by Neta Jackson
“Cool,” Amanda said.
“What does she charge?” Practical Denny.
“What’s the party?” asked Josh, bungling in the back door with Willie Wonka and the pooper-scooper. When we told him he said, “Sweet. Can I have the computer back now, Mom?”
“Give me a few more minutes,” I growled, shooing them all out of the dining room except for Willie Wonka, who leaned happily against my leg. I sent a quick reply back to Edesa, thanking her profusely for her offer and asking how much she charged, then opened the next message.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: [blank]
To pray the foster family be located is good. To know the child is safe, smothered in love, and cared for like their own daughter—of course you want to know. But if all is well, is it the best interest of a child to be taken away and returned to a parent she may not even remember after so many years?
Ruth
I had to read Ruth Garfield’s message three times before it sank in. Was she saying Florida’s little girl shouldn’t be returned to her? Then, horrified, I realized her message had gone out to the whole group. Including Florida.
I clicked “next,” got something about Internet virus protection, clicked “next” . . .
A message from Florida. I was almost afraid to read it.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: [blank]
Do I need advice? God is God all by Himself and knows what is best for me and my family. Do I need prayers? NOT IF YOU’RE PRAYING AGAINST ME!
16
I was so shaken by the exchange between Ruth and Florida that I tossed and turned all night. Why in the world would Ruth raise a question about whether Florida’s daughter should be returned to her? And Florida . . . I was the one who’d urged her to share about Carla with the whole group. But I hadn’t expected this!
All day long their e-mails haunted me. That, plus a rotten night’s sleep, made me as snarly as the troll under the bridge in Three Billy Goats Gruff. I suspect the children had an extra reason to be glad when the dismissal bell rang besides the fact that it was Friday.
As I sat in the staff meeting after school trying to look alert— major agenda: Parents Day coming up the end of May, and Illinois testing—I wondered what Avis thought about the latest exchange between Ruth and Florida. But she was all business, and afterward several other teachers got to her first.
I thought about checking e-mail when I got home, but Amanda informed me that she’d been invited to a birthday party— tonight—which meant doing the usual parental inquisition:Why was I only hearing about this now? How well did she know the girls being invited? Would any boys be at this party? Any R-rated videos? Who was going to supervise? Which elicited the usual, “Mo-om. I don’t know! Shelly just gave me the invitation today, and I’d like to go. It’s just a birthday party, for cryin’ out loud.”
Why shouldn’t she go to a birthday party? Jiminy Cricket from Disney World whistled cheerfully in one ear. They’ll gossip about all the boys at school, decide to color some poor girl’s hair with a box of L’Oreal Ruby Fusion, squeal over birthday CDs, glitter eye shadow, and ankle bracelets, and gorge themselves on pizza and white bakery cake with “Happy Birthday Shelly” on top in gel frosting . . .
Why should she? Because her parents are probably out of town! screamed Jiminy Cricket from the ’hood into my other ear. Because you’ve never met this girl, because boys will crash the party with six-packs of beer—or worse, and next thing you know, you’ll be getting a call from the police station!
I tried to remain calm. “Let me call Shelly’s mom and find out what’s what.” Which I did. Shelly’s mom wasn’t home yet, but I was informed by Shelly herself that her mom would be around all evening. Did I want her to call? “Yes,” I said and left our number. But, I warned Amanda, if we didn’t connect, she couldn’t go.
As it turned out, Ms. Mom did call me back, sounding surprised I had any questions. But she assured me the party would be supervised, and no boys, beer, or bad movies would be allowed. “Is PG-13 all right?” she asked sweetly. “We’re going to the video store soon.” Depends on which movie! I wanted to shout. But wasn’t sure how far I should keep pushing. I let Amanda go to the party—at which point she asked if she could borrow ten dollars and could I drive her to Target on Howard Street to buy a birthday gift?
So much for my Friday evening.
Denny and Josh, who both had after-school games, only saw us in a blur as they came in the door and we absconded with the minivan. At Shelly’s home—a condo half a block from Lake Michigan—I insisted on going up the elevator and delivering Amanda to the door, even though it meant leaving my car double-parked and risking a thirty-dollar fine. Amanda, of course, was totally embarrassed, but I said, “Just wanted to meet your mom!” to Shelly when she opened the door, giving her my sweetest smile. Amanda and Shelly disappeared somewhere into the labyrinth of hallways and rooms, but I stayed in the doorway till a woman dressed in a business suit with an extremely short skirt—never could figure out the rationale of that combination—came to the door. We exchanged a few pleasantries, then I excused myself with a cheery, “Well, gotta go. I’m double-parked, and if I get a ticket, Amanda’s taxi bill is going to be thirty bucks!” I was just joking, but the lady gave me a very strange look.
No ticket. Just an irate car owner I’d been blocking, so I refrained from shouting, “Thank You, Jesus!” and beat a hasty retreat. By the time I nearly tripped over Willie Wonka inside the back door, I was ready to crash—but not before I shanghaied Denny to pick up Amanda from the party at ten-thirty. Not just because I wanted to go to bed early and fall asleep over a good book—I’d already decided not to check e-mail; whatever Yada Yada was up to could wait till I got a decent night’s sleep—but mostly to let Shelly and her mom know that Amanda’s dad was a Big Guy.
I WOKE TO A LUXURIOUS STILLNESS. The red numerals of the bedside digital said 5:47. Still early. I could go back to sleep, but— figuring I’d fallen asleep before ten last night—I’d already had almost eight hours. The prospect of some early morning quiet time all to myself lured me out of bed.
All bedrooms were quiet. Josh had been out playing pool at a friend’s house; Denny must have retrieved Amanda with no problem. Good. Let ’em all sleep.
Willie Wonka followed me into the kitchen and whined at the back door. By the time he was ready to come back in, I had a big mug of fresh coffee and was looking for my Bible. With chagrin, I found it in the hallway, tucked inside the tote bag along with the journal I’d taken to the women’s conference last weekend. Had the whole week really gone by and I hadn’t once cracked it open?
Well, I wasn’t going to beat myself up about it. Weekday mornings were hard, getting everybody off the school. But this morning I’d make up for it—just me, God, and Willie Wonka, I grinned, tucking myself into the La-Z-Boy near the bay windows facing the street.
For a while, I let the Bible just lie on my lap as I sipped my coffee, staring out the window at the waking world. A couple of dog-walkers, a car every now and then, a gradual brightening as the sun came up over the other side of the lake . . . but tucked in here among all the buildings, it would be quite a while before actual sunshine filtered in. I couldn’t remember where I’d been reading the last time, so I just started to pray silently, thanking God for my family, our jobs, our health, our church—my usual litany of thanksgivings.
Whoa. I had a whole new list of people and things to pray for— all the requests people had mentioned in the prayer group last weekend, plus additions from the Yada Yada e-loop. My silent prayer became more specific as I remembered Edesa asking prayer for her family in Honduras . . . Yo-Yo taking care of her siblings . . . José Enriques coming home from the hospital, maybe today? . . . Hoshi’s Shinto parents coming to the States from Japan this summer . . . finding Florida’s daughter . . .
As I prayed, I closed my eyes and imag
ined the group of virtual strangers praying together at the women’s conference. And all at once something felt wrong with my prayer. Something was missing . . .
Praise.
I must have said it aloud—loudly—because Willie Wonka’s silky brown ears, hiding his growing deafness, perked up, and he looked at me with a doggy question in his eyes. “Praise,” I repeated, rolling the word around in my mouth. “Willie, why do I always launch right into thanking God for this or that blessing in my life when I pray, and then whip out my list of things I want God to do?” Willie Wonka must have decided this didn’t really concern him, because he put his head back down and sighed.
I got out of the chair, dumping my Bible on the floor, and started pacing around the room. Why had it been so easy for the other women to praise God—just for who God is—at the women’s conference? Not just in the main sessions, but in the prayer group, too. All our prayer times had started that way, with worship, just praising God, worshiping Him, being glad to know Him—no strings attached.
I never started my personal prayer times with worship, not really. Not like Avis and Nony did. Suddenly a great bubble of thankfulness welled up inside me for giving me a glimpse last weekend into a new spirituality—new for me, anyway—a spirituality my sisters of color seemed to possess in greater depth than I’d been exposed to.
I grabbed my Bible off the floor; I needed a prop. I flipped it open to Psalms and landed at Psalm 150. Okay, I was going to paraphrase like Nony did, and make it between God and me.
“God, I praise You in Your sanctuary! I praise You in Your mighty heavens! I praise You for Your acts of power, for Your surpassing greatness. I’d praise You with a trumpet if I had one—or a harp or tambourine! I praise You with dancing—”
Hey, I could do dancing. I twirled around the room, startling Willie Wonka and sending him scrambling for a safer spot. “Let everything that has breath praise You, Lord! Hey, hey, hey! Praise the Lord!” I tumbled onto the couch out of breath.
“Jodi?”
Denny’s voice startled me right off the couch. How long had he been standing in the archway from the hall?
“Ohmigosh, Denny. I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“Yeah. But it’s okay.” He scratched the back of his head. “What’s going on?”
I started to laugh. “Just trying out what it would be like to ‘get down’ before the Lord—you know, like King David. Sorry if I woke you up . . . hey.” I retrieved my coffee mug and pushed him onto the couch. “Don’t go away. I’ll get you some coffee, then I want to talk to you about something.”
Returning with my refill and a fresh mug for Denny, I let the coffee do its job till my frumpy husband looked halfway awake behind his eyes. Then I told him about the two e-mails from Ruth and Florida.
“I know.” He scratched his head again, as if waking up his brain cells. “I saw them last night after you went to bed.”
“I don’t know what to do! I’m the one who asked Florida if I could tell Yada Yada to pray about finding her daughter. Never dreamed it would turn controversial. Now maybe she’s mad at me. Didn’t Ruth know how her ‘suggestion’ would sound to Florida?”
Denny nodded thoughtfully. “That’s one of the problems with e-mail. Too easy to shoot off a message without really thinking it through. And you don’t have to look the other person in the eye when you say something.”
The windup wall clock—a wedding present from my grandparents— ticked loudly as we both sank into our thoughts. A tiny fear tickled the back of my mind. What if Yada Yada fell apart before it even got started? Oh God, don’t let that happen! I need this group. I need these sisters . . .
“Denny!” I knew exactly what I needed to do. “I’d like to go see Florida today. Any reason that wouldn’t work? What’s happening today?” My mental calendar came up blank.
“The men’s group at church is doing some repairs and painting at Uptown—told Josh he needed to put in a few hours with me. Guess you could have the car . . .”
“Don’t need the car. I hate trying to find parking. I’ll get her address and take the el or something.”
Denny frowned. “What if you have to walk in an unfamiliar neighborhood?”
I smiled. I liked it when Denny worried about me. And I certainly wasn’t above letting Mr. Big Guy part the waters or scare off the bad guys on my behalf. But I felt strong and confident today. “It’s daytime. I won’t take a purse. I’ll keep to busy streets. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine—oh. What about Amanda? If you’re gone and I’m gone . . .”
“Take her with you. I’d feel better if there were two of you anyway. She’s a good screamer too.”
“Whaddya mean, ‘too’?” I threw a couch pillow at him—but it wasn’t a bad idea. Amanda was a friendly kid; she’d probably hit it off with Florida’s boys. I scrambled off the couch, eager to begin the day, but Denny grabbed my sleep shirt and pulled me back onto his lap. “On one condition—that we go out tonight. Both kids were out last night. They can just stay home tonight, and we’ll go out. Promise?”
17
Denny decided to jog to the lake and back, but I opted to start the laundry that was crawling out of the bathroom hamper and inching its way across the floor. Ran down to the basement to throw in a load, then got in the shower, wondering how early I could call Florida. She had kids—she couldn’t sleep in that late, could she?
Had my hair all soaped up when the water suddenly slowed to a trickle. Shoot! The washing machine was refilling. Wrapping myself in a towel, I ran down to the basement hoping I wouldn’t bump into our upstairs neighbors, shut off the machine, and dashed back to the safety of the bathroom. Stupid water system.
Finally, squeaky clean and balancing two pieces of wheat toast on top of a glass of OJ, I turned on the computer and called up the address list I’d made for Yada Yada. There. Florida lived in the 5600 block of Magnolia . . . where was that? Digging out a Chicago map, I figured she lived pretty close to Broadway and Bryn Mawr—not too far, maybe three miles. There was an el stop at Bryn Mawr too. Good.
Denny got back from his jog and jumped into the shower, bellowing “Buffalo Gals Gonna Come Out Tonight” slightly off-key— until the rinse cycle on the second load of laundry started in the basement, at which point he yelled bloody murder. I ran down to the basement and hit the stop button, making a mental note to turn it on again when he was out of the shower. Only eight-thirty . . . probably too early to call. Taking a deep breath, I checked our e-mail and skimmed through the forwards and ads and stuff addressed to Denny and the kids. Nothing from Ruth, nothing from Florida. Hmm. Was that good or bad after almost two days? There was a long e-mail from Stu citing case studies of foster children successfully being returned to their parents and giving web links to look up . . .
Oh, brother, I thought. I didn’t even bother to read it.
And a new one, dated seven o’clock this morning, from Adele.
To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Prayer for our kids
Florida, don’t let “friendly fire” shoot you down. Keep the faith, baby.
Saw José last night. Doctors are sending him home today. I think it’s too soon—he’s still in pain and has trouble breathing. “They” say he just needs time to heal. Delores says thanks for all the visits and prayers. Keep ’em up.
I winced. “Friendly fire”? That kind of language felt like throwing gasoline on live coals. I’d been worried about how Florida felt. But now I was worried about Ruth.
Was about to shut down when I realized I’d skipped over an email from Edesa because it wasn’t addressed to Yada Yada, but to BaxterBears: “You don’t have to pay me—I need the experience! But when do you want me to come? I’m free this Saturday late afternoon.” That was today!
I considered waking Amanda to ask if she had anything going on this afternoon and decided it didn’t matter. She was failing Spanish, and this was her lifeline. She probably wouldn’t appreciate me planning
her whole day—but I could call going to see Florida a special mom-daughter time, like she had with Denny last weekend.
I picked up the phone and dialed Edesa’s number.
BY THE TIME I TOLD EDESA HOW TO FIND US, called Florida and asked if I could “drop by” this morning, rousted Amanda and sweet-talked her into coming with me to visit one of my new friends (“instead of cleaning your room,” was the way I put it), it was almost eleven when Amanda and I hiked the three blocks to the Morse el station. I bought a pass from the machine good for four rides, stuffed the card into the electronic turnstile, then handed it back to Amanda so she could put it through again.
We heard a train pull into the elevated platform above our heads and did a mad dash up the stairs, but it was northbound, heading for Howard Street—Chicago’s northern city limit— where any remaining commuters would transfer to the Purple Line serving the North Shore communities.
“Did you tell your friend I was coming?” Amanda asked, stuffing her hands into her jeans and suspiciously eyeing two teenagers with low-slung jeans and zigzag designs shaved into their clipped heads. I suddenly saw Amanda as the male species must see her: butterscotch blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, leaving wisps of stray hair curling around her face; a budding figure; rosy skin marred only by a few concealed zits on her forehead. Humph! I told myself. I should have left her home.
“Um, sure I did. And her name is Florida—Mrs. Hickman to you. She said she’d love to meet you.”
I smiled, remembering Florida’s barely disguised surprise when I called. “Uh-huh. You and your daughter ‘just happen’ to be in my neighborhood and want to drop in?”
“No, Florida,” I’d said, realizing how easy it would’ve been to give that as a reason—but obviously, Florida was no fool. “I’ve been missing you this week. So I said, ‘Heck with the housework. I’m gonna go have coffee with Flo.’ Or whatever you drink at your house.”
