by Neta Jackson
For a split second I thought, Oh, how embarrassing! What if ten people don’t go up? But within thirty seconds, not only ten people went up, but fifteen . . . maybe twenty, or twenty-five! One of the ushers stood by and held a bucket, and when everyone had gone back to their seats, the pastor took the bucket and turned it upside down, raining money down over this woman’s head, who by now was weeping and jumping and praising God.
34
Wow. Quite a service,” I told Nony as we stood at the back of the church afterward. I had hardly noticed the time, though now my stomach was grumbling and my watch said 1:10. People streaming by stopped to welcome us “visitors” with outstretched hands, smiles, and hugs. During the announcement time, Nony had made us all stand and told her congregation that we were part of her prayer group from the Chicago Women’s Conference and that we were visiting each other’s churches.
“Well, you can stop right here,” the pastor had joked. “See you all next week at ten o’clock sharp.”
But right now I was anxious to get home, since in another four hours we’d be meeting at Nony’s house for Yada Yada. I wondered what Stu would do, since she lived all the way in Oak Park—an hour from here on stop-and-go streets—and felt guilty, because I didn’t really want to invite anyone to hang out at our house. But finally I asked if she needed a place to stay till Yada Yada met this evening and felt relieved when she said, no, she and Florida were going to hang out at the lake with the boys for a while then take them home and come back up to Evanston.
Well, she and Florida are getting thick, aren’t they! I thought, caught between wanting to go home and chill for a few hours and wishing they’d invite me, too. But they didn’t, so I left as I’d come, in Adele’s car.
It was almost two o’clock when Adele dropped me off. “Thanks a lot for the ride, Adele.” I peeked back into the window of her Ford Escort. I really should return the favor. “Do you want a ride this evening?”
Adele shook her head, chunky earrings swinging. “Tell you the truth, don’t know if I’m gonna make it tonight.”
“Oh.” Adele didn’t offer any explanation and just pulled away. I wondered what that meant for Chanda. As far as I knew, Chanda didn’t have a car; didn’t she usually come with Adele?
I felt annoyed. Did that mean I should pick up Chanda? I wasn’t even sure where she lived, though I could easily look up her address on the Yada Yada list. Then, still standing on the sidewalk, I scolded myself. There you go again, Jodi, thinking you have to make everything work out. Nobody asked you to pick up Chanda. If Chanda calls, fine. But until then, just leave it alone.
Feeling better, I ran up the steps to the front door and let myself in with my key.
“Anybody home?” I called, but was only greeted with the thump, thump, thump of Willie Wonka’s tail. He had positioned himself in the hallway where he could keep an eye on both ends of the house. Notes on the dining room table said Denny was playing softball with some of the guys . . . Josh was out on his bike doing the bike path along Lake Michigan . . . and Amanda had gone over to a friend’s house from church and would go straight to youth group from there.
I was half-disappointed, half-glad. Disappointed because I was eager to tell Denny about the worship service this morning, wishing he’d gone with me . . . glad because I relished nobody needing anything from me for the next couple of hours.
I made a tuna sandwich, poured myself a glass of iced tea, and stretched out on the living room couch with a novel I’d been wanting to read. Willie Wonka plunked down with a whumph! alongside the couch and closed his eyes. Ah, this was what Sunday afternoons were supposed to be like.
But the temperature was rising, and soon the hot, muggy air felt like a sweating gorilla sitting on my chest. Peeling myself off the couch, I turned the fan in the front window on high and glanced at the sky. Enormous thunderheads billowed like neon white mushrooms above the building tops along Lunt Avenue. A storm was brewing. Well, let it. Maybe it would cool things off . . . though it would probably bring Denny and Josh home sooner than they’d like.
A CRACK OF THUNDER so loud it nearly split the house in two sent me flying off the couch like an electric shock. Where was I? . . . Why was it so dark? . . . It took a few seconds to realize I’d dozed off over my book.
I looked at my watch in the greenish gloom. Four-thirty! I should be leaving if I wanted to get to Yada Yada on time. “Denny?” I called out. No answer. Why wasn’t he home? He’d promised!
Well, I’d get myself completely ready so I could dash when he got here with the car. No call from Chanda . . . that was good. I wouldn’t have to take extra time picking her up. Hoped that meant she had a ride.
At twenty minutes to five, I was standing on the front porch, eyeing each car that came by with its headlights on. No rain yet, but flashes of lightning periodically lit up the brooding sky followed by grumbles of thunder.
I kept glancing at my watch: 4:45 . . . 4:50 . . . Where was Denny? He couldn’t still be playing ball—not with the skies about to open the floodgates.
I’m not sure what made me go out to the garage, except it was five minutes to five, there was no sign of my husband, and I was mad. Leaving my tote bag with my Bible and notebook on the front porch, I covered the distance between front porch and garage in determined strides. The garage, of course, was empty. And so was the corner where I’d stashed the six-packs under the bushel basket.
“Hellooo!” Denny’s voice wafted out the back door. “Car’s out front.”
I stormed into the house. Denny, his sweats covered with grass stains and mud streaks, was washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “You’re late,” I snapped. “Now I’ll be late.”
“Whoa!” He shook the water off his hands and reached for a hand towel. “You told me to have the car back by five o’clock.” He pointed to the kitchen clock. “At the tone, it is now . . . five o’clock.”
“Very funny. I said I had to be there by five. I should’ve left twenty minutes ago.” I could smell the beer on his breath. “You’ve been drinking,” I said flatly. “How many did you have?”
Denny’s eyes narrowed. “Jodi, give it a rest, will ya?”
“You took the beer from the garage.”
“So? You don’t want it around the house. Might as well enjoy it with the guys.” He threw the hand towel on the counter and headed for the shower. “Oh!” he tossed over his shoulder. “It looked like rain, so I took Larry home first.”
“Oh, right.” I followed Denny right on his heels. “You took Larry home first. You shouldn’t even be driving, Denny Baxter.”
Denny whirled at the bathroom door. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I crossed my arms and stared him down. “I can smell it on your breath. And if I can smell it, so could a cop! What if you’d had an accident? What if you got arrested on a DUI? What then, Denny? Your career as a coach would be over in a blink—not to mention any ministry with the guys at Uptown. Ever think of that, Denny? Huh?”
Denny was breathing hard, the muscles in his jaw pulsing.
The words kept coming. It was like I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even know whether I was mad or scared or worried or what. “And what about our reputation as a family? What about the kids? What about me? Don’t you care?”
Denny snorted and leaned an arm on the doorpost. “Me? Nah. In fact, I did it on purpose. I said to myself, ‘How can I make Jodi mad? I know, I’ll give Larry a ride—that ought to waste ten minutes— and make Jodi late! And then, we’ll get rip-roarin’ drunk. That oughta be good for another ten.’ ” He rolled his eyes. “Sheesh!” Turning on his heel, he slammed the bathroom door behind him.
“Don’t shut the door in my face!” I screamed. But the only sound on the other side of the door was the shower jets, turned on full force.
Shaking with anger, I glanced at my watch. Five-ten. Now I really was going to be late. I didn’t even feel like going to Yada Yada . . . but no way did I want to just stand there being ignored, either.
I stomped past Willie Wonka, who stood staring at me, tail hanging motionless, as I snatched up my tote bag on the front porch and headed for the minivan, which Denny had parked across the street.
Before I even got the door open, the clouds let loose.
By the time I got inside, slamming the door shut behind me, I was soaked.
“Oh, great,” I seethed, turning on the ignition and flipping on the lights and windshield wipers. “This is just great. I’m going to look a mess.”
I jerked the wheel and pulled the minivan out of the parking spot, slightly grazing the bumper of the car parked in front of me. Well, who cared. Not me. Denny shouldn’t have parked so tight in that spot.
I clicked the wipers to their highest speed, but I still had a hard time seeing between the foggy windshield inside and the huge splats of rain coming fast and furious on the outside. But I navigated west toward Clark Street, the main drag that would take me north into Evanston.
Tears of frustration and anger rose to the surface. Why couldn’t Denny just say, “I’m sorry” when he blew it instead of getting all defensive? I might still be late, but that certainly would’ve helped.
Not only that, but if I’d left on time I wouldn’t have to drive in this deluge, either.
The windshield wipers chased the rain from side to side in a hopeless frenzy, but so far the downpour had showed no signs of slowing down. Had I even remembered to bring Nony’s directions how to get to her house? They lived somewhere close to the university, in one of the north Evanston neighborhoods. It was going to be hard to see street signs and house numbers if the rain didn’t break soon.
Clark Street was extra busy. A long row of headlights came toward me in the premature darkness; a long row of red taillights sparkled in the rain in front of me. Even as I gripped the steering wheel of the minivan, I tried to get a grip on my feelings. I didn’t want to show up at Yada Yada mad as a wet hen and have to confess that Denny and I had just had a big fight about his drinking—what would that sound like? Besides, maybe it wasn’t all Denny’s fault. Had I just been mad at him for being late? Had I overreacted . . . again?
Up ahead, the next two lights turned green. Good. I’d make it through the first one for sure . . . could I make the next one at Howard Street, too? Howard was the east-west border between Chicago and Evanston, at which point Clark Street became Chicago Avenue, a nice long stretch before another light. I pushed the accelerator slightly, keeping an eye on the speedometer to make sure it stayed near thirty miles per hour, even as the rain continued to hammer the roof.
The traffic moved steadily . . . I was going to make it . . . keep going, Jodi, don’t slow down . . . just a couple more car lengths . . .
I was watching the light and didn’t see the small hooded figure dash out into the street until I was almost upon it. “Oh God!” I yelled and stomped on the brake. I felt the car skid under me . . . in front of my headlights a face jerked my way—just a kid!
I jerked the wheel, but the car kept sliding sideways . . . I felt a sickening thump . . . “Noooooo!” I screamed, and only at the last second saw a pair of headlights heading straight for my driver’s-side window—
35
I’m swimming . . . upward toward the light . . . all is silent around me, the silence of the ocean beneath the waves . . . but my lungs are bursting . . . pain wracks my side . . . I must break the surface and get a breath . . . but I can’t move my arms . . . why can’t I move? . . . voices . . . there are voices, but I don’t know what they’re saying . . . blurry faces above the water’s surface . . . I must break through . . . must struggle to the top . . . must get a breath—
“She’s coming around.”
I hear the voice . . . close, so close, but just out of reach . . . the light behind my eyelids is bright . . . did I break the surface? . . . why does it hurt to breathe? . . . if I reach out my hands, will I be saved? . . . but, God, I can’t move my arms!
“Jodi? Jodi Baxter? Can you open your eyes?”
With great effort, I managed to crack open my right eye—then closed it again against the bright light just inches from my face. But try as I would, I could not open my left eye.
“Jodi, can you hear me?” The voice was male. Insistent. Kind.
Yes! Yes, I can hear you! I tried to nod . . . but the most I could manage was a twitch. Panic rose in my throat like bile. Why couldn’t I move my head? Why couldn’t I move period?
A hand touched my arm. “Easy, Jodi,” said the voice, “don’t struggle. We’ve got you in a cervical collar and strapped to a backboard to keep you immobile—just until we can assess your injuries.”
Injuries? What injuries? “What . . . where am I?”Was that croaking my voice? My lips felt dry and cracked, the words dry and cracked, too. Once again, I tried to open my eyes and found myself staring with one eye at a bright light at the end of a long metal arm.
A masked face moved between me and the light and looked down.The masculine voice behind the mask said, “Jodi, I am Doctor Lewinski, St. Francis Hospital. You’ve been in a car accident. We’ve called your husband—he’ll be here soon. But we’re going to take you to get some x-rays, okay? Can you tell me what hurts?”
What hurts? I wanted to take a deep breath, but anything beyond tiny, rapid breaths sent fire shooting across my chest. “Chest . . . side,” I croaked. I forced my mind to roam over my body, trying to pinpoint the pain. “And . . . my leg . . . thigh . . .”
“Okay, good girl. We’re going to take care of that . . . just hang on. We’ll get those x-rays so we know what we’re dealing with.”
“JODI? Jodi, it’s Denny.”
The familiar voice pulled me once more through the fog into the light. I willed both eyes to open. Denny’s face hovered close to mine. Seeing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, feeling his breath on my skin, sent a tear sliding down my cheek. “Denny . . .”
“That’s one heck of a shiner you got there, babe.” I could hear both tenderness and terror in his voice.
“Denny . . . what—?”
“Shh, shh, don’t talk. Just want you to know I’m here.”
I closed my eyes. Everything was going to be all right. Denny was here.
“MR. AND MRS. BAXTER?” A tallish man with close-cropped brown hair and angular features parted the curtain and came into the narrow examining space. “I’m Doctor Lewinski, chief resident of the ER.” Through my cracked lids I saw the doctor—sans mask—shake Denny’s hand. “We’ve got some good news.”
Good news . . . good news, he said . . .
Dr. Lewinski consulted the clipboard he held in one hand. “Jodi’s CAT scan shows no epidural or subdural hematoma, in spite of the nasty knock she got on the left side of her head. X-ray of her spine is normal, which is why we took her off the board and got rid of the collar.”
I felt Denny grope for my hand and squeeze.
“Also, no collapsed lung—which can easily happen if a broken rib punctures the lung.”
“Broken rib . . .” Denny sounded dazed.
“Several. That’s giving her the most pain right now. But the left femur x-ray shows a midshaft fracture. We’ve got it splinted and wrapped in cold packs to keep the swelling down, but we’ll have to put a rod in there, as soon as we’re sure she’s stabilized. And . . .” The doctor paused.
“And?” Denny repeated. I could hear the fear creep back into his voice.
“The CAT scan of her abdomen shows a badly ruptured spleen. We may be able to treat it without surgery as long as she’s stable.”
“What about . . . the cut on her head, and all the swelling? You know, her eye . . .”
“Superficial. A few stitches, mostly in the hairline—you won’t even be able to see the scar.”
Through my half-opened eyes, I watched Dr. Lewinski walk around the end of the bed and come close to me. “Don’t mean to talk about you in third person, Mrs. Baxter—may I call you Jodi? Once the swelling goes down, you’ll have a beaut of a black eye, but that’l
l go away in a week or two . . . Oh, by the way. You have visitors.” He nodded soberly and headed for the door. “I’ll send them in—but only for a few minutes.”
My fingers curled around Denny’s hand. Don’t leave me . . . don’t leave me.
“Mom!” Amanda’s voice bounced into the room just ahead of her distraught face. “Ohmigosh! Dad—what happened? Mom?”
I could see Josh, tall and grim-faced, right behind his sister.
“Mom? What happened?” Amanda asked again.
I searched for words. “I . . . don’t know . . . don’t remember.”
“But there’s cops—”
“Not now, Amanda.” Denny’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Just give your mom some love, and we can talk later. The doctor was just here . . . good news! Mostly.”
Amanda opened her mouth, but a shake of Denny’s head shut it again. She bent over the railing and kissed me gently on the right side of my face. “Oh, Mom, get better real quick, okay?”
Wordlessly, Josh bent over the bed and kissed me on the forehead. My mouth twitched in an attempt to smile. He smelled like Denny’s aftershave. Josh straightened and jerked a thumb toward the door. “Avis is here. C’mon, Amanda.” He and Amanda disappeared out of my vision.
I tried to turn my head, but the movement created a stabbing pain near my left eye. “Avis?” I croaked. How did Avis—?
A commotion somewhere outside the curtain stirred up like a pot coming to boil. Voices argued; grew louder. Denny bent close to my ear and started talking rapidly. “Avis called me, worried because you didn’t show up at Nony’s—only seconds after I got a call from the hospital. I called Pastor Clark and he brought me straight to the hospital. Avis picked up the kids at youth group.”
Avis drifted into my view, clutching her big Bible. “Hey, sister.” She went around the bed and took my fingers, avoiding the tubes taped to the back of my hand. Her touch was gentle, her face calm. “Why didn’t you just tell us you wanted Yada Yada to meet at St. Francis?”