26

Two worry lines pinched together between Amanda’s eyes. “Mom? I don’t know if I should go tonight. It feels dumb going to a stupid dance when Dr. Smith just got hurt so bad, and we don’t . . . we don’t know . . .” Her lip started to tremble.

“Amanda. We’re not going to go there! A lot of prayer is going up for Dr. Smith, and we’ve got to believe that God is going to bring him through this!”

Suddenly I very much wanted Amanda to go to the sophomore dance. I wanted to worry about her. Wanted to get her some new underwear so she could feel special. Wanted to fuss about extending her curfew, about whether she was dressed warm enough for a cool spring evening, about . . . whatever moms fuss about. I wanted a semblance of normal life. Wanted to be reassured that the world hadn’t suddenly spun out of control. “You should go. Dr. Smith would want you to go. We’ll . . .”

I felt torn between loyalty to Nony and loyalty to my daughter. Where was I needed most? “We’ll work out something about getting you there and back.” I gave Amanda a hug. “I’ve got the car. Want to go shopping for new underwear? Come on.”

Funny how important that new underwear had become.

Amanda shrugged. “Not really. It doesn’t matter. What I’ve got is OK.” She still hesitated. “Maybe I should call José.”

“Sure. Call José. Then take a nice, long bath. Want me to paint your toenails?” Supper. I really need to think about an early supper too. None of us had eaten anything since our cafeteria breakfast.

Denny and Josh got home while Amanda was still in the tub, which gave me a chance to talk with Denny about getting her to the dance. Denny, usually so firmly in Amanda’s corner, sank into a dining room chair and heaved a couple of deep sighs. “Gotta tell ya, Jodi, I wish we didn’t have to deal with this right now.”

I touched his shoulder. “I know.” Weariness threatened to undo my resolve. “But no telling how long Mark’s going to be in the hospital. Life needs to go on.”

Denny’s head sank into his hands. I went back into the kitchen to finish chopping vegetables for the pot of hamburger vegetable soup I had simmering on the stove. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him get up from the chair and disappear into the hallway. A few minutes later, he was back in the kitchen doorway.

“I asked Josh to take Amanda to the dance and bring her home.” Denny’s jaw was set. “He’s not happy about it, but he agreed. I did not ask him to chaperone at the dance—we have to let that one go, Jodi.” He leaned a hand against the doorjamb, as if needing a support to hold him up. “I’m going to get a couple of hours of sleep, then I’d like to go back up to the hospital. I’d like you to go with me, but . . . that’s up to you.”

JOSH DROPPED US OFF at the Morse Street Station to catch the northbound el. Denny and I watched the red taillights of the Dodge Caravan head toward Sheridan Road, which would take them to the Lakeshore Drive and into the city. Amanda—looking pretty and sweet, if not bouncy—waved at us gravely from the middle seat of the minivan.

We didn’t talk much on the Red Line train, transferring at Howard Street to the Purple Line, which took us right to Evanston Hospital. We got our visitors’ badges at the front desk and took the elevator to the ICU. The only person in the waiting room was Peter Douglass, who’d changed out of his rumpled sweats into a pair of slacks and a sport shirt.

Avis’s new husband shook Denny’s hand and gave me a tired smile. Peter Douglass wasn’t exactly the hugging type. “Nony’s in the ICU. I thought she needed some time alone with Mark. But I think she’d like to know you’re here, would want you to come in.”

“Is Mark . . . ?”

Peter shook his head. “Still sedated ‘just in case.’ Tomorrow they’ll wean him off the anesthesia and”—he moistened his lips—“see if he wakes up.” Peter turned away, as if not wanting to speculate any further.

“You go, Jodi.” Denny gave me a little push. “See if Nony wants any more company. They don’t usually want more than one or two visitors in the ICU.”

Peter gave me the room number, so I sidled right past the nurses’ station and peeked into the room. Even though I knew Mark had been badly beaten, even though I knew he’d had surgery on his head just hours ago, even though I knew he’d been unconscious since they found him in the alley behind his home . . . I wasn’t prepared for the sight of Nony’s husband laid out on that hospital bed like a corpse, his head swathed in stark white bandages, his body hooked up to every kind of machine imaginable. I wasn’t even sure it was Mark. The face cradled by the bandages didn’t look familiar—it was swollen, darker, misshapen.

“Oh God,” I groaned. I couldn’t move from the doorway; I just stood there trying to take it in. A tube in his nose was dwarfed by a much larger tube down his throat, hooked up to a ventilator pumping air into his lungs. Various tubes and wires ran from his body like a ball of string that had come undone, connecting to an IV pole, a catheter, an EKG monitor above his head, and a few other machines I didn’t recognize. His legs were wrapped in compression stockings, rising and falling with artificial “exercise” to keep his blood moving.

I steadied my nerves with a slow, silent breath and stepped into the room. The room seemed empty of anyone other than Mark and his machines. Where was Nony? As I came closer to the bed, I saw a dark shape bent over the chair in the corner and heard Nony’s voice. I took a step or two closer. She was praying. In agony.

“Oh God, my God! Why have You forsaken me? Oh my God, I cry out all day and all night, but You do not answer!”

I held my breath. Those were Jesus’s words on the cross; they also came from one of the psalms, but I wasn’t sure which one. I waited for her to go on, but she seemed to just back up and repeat the same prayer. “Oh God! Why have You forsaken me? What have I done? Are You punishing me? Punishing us for our sins? I would confess them if I knew what they were! Show me, God! Show me! I’ll do anything! Just don’t—please don’t take Mark away from me.” Her shoulders shook in not-so-silent weeping.

I started to tiptoe out of the room, but before I got to the door, I heard my name. “Jodi? Is that you?” Nony got off her knees, shaking out the big, loose caftan tangled around her body and blowing her nose into a tissue. “Don’t go. I am glad you’ve come.”

We hugged for a long minute. Then, surprising myself at my boldness, I asked, “What psalm were you praying?”

She drew a shuddering breath, her eyes resting on Mark’s still form on the bed. “Psalm 22—the first part anyway. Couldn’t get past the first few verses.”

I wasn’t in the habit of taking my Bible everywhere like Avis and Nony, so I reached for Nony’s big Bible that was still open on the chair. “Let’s read the whole thing together. I’ll read, OK?”

I pulled up a second chair, glad for something to do, something to say. I didn’t remember Psalm 22 in particular, but I knew the psalmist often cried out in despair and then reaffirmed his faith in God. We began at the beginning: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But I kept going: “In you our fathers put their trust; they trusted and you delivered them. . . . From birth I was cast upon you; from my mother’s womb you have been my God . . . Roaring lions tearing their prey open their mouths wide against me. I am poured out like water; and all my bones are out of joint”—Uh-oh. Should I continue?—“But you, O LORD, be not far off. O my Strength, come quickly to help me. . . . I will declare your name to my brothers; in the congregation I will praise you . . .”

When we’d read the entire psalm, we just sat quietly, holding hands, my pale one, hers a rich nut-brown, listening to the beep, beep of the monitors, the whoosh of the ventilator. Suddenly I realized that the very next psalm was Psalm 23. The Shepherd Psalm. I didn’t need the Bible. I just began to pray the familiar verses: “The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want . . .”

After a moment, Nony’s voice joined mine. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death”—beep, beep . . . whoosh—“I will fear no evil, for You are with me . . .”

I RETURNED TO THE WAITING ROOM, and Denny went in. He and Nony both came out a few minutes later; Denny’s face had paled. I glanced at the clock. Almost ten. I desperately needed to get some sleep. But I hated to leave Nony alone. Should we . . .?

“Nonyameko, go home.” Peter laid a hand on Nony’s shoulder. “The boys need you. I will spend the night with Mark. You can come back in the morning.”

I wanted to throw my arms around Peter and kiss him. Knowing Nony could go home was a gift to me too. She might even listen to Peter.

“I can sleep in the morning,” he continued. “After all, New Morning Church is meeting in the afternoon at Uptown Community tomorrow, correct? I can attend their service.” He smiled. “See? It all works out. Ah. Look who’s here!”

Josh and Edesa Reyes walked in the door. I blinked. Josh and Edesa? Wasn’t Josh supposed to be . . .

Edesa, looking very American—and very young—in her slim jeans and sky blue sweater, headed straight for Nony and gave her a warm hug. Josh stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Edesa really wanted a chance to see Mrs. Smith, so I gave her a ride.”

“But what about Amanda and José?” I hissed, hopefully out of Nony and Edesa’s hearing, who were heading out the door to see Mark. “Isn’t the dance supposed to be over at ten?”

“Yes, son.” Denny frowned. “You were supposed to pick them up.”

Josh held up a hand. “Mom. Dad. Relax. Amanda’s home already. She didn’t want to stay at the dance. She called me at Edesa’s and asked me to pick them up. And Edesa wanted to come to the hospital, so I thought I could give you guys a ride home. See? It all works out.”

A ride home. Well, that part was good. I wasn’t really looking forward to the el at this time of night. I started gathering my purse and jacket. “Denny? We should go. Oh.” I glanced down the hall. “Guess we should wait for Edesa.” I looked at Josh, frustrated. “If Amanda’s so upset about Dr. Smith that she left the dance early, I’m not sure you should’ve left her home alone.”

“Mom! Chill.” There was no humor in Josh’s face. “I didn’t leave her home alone. José’s with her. I dropped them off at the house and then came up here. I can take him home when I take Edesa. Give me a minute anyway; I want to see Dr. Smith.”

Oh, great. Just great. I watched Josh disappear down the hall. Amanda and José were home alone . . . together.

IT WAS ALMOST ELEVEN when we finally got home. Josh was going to wait out front since he still had to take José and Edesa home, but cars were parked bumper to bumper under the dim streetlights, and the street was too narrow to double-park. He pulled into the garage and said he’d wait until we sent José out.

Denny and I walked silently to the back door. OK, this was weird. Our daughter and the love of her life were alone in the house. Our son and the love of his life—though she probably didn’t know it—were alone in the garage. Denny and I were treading the sidewalk between them, as if trying to make it across a high wire. For some reason I felt an incredible urge to laugh hysterically. Or cry.

I did neither. Just nerves, I told myself, as we unlocked the door and called out, “Amanda? We’re home!” We needed to be careful. The trauma of Mark’s beating, the all-night vigil, his surgery, the waiting, the fear, the not-knowing had all of us wound up too tight, like my grandparents’ windup school clock that sprung its spring one day.

“Amanda?” Denny called again. No answer. But there was a light on in the living room and some kind of music. We headed toward the archway—and stopped.

Amanda and José were sprawled in a corner of the couch, sound asleep, in each other’s arms.