Each of the men wondered what he or she could have done to prevent Joyce Ann’s death. Maybe if they’d been more assertive, attentive, or adamant about the necessary changes— anything to keep the women they loved from getting hurt. If only they had taken the risk, “butted in,” Joyce Ann might still be alive. But they hadn’t, and now one of their own was dead.
Aunt Toe’s heart was so heavy, it felt like lead. She’d seen it coming just the same as everyone else, but what could she have done? Called the prayer chain sooner, that was for sure. She’d waited too late to pray. She also could have moved in with Joyce Ann herself and kept that gal from burning the place down. Maybe she could have called the State on Joyce Ann, told them she was a danger to herself. But she didn’t have any proof. It was a sticky situation when somebody’s mind was sick. Aunt Toe had learned that the hard way— twice over now.
Gloria, too, was beside herself. None of it seemed real just yet. It couldn’t be real, because if it were, she was to blame. She didn’t find the right clinic, the right doctor, the right counselor. She had completely discounted everybody’s warnings about Joyce Ann. But Joyce Ann was more like a daughter than a sister to Gloria, and it was hard to admit defeat and throw in the towel on your own. It was a heartbreak that lasted nearly two decades.
Gloria fought for Joyce Ann the way Joyce Ann had fought for her when Willie died. No matter how crazy everyone else thought Gloria was, Joyce Ann stood up for her. She’d covered for Gloria about Bernard Livingston, and Gloria owed it to Joyce Ann to cover for her. But in her effort to conceal Joyce Ann’s crisis, Gloria had failed. And all this time she thought Joyce Ann was the one with the problem.
Yolanda rested her head on Kelan’s shoulder as tears rolled from her eyes onto his denim button-down shirt. Her brain pounded against the inside of her forehead, and her eyes burned raw from the endless crying. How could she have let this happen? Aunt Joyce Ann was dead because of her, she was sure. No one in their right mind would have allowed Joyce Ann to live alone. She should have stood up to Gloria.
Maybe if she hadn’t been so busy being mad at Gloria, she could have paid more attention to Joyce Ann and they could have admitted her hours sooner—on Saturday night instead of putting off the final discussion. But it was too late. Things like this just didn’t happen to Yolanda unless she hadn’t planned well enough. When she really thought about it, this whole thing was her fault.
There is a feeling, a distinct tone, that permanently fastens to a finite number of occurrences in a person’s life, such that just thinking of a particular event, the tiniest inkling of it, transports the soul back to that very same spot at that very same time even years after the fact. In a flash, a person plays the mental videotape, smell the smells, and feel the sensation of that timeless instant engulfing you as though it had happened only yesterday. Relive it—for good or evil—at will, sometimes against the will.
What a person does with that memory makes all the difference. Dianne knew this well, better than anyone else in the room. As she looked at the faces of her loved ones, she recognized their despair. In their eyes, pools of woe, she saw a reflection of her old self: guilt, regret, self-degradation, making herself pay the price for sins that Jesus already bore on the cross—in Dianne’s case, wrongdoings that she had pinned on herself. And now, just as Dianne accepted freedom and vowed to slay this penance monster, its heart was still beating. It had lived just long enough to find other hosts and be transferred to her loved ones.
Not as long as the power of the Holy Spirit within Dianne could help it.
All the way to Dentonville, Dianne had prayed and listened to the audio tape of scriptures that Dr. Tilley gave her weeks earlier—the ones she’d put away and refused to look at in her anger. The Word now gave her the strength and comfort of a million mothers rocking her to sleep and a million fathers tucking her into bed. Dianne could stand on the word of God, and if the others couldn’t stand on it with her, they could at least lean on her until they found the strength.
All that morning at the hospital and the funeral home, Dianne had been quiet. She had listened only to the scriptures as they played over and over again in her mind. Now it was time to declare them. She reached down to her feet and pulled the brown leather organizer from her oversize purse. As she flipped through the notes section she saw herself in a different light. All her bad days were being used by Him for this time. She sat up straight on the sunken couch and took center stage as she read His message from the tablet of her heart.
“I’m sitting here looking at everybody and I’m thinking, if anyone ought to be sad, it should be me. I should have reached out to her. And I’m sure looking back, we can all think of many shoulda-woulda-couldas. I think we’ve all been convicted of something or another when it comes to Joyce Ann, and there is a lesson to be learned, as in everything else in life. But there’s a difference between constructive conviction and guilt. When God convicts us, it’s because He wants us to grow stronger. But the enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy. He is the accuser who only reminds us of our shortcomings in order to beat us over the soul with them. He wants us to doubt and discount everything that Jesus did on the cross.
“I can’t tell you exactly how you can turn that guilt around, and actually, I don’t know that you can. It takes God and His word to change a heart. A mind. A spirit. So, that’s what I’m gonna share with you for just a moment. And then we’ll pray,” Dianne commanded as she closed her eyes and recited the verses from memory, just like the CD and the notes. “Galatians five and one: ‘It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.’ First Peter two and twenty-four: ‘He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.’ John eight and thirty-six: ‘So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.’
“Now let’s pray.”
Whimpers turned to sobs as Dianne wrestled guilt to the ground. Aunt Toe’s body heaved up and down.
Gloria buried her face in her hands. Though Richard still struggled to accept all he’d recently learned about his new wife, he loved her. He pulled her body toward himself.
Regina hung her head, standing closer to Orlando. And Yolanda cried while holding tightly to Kelan’s arm.
“Father, we’re hurting,” Dianne prayed. “We’re hurting so badly, Lord, that it seems almost unbearable. We don’t understand it, Father, but You do. You loved Joyce Ann more than any one of us did, so we don’t question You. We only hope and pray we will see her again on the other side.
“But now, Lord, guilt, shame, and despair have come to bear down on us because of Joyce Ann’s death. The accuser has come to destroy us, but we ask that You would give each and every one of us the strength to learn the lesson without taking on the guilt the enemy brings to us. We simply bring these burdens to You and leave them there, as you commanded in first Peter five and seven.
“Father, we praise You already for the deliverance.” Dianne stood and clapped her hands in praise.
Within moments, Dianne’s family, old and new, surrounded her and joined her in praise. “Lord we praise You for deliverance! We give You glory! Be magnified! Be exalted even in this!” The room transformed from a space of sorrow to a space of glory as they lifted the name of the Lord on high in the midst of their pain. With their minds open, their hands lifted, and their hearts broken, the spirit of God gingerly planted a seed of healing into their fertile hearts.
And so it happened that the one known as Joyce Ann’s girl, the one who had been the most fragile, the least stable, held out her hand to help those who had always helped her. It wasn’t a cure-all or an instant solution. Yet, it takes only a second to start looking forward instead of looking back.
Chapter 34
Yolanda had been holding on to information about Mr. Bernard Livingston of Parker City, Texas, for days now. Though she was busy with getting things squar
ed away for Joyce Ann’s funeral, Yolanda’s eyes rolled across his phone number at least three or four times a day. By now she’d memorized it as well as his and address. Calling her long-lost father was the kind of feat that got increasingly difficult as each day went on. She had a good excuse to procrastinate, with Joyce Ann’s death still fresh on her mind. However, the fact still remained: if she didn’t call him now, she might not ever lift her fingers to do it.
The phone rang two times before an answering machine picked up. “Hello!” His voice was distinct, jovial—as if he might bust out whistling the tune to the Andy Griffith Show at any moment. “Sorry we missed your call. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you want to leave a message for Candace, press one. For Bernard, press two. For the both of us, stay on the line. Have a great day!”
Yolanda pressed “2” and waited for the beep. What was she supposed to say? She didn’t want to leave a bombshell message on an answering machine. The beep caught her unprepared. She held on to the phone, breathing. Okay, she couldn’t leave a heavy-breathing message. She had to say something. “Hello, Mr. Livingston, this is Yolanda Jordan. From Dentonville. Could you please return my phone call? My number is five five five, one zero eight seven. It’s important. Thank you.”
Yolanda hung up the phone and waited. Would he call back? Would he erase it so that Candace wouldn’t hear it, whoever she was? Yolanda was certain he was divorced. Was he living with someone?
Hours passed. Still no call. She had to get up and get ready for work. What if he was out of town? I should have called him sooner.
On her way to the garage, the phone rang. “Hello.”
“Hello, is this Yolanda Jordan?” It was him.
“Yes, this is Yolanda Jordan.”
“This is Bernard Livingston. I’m returning your call. How can I help you?”
“Mr. Bernard, I’m... I’m... well, Gloria Jordan, Willie Amos Jordan’s widow... I’m their daughter. You worked with Willie at J. T. Plastics before he died in a boating accident.”
“Oh, right, Yolanda”—his voice sparked with fondness—”with the cute little button nose. Your father talked about you all the time. How are you? How’s your mother? How’s your family? I was just thinking about Willie the other day.”
He obviously had her confused with Regina. “No, Mr. Livingston, you’re talking about my sister Regina. I’m Yolanda. I... I’m your daughter.”
Dead silence.
“Hello?”
“Yes. I’m still here,” he barely spoke.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, but I don’t have much time.”
“Time? Are you sick?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Livingston, I mean I have to go to work now. I’m sorry to just dump all this on you and then leave, but—”
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a pharmacist.”
“A pharmacist, huh?” Yolanda heard him beam with pride. “A pharmacist.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll have to get back with you later.” Yolanda hung up the phone.
On her way to work, Yolanda replayed the way he’d said “pharmacist” over and over again in her head. My father is proud of me. All at once she felt guilty. What about Daddy— Willie? Everything was further complicated by the fact that this was one life-changing event she could not experience alongside Regina.
Those five hours at work seemed like a full shift. Between calls from Gloria and Regina about Joyce Ann’s funeral arrangements, Yolanda’s mind drifted to thoughts of her father. In all honesty, Yolanda couldn’t wait to talk to Mr. Livingston again. She created a list of things she wanted to know:
1. Do I have any brothers or sisters?
2. Who is Candace?
3. Did you have any idea about me?
4. What have you been doing all this time?
After work, Yolanda’s curiosity got the best of her. She could hardly wait to call Mr. Livingston when she got home. He readily answered her questions. “No, you don’t have any brothers or sisters this way,” he laughed openly. “You’re the only child. My ex-wife, Dorothy, and I tried for many years to have a child, but it never happened.”
“Who’s Candace?” Yolanda jumped to her next question.
“She’s my lady friend. We’ve been together, oh, about four years now.”
“You’re not married?”
“No. How about you?” he returned the question.
“Any grandchildren I should know about?”
“No. No kids here, either,” she laughed. She held off on the third question. It just didn’t seem to be the right time. Mr. Livingston seemed cordial enough on the phone, but she wasn’t interested in hearing what might be his sorry excuse for not following up on the birth of a child nine months after he slept with the child’s mother. Simple math. Maybe he just didn’t care.
Yolanda wondered why she’d even called. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Mr. Livingston.”
“Yolanda,” he stopped her. “I... I would like to meet you. If that’s okay.”
“It’s really not a good time for me. My aunt just died and—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Was she ill?”
“Yes, she was,” Yolanda admitted.
“My condolences.”
“Thank you.” She could only whisper now. “I’ll call you... some other time.”
The women sat arm-in-arm on the front pew, holding on to each other for support. Aunt Toe thought it would be a good idea if the immediate family wore pink, Joyce Anne’s favorite color. It seemed odd at first, but when they all stood together near the church entrance, the soft pastel colors made a great tribute to Joyce Ann. Despite all the bad in her life, she was a beautiful blossom. In the end, they were all glad they had paid heed to Aunt Toe’s suggestion.
They buried her next to Shannon, in Dentonville’s only cemetery. Here again the four women sat on the front row, mourning. Kelan remained a strong pillar, a ready shoulder. He cried with the family, saying good-bye to a woman he’d never known. Yolanda wished he had known Joyce Ann.
Gloria wished everyone could have known how good her sister really was.
“Ashes to ashes; dust to dust,” the minister said as he sprinkled dirt on the top of Joyce Ann’s casket.
Yolanda was so smothered by grief, she could hardly breathe. “Just take a deep breath,” she heard Kelan say as her eyes became fixated on the white, shiny casket trimmed in lavender and pink roses. She took deep breaths, giving herself room for resolve, then forced herself to focus on something else.
She looked up and saw that she was sitting next to one of the largest floral arrangements at the grave site: a beautiful array of spring flowers, trimmed in greenery, accented by pink ribbons. The outside of the card was blank. Yolanda leaned forward, just enough to read the inside.
“May God Bless You and Keep You. The Livingston Family.” Yolanda wanted to process the feelings she had about her father, but she couldn’t do it. Not then.
Leaving her sister’s body at that cemetery felt like a crime. Gloria kept telling herself over and over that Joyce Ann was dead. She’d known that for several days now. But when she walked away from Joyce Ann, left her there in that casket, that’s when Gloria knew that she was gone. Gloria’s legs went limp. Richard and Kelan helped her back to the car, her weak legs making the motions like an infant who instinctively knows the moves but doesn’t have the strength to actually walk.
Aunt Toe led the congregation in song. “Bye and bye, when the morning comes...” With everything in her, she sang the words as clearly and as purposefully as anything she’d ever given her sweet voice to. It was all she could do to get through the day, hoping when she got to heaven she’d know why there was so much pain in life. “For we’ll understand it better bye and bye.”
Chapter 35
The two days following the funeral had been draining. They seemed to be taking turns going up and down the emotional roller coaster following Joyce Ann’s funeral. Membe
rs from congregations across the Metroplex sent food or dropped by. The outpouring was comforting and eased the pain considerably.
It was then Dianne realized how much she missed the church, the “saints and friends,” as Aunt Toe would say.
Dianne decided to stay with Yolanda for the rest of the week. Dentonville did her good with its laid-back lifestyle. In her new position at work Dianne could telecommute four days a week, and if she talked with her supervisor, she might even be able to get away with conducting teleconferences rather than coming into the office, much as her predecessor had done.
That would cut her office time down to three or four days a month. Maybe she could coordinate those office days with her visits to Dr. Tilley. And she could keep in touch with her poetry group via the Internet. They would understand that she wanted—no, needed—to be around her kin-folks.
“Someone called for you a few hours ago,” Dianne informed Yolanda as she walked through the door after work. “I think it was your father. Is his name Bernard?”
“Yeah. What did he say?”
“Said he’d call back later tonight.”
“Thanks.” Yolanda stood still before the door to her closet for a second, thinking. My father called. If he waited too much later, he might miss her altogether. She and Dianne were planning to head into Dallas, catch a movie, and do some shopping. Yolanda decided to call him back.
“Hello. Is Mr. Livingston in?”
“Yeah, sweetie, who’s calling?”
“This is Yolanda.”
“Oh, hello, Yolanda. I’m Candace, your father’s girlfriend. It’s nice to finally get to speak with you. I tell you, your father is so proud of you, sweetie. He’s been telling everyone we know about you,” she laughed one of those “tickled pink” laughs.
“Oh, that’s nice to know,” Yolanda said.
“Hold on, Yolanda, let me get him on the phone for ya.”
Divas of Damascus Road Page 26
