by Neta Jackson
“But my secret came back to haunt me. I was living a lie. Even though I was a victim of date rape, I had been sneaking around behind my parents’ back. I couldn’t bear the shame of it, so I hid my pregnancy from them and everyone else and took the ‘easy way out.’ But when my career and my personal life started to fall apart, I thought God was punishing me for my mistakes. Then Estelle, my new neighbor”—she held up Estelle’s hand, still gripping her own—“helped me understand the meaning of my name—Grace—for the first time. Helped me understand that even when we mess up, God offers healing and forgiveness.”
Now Grace held up Michelle’s hand. “Michelle is my next-door neighbor and I’m just getting to know her. But as I understand it, she volunteers at Lifeline as a post-abortion counselor, helping people like me. Michelle, can you tell us about that?” Letting go of Michelle’s hand and giving Estelle a quick hug, she slipped back to her own seat.
Michelle shook her head in wonderment. She’d barely breathed a prayer, asking God to give her the words, when Grace had gotten up and opened the door to what should happen next. Forgetting that the three of them had probably looked like an ad for Oreo cookies, Michelle briefly described the Hope and Healing group that had been meeting together for the past nine weeks, had shared their stories with each other—some for the first time—supported one another, cared for one another, identified anger they harbored toward others, permitted themselves to grieve the babies they’d aborted, and most importantly had received God’s healing grace and forgiveness from the Word of God. “Next week we’re planning a memorial service to which family and friends are invited.”
Glancing around the circle, she couldn’t read some of the faces. Maybe she needed to make it more personal. “Before I close, let me tell you a story . . .” Without using Hannah’s name, she told about the young girl who’d been abused for years by a family member, had gotten pregnant, and felt an abortion was her only option to hide the abuse and keep from tearing her family apart. But all the secrets were tearing her life apart . . . and now, several years later, she was seeking healing from this traumatic experience. “Shannon”—the fictional name Michelle used—“will be joining our next Hope and Healing group, which starts in July. If anyone here wants to join us, I’d be happy to talk with you. I will also be leaving some brochures about Lifeline, which has a number to call if you want more information or make an appointment.”
Michelle sat down, praying silently that what she’d shared would be helpful to someone as Grace got up to sing her final song—which turned out to be “Amazing Grace,” with Sam joining her for a surprise duet. Michelle’s mouth practically dropped as the two voices blended . . . Sam could sing! Actually brought some “soul” to the song. Michelle smiled—what a beautiful statement the two women made, one white, one black, friends and sisters in Christ, transcending their roles as concert star and assistant, singing together about God’s amazing grace.
The shelter guests and staff loved it.
Edesa offered a final prayer in both English and Spanish, and the group began to disperse. Michelle put the Lifeline brochures on the coffee cart, which several women casually picked up along with their cup of joe. But no one came up to talk to her about Lifeline or the Hope and Healing group, even though she and Sam and Estelle waited around for an extra thirty minutes while Grace and Ramona huddled together in a corner, talking seriously together.
Until they were back in the car and on their way home, that is.
They’d been driving for ten minutes or so along Lake Shore Drive without saying much, each one seemingly deep in her own thoughts about the evening. Michelle had her face turned toward the open side window, drinking in the deepening dusk over Lake Michigan, wondering about the revelations that had spilled into the evening—Grace’s life “falling apart” a few months ago, the admission of her teenage abortion, and that startling story Ramona had blurted out about hiding drugs in Grace’s suitcase—when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Michelle?” Grace said behind her. “I . . . I think I’d like to sign up for the post-abortion support group next time. Do you have room for one more?”
Chapter 23
For a brief second following the tap on her shoulder, Michelle had thought Grace was going to share about her talk with Ramona after the meeting. Michelle was certainly curious! But she quickly assured Grace she’d be more than welcome to participate in the Hope and Healing group . . . Though later, sharing about the evening with Jared as they got ready for bed, he wondered about Michelle being able to keep professional distance with Grace being their next-door neighbor.
Good question. Would Grace feel comfortable sharing so intimately in that setting? The group process could sometimes be very intense.
And yet . . . they were more than neighbors. She and Grace shared a common faith, had prayed together, and tonight had even ministered together in a surprisingly compatible way. Huh. Mostly Estelle’s doing. Before the Bentleys moved into the neighborhood, she and Grace had barely done more than say “hello” and “nice day” pleasantly as they were going in and out of their houses. But it was as if the Bentleys had fanned the wind of the Holy Spirit up and down the street.
Jared was incredulous when he heard about Grace talking with the girl she’d met on the train coming back from her West Coast tour. “And Bentley was riding that same train in his job with Amtrak police?” He wagged his head. “Unbelievable.”
Michelle pulled down the comforter on the bed and slipped between the sheets. “Mm-hm. Estelle didn’t say much. We were just waiting for Grace and Ramona to finish talking after the meeting, but she did say Harry had figured out this Max person was the so-called mule Amtrak police were on the watch for, who was transporting drugs from LA to Chicago. Using Ramona so they’d just seem like an ordinary couple, I suppose.” She shuddered. “Makes my blood boil, thinking about it. Who knows what would’ve happened to her if Harry hadn’t foiled the scheme?”
Though who knew what would happen to the girl now, still so far from home and living in a homeless shelter!
Michelle tried to shake it off. She couldn’t take people’s problems to bed with her or she’d never get to sleep. Probably one reason she hadn’t felt all that great lately, bringing home all the stress and concerns from work. “So how long did Greg Singer stay after I left?” She stifled a yawn as Jared got into bed.
“Oh, maybe another ten minutes. Became clear that he wanted to recruit me, said I could do it on the side, make some extra money for the family. Maybe it’s a legit business—hope so for his sake—but even if it is, I’d be a terrible salesman.”
“Mm, you sold me on spending the rest of my life with you,” she murmured.
“Ha!” Jared pulled her closer and nibbled on her ear. “Didn’t have to sell you. You were a pushover.”
“Mm-hm, but the product was good.” Michelle giggled, then stifled another yawn as his hands slid beneath her nightgown. Fighting to stay awake, she tried to respond to his caresses. After all, weekends were the only time they had for intimacy, before the workweek swallowed up their nights and evenings and their energy. And Jared was a good lover, kind and gentle . . .
But even though they made love, she wasn’t able to climax this time and knew that was a disappointment to Jared. A disappointment for her too.
Spent, they rolled apart. Jared’s breathing slowed. Her own eyes felt heavy. She really should get a physical soon, get her blood pressure checked. Or quit her job. Huh. Not an option. She’d schedule an appointment with her doc. Soon . . .
* * *
Michelle’s supervisor tossed a folder onto her desk the next morning. “DCFS says they got another complaint from a neighbor about the Blackwell family, passing it on to us . . . again.” Charlotte Bergman rolled her eyes. “Not sure there’s enough mishegas—you know, craziness—to warrant a charge of neglect, but wouldn’t hurt to drop by, see if you can schmooze with the mother a bit. Best scenario would be if she came in on her own.” And she w
as gone with a wave.
Charlotte was Jewish, though Michelle doubted she was very religious. The only time she ever mentioned Jewish services was around Hanukkah and Passover—and then it was mostly about food or traditions her family still kept. But she was a good boss, even if she did like to throw around Yiddish expressions.
Michelle sighed and picked up the folder. Blackwell . . . Mental pictures flashed through her mind of her last visit. Her first, last, and only. Not a pleasant experience. Not with drunk Otto passed out on the kitchen table and baby Pookey left squalling in a playpen with a loaded diaper and a rash as raw as sandpaper. And getting chased out the door by a livid woman screaming at her. But then there was the little girl, Candy . . .
She’d suck up the courage to try again for Candy.
But she wasn’t able to squeeze a visit to the Blackwells’ apartment building into her schedule until Tuesday, and no one answered when she buzzed the intercom. No one else happened to come out the door at the bottom of the stairwell this time either, allowing her to slip through the open door like she had last time.
No such luck.
Well, hopefully Candy was at school and mama was at work and Pookey was . . . in decent childcare somewhere.
Yeah. In her dreams.
She’d try during the day again later in the week, but she’d probably have to drop by in the evening or on the weekend.
Tuesday . . . This would be Jared’s second night on swing shift, not getting home till around eleven. If he came home. It was becoming more common for him to sleep at the airport Tuesday nights since his day shifts started at six the next day.
Only the twins were home when she walked in the door. Tavis was holed up in his room, doing homework while plugged into his iPod. Michelle leaned over Tabby’s shoulder at the dining table to see what she was working on. Spanish vocabulary. “Test coming up?” she asked, giving her daughter a peck on the cheek.
“Mom. Finals are next week.” Eyes rolled. “But two weeks from today I go to cheerleading camp! Woo-hoo!” Tabby raised her arms and danced her bottom around in the chair. “Fort Wayne, here I come!”
Michelle tickled her daughter under one raised arm, making Tabby squeal. “How could I forget?” She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door to ponder supper. “Where’s Destin?” she called over the counter dividing the kitchen from the dining area.
“I dunno. Out job hunting, I think. But don’t bother me anymore, Mom. I gotta finish this.”
Michelle pulled out some frozen fish. Quick to thaw. Quick to cook. Right. Destin had been given strict orders from Jared to hustle to a few more places after school this week, handing in more applications. But . . . hadn’t she seen his bike chained up on the front porch when she came home? To make sure, she peeked through the small window in the kitchen that looked directly out onto the porch. Destin’s bike was chained to the far side where, she hoped, they’d hang that porch swing one day. Huh. He must’ve taken the bus or walked. But she didn’t like bikes left on the porch. If he wasn’t going to ride his bike, he should’ve locked it in the garage.
The rice had only five more minutes to go and the fish was almost done when she heard Destin come in and head straight for his room. “Destin?”
“Be there in a minute!” he called back.
“Well, tell your brother supper’s ready in five minutes! And wash your hands!” Michelle chased Tabby and her homework off the dining table, gave her the plates and silverware to set out, and was setting the food on the table when the boys appeared.
She was curious about Destin’s job search but waited till they’d said grace and dished up the food. “So did you make some job contacts today?”
“Uh-huh.” Destin speared another bite of fish into his mouth, followed by some buttered potato.
Michelle felt like rolling her eyes. Was she going to have to drag the details out of him? She’d forgotten the number one rule for talking with teenagers: don’t ask yes or no questions. She tried again. “So where did you go?”
“I stopped in at Kenny the Kleener—no wait, that was yesterday. Today I went down to that car wash over on Clark Street, filled out an application there. Got the usual. ‘We’ll call you if anything opens up.’” Destin snorted. “You know the drill.”
“The car wash? That’s too far to walk.”
“Rode my bike. Wasn’t too bad.”
“But I’ve been home almost an hour and your bike was here the whole time.”
“Mom, chill. I rode up there right after school. A lot of places close at five, ya know. So when I got home I went over to the Bentleys and shot some baskets. An’ then I saw Mr. Singer, you know, mowing his lawn down the street, so I stopped and talked to him a bit.”
“Oh.” Greg Singer would be around home more these days since he was between jobs. “Well, that was nice.”
Destin shrugged. “Yeah, he’s okay.”
“Maybe you should ask him if you could get a job mowing his lawn,” Tavis goaded. “In fact, all the lawns up and down Beecham need mowing.”
Destin glared. “Shut up, shrimp. You go mow some lawns. It’d keep you out of trouble.”
“Whatchu talkin’ about? I ain’t in any trouble.”
“Uh-huh,” Tabby chimed in. “You always fightin’ with that kid at school. Teacher’s gonna put you on probation one of these days.”
“Is not! Besides, what’s it to you, big mouth?”
“Tabby! Boys!” Michelle spoke sharply. “That’s enough.” She was tired of playing referee at the table. Jared should be here at suppertimes. But she frowned at Tavis. Was he in trouble at school again? She almost said, “Fighting with what kid?” but clamped her mouth shut. Tavis and Tabby would just start arguing again. But if there was bullying going on, why hadn’t the school called her?
She really needed to talk to Jared about this—if he just wasn’t gone so many nights! Maybe she should call Tavis’s homeroom teacher or the principal—
The phone rang and the kids scattered as she got up to answer. She sighed. Probably Jared saying he’s sleeping at the tower tonight.
But it was Estelle Bentley. “Sister Michelle! I know this is last-minute. But Harry came home tonight with some disturbing news that might affect Ramona, and Grace is very upset. I’m wondering if we could pray together tonight—the three of us. I know you said Wednesdays aren’t good, but would you have half an hour or so tonight?”
“Well . . . sure. I could do that.” She was tired, but what else was new? The kids would be fine for half an hour. And after all, Grace lived right next door.
At eight o’clock, with the kids settled in different parts of the house and “Destin in charge,” Michelle locked the front door behind her and took a shortcut across the front lawns to Grace’s house. Estelle was already there.
“Thanks so much for coming, Michelle,” Grace said. The young woman’s usually clear, peachy skin looked red and blotchy from crying. “Tell her what you told me, Estelle.”
Estelle Bentley sighed. “Harry was doin’ some work on the computer at work today, tryin’ to bring closure to some of the cases he’s handled for Amtrak, and he found out that Max, the guy who was travelin’ with Ramona and totin’ cocaine for that big drug cartel . . . found out he made bail and he’s out.”
“He’s out!”
Grace hugged herself, her shoulders hunched. “I’m so worried about Ramona. I’m sure Max doesn’t want her testifying against him—but that was one reason the judge gave her probation and let Harry take her to Manna House, in exchange for her testimony. What if he finds her, tries to make her keep quiet?” Grace’s lips trembled.
“Well, now, supposedly he made bail a few weeks ago and he hasn’t found Ramona yet.” Estelle’s soothing voice took charge. “And that’s what we’re here for, to pray for Ramona’s protection. Though I do think she probably should know he’s out on bail. I plan to tell her tomorrow when I go to work.”
Grace sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a tiss
ue. “Maybe we could just send her home—you know, buy her a plane ticket back to LA. I’d be glad to do that.”
Estelle shook her head. “Maybe. It might not be that simple. She was an accessory to transporting drugs, you know. She might have to stay here . . . but I don’t know. But God knows. So come on now, let’s pray for protection, for wisdom, for Ramona, for Grace’s peace of mind . . . all of the above.”
The three women held hands and prayed, one after the other. For some reason Michelle found it easier to pray aloud with Estelle and Grace than she did at the Wednesday night prayer meeting, even though they’d been at Northside Baptist for years. Finally, after ten minutes or so of intense prayer, Estelle murmured, “Is there anything else we should pray for as long as we’re here?”
Grace blew her nose and nodded. “Well, this is a little embarrassing, but . . . you both met my agent, Jeff Newman, at Mrs. Krakowski’s homecoming.”
“I remember.” Michelle smiled. She had an idea of what was coming.
“Well”—Grace’s cheeks turned pink—“our relationship has become, um, a bit more than agent and client, as I supposed you’ve guessed . . .”
“Mm-hm,” Estelle said.
“He’s really wonderful. But it’s also awkward. I . . . we . . . well, we need some wisdom on how to work on our relationship. He lives in Denver, I live in Chicago . . . and we’re finding that a long-distance relationship isn’t very easy. Not to mention that he’s also my agent. Darn good one too!” Grace laughed self-consciously.
Estelle chuckled. “Definitely something to pray about. How about you, Sister Michelle?”
Good grief. Where to start? “Well, I’m kind of worried about Tavis. I think he’s getting into fights at school, or after school, I don’t know. He just shrugs it off, doesn’t want me to make a big deal of it. And Destin needs a summer job, but there’s not much out there. Still, his father and I think he should pay for this expensive basketball camp he’s signed up for, and paying us back is part of the deal. We really can’t afford it otherwise.”
