The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (36 page)

Amanda patted him on the shoulder. “They mean well, bubby.” Which cracked all of us up—until Josh opened the card from his other grandparents. A card simply signed “Harley and Kay” and a check for twenty-five dollars. I saw Denny's lips tighten. Guess “Harley and Kay” were still annoyed about the college tuition check we'd sent back.

But Josh just grinned and waved the birthday check in the air. “Now
this
one I'm gonna keep.” He pushed himself away from the table. “Well, thanks, people. Can I use the car tonight? A buddy at work invited me to see a movie. Not a prob, is it? ”

Well, so much for lingering at the table. But I smiled. “Sure, go, go. You need some fun after your stressful weekend. Who's your buddy? ”

“She works in accounting. Her name's Sue.”

YOU COULD'VE KNOCKED ME OVER with a limp noodle. A
buddy
named
Sue
? “Well, could be a good thing,” I told Denny as we cleaned up the kitchen. “I mean, for him to go out with other girls, not be so fixated on Edesa.”

Denny was tackling the encrusted roasting pan with a bedraggled wire soap pad. “I think,” he grunted, scraping away, “Josh and Edesa are just good friends. Hasn't she made it pretty clear? ” He scowled at the pan and left it to soak.

I snorted. “What do I know? They're awfully chummy. But this Sue would have to be a quality person if Peter Douglass hired her, right? ”

“Yeah. Maybe. I'd say Josh has a good eye for quality himself.” Denny snickered and snapped me on the rear with his dishtowel. “But I sure never called you my ‘buddy' when
we
were going out. Nope. Nope.”

CHANDA'S SURGERY WAS SCHEDULED for Friday to give her time to do all the pre-op stuff—a complete physical, chest X ray, EKG, blood work. “What dey need all dat stuff for, Sista Jodee? ” she complained when I called her midweek. “Seem like de only ting mi do all week is go to de doctor!”

We scrambled to cover things for Chanda—a bit tough, since most of us worked or went to school. “Doesn't Chanda have any family here in Chicago? ” I complained to Avis in her office that week. “She used to leave the kids with a sister, I thought. But where is she now, when Chanda really needs her? ”

Avis shrugged. “Chanda said her sister went back to Jamaica. But whether that was just for a visit or for good, I don't know.We'll just have to cover somehow.”

To my surprise,Nony offered to take Chanda to the hospital on Friday and stay until she was out of surgery.
Mark must be doing better for her to leave him all day,
I thought—though I found out later that Hoshi only had one class on Friday, leaving “Dr. Smith” alone only a couple of hours. Still, the fact that Nony felt she could be away all day was good, I hoped—for both Nony and Mark.

Florida offered to keep Chanda's kids over the weekend but didn't know how to get them after school in north Evanston down to Rogers Park. I wasn't any help; Denny usually didn't get home with the car till six or six thirty, earliest. They could stay in afterschool care, but . . .

My brain ached as I headed for school Friday morning. I felt badly that Chanda's kids had to stay in after-school care so late. Best-case scenario, Chanda might be able to go home that night, the lumpectomy done as an outpatient.

Or not.

It all depended on what the doctors found when they went in.

34

A
vis appeared at my classroom door twenty minutes after the dismissal bell as I was cleaning off the markerboards. Still had to straighten desks and toss leftbehind lunchboxes, sweaters, and jump ropes into the Darn Lucky Box before I could leave for the weekend. The principal of Bethune Elementary leaned against my desk, arms folded across her soft, rust-colored sweater-tunic. “Nony called,” she said. “The lump was malignant.”

I stared at my boss, openmouthed.

“That's the bad news. The good news is that the lymph nodes were clean. It hadn't spread. So all they did was take out the lump and sentinel nodes. But they're still going to keep her overnight for observation. She was pretty sick when she came out of the anesthesia.”

My insides sank. “Poor Chanda.”
OK, God, what happened to the “no cancer” report we prayed for?
Still, there was some good news. She'd been so afraid of waking up with only one breast. And they'd found it before it spread. Then I had a memory jolt. “Wait a sec. That's exactly what you went through, wasn't it, Avis? A lump that was malignant but hadn't spread? I mean, you didn't have a mastectomy, and you're fine now.”

“That's right.” Her businesslike manner softened. “I'd like to run up to the hospital to see her, give her some encouragement. Want to ride along? ”

Ten minutes later, I met Avis in the parking lot and we headed north toward Evanston Hospital in her black Toyota Camry. Wasn't often I had Avis to myself for five minutes, much less fifteen. Might as well stick my foot in it. “Um, how's Rochelle, Avis? You and Peter doing OK? ”

Avis was a long time answering.
Uh-oh,
I thought. “Sorry. You don't have to—”

“No, no, it's all right, Jodi. I'm just not sure how to answer.” She concentrated on spiraling the Camry up the ramps of Evanston Hospital's huge parking garage. We finally found a space on the roof.

Avis turned off the ignition and sighed. “Let's just say Peter and I don't see eye to eye on how we should respond to Rochelle ‘when she comes crying to us about Dexter,' as he says. He gave her an ultimatum last weekend—told her we're not a halfway house; she needs to get an order of protection, and if Dexter violates it, she needs to call the police or go to a shelter.”

“So what happened? ” I gasped.

Avis shook her head. “Rochelle was so mad, she just left, was gone before I got home from Yada Yada.Went to stay with a friend, I guess. Called me to say Peter wasn't her dad, and he had no right to boss her or tell her she couldn't come home to Mama. Hung up on me when I didn't immediately take her side. At least I have her cell number, but . . .” The pain in Avis's eyes was almost more than I could bear. “What do you think, Jodi? Feels like I'm having to choose between my husband and my daughter.”

I had no idea what to think! “Oh,Avis,” I moaned, and gave her a hug. A few moments later, she picked up her Bible and purse, got out of the car, and marched into the hospital. All-business Avis again.

We got lost coming into the hospital from the top floor but finally found Chanda in the right wing. Ruth Garfield sat in the corner of the private room, a garish orange maternity top announcing her expanding tummy, knitting away on what vaguely looked like baby booties. Chanda snored gently against a pile of pillows, clear liquid from plastic bags dripping into her arms, bandages peeking out of the top of her hospital gown.

“Hey,” I said to Ruth, leaning over to give her an awkward hug. “How are you? ”

“How should I be? ” she grunted. “Not yet seven months and already seven tons. That Delores, she better be Solomon.”

“The eating must be working. You look better,” I teased. All I got was a
humph.

On the other side of the bed, Avis was anointing the sleeping Chanda from a little bottle of oil she always carried with her and starting to pray. “Where's Nony? ” I murmured to Ruth. “Is Ben here? ”

“Left when we arrived,Nony did. To pick up Chanda's children and bring them here to see the mother.” The knitting needles never paused. “Ben, he's noshing on bagels and coffee in the cafeteria. He doesn't do hospital rooms too good.”

ONLY ON THE WAY HOME with Chanda's kids belted in the backseat, headed for the Hickmans, did I realize how beautifully God had smoothed out all the complicated juggling for Chanda's children. Ruth “just happened” to arrive in perfect time to sit with Chanda so Nonyameko could pick up Chanda's kids from afterschool care and bring them back to the hospital to see their mother. Chanda managed to wake up long enough “to kiss me t'ree babies,” after which Avis and I offered to transport them to the Hickmans, who were waiting for the kids with open arms and home-fried chicken, no doubt. I started to hum a little thanksgiving to God.

“Sing it,” Dia demanded from the backseat. “I know that song from Sunday school.”

I grinned. “God is so good . . .” I started. Dia joined in, practically yelling in my ear. “God is so good! God is so good! He's so good to us!” I couldn't remember the verses, so we made some up. “He loves my mommy” . . . “He gives us friends” . . .We added “our family,” new cars” ( “Mommy's Lexus!” the kids shouted), “lunchboxes” ( “Lunch
money
,” Thomas corrected). From there it got a little silly—pizza, birthday parties, toilet paper (giggles from the backseat). At the end of each “verse,” even Avis couldn't resist smiling as the kids shouted the rousing last line:
“He's so good to us!”

When we'd delivered our lively cargo to the Hickman abode, Avis and I rode home in silence, grateful for the golden hush. I wondered what she was thinking. About Rochelle, no doubt. About her new marriage and the stresses bombarding it so soon. But an echo still seemed to fill the car:
God is so good . . .He's so good to us.

CHANDA HAD SOME “MINOR COMPLICATIONS” that she declined to describe, and the surgeon kept her in the hospital until Sunday. Yeah, I knew about those “minor complications.” Probably just trying to “go” again to the nurses' satisfaction, who said inane things like, “Did we have a BM yet, sweetie? ”
( “We” ? )
But just as well. I'd offered to bring a lasagna for Chanda's first night home, but Nony called on Saturday. She said Pastor Cobb and Pastor Clark wanted to have a special “fellowship hour” after the worship service tomorrow with coffee, tea, and munchies, and could I make something? I decided on chocolate-chip cookies—who didn't like chocolate-chip cookies? —so ended up Saturday afternoon mass producing two lasagnas, two foil-wrapped bullets of garlic French bread, and a doublerecipe of my mom's best-ever chocolate-chip cookies.

She'd be proud.

We arrived at the Howard Street shopping center at nine forty-five Sunday morning—fifteen minutes before the new starting time of ten o'clock. OK. So we were on New Morning time. Couldn't help wondering just how many things would happen New Morning's way just because
we
were joining them in
their
building.

“Does New Morning know we're going to donate the proceeds from the sale of our building to help buy this building or help pay for the renovation? ” I murmured to Denny out of earshot of the kids.

Denny shrugged. “Probably. We voted on it. I'm sure Pastor Clark has told Pastor Cobb by now.”

Yeah,
I thought.
But do the folks in the pews—er, chairs—know?

Josh had already disappeared inside the large storefront, but Amanda hung back and walked with us. “You OK, sweetie? ” Denny asked, putting an arm around her.

“Guess.” She leaned into him, her loose butterscotch hair catch ing highlights from the bright October sun. It was one of
those
days. Bright blue sky. A nip in the air. But enough sunshine to beckon one outside with promises of a lingering Indian summer. “Just feel kinda funny, not ever going back to Uptown Community anymore.”

“I know, honey,” I heard Denny say. “Guess we have to keep reminding ourselves that the ‘real' Uptown—the people—came along with us.We just left behind the building.”

Most of them,
I thought, trailing behind my husband and daughter, my hands full with the two plastic cookie containers.
But not all.
My heart squeezed.
Oh Lord, why does this merger feel good and sad at the same time?

But the moment I walked into the large storefront sanctuary, sadness evaporated. Someone had made a large banner in various shades of blues and sea green, which hung at the front of the worship space facing a long sidewall. Inside a large circle on the banner, hands in all shades of brown, tan, beige, and peach clasped wrists in the middle. Felt words arching at the top said, PRAISE GOD FOR HIS BODY, and a similar semicircle at the bottom said,UPTOWN& NEWMORNING.

My eyes got wet. I felt . . . welcome.

The Sisulu-Smiths were already there, dad and sons wearing their South African dashikis and Nony wearing my favorite blueandgold caftan. Denny immediately attached himself to Mark, who was sitting at the end of a row. Denny chatted, one hand resting on Mark's shoulder; Mark nodded, a half smile on his face. Mark looked . . . good. Basically. He was still wearing a patch over his left eye. But he didn't seem like the same Mark who had stood up in the middle of the plaza at Northwestern University and dissected the bogus invective of the White Pride group. Coming out of the coma had been a miracle! But maybe he'd never be the same after that vicious—