by Neta Jackson
“All right now,” she said, “don’t ya worry ’bout calling the rest of Yada Yada. It’ll give me somethin’ to do till Carla’s foster—till those people pick up Carla at nine. This their Saturday, s’posed to have her all day, an’ for once I’m glad of it. Means me an’ Carl can come up there and let the rest of you get some rest. Though I don’t know how much good he’ll be. Girl! Never seen him so mad.” She sucked in her breath. “He told me what that kid said to Mark after the rally. Jesus! Have mercy.”
Relieved at not having to call the rest of Yada Yada and go over what happened to Mark a half-dozen more times, I met up with Amanda in the hospital cafeteria and helped her carry the two trays of packaged sweet rolls, a bunch of bananas, bottles of juice, and cups of steaming coffee. I didn’t even ask how much it cost; I just hit the elevator button with my elbow and scuttled inside when the doors opened.
The doors slid shut and the elevator began to rise. “Mom?” Amanda’s voice squeaked a little. I looked at my daughter. Her face sagged with lack of sleep; her forehead wrinkled with worry. “The sophomore dance is tonight.” Her eyes filled with tears. “What am I going to do?”
THE SOPHOMORE DANCE? How can we think about that now? I managed a wobbly smile. “Let’s get this food up to the waiting room.”
Hoshi Takahashi had arrived while we were getting breakfast, her dark eyes brimming with disbelief. We hugged but said nothing. I could only imagine what was going on in her emotions. First, the trauma her own mother, visiting from Japan, had suffered when Becky Wallace robbed Yada Yada at knifepoint last fall. And now this violence against her “adopted family” in the States. But her concern seemed to focus on Marcus and Michael. “The boys are exhausted,” she said to Nony in her careful English. “I will take them home and stay with them if—Stu? Could you please give us a ride?”
Even after Hoshi, Stu, and the boys left, the waiting room was getting crowded. The pastor of the Sisulu-Smiths’ new church arrived, along with his wife—an African-American couple in their late fifties or early sixties. He had touches of gray in his close-cropped hair, as if it had been airbrushed; she was pleasantly plump, with a sweet, sad smile, as though she’d seen a good deal of sorrow in her life. Nony briefly introduced them as “Pastor Joseph Cobbs and First Lady Rose Cobbs,” then she huddled with them, talking and praying.
I tugged on Denny’s shirt. “That’s the pastor from New Morning Church,” I murmured. “Aren’t they supposed to start using Uptown’s space tomorrow afternoon for services?”
Denny frowned like one of my third graders trying to decode test instructions. “Man! That reminds me; I should call Pastor Clark. He’d want to know about Mark—if he hasn’t heard it on the news already.” He disappeared with the cell phone.
A nurse summoned Nony to the ICU, accompanied by the Cobbses. I felt a twinge of jealousy. We’ve been replaced. Then a spiritual slap upside my head. Jodi, let it go. Nony needs all the support she can get. I looked at Amanda, curled in a lump in a chair. I really should get her home and let her get some sleep. And Willie Wonka! I hit my forehead. Good grief. No one was home to let the dog out!
I beckoned to Josh. “Would you . . . ?” He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Never mind.” Better take Amanda myself. This was no time to send my kids off to deal with this alone.
I DREADED WHAT I WOULD FIND AT HOME. Either a miserable Willie Wonka, in pain because he couldn’t empty his bladder, or a puddle by the back door. Or worse. But the chocolate Lab was panting happily in the backyard, hind legs splayed out frog-fashion, keeping Becky Wallace company as she watered the flowerbeds. I half-expected Amanda to go into her daily Wonka routine, making a big fuss over the dog while getting her face and ears licked. But Amanda walked silently up the walk and into the house.
The back door was standing open.
Becky screwed the nozzle of the water hose to shut off the spray of water. “Hey, Jodi. How’s Dr. Smith?” When I didn’t answer, she glanced at our back door, then back at me. “Hope ya don’t mind I let the dog out. I knew you guys were up at the hospital all night. Stu woke me when she got the call.”
My wound-up emotions were playing on two-track stereo—but different songs. Relief that someone had taken care of Willie Wonka. Irritation that Becky Wallace had access to our house key. I had to choose.
“Thanks a lot, Becky. I was worried about the dog. You . . . did the right thing.” I started for the house and then turned back. “Mark was beaten up pretty bad. He’s still unconscious. They had to do surgery on his head. Other stuff too.” Tears welled up in my eyes, and suddenly, standing there in the middle of our postage-stamp backyard, my shoulders shook, and I started to cry. All the unshed tears, the fear, the questions, the unknown future that I’d held in for Nony’s sake, came sputtering out as if the nozzle of my emotional hose had been turned to On.
Embarrassed, I turned away, wanting to disappear inside the house. But I heard, “Hey.” And felt arms around me. Becky’s arms. “Go ahead, Jodi. Cry. If ya don’t, it’ll make ya crazy.” She pulled me into her embrace. “I know.”
I bawled on Becky Wallace’s shoulder for a few minutes, aware that even five minutes ago I could not have imagined such a thing. I finally fished out a used tissue. “I better go inside. Amanda’s supposed to go to a big dance tonight. Don’t know what’s going to happen about that.” I gave her a wet smile. “But thanks again. Wonka likes you.” He trusts you. More than I let myself. But dogs know.
AMANDA SLEPT TILL THREE in the afternoon. I tried to. But I no sooner dozed off than the phone rang. “Sista Jodee!” Chanda’s voice squealed in my ear. “Me find a ’ouse today! Believe it! An’, heh heh heh, you should see dem faces when I say me goin’ to pay cash!” Chanda’s giggles felt like salt on raw nerves. On any other day I’d whoop and holler to celebrate with Chanda. Instead, I had to throw bad news on her rejoicing. My brief, terse comments met with a stunned silence. Then a wail. “No! Don’t be tellin’ me dat Nony’s mon got beat! No no no! God! Don’ be doin’ dis to me!”
As soon as I hung up with Chanda, the phone promptly rang again. “Senõra Baxter?” It was José. “We heard about Dr. Smith. Is it true? Mama’s working today but wants you to let her know what she can do.”
As I considered taking the phone off the hook, it rang again. It was Ruth. “Jodi. How’s Nony? Would Ben take me up to the hospital? No. Tells me the car brakes are ‘acting funny.’ Excuses, excuses. Then Yo-Yo wants a ride to the hospital; suddenly the car brakes get healed. Off they go. So I’m having some stomach trouble. It’s nothing, nothing . . .”
I finally gave up on sleep and made myself some strong coffee. Denny called when I was on my second cup, said Avis and Peter finally took Nony home to get some sleep. Florida and Carl Hickman were holding the fort at the hospital until Nony came back. Ben and Yo-Yo had come; also Adele, but she only stayed ten minutes. A number of Mark’s colleagues from Northwestern came by; other visitors he didn’t know. Last report from the doctor before Nony went home: Mark was stable, still sedated from the surgery, but there was concern about possible coma.
Coma? I sucked in my breath. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Jodi. But it’s serious. I think Josh and I will—”
“Mom?” Amanda’s sleepy voice behind me made me jump. I held up a “one moment” finger to her.
“—come home, maybe we can come back to the hospital this evening.”
I looked at Amanda. She was holding the dress from her quinceañera birthday party, with its pale blue, shimmering layers. The one she planned to wear tonight to the dance.
26
Two worry lines pinched together between Amanda’s eyes. “Mom? I don’t know if I should go tonight. It feels dumb going to a stupid dance when Dr. Smith just got hurt so bad, and we don’t . . . we don’t know . . .” Her lip started to tremble.
“Amanda. We’re not going to go there! A lot of prayer is going up for Dr. Smith, and we’ve got to believe that God i
s going to bring him through this!”
Suddenly I very much wanted Amanda to go to the sophomore dance. I wanted to worry about her. Wanted to get her some new underwear so she could feel special. Wanted to fuss about extending her curfew, about whether she was dressed warm enough for a cool spring evening, about . . . whatever moms fuss about. I wanted a semblance of normal life. Wanted to be reassured that the world hadn’t suddenly spun out of control. “You should go. Dr. Smith would want you to go. We’ll . . .”
I felt torn between loyalty to Nony and loyalty to my daughter. Where was I needed most? “We’ll work out something about getting you there and back.” I gave Amanda a hug. “I’ve got the car. Want to go shopping for new underwear? Come on.”
Funny how important that new underwear had become.
Amanda shrugged. “Not really. It doesn’t matter. What I’ve got is OK.” She still hesitated. “Maybe I should call José.”
“Sure. Call José. Then take a nice, long bath. Want me to paint your toenails?” Supper. I really need to think about an early supper too. None of us had eaten anything since our cafeteria breakfast.
Denny and Josh got home while Amanda was still in the tub, which gave me a chance to talk with Denny about getting her to the dance. Denny, usually so firmly in Amanda’s corner, sank into a dining room chair and heaved a couple of deep sighs. “Gotta tell ya, Jodi, I wish we didn’t have to deal with this right now.”
I touched his shoulder. “I know.” Weariness threatened to undo my resolve. “But no telling how long Mark’s going to be in the hospital. Life needs to go on.”
Denny’s head sank into his hands. I went back into the kitchen to finish chopping vegetables for the pot of hamburger vegetable soup I had simmering on the stove. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him get up from the chair and disappear into the hallway. A few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen doorway.
“I asked Josh to take Amanda to the dance and bring her home.” Denny’s jaw was set. “He’s not happy about it, but he agreed. I did not ask him to chaperone at the dance—we have to let that one go, Jodi.” He leaned a hand against the doorjamb, as if needing a support to hold him up. “I’m going to get a couple of hours of sleep, then I’d like to go back up to the hospital. I’d like you to go with me, but . . . that’s up to you.”
JOSH DROPPED US OFF at the Morse Street Station to catch the northbound el. Denny and I watched the red taillights of the Dodge Caravan head toward Sheridan Road, which would take them to the Lakeshore Drive and into the city. Amanda—looking pretty and sweet, if not bouncy—waved at us gravely from the middle seat of the minivan.
We didn’t talk much on the Red Line train, transferring at Howard Street to the Purple Line, which took us right to Evanston Hospital. We got our visitors’ badges at the front desk and took the elevator to the ICU. The only person in the waiting room was Peter Douglass, who’d changed out of his rumpled sweats into a pair of slacks and a sport shirt.
Avis’s new husband shook Denny’s hand and gave me a tired smile. Peter Douglass wasn’t exactly the hugging type. “Nony’s in the ICU. I thought she needed some time alone with Mark. But I think she’d like to know you’re here, would want you to come in.”
“Is Mark . . . ?”
Peter shook his head. “Still sedated ‘just in case.’ Tomorrow they’ll wean him off the anesthesia and”—he moistened his lips—“see if he wakes up.” Peter turned away, as if not wanting to speculate any further.
“You go, Jodi.” Denny gave me a little push. “See if Nony wants any more company. They don’t usually want more than one or two visitors in the ICU.”
Peter gave me the room number, so I sidled right past the nurses’ station and peeked into the room. Even though I knew Mark had been badly beaten, even though I knew he’d had surgery on his head just hours ago, even though I knew he’d been unconscious since they found him in the alley behind his home . . . I wasn’t prepared for the sight of Nony’s husband laid out on that hospital bed like a corpse, his head swathed in stark white bandages, his body hooked up to every kind of machine imaginable. I wasn’t even sure it was Mark. The face cradled by the bandages didn’t look familiar—it was swollen, darker, misshapen.
“Oh God,” I groaned. I couldn’t move from the doorway; I just stood there trying to take it in. A tube in his nose was dwarfed by a much larger tube down his throat, hooked up to a ventilator pumping air into his lungs. Various tubes and wires ran from his body like a ball of string that had come undone, connecting to an IV pole, a catheter, an EKG monitor above his head, and a few other machines I didn’t recognize. His legs were wrapped in compression stockings, rising and falling with artificial “exercise” to keep his blood moving.
I steadied my nerves with a slow, silent breath and stepped into the room. The room seemed empty of anyone other than Mark and his machines. Where was Nony? As I came closer to the bed, I saw a dark shape bent over the chair in the corner and heard Nony’s voice. I took a step or two closer. She was praying. In agony.
“Oh God, my God! Why have You forsaken me? Oh my God, I cry out all day and all night, but You do not answer!”
I held my breath. Those were Jesus’s words on the cross; they also came from one of the psalms, but I wasn’t sure which one. I waited for her to go on, but she seemed to just back up and repeat the same prayer. “Oh God! Why have You forsaken me? What have I done? Are You punishing me? Punishing us for our sins? I would confess them if I knew what they were! Show me, God! Show me! I’ll do anything! Just don’t—please don’t take Mark away from me.” Her shoulders shook in not-so-silent weeping.
I started to tiptoe out of the room, but before I got to the door, I heard my name. “Jodi? Is that you?” Nony got off her knees, shaking out the big, loose caftan tangled around her body and blowing her nose into a tissue. “Don’t go. I am glad you’ve come.”
We hugged for a long minute. Then, surprising myself at my boldness, I asked, “What psalm were you praying?”
She drew a shuddering breath, her eyes resting on Mark’s still form on the bed. “Psalm 22—the first part anyway. Couldn’t get past the first few verses.”
I wasn’t in the habit of taking my Bible everywhere like Avis and Nony, so I reached for Nony’s big Bible that was still open on the chair. “Let’s read the whole thing together. I’ll read, OK?”
I pulled up a second chair, glad for something to do, something to say. I didn’t remember Psalm 22 in particular, but I knew the psalmist often cried out in despair and then reaffirmed his faith in God. We began at the beginning: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But I kept going: “In you our fathers put their trust; they trusted and you delivered them. . . . From birth I was cast upon you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God . . . Roaring lions tearing their prey open their mouths wide against me. I am poured out like water; and all my bones are out of joint”—Uh-oh. Should I continue?—“But you, O LORD, be not far off. O my Strength, come quickly to help me. . . . I will declare your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you . . .”
When we’d read the entire psalm, we just sat quietly, holding hands, my pale one, hers a rich nut-brown, listening to the beep, beep of the monitors, the whoosh of the ventilator. Suddenly I realized that the very next psalm was Psalm 23. The Shepherd Psalm. I didn’t need the Bible. I just began to pray the familiar verses: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want . . .”
After a moment, Nony’s voice joined mine. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death”—beep, beep . . . whoosh—“I will fear no evil, for You are with me . . .”
I RETURNED TO THE WAITING ROOM, and Denny went in. He and Nony both came out a few minutes later; Denny’s face had paled. I glanced at the clock. Almost ten. I desperately needed to get some sleep. But I hated to leave Nony alone. Should we . . .?
“Nonyameko, go home.” Peter laid a hand on Nony’s shoulder. “The boys need you. I will spend the night with Mark. You ca
n come back in the morning.”
I wanted to throw my arms around Peter and kiss him. Knowing Nony could go home was a gift to me too. She might even listen to Peter.
“I can sleep in the morning,” he continued. “After all, New Morning Church is meeting in the afternoon at Uptown Community tomorrow, correct? I can attend their service.” He smiled. “See? It all works out. Ah. Look who’s here!”
Josh and Edesa Reyes walked in the door. I blinked. Josh and Edesa? Wasn’t Josh supposed to be . . .
Edesa, looking very American—and very young—in her slim jeans and sky blue sweater, headed straight for Nony and gave her a warm hug. Josh stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Edesa really wanted a chance to see Mrs. Smith, so I gave her a ride.”
“But what about Amanda and José?” I hissed, hopefully out of Nony and Edesa’s hearing, who were heading out the door to see Mark. “Isn’t the dance supposed to be over at ten?”
“Yes, son.” Denny frowned. “You were supposed to pick them up.”
Josh held up a hand. “Mom. Dad. Relax. Amanda’s home already. She didn’t want to stay at the dance. She called me at Edesa’s and asked me to pick them up. And Edesa wanted to come to the hospital, so I thought I could give you guys a ride home. See? It all works out.”
A ride home. Well, that part was good. I wasn’t really looking forward to the el at this time of night. I started gathering my purse and jacket. “Denny? We should go. Oh.” I glanced down the hall. “Guess we should wait for Edesa.” I looked at Josh, frustrated. “If Amanda’s so upset about Dr. Smith that she left the dance early, I’m not sure you should’ve left her home alone.”
“Mom! Chill.” There was no humor in Josh’s face. “I didn’t leave her home alone. José’s with her. I dropped them off at the house and then came up here. I can take him home when I take Edesa. Give me a minute anyway; I want to see Dr. Smith.”
