Derailed

by Jackson Neta

  10.Harry often felt God derailed his life by not giving him direct instructions concerning what he should do—and yet later realized God was leading him to a greater purpose. Can you think of a sequence of seeming reversals in your life by which God took you from point A to point B, not by a straight route, but by the only path you would have followed? In what ways has that deepened your trust in God in situations you don’t understand?

  EXCERPT FROM PENNY WISE

  BOOK 3 OF WINDY CITY NEIGHBORS SERIES

  Michelle woke briefly when Jared’s alarm went off at five, but she didn’t move. She needed the extra hour of sleep before she had to get up. But it seemed like only minutes before her own alarm went off at six. Uhhhh. If only she could sleep in . . .

  Forcing herself to throw back the covers and get up, she almost stumbled out into the hall to go to the bathroom, but remembered in time that they’d made love last night and she was still naked. Slipping on her robe and slippers, she headed for the basement. They’d put in a second bathroom a few years ago when trying to make do with just one for a family of five became a major headache. Even though it was farther away, she preferred the newer bathroom for her morning shower—no tub, just a big shower with a glass front and glass sliding door, two sinks, and a large mirror with vanity lights. She wasn’t as likely to wake the kids before six thirty either.

  Michelle let the hot water run over her head, waking up her brain. Today was Jared’s craziest day, working the control tower from six till two, then again from ten tonight till six Friday morning. But at least he’d be home for supper. And the weekend was coming up. Maybe they could even get a night out. And Memorial Day weekend was coming up too . . . if they planned ahead, maybe they could take a couple days away as a family. Wouldn’t that be great?

  But she couldn’t just stand in the shower. She had to get dressed, get the kids up, throw lunches together, set out breakfast—cold cereal on weekdays—and get out the door herself if she wanted to get to the office by eight.

  Even though the day was overcast, the temperature had climbed into the seventies by noon. Made her glad she’d packed a sandwich and could eat her lunch in a park near her next client visit. She dreaded this one. The Department of Children and Family Services had received at least five calls from neighbors in an apartment building about a baby crying for hours, what sounded like drunken fights, people coming and going who weren’t on the lease. DCFS had passed it on to Bridges Family Services and her supervisor had dropped it on her desk.

  “Just check it out. Might not be anything we can do. Use your judgment.”

  Right. Not serious enough for DCFS to intervene. And the parents themselves weren’t asking for help. One of those dysfunctional families that so often fell through the cracks. But . . . she’d “check it out.”

  Michelle parked her car on a nearby residential street and found a bench where she could eat her lunch. The park was fairly empty for such a warm day. But it was only late May. Kids were still in school. Most adults were at work. Still, a cluster of young men loitered near the playground equipment, smoking, drinking beer, talking loudly. Walking around like ducks in their low-slung pants. Doing nothing. Why weren’t they in school—or at work? She shook her head. O Lord . . .

  Sometimes the dysfunction in the city threatened to overwhelm her.

  But once her sandwich, apple, and snack-size bag of Fritos were gone, she couldn’t put it off any longer. She walked back to her car . . . darn it! A parking ticket! She snatched it off her windshield. What in the world for? There weren’t any parking meters . . . and then she saw the fire hydrant on the other side of the car. Oh great. Just great. How could she have been so stupid? She squinted at the fine print on the yellow ticket. A hundred dollars?!

  Now she felt like crying.

  By the time she found the address of the apartment building she was supposed to visit—after encountering half a dozen one-way streets—her mood was as sour as spoiled sauerkraut. Standing in the foyer of the apartment building and staring at the names above the two rows of mailboxes—several of which hung open or otherwise looked busted—she finally located the name and apartment number she’d been given. Blackwell 3B. Two other names had been scrawled beside it. Owens . . . Smith. She pushed the button. Heard nothing. She pushed again.

  Just then a man barged out the inner door, looked startled to see her in the foyer, but just kept going. Seemed in a big hurry. Michelle caught the inner door before it wheezed shut. Okaay. Not exactly legit, but she’d make one more try at contacting the Blackwells.

  No elevator—but she wouldn’t trust one in this old apartment building anyway. The stairwell smelled musty, stale. She walked up the stairs to the first-floor landing . . . then second . . . finally third, feeling out of breath. Was she that out of shape? Locating 3B, she rapped loudly on the door and listened. A baby was crying somewhere, but she wasn’t sure from which apartment. She knocked again, even louder.

  The lock clicked. The handle turned and the door opened a few inches. But nobody was there . . . until she looked down and saw the cute face of a girl about seven. Nappy hair caught up in three pigtails, one on either side, one high in back. Michelle smiled. “Hi, sweetie. Is your mommy home?”

  The nutmeg brown face nodded. “But she sleeping.”

  The sound of the baby crying was louder now. From this apartment.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Candy.”

  “Is anyone else home?”

  A solemn nod. “Otto.”

  “Who’s Otto?”

  “Mommy’s friend.”

  Hmm. “Can I speak to Otto?”

  A shrug. The door opened wider and Michelle followed the little girl into the dim interior. The apartment smelled like urine and cheap alcohol. She tried to breathe through her mouth. The little girl pointed into the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Michelle felt like gagging. Otto was slumped over the table, his face smashed in his plate of food, passed out, dead drunk.

  Michelle turned and followed the sound of the crying baby into a dark living room with old sheets covering the windows. A child about nine months old stood hanging onto the side of a netted playpen, wailing half-heartedly. The baby was wearing a shirt and a dirty diaper—full from the way it hung. And smelled.

  She turned to the little girl. “Can you go wake up your mommy?”

  Candy shook her head. “She tol’ me she’d spank me good if I woke her up. Said she gots ta sleep, ’cause she gots ta work tonight.”

  Yeah, I bet. Michelle was unsure what to do. She felt like an intruder, even though she was there on official business and the child had let her in. The one thing she could do she didn’t want to do. Oh, suck it up, Michelle. “Candy, do you know where the baby’s clean diapers are?”

  Candy nodded, disappeared, and came back with a disposable. “We only gots one.”

  One. Michelle was on the verge of either laughing hysterically or crying hysterically. The situation was heartbreaking! But she picked up the baby, found the bathroom, wrung out a used washcloth hanging on the tub, and tried to clean the baby’s bottom—him, it turned out, when she peeled off the offending diaper. An ugly rash covered his entire genital area. She wished she had some zinc oxide ointment to soothe it.

  It took several rinses of the rag to wash the baby, but finally the clean diaper was on. The baby had stopped crying and just stared at her. She picked him up and held him, noticing his large beautiful eyes as she returned to the living room. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Pookey.”

  “Pookey! Is that his real name?”

  Candy shrugged. “That’s what Mommy calls him. Just Pookey.”

  “Who are you?” A harsh voice hurtled into the room from the doorway. Startled, Michelle turned quickly. “Whatchu doin’ wit my baby? Give ’im to me!” A woman in a rumpled nightshirt stormed across the room and snatched the baby from Michelle’s arms. “Whatchu doin’ in my house? Git out! Git out!” The baby let out a wail. />
  Michelle didn’t move. “I’m from Bridges Family Services. My name is—”

  “I don’t care what yer name is. Git out!”

  “Ms. Blackwell, DCFS has received calls about possible neglect, and we need—”

  “I said, git out! Or I’m callin’ the po-lice.”

  You do that. Might be the best thing. But the woman’s face was twisted with fury and Michelle wasn’t sure what she might do. “All right. But we do need to talk about these children.” She held out her card to the woman. “Please, give me a call. Our agency can help. We have resources—”

  Parked on his mother’s hip, Pookey started to cry again as the woman marched to the door and yanked it open. “I said, git out. Now!”

  Michelle gave the card to Candy. “Don’t lose it,” she whispered . . . and a few moments later found herself in the hall with the door slammed behind her.

  But as she started down the stairs, she heard the door open again and the mother’s harsh voice sailing after her. “How’d ya get in th’ buildin’ anyway? How’d ya get up here?”

  Michelle just kept going and called back, “Goodbye, Ms. Blackwell! We’ll be in touch!” By the time she got to the ground floor and headed for her car, she was muttering to herself. Could she make a case for neglect? Turn it over to the state attorney’s office? Probably not. She didn’t have enough information. But she wished she could get those kids out of that awful situation.

  She hardly noticed it had started to rain.

  WINDY CITY STORIES

  IN THE YADA YADA UNIVERSE

  By Neta Jackson and Dave Jackson

  www.daveneta.com

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group series

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling

  The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out

  The Yada Yada House of Hope series

  Where Do I Go?

  Who Do I Talk To?

  Who Do I Lean On?

  Who Is My Shelter?

  Harry Bentley’s Second Chance

  Harry Bentley’s Second Sight

  Lucy Come Home

  SouledOut Sisters series

  Stand By Me

  Come to the Table

  Windy City Neighbors series

  Grounded

  Derailed

  Penny Wise (2014)

  Pound Foolish (2014)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First of all, we want to thank our agent, Lee Hough of ALIVE Communications, who believed in this series and especially the concept of Parallel Novels from the outset, and Worthy Publishing, which caught the vision and is making it happen.

  Special appreciation also goes to Steve Parolini, our most excellent editor, who definitely made this a better read than what we wrote!

  While we have always loved to travel by train, not even our 5,500-mile research trip on Amtrak—duplicating Grace and Harry’s West Coast trip—provided all the information we needed. So, special thanks to Marc Magliari, media relations manager for Amtrak; Captain Gary Jones, overseeing Amtrak Police from Chicago to points west; John Clayborne, Amtrak detective out of Albuquerque, New Mexico; Sergeant Lisa Mueller, Chicago Police Canine Training Center; Officer Juan Martinez, Chicago Police Department (retired) and his fantastic K-9 partner, Rocky.

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