by Neta Jackson
“Mrs. Jasper, we did get a cancellation just this afternoon. We can take you Friday July second at ten a.m. Will that work for you?”
Friday the second . . . Her mind raced. Destin would still be at basketball camp, didn’t need to be picked up till Saturday. “Great. I’ll take it. Thank you!”
She’d put that on the praise list tonight.
But by the time she completed the foster home inspection, the sky had darkened and the weatherman on the car radio said a major storm was moving into the city. Cars were already driving with lights on and it felt like nine o’clock already. Pulling into a gas station, she phoned Bridges and told Mercedes she was going to head home rather than come back to the office if anyone asked.
Sheets of rain blurred the windshield as traffic crept north on Western Avenue toward Rogers Park and home. The sky lit up with frequent lightning flashes, and thunder cracked and rolled. She wanted to call home and check on the kids, but kept going. Hopefully Destin had sense enough to come home on the bus and not ride his bike! All CTA buses had bike racks on the front of the buses now.
The wind made it even worse. The minivan seemed to shake every time she came to a stoplight, and when she finally turned into Beecham Street, the treetops were whipping back and forth in a frenzied dance, and several good-sized branches had fallen into the street.
O Lord, the airport must be a mess! Help Jared and the other ATCs stay alert and focused. She couldn’t even imagine what the stress in the control tower must be like on a night like this.
She didn’t even bother with her umbrella but ran for the porch. The front door opened before she even got out her key. “Mom!” Tabby threw her arms around her. “I was so worried about you, but Destin said not to call ’cause you were probably driving.”
Michelle gratefully returned the hug before pushing the door shut against the wind. “So Destin’s home? And Tavis?”
Tabby nodded. “Yeah. We all came straight home and got here before it really started. They’re downstairs.”
“Good girl. You did the right thing.” Relief eased the knots in her stomach as she took off her wet shoes and went for her slippers. But what if the storm had hit yesterday when Tavis had afterschool detention? Or Destin had been out on his bike? She shuddered, thinking of her kids out in this mess. Destin had a cell phone, but maybe the twins needed one too—though that was something she and Jared hadn’t wanted to do for a couple of years yet. Still, if she could’ve called them, she could’ve picked them up in a pinch.
And Jared . . . how was he doing? Would the storm be over when he got off at ten? She didn’t dare call him. He usually turned off his cell phone anyway during bad weather or high-traffic hours in the tower.
The rain was still pretty heavy after supper, and Michelle was tempted to call Estelle and cancel going to the prayer time at Grace Meredith’s house . . . until her cell phone beeped that she had a text message. Jared’s ID . . . Won’t be home 2night. Couple night crew can’t make it bcuz of flooding. Airport’s a mess. Delays going & coming. Need prayer! Tower is tense. Had a near miss 2night.
A near miss! That was one of Jared’s greatest fears—a crash on his watch. She breathed a prayer of thanks that it was a “near miss,” not a crash, but still.
He asked for prayer. Well, prayer was what he was going to get.
Telling the kids they could make popcorn and watch the original Pirates of the Caribbean video they owned—all three swore they’d studied for the next day’s tests before supper—she made a run for the house next door with a raincoat over her head.
Grace answered the doorbell holding tight to the cat in her arms. “Oreo tries to sneak out every time the doorbell rings—but no way do I want to chase after him in weather like this.” She peeked out. “It’s still coming down. Hope my basement doesn’t flood.”
Estelle was already sipping tea on Grace’s velvety sectional couch. “Mmm, so glad you braved the rain, Michelle. We better pray that all the neighbors’ basements don’t flood on a night like this. How’s your husband? Is he workin’ the airport tonight?”
Michelle nodded and read the text message from Jared. “This is what got me here tonight. I’m really worried about Jared. I don’t know how he can work the night shift too—and he’s supposed to start day shifts tomorrow!” It hit her like a slap upside the head. Three shifts in a row? Impossible! Surely they’d have to make some adjustments.
Estelle put down her teacup. “Then we better get started. There are planes in the air full of people wonderin’ if they’re goin’ to land safely tonight—and people like Jared under a lot of pressure to bring ’em down in one piece.”
Even though Estelle usually started all her prayer times with “praise and worship” prayers, she took their hands and started praying for all the people affected by the storm in the air and on the roads, praying especially for Jared and others in the tower under so much stress. She even prayed for Michelle, “ . . . that she will be able to entrust her husband into God’s care and experience a peace that passes understanding—so she’ll give up this death grip that’s killin’ my fingers.”
What? Startled, Michelle realized she’d been holding Estelle’s and Grace’s hands so tightly her own fingers ached. “Oh! I’m so sorry!”—but Grace and Estelle burst out laughing as she let go.
Grace poured more tea and they just talked for a while. Michelle mentioned the beautiful memorial service at Lifeline last weekend and, feeling a bit silly for mentioning something so trivial, said she was even grateful she was able to get a doctor’s appointment sooner than she’d thought. Noticing the concerned looks on Estelle’s and Grace’s faces, she hurriedly added, “No, no, it’s nothing important. I skipped my physical last year and it’s high time. Been feeling a bit worn out lately.”
“Well, then, praise the Lord,” Estelle said. “Better sooner than later. Grace?”
Their hostess, her cheeks getting pink, said Jeff Newman had to fly to DC next week for his job with Bongo Booking Agency and managed to get a flight with a stopover in Chicago—which he was going to stretch into twenty-four hours. “I’m so grateful. We really need some face time. This long-distance relationship is harder than I thought.”
“Sounds like a thank-you and a prayer request.” Estelle patted Grace’s knee. “I’m thinkin’ you two need more than just twenty-four hours from time to time. Let’s pray for something to shake loose in your schedules to give you more time together—either here or there. Now . . .” She looked from one to the other. “What else is heavy on our hearts tonight? Michelle?”
Michelle shared the situation with the Blackwell family, especially her concern for young Candy. “All the families I work with at Bridges need prayer, but for some reason this little girl has wormed her way into my heart.”
“I know what you mean.” Grace shook her head. “I worry all the time about Ramona, especially since I heard that Max was out of jail. I’m so worried he’ll find her and spirit her away somehow.”
“Well, uh, you’re right to be concerned.” Estelle cleared her throat, as if reluctant to say what she had to say. “A guy showed up at the shelter today asking if someone named Ramona was stayin’ there—white guy, late twenties, tallish, spiky blond hair—”
“That’s him!” Grace shrieked. “That’s Max. Oh, Estelle, what . . . what happened?”
“Calm down, sweetie. Our receptionist knows better than to give out any information about who is and who isn’t staying at the shelter, and fortunately, Ramona happened to be out at the time. When no one would tell him if she was staying there or not, this man got a bit hostile—but he left when Angela threatened to call the police.”
Grace’s face had drained of all color. She stood up and started pacing around her living room, nearly tripping over the black-and-white cat that insisted on being right under her feet. “He’ll be back, I just know it. Oh, Estelle, we’ve got to send her home—right away. I’ll . . . I’ll buy her a plane ticket.”
Estelle shook
her head. “Can’t. She was party to movin’ drugs from LA to Chicago, and accordin’ to Harry, the only reason she’s not in jail is because she agreed to cooperate and testify against this Max when he comes to trial. That means she can’t leave the state. If she does, she’s a fugitive.”
“But none of this is her fault! He coerced her! I mean, he’s . . . what, twenty-nine or thirty? And she’s all of sixteen or seventeen? Her safety—maybe even her life—is at stake!” Grace was wringing her hands, her voice high, strained.
“I know, honey,” Estelle said patiently. “Come on, sit down. Let’s pray about it, ask God to give us some wisdom about what to do. Though it may be out of our hands.”
The younger woman sat down, and the three of them held hands again—though this time it was Grace whose grip felt as if she was hanging on for dear life. And no sooner had Estelle said “amen” than Grace did a sharp intake of breath.
“I know what to do.” Her large amber eyes looked from one to the other. “Ramona can come stay with me!”
Chapter 29
Michelle had to leave while Estelle and Grace were still talking about the notion of Ramona coming to stay with Grace, but she could appreciate the questions Estelle was raising. What about Grace’s travel schedule? What if Max figured out where Grace lived? After all, he’d hidden drugs in her suitcase—did the tag have her name and address on it? And what about the time Ramona called Grace from the train on Max’s phone—did he still have her phone number in his call list? “Might be more dangerous for her here than at the shelter,” Estelle had told Grace soberly.
It seemed like a crazy idea to Michelle. What did Grace know about being a “safe house” for someone? Kind of like “witness protection.” But if this Max was as dangerous as Grace feared, it seemed risky to bring Ramona to a house with only two unprotected women in it. Not to mention that her own family—with kids!—lived right next door.
But she did understand Grace’s gut feeling, wanting to personally protect this young girl who’d naively gotten herself mixed up in something bigger and badder than she ever realized, and was now so far from home. Michelle often felt that way about some of the kids she had to place in foster care. Their tears and bewilderment often made her want to wrap her arms around them and just take them home.
Even Candy Blackwell made her feel that way. Tabby would love a little sister . . .
Michelle Jasper! Stop it! She scolded herself as she ducked through the rain and let herself into the house. Back to reality—which was the beginning of a headache and three teenagers who set up a protest when she shut off the movie before it was finished. “Still a school night for two more nights,” she told them, herding them upstairs to bed. “Go, go!”
Once the kids were settled, Michelle got ready for bed herself, but wasn’t sure she could go to sleep. She still had a nagging headache, and thunder continued to rumble somewhere out in the suburbs. She hated the nights Jared had to stay at the airport. But maybe he’d still call. Heating up some milk and honey, she fished forms out of her briefcase and started to write up the reports on her client visits from the past two days. The house quieted . . . the hands on the wall clock inched past ten, the time Jared’s swing shift should be ending . . .
The house phone rang. She snatched it up. “Jared?”
“Hi, hon. Glad you’re still up. Just wanted to let you know I’m off now till midnight, so I’m going to try to get a little shut-eye. We’re going to do two hours on, two hours off tonight in staggered shifts, not sure what’s going to happen tomorrow. It’s still a mess out here, though the storm’s passing. We’ve still got planes sitting on the ground that should be going out, and a bunch more incomings circling in Wisconsin.”
“We prayed for you—Estelle and Grace and me.”
He chuckled. “Much appreciated. Keep those prayers coming. Okay, gotta go. Love you.” The line went dead.
“Love you too,” she whispered. Now she could go to bed.
* * *
The weather the next few days pretended like there never had been a storm. The sun played hide-and-seek with patchy clouds and the temp rose into the eighties, pumping up the humidity. Most people just went about their business—except for the ones who were still stuck at the airport, or whose basements had flooded, or who had to take long detours because of roads that were still impassable.
Jared was so bushed from covering three shifts in the control tower, he called Pastor Q, told him he wouldn’t be at prayer meeting Wednesday night, and went to bed by eight. Michelle couldn’t remember the last time he’d missed prayer meeting. And Thursday was another day shift (6 a.m. till 2 p.m.) and the switch to night shift (10 p.m. till 6 a.m.)—which meant Michelle had only eyeballed her husband for a few hours the entire week.
But she did manage to sneak in a kiss and a hot breakfast when he got home Friday morning before he hit the sack. “Today’s the last day of school,” she reminded him. “We should do something to celebrate with the kids tonight, okay?”
Her husband just stared at her, bleary-eyed, over his glass of orange juice. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Whatever you want to do . . . I’m too tired to think.” Leaving his scrambled eggs and toast half-eaten, he stumbled off toward the bedroom.
Fighting down a tickle of irritation—it’d been a brutal week at the airport, after all—Michelle set the dining table and called the kids. “Scrambles and salsa this morning—special breakfast for three special teens!”
Destin was the first to appear. “Uh, thanks, Mom, but don’t really have time to sit.” He slung his backpack to the floor and started heaping eggs onto a piece of toast. “Mind if I just make a sandwich out of this I can eat on the way?” And he was out the side door to get his bike, egg sandwich in hand, by the time the twins showed up.
Tavis slid into a chair, but scarfed up his eggs in two-and-a-half minutes and bounced up again. “’Bye, Mom! DaShawn’s waitin’ for me!” The front door slammed.
“Thanks, Mom,” Tabby said, eyeing the table. “Looks good. But I’m not very hungry. Got my . . . you know.” She made a face.
“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. On your last day of school too. You going to be all right?”
Tabby shrugged. “Sure. Can’t be a big baby every time ‘Aunt Flo’ comes to visit.”
“Ha. Bet you got that from your grandma.” Michelle wished her “Aunt Flo” would hurry up. Hopefully Tabby wouldn’t be as irregular as she was.
Tabby giggled. “Yeah. The good thing is, Aunt Flo’ll be gone by the time I get to cheer camp.” She eyed the scrambled eggs. “Maybe I should eat a little something so I don’t feel all faint or something before we get our report cards. We get out early today, y’know.”
“Smart girl.” Michelle dished up a plate for her. “You get out early? When?”
Tabby reached for the toast. “Eleven, I think.”
Michelle’s mind did a few gymnastics. “Hey. What if I picked you up at school and took you out for lunch—just us girls? And then you could go with me to deliver the box of toys and games you packed for Candy. She probably gets out of school early today too.”
“Go out for lunch? Cool. An’, yeah, I’d like to help take the box to Candy.”
* * *
Michelle waited in her car across the street from Stone Scholastic as a wave of big and little kids poured out of the front doors at eleven o’clock. Her eyes searched the sea of navy-blue-and-white uniforms for her daughter’s bushy Afro . . . and was startled to see Tavis come racing down the steps with DaShawn Bentley and some other boys, stop, pull his shirttail out, loosen his belt, and pull his pants down around his hips.
Michelle gaped. What does that boy think he’s doing?!
She opened the car door and stepped out. “Tavis!” He didn’t seem to hear, but started down the street with the crew of boys similarly “undone,” laughing and bumping each other. “Tavis Jasper!” She raised her voice. “Over here!”
This time Tavis’s head jerked around. Their eyes met. Mutteri
ng something to the other boys, he ran across the street to the car. “Mom! Whatchu doin’ here?”
Michelle almost snapped, “Get in the car!” . . . but remembered she was there to pick up Tabby for lunch. “The question is, young man, what are you doing, pulling your pants down like some hip-hop rapper?”
Tavis squirmed. “Nothin’ . . . We’re just messin’ around.” He glanced anxiously over his shoulder, then back at his mom. “Can I still go home with DaShawn? We’re on summer vacation now. We wanted to do some skateboardin’ or something. I was gonna call you when I got home.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle saw Tabby wave good-bye to some girlfriends and wait on the curb for a car to pass before coming across the street. She’d deal with Tavis later. “All right,” she hissed. “But you listen up, Tavis Jasper. Pull those pants up, buckle your belt, and you call me as soon as you get home. But be quiet—your dad is probably asleep and he’s had a rough couple days at work. Is anyone home at the Bentleys’?”
Tavis shrugged and again looked back at his friends. “Mom, they’re gonna go without me if I don’t hurry up. I’ll call you. Promise.” At her nod, he ran off.
Lord, Lord. Help me here. Was Tavis going to be her problem child?
She got back in the car as Tabby climbed in the minivan on the other side. “Hey.” Michelle put on a smile. “Congratulations. You’re an eighth grader now.”
Tabby grinned and pumped her fist. “Yeah!” She looked back over her shoulder as Michelle pulled away from the curb. “Was Tavis trying to cut in on our girls-only lunch? Huh. Glad you didn’t let him.” She clicked her seat belt triumphantly.
“Something like that. So . . . where do you want to go for lunch?”
* * *
As much as she would’ve like to spend another hour lingering over the panini sandwiches and fruit smoothies they ordered at the Deluxe Diner on Clark Street, Michelle was combining business with pleasure—taking her lunch time and doing another visit to the Blackwell family. So they’d better get on with it.
