by Neta Jackson
“What if she goes back to the drugs? Happens, you know.”
“It’s not your responsibility to make this happen, Stu.”
“Just ’cause we forgive her don’t mean there ain’t no consequences.”
“Whatever put such an idea in your head, Stu?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because Stu’s gotta ride in on her white horse and be everybody’s savior.”
Stu winced as if I’d just slapped her. Avis raised her eyebrows at me. Good grief. Did I say that out loud? Since when did my tongue get permission to undress my thoughts in public?
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Stu. I didn’t mean it.” Liar. Yes, you did. “It’s just that . . .” Be honest, Jodi Baxter. Can you be real for just one minute? I sorted through the thoughts and feelings knocking like jagged rocks in my mind and my gut. No one spoke, waiting for me.
I tried again. “It’s just that . . .” Renegade tears threatened to spill. “Becky Wallace living in your house feels like Becky Wallace living in my house. She robbed us downstairs, for pity’s sake, in this very house! Threatened all of us—could’ve killed Denny with that knife, the way she lunged at him.What if she’d seen Amanda? She even threatened Willie Wonka!” I was really blubbering now. “It’s not fair to ask me to do this.We live here too.”
If I thought getting honest would sway Stu, I was wrong. “I’m not asking you to do anything. Besides, I thought you forgave her,” she said stubbornly.
“I do! . . . did. I just don’t want her living in this house.” I grabbed my wad of ever-ready tissues and tried to sop up the mess on my face.
“That it, Jodi?” Yo-Yo bobbed her spiky thatch at me. “You afraid?”
Well, wasn’t that obvious? Didn’t I just say—?
I corralled my knee-jerk thoughts.Was I afraid? Was I? Honest?
No. Frankly, my fear had evaporated with the prison visits. Bandana Woman the Menace had become Becky Wallace, pathetic single mom on a collision course with herself unless God intervened.
So what was it?
The truth slugged me right smack in the kisser of my attitude. I just didn’t want to be bothered.
EVEN THOUGH EVERYBODY HAD questions about Stu’s offer, Nony wrapped a big prayer around it at the end. Especially after Yo-Yo said, “Can’t blame ya, Jodi. Taking Becky in would be askin’ a lot. Like you guys say, the Big Guy’s forgiven me for all the bad stuff I done, but . . . I dunno. Still not sure He’d want the likes of me hangin’ ’round heaven, right in His face. Brings down the neighborhood, know what I mean?”
Of course, we all protested. Of course, God wanted the likes of Yo-Yo and the likes of all the rest of us in heaven. That was the whole point! Why else would He sacrifice His own Son for a bunch of sinners?
But what Yo-Yo said bothered me. Burrowed under my skin like a rash that wouldn’t go away. All Yo-Yo knew about God was what she saw lived out in us, in the Yada Yada Prayer Group. In me. And what she saw was that forgiveness stopped short if it really cost you something.
I spilled it all to Denny after I came back downstairs and the Yada Yadas had trooped home. The kids had gone to youth group, but Josh had the car, and if José had come up on the el, which he’d been doing almost every week, I knew good and well Amanda would talk her brother into giving him a ride home. At least we had the house to ourselves. Denny had been watching a video, the shoot-’em-up kind he watched when I wasn’t around, but he put it on pause and listened as he always did, watching me, waiting for me to run down.
I grabbed a basket of clean laundry and started to pull out socks. “I got honest,” I admitted. “Told Stu what I thought about her savior complex.”
The corners of Denny’s mouth twitched, a smile he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“You know what’s weird? When she visited the prison back in February, Stu made a big deal about taking over as the caseworker for Becky’s kid—but I don’t think she’s even seen him yet. It doesn’t add up.”
Denny reached for the growing pile of socks. “Yeah, but you know DCFS. Miles of red tape.”
I shrugged and started folding underwear. “Yeah, maybe. And who am I to talk? ’Cause I don’t like what I see when I get honest with myself. I know Stu is the one offering to have Becky come live with her, yet you know good and well we’ll end up getting sucked into . . . what-ever. And”—I shook my head at the truth—“it just feels like too much bother. Makes me feel tired.”
Denny opened his mouth, but my confession was on a roll. “And you know what really bugs me? It’s such a righteous thing for Stu to do. And I don’t want her to be righteous about this.Why can’t she be flawed and normal like the rest of us?”
Denny guffawed. “Yeah, well. Even flawed, normal people have occasional moments of righteousness. Even you, Jodi.” He threw up an arm in self-defense as I whacked him with a pair of clean boxers.
The kids came home, arguing about the summer mission trip possibilities they’d discussed while pulling cheddar cheese, tortillas, salsa, and onions out of the refrigerator for late-night quesadillas. I heard something about “volunteers” and “Cornerstone Festival”—had to be Josh’s idea—and Amanda’s high voice insisting the need was much greater for day-camp counselors in Pilsen Park.
Pilsen neighborhood. Hugely Latino.Were my kids predictable or what?
I stayed out of it, glad that the options were local this year. No way did I want my kids flying anywhere this summer, even in the States. The U.S. government was insisting the war with Iraq would be over “quickly,” but I wasn’t buying it. The whole world was beginning to feel like a danger zone.
Which was another reason I didn’t want Becky Wallace living in our house. I wanted home to be home, not a halfway house for convicted felons.
I WAS BEGINNING TO count the days until school was out. Not a good sign, since it was only the last week of March. Eight of my third graders were absent with some kind of virus—and sure enough, I caught it. The stomach virus was majorly worse in my book than a cold. At least with a cold I could sip hot tea and nibble comfort foods. This time around there was no comfort to be had. Even my family treated me like I had the plague.
“You have to see the doctor, Jodi,” Denny said from a safe distance in the bedroom doorway Tuesday evening. “Take vitamins, build up your immunity—something. This is getting ridiculous.”
“Tell me about it,” I groaned from the depths of my pillow—three seconds before I made another mad dash to the bathroom. I know I used up a whole bottle of Pine Sol that day just disinfecting the john.
At least this flu turned out to be the twenty-four-hour variety, and I was back in school on Thursday, feel-ing almost perky. Some of my kids were back, but a new crop was out—including Hakim Porter. Seeing his empty desk, I suddenly felt defeated. Between all the days I’d been sick, all the catch-up work I had to do to keep my class “on task” and “on schedule” to satisfy state requirements, and now Hakim out sick . . . frankly, the progress I’d so confidently promised Geraldine Wilkins-Porter if she left him in my classroom just wasn’t happening. What would I say at the next parent-teacher conference—less than four weeks away?
That’s the real truth, isn’t it, Jodi? Hakim isn’t failing. You are.
That thought hung over my head all day like a speech balloon in a comic strip. Still hanging there when I got home and sank onto the couch, nursing my tender innards with a mug of peppermint tea and a banana. Odd thing was, I kept wondering what to do with “the truth.” Old Jodi tendency would be: beat myself up over it. You’re a fraud, Jodi Baxter! A miserable failure! And the cover-up: How can I come out of this looking good? New Jodi response: did I have one?
Okay, Jesus, I’m definitely in over my head. Now what? I’m not helping Hakim—not the kind of help he needs. I should have realized he needed something more than I can give.Why was it so important for me to help him, anyway? Trying to prove something, I guess—that I’m not the monster Hakim’s mother thinks I am—
The bleating ring
of the telephone invaded my desperate monologue. By the time I got to the kitchen phone, the answering machine had kicked in. “Jodi!” Stu’s voice. “My Internet server’s down and I can’t—”
I picked up. “Hi Stu.” Automatic response. Did I really want to talk to Stu?
“Oh! Jodi.” Stu sounded taken off guard. “Didn’t know you were home from school yet.Was just going to leave a message on your machine.”
“That’s okay. Yeah, I’m still on the wobbly side of the stomach flu. Came straight home.”
“Oh. Sorry.Uh, like I said, my Internet server is down and I can’t send any e-mail. I finally got an appointment to see Andy Wallace on Saturday, though. Wondered if you’d send an e-mail for me, ask Yada Yada to pray that it’d work out okay.”
What was up with this? Stu usually acted first and praised God later. “Well, sure. Anything particular you want us to pray for?” The phone was silent. “You still there, Stu?”
“Yes. Just . . . pray that it’d work out okay.”
“Okay. Got it.” I hung up the phone, yet I had an uneasy feeling. It wasn’t like Stu to be nervous. Even facing a hostile grandmother. One day she’s boldly inviting a recent heroin addict to be her housemate; the next she’s nervous about meeting with a two-year-old foster kid? It didn’t add up.
STU HADN’T SAID WHEN her appointment was on Saturday, but I heard her go down the back stairs and out to the garage about ten o’clock. Denny had an all-day training session with a new group of suburban volunteers for Uptown’s outreach, now that the homeless were back out on the streets and in the parks. I kept the car so I could run my errands.
Still, I was curious how Stu’s appointment would go, what little Andy looked like, if the grandmother was willing to take calls from Lincoln Correctional, stuff like that, so I puttered around the house, keeping an ear out for Stu to come back.
Sure enough, I heard footsteps running up the back stairs about eleven thirty. But I was in the basement stuff-ing dirty sheets and towels in the washing machine and didn’t get out to the back porch in time to catch her on the way up. So I punched in Stu’s number, cradled the phone between shoulder and ear as I hauled another laundry basket down to the basement and listened to the rings. Four . . . five . . . then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi! I’m not home right now. Please leave a—” Annoyed, I pushed the off button. I was sure I’d heard her go upstairs. Huh. Maybe she came home and went right out again. Or maybe my ears had played tricks on me.
I finished setting the washing machine and decided I couldn’t put off my errands any longer. I shrugged into a jacket and gathered up my stuff for the weekly Baxter shopping trip: dry cleaning, grocery list, birthday list, plastic bags to recycle, wallet, car keys—
Footsteps. Upstairs.Walking right over my head.
She was there, the jerk. Though in the interest of fairness, maybe she’d been in the bathroom or some-thing and hadn’t heard the phone.Well, I’d try again. I punched Redial and waited. Four rings . . . five . . . “Hi! I’m not home right now. Please leave a message.” Click.
“Forget you,” I muttered, grabbing up my stuff and heading out the back door. Okay, I was annoyed. But it could wait. I’d do my errands and then ask how it went with Andy and Andy’s grandmother. Not a big deal, right?
I turned on the CD player as soon as I got in the car. Fill the car with praise! I wasn’t going to let Leslie Stuart ruin my day. Adjust the car seat . . . check.Adjust the rearview mirror . . . check. Click the garage door opener . . . check. I turned on the ignition, put the mini-van in reverse, started to back out of the garage—and nearly backed straight into Stu’s silver Celica, parked broadside in front of our garage door, blocking my way.
That does it! I bolted out of the car, out the garage door, up the back walk, and literally stomped up the flight of stairs to Stu’s back door. Who does she think she is? She thinks she can park anywhere, not even answer the phone, because it’s all about her!Well, she was going to answer the door now.
I pounded on her back door with my fist. “Stu! Leslie Stuart! Your car is blocking my way—I can’t get out!” Pound! Pound! Pound! I listened. No answer.
Okay. Two could play this game. I hustled back down the stairs, ignoring the short stabs of pain in my leg with the rod in it, grabbed the key marked Stu from the key rack in the kitchen, and stormed up the stairs again. It had been Stu’s idea to exchange house keys “for emergencies.”Well, this might not be an emergency, but I knew she was there, her car was blocking my garage door, and no way was I going to let her ignore me.
I inserted the key, opened the door—then hesitated. “Stu! It’s Jodi!” I yelled through the kitchen. No answer. Silence.What in the heck . . .?
Stu’s ring of keys lay in a jumble on the kitchen floor. A flicker of worry nudged my anger aside. Something was wrong. “Stu!” I called out, checking the dining room . . . living room . . . bathroom . . .
Nothing. Nobody.
Stu’s bedroom door was closed. Maybe she was taking a nap. Maybe she was a heavy sleeper. Maybe—
I slowly turned the knob and quietly opened the door. Stu was sitting on the edge of her bed, long hair falling over one shoulder, staring at her lap. On the bedside stand, an empty prescription bottle lay on its side. In one hand, she held a drinking glass, half full of water. In the other, a handful of blue caplets.
I shot into the room and slapped the pills out of her hand. Stu’s head jerked up as the pills flew wild. She grabbed at me as I snatched the empty prescription bottle, but I pushed her away, scanning the label. Zoloft. An anti-depressant.
“How many of these did you take?” I screamed at her. “How many?”
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Stu shrank away from me. “Just . . . just one. No . . . maybe two,” she whimpered. “I forgot to take my meds this morning . . . I feel so bad . . .”
“I don’t believe you!” Panic bubbled up in my throat. Oh God, Oh God, what should I do? Call 911, that’s what. I lunged for the phone on her nightstand—but Stu’s free hand shot out, grasping my wrist with a surprising steel grip.
“Don’t, Jodi! Please!” She dropped the water glass in her other hand, grabbed the phone, and clutched it fiercely to her chest. “Don’t call an ambulance. I didn’t do it! I . . . I was thinking about it, but I didn’t! I didn’t!” The braided rug beside her bed had broken the fall of the glass, yet I felt water splash all over my shoes.
“I don’t believe you,” I hissed, twisting my wrist free. “I called up here—twice. I banged on the door. You didn’t answer! Something’s wrong. You need help.”Why was I even arguing with her? I turned and headed for the door. I’d call 911 on my own phone.
Stu came hot on my heels. “Jodi, please don’t! I’m okay! See?”
I kept moving, out the back door, down the outside stairs. She clattered right behind me. “Jodi! Jodi! Wait! I can explain!”
I charged through my kitchen door and tripped over Willie Wonka, lying in his usual spot. Stu collided with my back and we both went down, cushioned by Wonka’s soft, square body, like a football pileup. The dog grunted heavily and tried to wiggle out from under our tangle of legs and arms.
The ridiculous heap we made was all out of proportion to how upset I was. The feelings in my chest felt ready to explode—either in hysterical laughter or hysterical crying. But as I struggled to get up, Stu’s arms clung tightly around me. “Jodi, wait. Please wait. Don’t call any-body. I’ll tell you.”
I hesitated. Oh God, I don’t know what to do! Then it came to me.
Ipecac syrup. The little brown bottle that sat in our bathroom cupboard in case any little kids ever accidentally chewed on the philodendron or mistook the anti-histamine pills for candy. I scrambled to my feet, pulling her up with me. “Come with me,” I ordered, hauling her toward the bathroom. To my surprise, she didn’t resist. I put the toilet seat lid down. “Sit.” She sat.
I stood on the little wooden stepstool—another relic from the kids’ younger days—and got dow
n the brown bottle. “Hold this,” I barked, feeling like an army sergeant with a new recruit. I dashed back to the kitchen for a tablespoon and a glass of water—thirty seconds, tops—and to my relief she was still holding the bottle, looking bewildered.
“Throw up,” I said. “That’s the deal.You throw up and I won’t call 911.”
I knew good and well I was supposed to call poison control or some medical person before giving ipecac, but Stu was no two-year-old and if she’d swallowed any-thing, it was medicine—not anything acid or toxic like cleaning supplies that would burn coming back up. I poured the dosage into the tablespoon; with the resignation of a cornered stowaway, she swallowed it. I pushed the glass of water at her. “All of it,” I ordered. She drank.
We didn’t talk. I just sat on the edge of the tub, and she sat on the stool, staring at the floor, waiting. Willie Wonka’s nails clicked on the wood floor of the hallway and hesitated outside the bathroom. A neighbor’s door slammed. The bathroom window rattled—boom! ba-da boom! boom!—as a car with a serious sound system invaded Lunt Street, then faded away.
Within fifteen minutes, it all came up. Afterward I wet a washcloth with warm water and washed her face, feeling a sudden tenderness for Stu I’d never felt before. I knelt awkwardly on the bathroom rug, put my arms around Leslie Stuart, and pulled her close. She leaned into my shoulder and began to cry. The sobs became a wail; her whole body shook within my embrace. But I just held on, murmuring comforting words, wondering. Had I done the right thing?
HALF AN HOUR LATER, I’d gotten Stu back up to her apartment, picked up all the pills that had flown around her room, and was making some peppermint tea to settle her stomach. Denny wasn’t due home till late afternoon, but the kids might’ve wandered in at any moment, and they’d definitely ask questions if they’d seen us entwined in the bathroom. I put two mugs of hot tea on the pert white table that served as a breakfast nook and sat down in one of the matching chairs across from Stu.
