by Neta Jackson
But that was the frustration. In her mind she kept seeing Candy’s sober eyes and Pookey’s tearstained face. Not to mention the baby’s angry bottom. And Otto—whoever he was—with his drunken face in his plate.
“We can only do so much, Michelle,” her supervisor said when she got to the office and reported on yesterday’s visit. “You left your card. Maybe the mother will call.”
Not likely. But one could hope. And pray.
Most of her day that Friday was spent doing home visits of foster parents where Bridges had helped place children, working on reports, and making calls to find a Family Friend volunteer who might be able to come alongside Jeffrey Coleman. To her relief, Ray Stevens, one of the volunteers from Loyola University, said weekends would be perfect for him. “My girlfriend’s doing an overseas program till August, so I need something to fill my lonely weekends,” he’d laughed.
Perfect. She asked if Ray could meet her at Jeffrey’s home at two o’clock tomorrow. “No problem. Just give me the address.”
The rain had stopped earlier that afternoon and Friday going-home traffic wasn’t too bad. Her cell phone rang as she headed up Western Avenue but she let it go to voicemail. Then groaned when she checked at a traffic light to see who’d called. Shareese Watson. Probably wanted to talk about her book club idea again. So far the committee hadn’t come up with any firm ideas for the women’s ministry June event coming up in three weeks, which left a vacuum Shareese was only too eager to fill.
Michelle sighed. She really needed to spend some time praying and thinking about that. Ideally, it’d be great to do a summer series with a similar theme, so they didn’t have to come up with totally different events each month.
Maybe she’d call her friend Norma, do some brainstorming before Sunday.
As she pulled up in front of the house and got out of the car, she heard her name being called. “Mrs. Jasper? Mrs. Jasper! I’m so glad I caught you!”
Who in the world? Michelle saw a young black woman come flying out of Grace Meredith’s house next door, waving at her. Mid-twenties, perky twists all over her head, a big smile, a clipboard clutched in one hand.
“Hi! I’m Samantha Curtis, Grace Meredith’s assistant.” The young woman held out her free hand and gave Michelle’s a hearty pump. “So glad to finally meet.”
Michelle smiled. “Please. Call me Michelle. Guess we’ve only talked on the phone—and from the West Coast at that.” Samantha had called several times on Grace’s Just Grace tour in April, wanting more brochures from the Lifeline Care Center. She’d sounded very businesslike on the phone. Hadn’t quite expected such a beautiful young lady.
Samantha beamed. “And most people call me Sam. Anyway, Grace said you offered to order some brochures for her upcoming concerts. I’m so sorry I’m just now getting back to you. Grace has a couple concerts over Memorial Day weekend. I know, I know, that’s next weekend, but”—she grimaced apologetically—“would it be possible to get copies of all your brochures by next Thursday? We leave Friday morning.” Samantha pulled a sheet of paper from the clipboard and handed it to her. “Here’s what we think we might need—including a separate order for her upcoming summer tour. But if that’s too much all at once, just order enough for next weekend.”
Michelle took the sheet of paper and scanned it. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m going to Lifeline tomorrow morning. We might have enough in stock, and if there’s not enough, I’ll call in a rush order.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Jasper—I mean, Michelle. We’ll cover the cost, of course. Just give me an invoice—including any extra cost for sending it UPS or Priority Mail—whatever’s fastest, okay?” She turned to go. “Well, gotta run. And I’m so glad I got to meet you in person at last!” The young woman waved good-bye and headed for a car parked down the block.
Michelle headed up the steps onto the small porch, got out her key, and then paused. The porch wasn’t very big, but it did cover half the front of their brick bungalow abutting the kitchen. Big enough for a porch swing. Wouldn’t that be nice? If they had a porch swing, that’s what she’d do right now, just sit on the swing and think about . . . about nothing for ten minutes before entering the fray.
“Ma’am? Did you order pizza?” called a voice. “Looking for Jasper . . . 7337 Beecham.”
Michelle turned. A young man in a car with a Giordano’s Pizza sign stuck on its roof had pulled to the curb and was calling to her from an open window on the passenger side. “Guess that’s us,” she said. A moment later he was running up their walk with a large, square insulated bag.
The front door opened and Jared stepped out onto the porch. “Oh! Hi, Michelle. Didn’t know you were home yet. I ordered a couple pizzas for supper, hope that’s okay.” And to the delivery guy, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take those . . . How much do I owe you?” He handed the young man a couple of twenties, told him to keep the change, and followed Michelle back inside the house. “Wasn’t sure when you’d get home and I need to eat early so I can head over to the church to get things set up for the workday tomorrow. Thought you wouldn’t mind a night off in the kitchen anyway.”
“Sure, that’s fine . . . but I didn’t know you had to go to the church tonight too.”
“Yeah, sorry. The whole thing was so last-minute. Have to pick up a rug shampooer I rented this afternoon and get a bunch of other supplies at Home Depot for the workday, so I need the minivan. Then some of the deacons thought we ought to go over tonight and get organized to make the best use of people’s time tomorrow.” He set the two pizzas on the dining table and raised his voice. “Tavis! Tabby! Pizzas are here!”
“Awriiight!” Tavis came pounding up the stairs from the family room, Tabby hot on his heels. “Didya get pepperoni?”
“But I wanted that tropical one with pineapple!”
“Yuck!”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Jared snatched up the pizza boxes from grasping hands. “Take it easy. We’ve got two large pizzas here—this one is half pepperoni, half sausage and mushroom . . . and the other one has Tabby’s tropical stuff on half, and for you, my queen”—he winked at Michelle—“the super veggie.”
The front door slammed. “Did somebody say pizza?”
Michelle heard a thud as Destin tossed his backpack on the floor somewhere, sliding into a chair at the table two seconds later. Wagging her head, she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll get a knife.”
At least the whole family was together for a good twenty minutes.
* * *
Jared took the minivan after supper to pick up the rug shampooer and other supplies at Home Depot before heading over to the church. Destin had picked up a movie at Blockbuster on the way home from school, and before she could ask about it, he said, “Yes, Mom”—with that annoying patient tone teenagers use on their parents—“I got Shrek the Third, an’ it’s PG, so the twerps can watch it too.” Tavis ran across the street to ask DaShawn Bentley if he’d like to come over and watch it with them.
Fine. Michelle was almost tempted to veg out in Jared’s recliner in the family room and watch it with them. Even she could hardly resist the loveable ogre and the hilarious donkey. But she decided she could also use some kid-free time to make her grocery list for tomorrow’s shop, and maybe call Norma to brainstorm some ideas for the women’s ministry.
As Eddie Murphy’s “donkey voice” floated up from the basement family room, Michelle pulled out the corn popper and poured in a little oil. A movie night needed popcorn. As the kernels started to pop, a wave of gratefulness swept over her. At least the kids were under her roof, not hanging out on the street somewhere . . .
Like Jeffrey Coleman had been. Would Bridges get to the preteen before the street life in that neighborhood swallowed him up? Her stomach churned. Let it go, Michelle, she told herself. You can’t carry every situation home with you. Take the weekend off.
But halfway through popping the corn, she realized the churning in her stomach was more than an emotional reaction to client concerns. The
pizza obviously was not agreeing with her. Hurriedly finishing the popcorn, she headed for the bathroom, feeling as if she might throw up . . . but didn’t. She just sat on the toilet, head down, hoping the feeling of nausea would pass.
Finally she took some Pepto-Bismol, went back to the kitchen and turned the gas on under the teakettle to make some peppermint tea. Jared’s mother had sworn by peppermint tea for stomach upsets when she lived with them.
“Destin?” she called down the stairs. “Destin! Come get the popcorn!” No response. She finally had to go downstairs with the popcorn, picked up the remote, and paused the movie. “Kids, I’m not feeling so good, don’t think the pizza agreed with me. Does anyone else have an upset stomach?”
“We’re fine, Mom. Can we—”
“Okay, good. But I’m going to lie down, so when the movie’s done, I want DaShawn to go right home, okay? Everybody . . . okay?”
Heads nodded, then once more eyes and ears were glued to the movie.
Wearily, Michelle pulled herself up the stairs, made the peppermint tea, and headed for the bedroom. She’d just have to make the grocery list tomorrow when she got home from Lifeline. Oh, wait—she’d made an appointment for Ray to meet with Jeffrey and his mother at two. That meant grocery shopping late on Saturday afternoon.
She hated shopping late on Saturday.
Not bothering to brush her teeth or wrap her hair, Michelle crawled into bed, still feeling like she wanted to throw up. Ugh. The weekend had barely started and already she felt ground up and spit out.
Chapter 10
Michelle woke early—not surprising since she’d been in bed since eight thirty last night. She’d awakened briefly when Jared got home, told him she had an upset stomach, and asked him to supervise bedtime. He got her some more Pepto-Bismol . . . and that’s the last she remembered until she awoke at ten to six.
She rolled out of bed, pulled on her robe and slippers, and padded out to the living room. The house was blessedly quiet. She wasn’t sure if Jared had set his alarm, but he said he had to be at the church by eight thirty. If he wasn’t up by seven, she’d wake him. Until then . . .
She pulled aside the front window curtains to check the weather. Beyond the porch a thick morning fog wrapped the neighborhood like a scene from Sherlock Holmes. Hopefully it would burn off soon. But a figure emerged through the fog . . . no, two figures, a man and a dog. Could be Harry Bentley walking his black Lab—some kind of police dog, if she remembered correctly. Estelle’s husband did security for Amtrak and the kids said he had a dog kennel in the back of the SUV he drove to work, though it wasn’t obvious through the tinted windows of the Dodge Durango.
Putting coffee on to drip, Michelle perched on a stool at the counter separating the compact kitchen from the dining area and read a few psalms from her Bible—something she rarely had time to do most mornings. A verse in Psalm 5 caught her eye and she read it aloud softly. “Let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you . . .”
Refuge . . . The word kind of summed up why she worked as a social worker for Bridges Family Services, and why she volunteered at Lifeline Care Center. Providing a safe place for families and women in crisis—offering whatever protection she could. But of course this verse was talking about finding refuge in God . . . Did she think of her relationship with God that way? A place of refuge for herself? Most of the time she felt as if she was always running, trying to juggle home and kids and church and work and clients. Wasn’t too often that she just “sang for joy” either—unless it was Sunday morning and she let the worship carry her away.
The coffeepot dinged, signaling it was done. She poured a fragrant cup and glanced at the clock. Six thirty . . . the household would be stirring in half an hour. But maybe she had time to get her grocery list together so she could shop on her way home from her appointment with the Lewis-Coleman family this afternoon.
The list was almost done when Jared wandered into the kitchen in bare feet, sweatpants and T-shirt, scratching his head sleepily. “Hey, hon.” He kissed the back of her neck and then poured himself a cup of coffee. “You feeling any better this morning?”
“Mm-hm. Should’ve stuck with the veggie pizza last night. I had a slice of the pepperoni too, don’t think it agreed with me. But I’m okay now. The extra sleep did me good, but I could use another shot of that coffee.” She held out her cup and Jared refilled it. “So you’re taking Tavis with you to the workday, and Destin’s taking the bus to the track meet. That leaves Tabby . . . don’t really like to leave her home alone all day. Any chance you could take her with you to the workday too?”
Jared frowned and glanced at the clock. “Guess so. As long as she knows she needs to be a help, not a hindrance. I can’t be supervising kids and the work crew at the same time. We should’ve told her last night though, let her get used to the idea.”
“Sorry about that. Wasn’t thinking too good last night . . .” Pushing the grocery list aside, she slid off the stool. “Guess I better go wake her up, let her get used to the idea now. I’ll make pancakes when I get back—oh! Did you look at your work schedule for Memorial Day weekend?”
“Yeah, I did. Don’t have the holiday off, but it’s my usual Monday schedule—don’t have to be at work till two, so guess we could do something, as long as I’m back in time.”
“Oh, Jared! That’s great.” Michelle gave her husband a happy hug. “Let’s talk about it tonight, ask the kids what they’d like to do. But we better get moving now if you and the twins need to be at the church by eight thirty.” And get herself to Lifeline by nine. She zipped toward Tabby’s room, suddenly feeling energetic.
“Just can’t spend a lot of money!” he called after her. “We’re out Destin’s basketball camp fee until he pays us back—and whatever we work out for the twins this summer is gonna take some bucks too.”
“I’ll remember!” she called back. There were a lot of things they could do that didn’t cost very much . . . she hoped.
* * *
Michelle pulled Jared’s Altima into the parking lot of the Lifeline Care Center a little before nine. They’d traded cars so that Jared could use the minivan in case he needed to haul more supplies—or people—for the workday at Northside. Nice little car, the Altima—a two-door coupe, dark slate metallic on the outside, charcoal black on the inside. Clean as a whistle, but that was Jared. Definitely a Type A. Had to be, she guessed, to do his kind of job, all senses on alert watching blips on a screen that represented hundreds of lives in each plane, getting each blip in and out of O’Hare safely.
She sailed through the glass doors into the cozy lobby of Lifeline. The crisis pregnancy center had started in a church basement, then moved several times before a yearly fundraiser enabled them to purchase their current space in the Humboldt Park neighborhood and support two staff persons and a legion of volunteers. The new center not only offered pregnancy testing and counseling, but housed a Wee Welcome Shop with new and gently used maternity clothes, baby clothes, cribs and car seats. The most recent addition was post-abortion support and healing—which was Michelle’s passion.
In her job as a caseworker for Bridges, she’d encountered too many women who’d had an abortion and were then ignored once their “crisis pregnancy” was ended. But many suffered from post-abortion syndrome or simply needed nonjudgmental aftercare. She’d advocated that Lifeline offer a post-abortion support group—called Hope and Healing—and offered her services free of charge.
“’Morning, Bernice! Do I have any new appointments this morning besides the support group?”
“’Morning yourself, Michelle. What you all perky for today?” The volunteer receptionist was in her fifties, a grandmother six times over, a tad on the plumpish side, and fairly light-skinned for an African American.
Michelle laughed. “We’re going away for the holiday next weekend—so don’t make any new appointments for me, okay? The Hope
and Healing group already agreed not to meet on the holiday weekend.”
“Lucky you.” Bernice was running her finger down an appointment book. “Nothing till your support group at ten—but you have a new client, Hannah West, at eleven. I blocked out an hour for her since it’s her first session.”
“Thanks, Bernice. Perfect. I have another favor to ask . . . do we have a lot of brochures in stock?” She briefly explained about her neighbor who did concerts for young people and wanted the brochures to be available. “They’re willing to purchase them, but she’s got a couple concerts next weekend.”
Bernice shrugged as the telephone rang. “Check the cabinets just outside the Wee Welcome Shop . . . Hello? Lifeline Care Center. May I help you?”
Michelle poked her head into Margie Sutton’s office to say she wouldn’t be in next weekend, but the director’s office was empty so she left a note on her desk. Voices and laughter spilled into the hallway from the large, brightly painted room housing the Wee Welcome Shop, and as she passed she waved at the handful of high school volunteers and their youth group leader who’d come in early to sort and fold donations. Opening the first cabinet lining the hallway, she was grateful to see large stacks of brochures on the shelves. Checking the list Grace’s assistant had given her, she grabbed packets containing fifty of the four brochures Lifeline kept on hand until she had 250 of each. Seemed like a lot of brochures—but then, Samantha had said Grace had a couple of concerts Memorial Day weekend, plus a few other concerts before her tour next month. If they were going to use so many, maybe they ought to order them directly instead of through Lifeline . . . not that she minded helping out, but still.
Making a note of how many she’d taken, she asked Bernice to figure the cost and make an invoice she could give to Grace. And by the time the five young women in the support group showed up, a few others were getting pregnancy tests, two very pregnant young women were browsing in the Wee Welcome Shop, and two of the counseling rooms had closed doors.