by Neta Jackson
Nick’s shoulders sagged. He shook his head slowly. “I . . . I can’t believe it. We thought surely the CPR would keep him alive until the paramedics showed up. You’re sure? He’s dead?” Then he looked sheepish. “Of course you’re sure. You don’t say things like that unless you’re sure.”
Avis just watched his face. The young man seemed truly distressed.
He sat on the couch for several minutes, his elbows leaning on his knees. Then he looked up at Avis. “Would you mind coming downstairs and telling the girls? I think Kat’s going to take this pretty hard. It’s the first time she’s done CPR in a real situation. That it didn’t save him . . .” Nick shook his head. “Maybe you could help her.”
“The first time?” Avis was startled. The girl had leaped into the situation as if she’d given CPR a dozen times. Bossy. Confident. No one had stopped her. No one had asked if she knew what she was doing. Probably because most of them didn’t know CPR themselves and were glad someone—even someone as young as Kathryn Davies—looked as if she knew what she was doing.
Unwelcome thoughts crowded into her mind. Had the girl known what she was doing? If she had, would Pastor Clark still be alive?
No, no. She couldn’t let her mind go there. But she wasn’t sure she could reassure the girl either.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I’m afraid you’ll have to bear the news. We have a lot of calls to make to let people in the church know that Pastor Clark died. But if we hear any more information, we’ll be sure to let you know downstairs.” She stood up. “Do we have your phone numbers? Here’s ours . . .”
Avis grabbed the church phone directory she’d been using and wrote down their names and numbers as Nick read them from his cell phone. Then she gave him their number, hoping it wasn’t a mistake to do so. She didn’t want a lot of calls from them about every little thing.
Nick seemed reluctant to leave but finally went back downstairs. Avis immediately called the Hickmans, the next number on the list.
The phone was picked up on the first ring. “That you, Avis? What’s the word, girl? Me an’ Carl ’bout ready to go crazy over here.”
“Oh, Florida. Pastor Clark didn’t make it. It was a major heart attack. He’s gone.”
Avis heard the gasp in her ear. Then, “Carl! Carl! Get on the phone!” A second phone picked up, and Avis repeated her sad news.
Carl’s voice was gruff. “All right. Was afraid of that when I heard what happened. Uh, Ms. Avis, tell your man to call me. I know he wants to know when I’m comin’ back to work, but might be another week or so.”
Florida waited until the second phone went dead. “Why bad things happen all at the same time, Avis? First Carl gets hurt at work, now this.”
Avis winced. Good question. And her list was even longer. Rochelle still missing—at least not communicating. Bethune Elementary possibly getting shut down. Her own job on the line if that happened. Peter’s business hitting bumps in the road. The buyout he’d hoped for now in question.
“I don’t know, Flo. Just got to keep trusting, I guess. Uh, about the holiday. I don’t think we’ll come over to barbecue. We might need to help plan for the funeral.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I understand. Don’t feel much like doin’ anything myself. But call me when you get any more news, hear?”
Avis worked her way through the other names on her list, hearing Peter doing the same thing in the study. They needed a better system to get word around, even though Jodi Baxter and Debra Meeks were making calls too.
Avis finally put the phone back in its cradle and wearily massaged the back of her neck. She had to get out of her church clothes. Soak in the tub. Do something to release the tension in her shoulders and back.
But the phone rang before she was even halfway to the bedroom. Caller ID said Rose Cobbs.
“Avis? Sister Rose here. Pastor would call you, but once we got home I made him go back to bed. He’s running a temp of 102.”
Avis murmured something sympathetic as she walked to the bedroom with the phone, slipping off her shoes and wiggling one-handedly out of her dress.
“Funeral is set for next Saturday at ten in the morning. So we need to get word around to the church . . .”
Avis wanted to groan. Making all those calls again?
“But the main thing Pastor wanted to call about is . . . could you and Peter meet with him at the church tomorrow? Maybe one o’clock? He’s presuming you have the day off since it’s a holiday. Humph. He’s also presuming he’ll be the picture of health tomorrow,” she added. Avis noted the tinge of irritation. Men. Even pastors.
“Uh, meet? Do you know what about? If it’s planning for the funeral, we could use more—”
“Not the funeral. He wants to talk to you and Peter about stepping up to the plate in the wake of Pastor Clark’s death. He needs you, Avis. You and Peter both. He wants to avoid a leadership crisis.”
Chapter 22
Kat lay curled up on the green-and-brown tweed couch, wrapped in one of the Candys’ afghans. For the past hour she’d been wrestling with the news Nick had brought down from upstairs. Pastor Clark is dead . . . Is it my fault? . . . He had a pulse! When I started the CPR, anyway . . . Didn’t I push on his chest hard enough? . . . Is the church going to blame me?
And another set of anxious thoughts wove through the others. Maybe staying in Chicago this summer wasn’t a good idea . . . None of us have jobs yet—and I had a ready-made job back in Phoenix . . . And why did we move into this apartment so soon? We’ll have to commute to school every day for the next two weeks!
She heard Nick’s cell phone ring somewhere in the apartment—that annoying “laugh track” ringtone—and then his voice, indistinct, answering. Her housemates had all drifted to different rooms to be alone with their thoughts and feelings after the distressing events of that day. Or do homework. Whatever. Right now she didn’t care that she had a Spanish novel to read and fifty vocabulary words to memorize and use correctly in a sentence by Tuesday.
Pulling the afghan over her head, she burrowed deeper into the couch.
But a moment later she felt a hand shake her shoulder. “Kat?” Nick lowered himself to the couch beside her. “That was Mrs. Douglass upstairs. She called to say the funeral will be next Saturday at ten. She had promised to let us know any news.”
Kat sat up. “Did she say anything else?” Like, are people blaming me for what happened?
Nick shrugged. “Not really. Seemed in kind of a hurry. Said she had a lot of calls to make. Guess she’s got to call everybody again.” He pushed himself off the couch. “I better go tell Brygitta and Livie too.”
Kat frowned as Nick headed down the hall to look for the other girls. With sudden determination, she threw off the afghan, stood up, and hunted for her shoes. She was going to go nuts worrying about this. Best thing to do was just go up to the Douglass apartment and ask.
The door of the third-floor apartment finally opened after she’d knocked three times. Avis Douglass was wearing a casual warm-up suit in blue velour, no earrings, reading glasses perched on her nose, cordless phone in hand. Up close, Kat realized the woman’s warm brown skin was smooth and wrinkle free, making her seem younger than fiftysomething. Mrs. Douglass didn’t say anything, just arched her eyebrows at Kat as if they were question marks.
“Uh . . . can I talk to you for a minute, Mrs. Douglass? I know you’re busy, but I need to ask you something.”
The woman seemed to hesitate, and suddenly Kat felt foolish. She should have called first—though that probably wouldn’t have worked, since the woman had obviously been on the phone. But just when she’d decided to forget it and run back downstairs, Mrs. Douglass opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Of course. Come in, Kathryn.”
Kat walked into the spacious living room—though, actually, it was the same size as the Candys’ apartment below but not as cluttered with excess furniture and “stuff.” The black leather couch and matching recliner were the primary focus, with a glass-topped
coffee table, an area rug of warm tan, rust, and black designs, and bookcases running along one wall. “Nice,” she murmured.
Avis Douglass sat on one end of the couch and graciously indicated the other end for Kat. “You wanted to ask me something?” Her voice was composed. Low. Well modulated. Kat felt calmer just being there.
“Yes. I . . . well, this is kind of awkward. But I’ve been worried all day about what happened to Pastor Clark. So just thought I’d ask straight up.”
Mrs. Douglass waited.
Kat sucked in a breath and blew it out. “Did I do something wrong? Doing the CPR, I mean. My dad—he’s a cardiologist—is big on everybody knowing how to do CPR, so he taught me. But . . . that was the first time I’d done it in a real emergency.” Her heart was thumping in her ears, but she couldn’t read the woman’s face, so she rushed on. “You told Nick that the doctors are saying Pastor Clark died of a massive heart attack. But I really thought doing the CPR would save him! So when I heard he’d died, I got worried that I’d done something wrong. That people would blame me.”
Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes, and Kat quickly brushed them away. No way did she want to appear like a crybaby. Even though she really wanted to ask, “Do you blame me?”
Mrs. Douglass studied her neatly manicured hands for several long moments. She finally looked up. “No one is blaming you, Kathryn. And you shouldn’t blame yourself. I learned CPR a long time ago since I’m responsible for a school full of children and adult staff, but I’ve never had to use it, so I can’t evaluate the effectiveness of your efforts. But . . . I’m sure you did your best. That’s all anyone can do. And ultimately, our lives are in God’s hands. Only God determines when it’s ‘our time.’ We have to trust God in this, even though we’re all in shock to lose Pastor Clark like this. So suddenly.”
Kat felt a rush of relief at her words, but this time the tears spilled over.
Mrs. Douglass handed her a box of tissues. “Don’t worry. We’re all shedding a few tears today.” She stood up. “But you’ll need to excuse me. I still have a lot of calls to make. You’ll be all right?”
After mopping her face, Kat stood up too and nodded. “Thanks. Uh, is there anything I can do? I’d like to do something.” Suddenly she brightened. “I could help make calls to people in the church! About the funeral, I mean. Nick said you’d already called people to tell them Pastor Clark had died, and now you have to call again. I’m sure you’re tired of being on the phone.”
Mrs. Douglass shook her head and murmured, “Thanks anyway.” But just then her husband poked his head into the living room. “Avis, can you—Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was here. But when you have a minute, I need to see you.” He waved his cell phone. “Pastor Cobbs wants to talk to us by phone as soon as possible.”
“See?” Kat urged. “I know you have other things to do. Let me help make calls. Give me the list, tell me what to say. I’ll do it right away.”
A few minutes later Kat walked out the door with the SouledOut phone list, the names and numbers marked that still needed to be called, and information about the funeral written on a slip of paper. Even though she’d come up to the third floor heavyhearted, Kat fairly flew down the stairs.
“So.” Kat eyed her housemates over a glass of pureed carrot juice the next morning. “We’re all going to the youth group picnic at the lake this afternoon, right? It starts at three.”
“Is it still on?” Brygitta looked horrified. “I mean, one of their pastors just keeled over in church and died!”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ve canceled,” Olivia said, munching on a piece of raisin toast.
“Wrong. I called Josh Baxter to check. He said getting the teens together is even more important since that happened, to give them a chance to talk about it.”
“Well, sure. Have a meeting or something. But not a picnic.”
Kat shrugged. “All I know is, he said the picnic is still on. Said Pastor Clark wouldn’t want them to sit around sogging in their grief. He’d want them to live.”
Nick leaned back in his chair at the kitchen table. “I like that. Makes me wish Pastor Clark were going to be around longer. I think there are a lot of things I could’ve learned from him.”
Kat smiled fondly. That was so like Nick. “Back to the question. Who’s going to the picnic? Livie? Brygitta? Would do us all good to get outside.”
Getting a promise that they’d try to get stuff done by three would have to do. Kat put some potatoes on to boil for a cold potato salad—they’d done some food shopping at the Rogers Park Fruit Market on Saturday afternoon after moving in—and tackled her Spanish vocabulary. Having a deadline helped to focus her attention, and by two o’clock she was peeling the chilled potatoes and chopping celery and onions for the salad.
At the last minute, Josh Baxter called and said they’d gotten a permit to use the fire ring up at the Lighthouse Beach in Evanston. They’d need a ride. But if they didn’t mind riding with a two-year-old, Edesa would pick them up in his parents’ minivan while he trucked the teens in the church van.
Kat was excited. She’d been wanting to get to know Edesa Baxter, especially since the young mom’s Spanish was so fluent. The Dodge Caravan pulled up in front of the three-flat right at three, and the four college students piled in. Nick sat in front with Edesa, Livie and Brygitta crawled into the third seat, and Kat and her potato salad sat next to two-year-old Gracie’s car seat in the middle.
The little girl watched Kat with big, solemn eyes. Kat smiled and waggled her fingers. “Hi. Remember me? My name’s Kat.”
The round, olive face puckered in a frown. “You not a cat. You a muchacha!”
Brygitta and Olivia snickered in the rear seat.
Kat caught Edesa smiling at her daughter in the rearview mirror. “Kat is her nickname, niña,” the young mother tossed back. “You should call her ‘Miss Kathryn.’ ”
The little girl howled with glee. “No-o! She Miss Gato! Me-oww.”
Now everyone laughed. Kat was tickled. “Miss Gato is just fine, Miss Gracie.”
As the car headed north along the lake on Sheridan Road, Edesa pointed out various places they were passing. Kat wanted to listen, but Gracie chatted away, peppering Kat with questions. “What’s dat?”—pointing to the bowl in Kat’s lap. “Is dat your daddy?”—pointing at Nick. “Can you skip?” . . . “See my fairy shoes?”—showing off her miniature gym shoes with Velcro straps. Wondering what made them “fairy shoes,” Kat caught tidbits from the front seat about the cemetery that marked the boundary between Chicago and Evanston . . . the stately buildings of Northwestern University . . . the lighthouse in the distance that was their destination . . . and then Edesa turned into a small parking lot overlooking one of the many public beaches running along the Lake Michigan shore.
The church van had already arrived. Josh and half a dozen teenagers were lugging coolers, pans of food, and a portable charcoal grill to the sole picnic shelter in a grassy area. A set of steps led down to the beach, where a couple of the teen guys were setting up a volleyball net. Tucked into a grove of trees above the beach was a fire ring, and Nick joined a crew hauling firewood for an end-of-the-evening bonfire.
Kat deposited the potato salad with the other food, eager to get acquainted with some of the teens and join the volleyball game. But Gracie pulled away from her mother and grabbed Kat’s hand. “Miss Gato! Miss Gato! See my fairy shoes? They sparkle!” The little girl jumped up and down, making the heels of her shoes light up. Then she pulled Kat down the steps to the beach, a plastic bucket and shovel in her other hand.
Not seeing the girl’s mother, Kat took off Gracie’s shoes and her own sandals and resigned herself to helping build a “sand mountain.” The sky was overcast, but at least the air was warm, somewhere in the seventies. A gentle breeze blew in off the lake, and all threats of rain had disappeared during the night. Playing in the sand was kind of fun. That was a plus moving to Rogers Park—a lot closer to Lake Michigan than the CCU ca
mpus.
Shouts of laughter and playful trash talk went back and forth over the net as often as the volleyball. Watching the game, Kat realized she hadn’t known Nick was such a powerhouse volleyball player, slam-dunking the ball over the net and high-fiving his teenage teammates.
Kat had just started to work up a good case of feeling left out of the fun when Edesa Baxter ran across the sand and plopped down beside her, out of breath. “Oh, I am so sorry, mi amiga. I did not mean to leave Gracie alone with you. The wind blew the napkins all over the grass and I had to chase them! But gracias. Now, go! Go! Have some fun.”
Kat had a sudden change of mind. “That’s all right. I’d like to stay with you and help Gracie finish her mountain.” She dug handfuls of wet sand from the shoreline and patted them onto the “mountain.” “I think one of my professors at CCU knows you . . . Ms. Vargas? How do you know her?”
Edesa seemed happy to talk. Kat learned that she and Ms. Vargas had both attended a Spanish-speaking church in the city—Iglesia del Espirito Santo, or Church of the Holy Spirit—but now that she and Josh were married, they’d decided to make SouledOut their home church. Everything about Edesa came as a surprise to Kat. The vivacious young woman had family back in Honduras, and she’d originally come to the States on a study visa. She and Josh had been volunteers at the Manna House Women’s Shelter when a young Latina had died of a drug overdose, leaving a three-month-old baby. Even though they were both still in school at the time, Edesa and Josh had pushed up their wedding date to provide a home for the baby.
“Gracie,” murmured Edesa, watching the tiny girl poke her plastic shovel at a bug in the sand. “Our gift from God. Her adoption was finalized two months ago.”