Faith Alone

by Terri Ann Johnson

  The receptionist ushered me back into what I thought was the doctor’s office. Instead, I sat in an examination room for about thirty minutes before a nurse came in. She asked a few questions, took a sample of my blood, and told me to come back in two days.

  I obeyed, and forty-eight hours later, John and I found out that we’d become parents in the early summer of 1994.

  I was so deep in that memory that I didn’t hear Brian come up the steps. As I curled up on our bed, Brian stroked my face, and as if reading my mind, he said, “This isn’t like last time.”

  Brian’s love wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket. Although he held me from behind, the smell of his cologne met my nose.

  As he wiped a trickle of tears from my cheek, he softly sang, “I just want to praise you, forever and ever and ever for all you’ve done for me. Blessings and glory and honor they all belong to you. Thank you, Jesus, for blessing me.” When he got to the last verse of my favorite song, he said, “You wanna join me?”

  “Naw, no singing today.” It had been a long time since I had been in this kind of funk. Bringing his spirit down was something that I didn’t want to do. But, I couldn’t fake the fact that I was drowning in a sea of depression. I needed to know if I was pregnant, now.

  “Chelle, let’s do this,” Brian said as though he was talking to the boys on his football team before a game. He grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand. “Drink some water.”

  “I don’t need it,” I said as I pushed off the bed, telling myself to calm down and be nice. Brian was doing his best to help me through this, but he had not been a part of my life in high school; he had no idea what it was like to go through the heartache and pain.

  But, he is here now.

  I grabbed the test from the cabinet and decided to go back into the bedroom to read the instructions with Brian.

  Brian’s eyes lit up when he saw me stand in the doorway. It was a haphazard toss of the box into the air, but I wasn’t surprised at all when he caught it.

  “Together?”

  “Together.” I reassured him.

  He gently opened the box and read the instructions to himself. Then he gave me the Cliff Notes version.

  It was simple. All I had to do was pee on the stick…and I did.

  Chapter 3

  Those two little lines from the pregnancy test led us to Dr. Price's office where we waited for her to come in and talk about our situation. She was able to see us on Tuesday, and this was only my second time leaving the house since we‘d found out on Friday night.

  After the shock of seeing the positive result, I had stayed in just about all weekend. There was no way that I could go out and face the world, go out and be excited. I didn't want to go down the road of loving with all my heart again and having that love drowned in an ocean of tears.

  Even though I‘d been filled with despair, Brian had done his best to help me. He‘d given me space while he picked up what I would normally do: he cooked, cleaned, and made sure that my only responsibility was to relax.

  But the most important thing that he did for me — he prayed. As a man of God, he went into his prayer closet, most of Saturday. Then, on Sunday morning, he went into my closet and came out with an outfit for me to wear to church.

  Although I didn't want to leave the house, I knew it was the right thing.

  Brian told me, “We'll get up and watch God do the rest."

  The Word said that 'faith and fear cannot dwell in the same place'. Brian did his best to remind me of that.

  The tap on Dr. Price's door brought me back to this mild and sunny and frightening Tuesday morning.

  “Good morning.“ Dr. Price walked in holding medical folders. As she put them down on her desk, she greeted us with a warm smile.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Jackson,” Dr. Price began with her hands folded on top of her desk. She wore a smile as she told me the worst news. “Mrs. Jackson, you are pregnant.”

  Brian bowed his head and said, “Thank you, Lord.”

  The doctor glanced at Brian with a smile, but when she faced me, I saw her concern. My silence made her stand, walk around to the other side of her desk, and sit down in a chair next to me.

  “I know your medical history, and I hope that you will remain positive,” Dr. Price said as she stroked my back.

  I gave her a slight smile, the same smile that I’d given Brian all weekend.

  That was the only response this news could elicit from me. Because I‘d been here before and my happiness had been snatched away, stolen from me when I‘d lost my baby.

  “Doctor Price, could Lachelle or the baby be in any danger?“ He didn‘t give the doctor a chance to respond before he continued, “Because, I’ve researched preeclampsia. I read that there are various factors that contribute to the condition and it might not strike a woman twice.” Brian reached for my hand. The look in his charcoal gray eyes was serious. The smile that usually lit up his face, always displaying his pearly whites was not present.

  “Well, one thing that many people don’t know about preeclampsia is that it is most often seen in first-time pregnancies, in teens, and in women over forty,” the doctor said. “When you were eighteen-years-old, you fit two of those three categories. So, that would explain what happened to you before. But I have to be honest. Since you’ve experienced a stillbirth in the past, your pregnancy is high risk by default.” “What does that mean?” Brian asked.

  “Your wife is at a higher risk, but because of what we know, we will monitor Lachelle more often.” Dr. Price looked at me and continued. “You’ll visit us more often, and we’ll run more tests. And we’ll assign you to specialists who will look after you as well. We’ll discuss the signs of preeclampsia before you leave today.”

  “Have any of your patients had a medical history similar to mine?”

  There was so much compassion in her eyes and in her voice when she said, “Yes, and she is alive and well and so is her three-year-old son.” She paused, giving us time to think about that.

  A son. That woman had a son.

  Dr. Price said, “I have a preliminary plan in mind for you. Usually, around thirty-seven weeks we may induce labor or perform a cesarean section. This usually keeps preeclampsia from getting worse, if we see the onset of it.”

  “I’ve been praying all weekend that this appointment would bring us hope,” Brian said, and by this time, the gleam in his eyes had returned, and his smile brightened the room.

  I placed my hand on my belly. Brian placed his hand over mine.

  Dr. Price said, “There is hope. We determine when to deliver the baby on how far along you are in your pregnancy, how well the fetus is doing and the severity of the preeclampsia. We’ll do everything we can to get you to week thirty-seven and make our decision as a team. But remember, this is if you even develop preeclampsia.”

  Keyword: If.

  After listening to Dr. Price, I didn’t know how I felt. I‘d walked in here so scared that I would lose another baby. Even now, I remembered how much I’d loved my little honey bear like I’d loved nothing else. He’d been my hope; he’d been my joy. I had wrapped up so much love in our future together, a future that never came to fruition. I knew that I didn’t want to experience that kind of loss again.

  After losing my baby and dealing with depression, I promised myself that I would help women get through the journey of pregnancy. I’d created programs that helped reduce the low birth rate, infant illness, and even death. The most fulfilling part of my job had been the friendships developed with the moms and babies who I watched grow through the years. Most of the women that we served were young; about the same age I was when I got pregnant. Most were scared, just like I was. But, I was an example that a setback didn’t prevent you from bouncing back. I’d served as a program manager for the non-profit organization, Loving Our Babies. Sometimes, I’d assist with writing grants. I loved my role as surrogate sister or auntie. But now, it was all about to change.

  “Chelle, you�
�ve been quiet. What are you thinking?” Brian said as he stroked my cheek.

  “This is a lot to take in. You know I wasn’t feeling this at all. You look happy.” I shoved Brian’s shoulder to let him know that he could be okay with this.

  Brian’s only response: he picked up my hand and gently kissed my wedding ring. The glimmer in his eyes told me that I was correct. Brian was a father figure to many boys he coached, current and previous players. He nurtured, mentored and yes...loved. He’d made a difference; many of the boys and young men didn’t have a sense of family and Brian provided that. We hosted many a cook-out where Brian taught the boys life skills, taught them how to work to impress God, their parents and their teachers.

  He made sure that the boys understood that men were measured by the way they treated the women in their lives. Brian walked that walk. He treated me the way God intended for a man to treat a woman. He set the example.

  “I’ll leave you two now.” Dr. Price stood. “I’ll have my nurse come in and give you some literature and make your next appointment.” The way she paused, I knew she wanted us to really hear her next words. “Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, please know that my team and I stand ready to do everything we can to ensure a positive outcome, a healthy baby.”

  We stood, and I hugged Dr. Price, feeling the optimism in her heart. Brian tried to shake her hand, but Dr. Price said, “I’m old school, give me a hug.”

  We all laughed.

  “Thank you, Doctor Price,” Brian began after he stepped back. “Thank you for your encouragement. I know we’ll see each other often this year and I’m ready to do whatever I need to do to make sure that Lachelle and the baby remain healthy.”

  “I know you will take great care of them.” She left us with one last message. “With God all things are possible. I’ll see you soon.”

  When we were alone, Brian turned to me. “Babe, I hope you’re feeling a little lighter because I am.”

  I nodded.

  “I’m starved. I didn’t eat anything this morning. Why don’t we stop and get some lunch before we head home? I told the school that I wouldn’t be coming in today. We can spend some time talking about what Doctor Price told us. You did tell the office that you would be out all day, didn’t you?” Brian looked at me as though he was my father, chastising me for being a workaholic.

  “Yes. I. Did.” I responded, punctuating each syllable. “I feel a little relief. But, we can talk over lunch.”

  A look of contemplation rested on Brian’s face, in his furrowed eyebrows and tightened lips. “I want to thank God right here in this office before we leave.” He turned my torso to face his and took my hands. He closed his eyes and went to the throne of grace.

  “Father God, we thank you for what you have done and everything that you are about to do. We thank you for your grace and your mercy. Together we recite what we know to be true.”

  I knew which scripture we would pray. Jeremiah twenty- nine and eleven was our favorite. In unison, we prayed right up in Dr. Price’s office.

  “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  Brian completed our prayer. “We ask these and all blessings

  in the name of your Son Jesus Christ. Amen.” A cheerful, “Amen,” flowed from my lips. “I love you, Mrs. Jackson.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I said.

  As Brian slid my jacket over my shoulders, I eased my arms around his waist, lifted my head and gave him a slow, long kiss.

  “Uhmmmm, does that mean you love me back?” “Always and forever.”

  Chapter 4

  Heading east on Pennsylvania Ave, I asked Brian to ride past the White House. “You never know, we might see Barack or Michelle,” I said, adjusting my seat so that I could lie back a little. Although the sun wasn’t burning as hot as it would be in a few weeks, it was bright, so I pulled my sunglasses from the glove compartment.

  The tourists were out in full effect. School had just let out for the summer in many parts of the country, as evidenced by the many families riding Segways. There were long lines at the food and ice cream trucks.

  As we passed the new African-American Museum, Brian asked, “What do you want to eat?”

  Turning up Jill Scott on the radio gave me something to do while I thought about it. “I’ll let you choose. You’ve accommodated me all weekend.”

  Brian smiled that smile. “Well then…you know I want some hood food.”

  “Am I supposed to be eating hood food?” He knew that I loved a good steak and cheese sandwich or chicken wings with mambo sauce. I was happy that my appetite had returned and my taste buds were talking.

  “I think you’ll be okay. We can call it our last supper of hood food.” His laugh was infectious.

  “Okay, let’s go to the new Ben’s Chili Bowl on H Street.

  That’s upscale hood food.”

  I side eyed him. “A hot dog ain’t never upscale. I don’t care where it’s coming from. But, I’m good with Ben’s.”

  We headed toward H Street, in the Northeast section of the city, where Brian was raised. It was within a few blocks of Ben’s that one of the most horrific rape/murder cases had taken place in 1984, reminiscent of the Central Park Five Case in New York City.

  Now, there were new office buildings, restaurants, and bars sitting next to run down storefronts; signs of gentrification were everywhere. Gone were the streets strewn with litter and in were the streetcars. Cranes reaching up to the sky filled empty holes that were once affordable homes. Boys with sagging pants ran past a middle-aged, white woman walking her dog. When we saw white folks walking down H Street, we knew the city was changing.

  “Black folks riding bikes now?” I asked sarcastically after I saw the orange bike racks that city dwellers could rent.

  Brian shook his head. “You know those bikes aren’t for us.

  They wouldn’t trust us to put ‘em back.”

  “It’s all a part of changing the ‘hood. Or should I say changing who lives in the ‘hood?”

  As we made the left onto H Street, the block was filled with a throng of people hanging out, not harming anyone, but not doing anything constructive either.

  The brightness of the sun couldn’t compare to the yellow and red interior of the newest Ben’s Chili Bowl, a stark contrast to the original diner (the epitome of a greasy spoon) that had been around since 1958. T-shirts and hats with Ben’s logo were for sale, lined up in a glass case. There were a few millennials eating while working on tablets. The owner, Mrs. Ali, was there giving a little boy a balloon as he left with his family.

  The history of the diner sat emblazoned at the top of the wall above a window looking out onto H Street; it’s opening in 1958, the 1963 March on Washington, the 1968 riots, through the years to opening four additional diners around the city. Although this was a new location, nostalgia greeted us as we walked through the door. Pictures in black wooden frames adorned the walls – Presidents Obama and Clinton, D.C. politicians, Hollywood stars, members of D.C. Go-Go bands, and of course, D.C.’s Mayor for Life, Marion Barry - were lined up closer to the back of the diner. I was happy that the new location brought the nostalgia of the old one. The unmistakable smell of grilled hotdogs filled the air.

  A big guy, with an even bigger smile, resembling an NFL linebacker, stepped up and greeted Brian. “What’s up, B? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Man, everything is good with me. I see things are even better with you, wearing the manager’s outfit. No more white apron for you, huh?”

  “Oh, I whip it out when I need to. It gets busy on the weekends.”

  Dre. The old grill master. Yes, he worked at the original Ben’s on U Street calling customers by name and their orders as they walked through the door. A few of my work colleagues loved Ben’s Chili Bowl, and I remembered Dre from when I went with them.

  “Yeah, loyalty pays off. The Ali’s are like family. Getting my job right out o
f high school kept me off the streets. But what about you? I hear you putting in work with your football teams. And I hear you might be running for Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner. They couldn’t find a better brotha to get some things done.”

  Local civic leaders regarded Brian as the best person to represent our little section of the city. Everyone loved his commitment to the kids, the city’s future.

  “Yeah, I decided to do it. I couldn’t keep talkn’ about it and not be about it.”

  “Yo B, don’t hesitate to come back and bring posters or flyers, whateva you need to get it done.

  Dre looked around to see where he’d seat us. “Do you prefer a table or booth?”

  “I’m not sure where my manners went,” Brian said as he put his arm around me. “This is my wife, Lachelle. Lachelle this is Dre. We know each other from…” They looked at each other, laughed and responded in unison. “From back in the day.”

  “Okay, well I know to leave that alone. It’s nice meeting you, Dre. This new Ben’s is nice.”

  The shiny, red cushions covering the chairs and booths could’ve been delivered yesterday they were so new. In the back of the diner was a full-size jukebox looking like it was delivered straight from the Happy Days set. It added to the authenticity of it being more of a diner than a restaurant.

  “We’ll take that booth in the back.” Brian said nodding his head toward it.

  “You go up and order; it’s on the house. I’ll put water in your booth so no one will sit there. You see how crowded we are.” Dre gave us a sarcastic smile.

  We expected a lunchtime crowd, but we were two of about ten people that day.

  Before Dre went to get our drinks, he and Brian gave each other that grip that most brothers use to say hello or goodbye.

  Before they broke their grip, I heard Brian ask the question that I had thought about. “Bill Cosby didn’t make it onto the wall of fame?”

  “Naw B, Cosby didn’t make it up. Mrs. Ali didn’t want any problems.