent confidential tone. “Good thing. No way we could afford both in one summer.”
Nony studied the brochure for a moment or two longer, then folded it up and handed it back to me. “Thank you, Jodi.”
“Oh, you can keep that.”
Nony shook her head. “One look at that brochure and my kids would say, ‘No way.’ ”
I felt like I’d been slapped. She must have seen me jerk because she added, “The pictures. Not a single black face in the whole brochure. Except one picture, and they’re all black in that one.”
I blinked. Really? I was sure I’d seen African-American kids at the camp when we took our kids or picked them up at the camp. At least one or two, anyway. “I’m sure they’d be wel—”
“It’s not just that, Jodi,” Nony said, not unkindly. “Look.” She pointed to the one picture that showed several grinning dark faces just above a camp week described as “Urban Camp.” “See that description? ‘Underprivileged’ . . . ‘inner city’ . . . ‘scholarships.’ That’s the impression given by this brochure—that black kids are underprivileged, all live in the inner city, need scholarships, and come to this particular week of camp. Mark would have a fit.”
A hot flash of embarrassment crept up my neck. What a dork I was! I should have noticed . . . but I had to admit, it hadn’t even crossed my mind.
As if to soften the sting,Nony gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It’s all right, Jodi. I appreciate you thinking of the boys.” She retrieved her plate and moved off, as regal in our puny backyard as if it were a marble courtyard.
I retreated to the kitchen to stash the brochure . . . and started to feel defensive. I’d extended an invitation to share my world and been rebuffed. For that matter, how could this camp—an outstanding Christian camp in my opinion, at least up until the last five minutes—include any pictures of black middle-class kids having fun at camp . . . if they didn’t go?
I wanted to go somewhere and stick a pillow over my head. Suck it up, Jodi. You’re the hostess of this party, remember? I put the ice cream, a scooper, and the cookies on a tray then stood at the back door another moment or two, working up courage to go back outside and mingle, not knowing when I’d make a fool of myself again.
Standing at the back door, I had a sudden revelation. If all the kids in those pictures had been black, would Amanda or Josh think that camp was intended for them? Would I want them to be “token white kids,” just to integrate the place?
No. I wasn’t that noble. Sure, I’d welcome a healthy mix of kids, as I was sure Nony would, too. But, just like Nony, I’d mostly want my kids not to feel different, to feel like they belonged.
DENNY CLANGED HIS BARBECUE UTENSILS together. “Hey, everybody!” The general hubbub died down, and even the kids stopped slurping ice cream long enough to stare at my husband, who stood on the steps of the back porch in his silly apron.
“I’ve been forewarned,” he said gravely, “that the Yada Yada Prayer Group plans to get together all by themselves right after we finish eating . . . leaving the gentlemen, by the way, to clean up—”
“What about these kids?” Ben Garfield glowered at Jerry and Pete, trying to look tough.
“No, no!” howled Yo-Yo’s brothers. “We can’t clean up. Josh is taking us to the lake to play volleyball!” The other kids lustily joined in the general protest.
Denny clanged his utensils together again. “All right, all right. Just put your own trash in that big trash can there, and it’ll be half-done. But wait! Wait!” He held up the barbecue tongs as the kids made a mad rush for the trash can, intent on taking the promised hike down to the lakeshore. The hubbub settled once more.
Denny turned to Florida. “Before Yada Yada steals you away, we want to acknowledge our guest of honor, Florida Hickman, who is, I believe, ‘five years saved and five years sober’! Let’s give it up for Sister Florida!”
As cheers and clapping and laughter erupted, Denny hopped down and gallantly escorted Florida to the top step. “Speech! Speech!”
I grinned as Florida looked around the yard, tears sparkling in her deep brown eyes. This was perfect. Denny always did have a gift for the dramatic.
For a few moments, Florida didn’t speak, her emotions doing a little dance between her big smile and the tears that threatened to flow. But as the happy clamor subsided, she lifted her chin. “There’s only one guest of honor here—and that’s Jesus. ’Cause if it weren’t for Jesus—oh,Lord! If it weren’t for Jesus—” She stopped and closed her eyes as the tears finally fell. She shook her head from side to side . . . but in a few moments opened her eyes again. “If it weren’t for Jesus, I’d still be a mess for sure, still out on the street, still doing drugs, still stopping cars in the middle of the street, begging anyone and everyone for money for my next fix. But—praise Jesus!—He . . .”
My mouth slowly fell open. Florida went on talking, still giving God praise, but I no longer heard the words. My mind had stuck on the last thing she said: stopping cars in the middle of the street, begging anyone and everyone for money . . .
An old memory, a rainy day, way back when the kids were little, a wild woman stopping my car . . . could that have been Florida? Immediately, common sense told me that there must be thousands of drug addicts in Chicago. The odds that Florida and I had run into each other ten, maybe twelve years ago . . . impossible. We didn’t even live in Chicago back then. Denny used to volunteer at Uptown sometimes, but Chicago was a big city— “
. . . Uptown Community Church,” Florida was saying. “Ain’t God got a sense of humor, bringing me and the boys to that church today, the day y’all picked for my sobriety party? But it was one of the storefront churches I used to hit up for handouts. Didn’t even remember the name, not until I walked in there this morning and saw the pastor—what’s his name? Pastor Clark . . . right. He tried to get me straightened out a couple times, but I wasn’t ready. Wasn’t ready till they took my babies . . .”
Oh God. That was Florida.
“Jesus!” a piercing voice cried, yanking me back to the present. It was Chanda, shaking her head and waving one hand in the air. “Jesus!”
“Hallelujah! Glory!” Delores started clapping, and others joined in. A little way behind the others, Avis walked back and forth on the grass, head thrown back, lips moving in praise.
Still stunned at the revelation that our paths had crossed once before, I wanted to grab Florida, say something. But she stood on the back steps, one arm lifted heavenward, her voice rising over all the others: “Thank ya, Jesus! Thank ya!”
Looked like we were getting ready to have church right there in the Baxter backyard.
THE KIDS FINALLY ESCAPED under the supervision of Josh and Pete as the “oldest,” volleyball in hand. Yada Yada moved into the living room, glasses of pop and iced tea in hand. (Though I’d been informed by Florida that adding sugar to cold iced tea just didn’t do justice to the “real thing.” “Girl, ya gotta add the sugar while the tea is hot. Ain’t nobody ever told you how to make real ‘sweet tea’—like they do down South?”) The front windows were open and I’d put a fan in one, pulling a nice breeze from the open back door. Som
ehow, all ten of us found a perch, either on the couch or chairs or pillows on the floor.
“You got a real nice house, Sista Jodee,” Chanda said. It was the first thing she’d said to me all afternoon.
“Nice nails, too,” Adele quipped.
“Yeah. Look at you,” said Yo-Yo, settling on the floor in front of Ruth.
At any other time, I would have enjoyed “joining the club” of nail-painted women. And it was the perfect time to give Adele and her salon the credit. But I didn’t want to lose what had just happened in a flurry of small talk. “I gotta tell you guys . . . Florida and I met before. Twelve years ago.”
The room was suddenly silent, and nine pairs of eyes looked at me.
“I . . . I didn’t realize it until just now . . . out in the backyard! But, Florida, when you mentioned that you used to stop by Uptown Community to get a handout—”
Florida pulled back behind her stare. “Thought you and Denny have only been at Uptown since last summer.”
“That’s true! But before that, Denny had been volunteering there for half a zillion years, even when we were living in Downers Grove. The first time I drove into the city to pick him up . . . a woman jumped out in front of my car—Good Lord! Scared me half to death. It was raining, too. I could have hit her!—but all she wanted was some money. To feed her kids, she said. I didn’t know what to do. At first, I told her to go to Uptown—they could help her. She said she’d been there, done that. But . . .” I tried to make eye contact with Florida, but she was leaning forward, hands clasped on her knees, her eyes focused on her hands. “. . . that’s why I think it was you.”
I couldn’t tell what Florida was thinking. But a lump was growing in my throat. “Never in all my wildest dreams did I think God would put that woman in my hotel room at the women’s conference . . . put her in my prayer group . . . in my home . . . in my life . . . as my friend.”
“Glory,” someone breathed. Probably Avis. But I kept my eyes on Florida.
She finally looked up. “So, what did you do—back then, I mean?”
“You don’t remember?” I waited to see a slight shake of her head. “Well, I was going to take you to the grocery store to buy you some food and diapers—that’s what you said you needed.”
“Did you?”
“No.” I dropped my eyes. “On the way we stopped at the church and . . . you were gone when I got back to the car.”
“Stopped at the church to check me out?”
I swallowed. Bingo. I nodded.
Florida’s face crumpled. “I don’t remember it—stopped a lot of cars during that time.” Her voice was hushed as though uncomfortable with the idea that one of the women in this room—the women who knew the Florida who was “saved, sober, and sanctified”—had met the “other” Florida.
“I think this is incredible.” Delores broke the tension. “Don’t you see? God had a plan all along to bring all of us together—and maybe it started that day when Florida and Jodi met by accident.”
“Get out!” Yo-Yo arched back. “That was just coincidence, right?”
“There are no coincidences with God, Yo-Yo,” said Avis.
“What’s that mean?” Yo-Yo pressed. “God’s got some big reason Florida hit up Jodi for money years ago? Some big reason this bunch of women got number twenty-six on their gold sticker at that conference?”
“Maybe.” Avis smiled.
“ ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine,’ ”Nony quoted, flipping through her Bible. “Where’s that passage, Avis?”
“Wait a minute,” said Yo-Yo. “Don’t go throwing Bible verses around. What’s this name business? I mean, God calling us by name.”
“Names have meaning,” Edesa suggested.
“Yeah, right. Yo-Yo . . . a spinning toy going nowhere,” Yo-Yo muttered.
“Here it is.” Avis had her Bible open. “Isaiah forty-three: ‘Thus says the Lord, who created you . . . “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name; you are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior” ’ . . .” She looked up. “That’s a good passage for this celebration.”
“For Florida, yes. Praise God! But I was also thinking,” Nony murmured, “about what Delores said about God calling us together as a group . . . and planning it a long time ago . . . and giving us a name.”
Delores got so excited she was practically bouncing on the couch beside Florida. “Gloria a Dios! Ruth, what did you say ‘Yada Yada’ meant—that Hebrew meaning?”
“Never heard what that was all about.” Chanda pulled a face.
Ruth looked taken aback, as if she had not planned to speak. “What am I, a dictionary?” But she dug around in her purse, finally pulled out a square of paper, and unfolded it. “All right. Yada Yada like we’ve been spelling it—without an h on the end—means ‘to perceive, to understand . . . to be known, to make oneself known.’ ” She frowned and read farther in the tiny text on the photocopied page. “ ‘Often used to describe God’s knowledge of man.’ ”
“And women,” Adele sniffed.
“Si, si,” Delores said impatiently. “Don’t you see? Jodi and Florida had absolutely nothing—nada—in common when that drug addict stopped that car. They didn’t know each other, they didn’t understand each other, they didn’t think they’d ever see each other again—”
“You sayin’ God knew?” Yo-Yo still looked doubtful.
“That’s it,” said Avis. “God knew them, He knew you, He knew each one of us back then—and wanted all of us to know Him . . . and maybe wanted us to know each other, too.”
“For real?” Chanda’s eyes were big. “You be sayin’ that God planned all along for these here sistas to get together? And named us, too?”
I wasn’t sure how all this fit together with the fact that I had “met” Florida for ten minutes twelve years ago . . . though it seemed terribly significant somehow. I still couldn’t read Florida, though, what she thought about it. I wanted to get up and just give her a hug, let her know I was glad we’d met, glad God brought us back together again.
Nony was smiling and waving her Bible. “Don’t know why God calling us by name shouldn’t apply to a group as well as individuals. We thought we made up a name for this group just off the cuff—but look what it turned out to be. God’s name for us.”
“That’s it. What’s the other meaning of Yada Yada, Ruth?” Delores pressed.
“Yadah Yadah with an h? Hmm . . .” Ruth peered again at the tiny print, moving it to arm’s length. “Yadah Yadah means— among other things—to praise, to sing, to give thanks. It says here—”
The doorbell rang. Ruth stopped and looked up.
Rats, I thought.Wish Denny would get it. But Denny was in the backyard and probably didn’t hear it. “Go on, Ruth, I’ll get it.” I stepped over Yo-Yo and Edesa, who were sitting on the floor and headed for the front door. Behind me I heard Ruth finish, “It says here, ‘an expression of thanks to God by way of praising.’ ”
I pulled open the door. Stu was standing on the other side of the screen, her long hair tucked behind one ear, showing off the little row of earrings, and holding a nine-by-eleven pan of something. Dessert. A little late, I huffed to myself.
“Hi, Jodi. Everybody here?” Stu pulled open the screen door and practically charged past me into the living room.
“Hey, Stu. Get mugged on the way?” cracked Yo-Yo.
A few others started to call out greetings, but Stu held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Sorry I’m late. But I’ve got news.” She paused, looking around the room, her eyes finally falling on Florida.
“I found Carla.”
26
Stu’s announcement surged from person to person like a slow-motion shock wave and pulled Florida off the couch. “Y
ou . . . found my baby?” Disbelief and hope, fear and longing tangled themselves around those words.
“Pretty sure. Everything seems to—”
Adele’s big frame rose up from the La-Z-Boy like a protective mother bear. “Don’t do this, Leslie Stuart, not unless you know—”
“Wait. Please. Listen to me.” Stu shoved the pan of dessert into my hands and moved to Florida’s side. She took the dark, trembling hands in her own and lowered Florida to the couch cushions, kneeling down beside her. “They don’t know exactly how it happened, how Carla’s foster family got lost in the system, but my contact at DCFS thinks the original social worker quit or got fired and Carla’s files got lost, or misfiled, or something. That’s why they couldn’t find any record of her when you went back.”
“Sounds like DCFS, all right,” Adele muttered, and sat back down.
By now all of us were glued to Stu’s words.
“But . . . there’s a family with a foster child who recently applied to adopt the little girl, and DCFS can’t find any of her records. That tipped off my friend, who had copies of your papers, Florida . . . and the facts fit: first name, date of birth, date taken into custody by DCFS, all that kind of stuff. He’s pretty sure it’s your Carla.”
“You mean . . . the family didn’t steal her? Or run off to some other state? Or . . . or hurt my baby?” The struggle to let go of her fears was written all over Florida’s face.
Stu shook her head. “No. Don’t think so. This family applied to adopt her, after all. They’d have to stand up to some scrutiny. And . . . probably means they love her. Enough to want to keep her.”
The word “adopt” finally sank into Florida’s awareness. “Keep her? But . . . no, no! I want my baby back. Now that she’s found, I want my baby back!” She made an attempt to stand up, but Stu’s firm grip on her hands kept her in her seat.
“Don’t worry, Florida,” Stu said patiently. “They’ve only applied for adoption. Nothing’s final. Once DCFS matches up the paperwork, your own application to get your daughter back will certainly affect the adoption process. The fact that your husband and sons are back with you? Definitely a plus factor.”