2-in-1 Yada Yada

by Neta Jackson

  To my surprise, I’d liked Adele’s visit. She didn’t try to talk to me or cheer me up; just rubbed my hands, layer after layer of thick hand cream. “Thank you,” I whispered as she stepped away from the bed to make room for a male nurse who came in with a large paper cup with a plastic lid and straw.

  “Let’s get that tube out of your nose.” The young man grasped the nasogastric tube that had been pumping fluid from my stomach. “Now, when I pull on this, I want you to cough. Okay?” Round glasses perched on his rather thin nose were topped by a shock of limp brown hair,making him look like a grown-up Harry Potter. He pulled, and I coughed . . . again and again. Felt like kicks in my side as the tube slowly emerged.

  “Heard you passed gas this morning, Mrs. Baxter.” He acted as if he was making casual conversation.

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh brother.” I could hear Adele snickering in the background.

  The nurse was unperturbed. “Now that we’ve passed that milestone, Doc says to try some ginger ale today.” He handed me the paper cup with the straw. “But go easy . . . only little sips.”

  I took a sip, then another. It tasted so good. I hadn’t realized how parched my mouth and throat were for real liquid. I took a bigger sip . . . and suddenly it all came back up and then some, splatting all over the bed and the nurse’s clean white tunic.

  He stared at me as if I’d done it on purpose. “The basin, Mrs. Baxter. You’re supposed to use the basin.” A big sigh. “Guess we’re going to have to change this bed again.” He snatched the paper cup and took it with him as he headed for the door.

  “Sorry,” I squeaked, lying back weakly on the upraised bed. Did he have any idea how much it hurt to throw up when you had a big incision in your belly and five broken ribs?

  The moment he was gone, Adele appeared at the side of the bed with a warm wet washcloth for my face. “That boy needs a stronger stomach if he’s gonna be any kind o’ nurse,” she muttered, barely concealing a grin.

  DENNY AND THE KIDS usually appeared about suppertime and stayed a couple of hours in the evening. I was glad to see Josh and Amanda, but I desperately wanted some time alone to talk with Denny about what the police officer had said. We didn’t know a lawyer—and couldn’t afford one even if we did! What were we going to do? But no one was telling me anything.

  Not that I had the courage to ask. I clung to the veneer of normalcy, the stream of nurses and visitors popping in and out like pinballs, the annoying shots and medications in little plastic cups, trips to the bathroom to see if I could “go,” even the hated walks down the corridor with the back of my gown flapping. I was even glad when the night staff woke me up at intervals to take my vitals—anything to keep the nightmare of that face, lit up in my headlights, from taking over my sanity.

  When the kids arrived on Thursday evening,Amanda eyed the “supper” tray of Jell-O and clear liquids an aide brought in. “Can’t you eat any real food yet? It’s been four days!”

  I sighed. “My abdomen is still bloated. Dr. Lewinski calls it ‘post-op ileus’—doc-talk for saying that my intestines are in shock and can’t handle solid food yet.”

  Amanda looked anxiously at her father then back to me. “But when are they going to let you come home?”

  “I don’t know—I was hoping by this weekend.” I reached out a hand to my daughter. “Gotta see you off to Mexico on Sunday.” I tried on a smile.

  “Uh, Mom.” Josh cleared his throat. “We’ve been talking to Dad and thinking maybe we shouldn’t go—not with you banged up like this. I mean, Dad’s gotta work, and you’re gonna need somebody to take care of you when you get home.”

  I stared at my children. I wanted to hug them, bawl all over their shoulders, thank them over and over for thinking of me. Yes, yes, I needed them, wanted them, didn’t want them to go away to Mexico with its dirt roads and crazy bus drivers and unsafe water and terrorists just waiting to sneak over the border—

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “No? Why not? Look at you, Mom!”

  I had looked at me in the bathroom mirror, and it wasn’t pretty. “Because you two have looked forward to this trip for six months, and you’ve worked hard to earn the money, and it’ll be a great experience, and you’re going. I’m not dead, and by all accounts I’m going to recover and be back nagging you to death about cleaning your rooms.”

  Denny couldn’t repress a smile. “I knew your mother wouldn’t go for it.”

  “But who’s going to take care of you, Mom?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m supposed to get up and get around. At least at home I can wear some decent clothes so I don’t shock Willie Wonka. See those crutches?” An aide had brought in a pair of elbow crutches for me to use to avoid hurting my cracked ribs.

  “By the time you get back from Mexico, I’m going to challenge you to a three-legged footrace.”

  By this time my husband and kids were laughing. Amanda leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mom.” She pulled back and studied my face. “But . . . are you sure? Because we really would be willing to stay.”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  The three of them left in high spirits. Mom was practically her old self again. She wanted them to go. Everything was going to be all right.

  I watched the heavy door shut behind them, feeling heavy with guilt. They thought I was being wonderful and selfless. They had no idea how selfish I was being. I knew their offer to give up the trip and stay home “to take care of Mom” was sincere . . . but they would resent it. Resent me. Maybe even hate me for being so stupid and careless to have an accident, to ruin our car, and ruin their Mexico trip on top of it.

  I couldn’t bear it. Somewhere out there was a family who already hated me because I had taken away their son, their “baby.” “Taken away?”—huh. Killed him. Bam!—like that. They wanted me in court, probably wanted me in jail . . . maybe wanted to ruin my family.

  Great silent sobs welled up inside me, each one painful as they fought against my broken ribs and sore abdomen. Hot tears spilled down my face, and my nose started to run. I couldn’t reach a tissue, so I just blew my nose on the bedsheet . . . but the tears wouldn’t stop.

  “Oh God! God!” I wailed out loud. “Where are You? Why did You let this happen? I don’t care how banged up I am—but why did You let that boy die? Everything would be okay if he just wasn’t dead! And Jesus isn’t walking around Chicago these days raising dead boys back to life, is He! . . . Is He!”

  The last two words were practically a scream, but the door stayed closed, and no visitors or nurses or aides came tripping in. I was alone . . . utterly abandoned and alone. Giving in to the fear and grief and confusion that were my life, I cried and cried and cried.

  38

  Dr. Lewinski discharged me on Sunday. Guess I’d peed and pooped to the staff ’s satisfaction, because they started to give me real food the last two days and sent me home with a long list of instructions of what I could and couldn’t (mostly couldn’t) do for the next six weeks. “We’ll need a follow-up x-ray on that leg and start you on some physical therapy,” the doc said.

  Denny picked me up in an old car that looked like something from Rent-a-Wreck. Somebody at Uptown was loaning it to us until the insurance paid up and we could get another car—but the insurance wasn’t paying anything till they found out whether I was liable.

  Guilty until proven innocent . . . now I knew what that felt like. But the loaner was okay if we didn’t want to actually go anywhere— and it looked like I would be staying put for a while.

  I got home in time to hug Amanda and Josh good-bye before they left in the church van for O’Hare Airport, where they would be boarding Mexicana Airlines for Mexico City. I hunched over my elbow crutches, looking at the two large duffel bags in the hallway, packed, zipped, locked, and ready. “I . . . wasn’t here to help you get ready.”

  “Oh, Mom! Don’t apologize! Edesa came over and helped us pack—except she made me and Josh wash our own clothes. Fold ’em, too.�
�� Amanda grinned, proud of herself. “But she knew just what to take for weather south of the border.”

  I wasn’t apologizing, I thought mournfully. I’m sad for me, that I missed it.

  And then it was another round of hugs and kisses and pats for Willie Wonka . . . and they were gone.

  After waving good-bye from the front porch, Denny held the screen door for me. “Honey, let’s get you in bed.You hungry? I could make you some tea and toast. And it’s about time for your meds.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” My whole midsection hurt, and I could hardly wait for the codeine-induced relief they’d sent home with me.

  Denny turned back the wedding ring quilt on our bed, collected all the pillows from the kids’ rooms to prop me up, and made sure I got in bed without falling over. Then he headed for the kitchen. I stared at the wedding ring quilt . . . and for the first time since the accident realized my long recovery was going to be hard on Denny, too. No sex, no cuddling, no fooling around.

  Neither one of us had talked about the fight we’d had just before the accident. In a way it wasn’t important, given the really big stuff we were dealing with now . . .

  Or was it?

  Willie Wonka pushed his nose over the side of the bed and tried to lick my hand, which was still bruised from the IV. I idly stroked his silky ears, but my thoughts were elsewhere, going backward, back to last Sunday night . . .

  Denny had gotten home late. I’d said I had to be at Yada Yada “by five o’clock.” He got the car home “by five o’clock” . . . so, okay, maybe that was a misunderstanding. I cringed, remembering how apoplectic I’d been that he made me late. I should probably apologize—

  But wait a minute. Denny had been drinking; I had smelled it on his breath. Sure, I could apologize for the misunderstanding about the time—but what about that? Still . . . I couldn’t very well say anything now, could I, since I was the one in deep doo-doo. He could throw it right back at me and get off clean as a whistle. After all, he wasn’t the one who . . .

  He wasn’t the one who . . .

  A horrible realization pushed itself into my consciousness. I’d accused Denny of being a danger behind the wheel—but I was the one who had been drunk on anger, driving hard, driving mad—

  No! I couldn’t think like that. It was an accident! It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!

  DENNY HAD BOUGHT A CELL phone and told me to call him immediately if I needed anything. He seemed really worried about going off to work and leaving me alone, but it was a relief. Small talk was hard for me when my whole world seemed like it was spinning out of control. After a week of doctors and nurses, being poked, prodded, and paraded, good ol’ Willie Wonka was about the right kind of company I needed: practically deaf, undemanding, just there.

  But around noon I heard a voice holler, “Hello? Jodi?”

  I was lying in my darkened bedroom, not reading, not thinking, just in a kind of numb stupor. But I roused myself on one elbow. “Who’s there?”

  Footsteps came down the hallway. “Avis! I brought supper.” The footsteps diverted through the dining room to the kitchen. A few minutes later she pushed open the half-closed bedroom door. “You okay?”

  I had been, thank you. “Yeah, I’m okay. How’d you get in?”

  She came in all the way and sat on the end of the bed. She was dressed casually, in white summer slacks, a blousy pale green top, and white thong sandals that stood out against her rich brown skin, even in the dim light. “Denny didn’t tell you? He gave me a key, asked me to check up on you while he was at work.”

  “Ah.” I fiddled with the quilt over my legs, conscious of my still bruised face and limp nightshirt. “Thanks for bringing us supper.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s just mac ’n’ cheese. One of the few things I can cook—everything else I touch turns out raw or charred!” She chuckled. “Just don’t tell Yo-Yo.”

  I tried to smile, but I wasn’t very good at it.

  Avis dug around in her big leather purse. “Look, I brought you some CDs to listen to. Especially when you’re home alone, it’ll be good to fill your days with praise.” She looked at me closely. “You’re going to need some Word you can draw on, Jodi, when the going gets tough . . . oh! And I brought you this.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her Bible. “It’s a list of healing scriptures. When you don’t know what to pray—” She waved the piece of paper. “—pray these. Especially Psalm 103, the one I circled. That one’s for you, Jodi.”

  She stood up. “Want me to put it with your Bible?”

  “Uh, sure. It’s in my tote bag somewhere . . .” My tote bag had been in the now-wrecked minivan. “I’ll have to ask Denny. Maybe he knows where it is.”

  “Okay. Want me to put one of these on now?” She held up one of the CDs.

  “Uh, no, that’s okay. I . . . think I’m going to sleep now for a while.”

  She knew I was stalling. But we both let my lame excuse stand. She came over and put both the piece of paper and the CDs in my lap. “Jodi, I don’t know why God is taking you through this valley, this ‘valley of the shadow of death,’ but He’s got a reason. A big reason. Go through, sister . . . go through.”

  A few minutes later, I heard the front door close, and all was quiet.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .

  How many times in my life had I repeated Psalm 23, feeling safe and secure, like that little lamb in the Sunday school pictures being carried by the Good Shepherd? But I had never really thought about what it meant to “walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” and I was afraid.

  AVIS’S PAN OF MACARONI AND cheese was so huge, Denny and I figured it would probably feed us for the rest of the week. But after reheating some for lunch the next day, I decided to freeze the rest and bring it out when the kids got home from Mexico.

  I sat at the dining room table, blinds darkened, my crutches propped on a nearby chair, picking at my lunch and thinking about what Denny had said last night. He’d been very quiet when he came home from work—not at all like Denny, who was usually full of funny stories about the kids he was coaching in the summer park program . . .

  “I talked to a lawyer last week—”

  “What lawyer? We don’t have a lawyer.”

  “We have one now. Stu gave me a couple of names of lawyers who handle cases like this.”

  I’d pressed my lips into a thin line. That meant Stu knew why we needed a lawyer.

  “He called me today on the cell, wants to talk to you before the arraignment—”

  “Arraignment?” My heart seemed to skip a beat. “What does that mean?”

  “Like a hearing where the charges are read and bail is set. William Farrell—our lawyer—says it’s routine; you don’t have to appear, especially not in your condition. The defense lawyer is given a copy of the charges by the state’s attorney’s office, then a preliminary hearing is set. Maybe even next week.”

  Next week? I could feel my heart beating rapidly. So they really were going to press charges; I really was going to have to go to court.

  “Why didn’t he call and tell me?” I hadn’t meant for my tone to be so challenging, but that’s the way it came out.

  Denny hid his exasperation well. “Because you’ve just been through a terrible ordeal, and I don’t want the lawyer or anyone else calling out of the blue upsetting you about this!”

  “I’m upset already.” Tears had brimmed in my eyes and splashed down into Avis’s macaroni and cheese.

  Denny had reached out his hand and closed it over my own. “I know, honey. Let’s just talk to the lawyer tonight and let him take it from there. Maybe you won’t even have to go.”

  Not have to go? I’d clutched at the hope. “But . . . it’s my life they’ll be talking about. Don’t I get to say anything? Tell my story?”

  “I don’t know, Jodi. This is new for me too. We just need to pray about it and ask others to be praying.”

  “I
don’t want other people praying about it!” I’d wailed. “I don’t want everybody knowing I’m being charged with . . . with vehicular manslaughter, or whatever he called it.”

  I don’t know how long I’d been sitting there toying with my food, going over the talk with William J. Farrell, Esquire, in our living room last evening, when I heard the front door being opened and another “Hellooo! Sista Jodee?”

  That didn’t sound like Avis. A Jamaican accent, more like . . .

  “Chanda!”

  Chanda stood in the archway of the dining room, loaded to the gills with a bucket, a mop, rags, spray plastic bottles, and aerosol cans. “What in the world?”

  She held up a key and grinned apologetically. “Don’ mean to scare you. Denny gave it to me. But you never mind. I be blessed quiet—’cept when I vacuum. You got a vacuum?”

  “Oh, Chanda.” What was Denny thinking? We had a zillion hospital bills we hadn’t even seen yet! “Denny shouldn’t have asked—”

  “ ’E didn’t ask. I just tol’ the mon I was comin’.”

  Chanda . . . something about Chanda. Suddenly I remembered. That was what I was supposed to do last Tuesday—take Chanda to get her mammogram. And I hadn’t once thought to ask anybody what the outcome was.

  “Last Tuesday . . . I’m so sorry I couldn’t take you to your doctor’s appointment. Did you find another way?”

  “Oh, sure. Avis took me.”

  “And—?”

  “T’ot you’d never ask. Got a mammogram, got a biopsy of that ol’ lump.” A wide smile took over her face, making her almost . . . pretty. “No cancer! Hallelujah, Jesus! No cancer!” Chanda dropped the bucket and mop and did a little shuffle dance right there in the archway.

  “That’s wonderful, Chanda. I’m so glad.”