31

Willie Wonka stuck his wet nose in my face at six a.m. I rolled over and groaned. It couldn’t possibly be morning already! All night my dreams had been bumper to bumper with beeping heart monitors, nurses wearing prom dresses, and police raiding my house looking for drugs. I forced my eyes open, hoping consciousness would calm my psyche—but reality wasn’t much better.

Denny lay on his side, facing away from me. I wanted to reach out, caress his skin, pull him close to my heart, but his back seemed like a wall. Counting all the hours he’d spent working late at the high school, keeping all-night vigils—twice now—in Mark’s hospital room, or numbing himself in front of the TV, I’d barely seen him the entire week. I’d tried to tell him last night about Nony feeling guilty for what happened to Mark, about Becky smoking a joint on our front porch (which she got from some no-good buddy) and sending Stu into conniptions. But he’d just grunted “Uh-huh,” as if our connection had static on the line.

I squeezed my eyes shut once more. God, I’m tired. Mark has only been in a coma for one week. But what if it’s months? Or years? I don’t know how to support Nony through something like this! And she’s not the only one. Denny is hurting; Josh is struggling—and I don’t know how to kiss it to make it all better. Don’t know what to do about Becky and Stu either . . .

Wonka whined. I sighed and swung my feet off the bed. Not smart to put a geriatric doggy bladder on hold. I grabbed my Bible off the nightstand, let Wonka out the back door, and followed him as far as the porch swing, working the morning kinks out of my left leg as I went. Might as well get in a few licks of Bible reading while the dog did his business by the back fence.

I let the Bible fall open, intending to look for the spot I’d been reading in the New Testament a few days ago. But a couple of underlined verses on the open page caught my eye—Proverbs 3:5 and 6. Hm. I was alone, so I read aloud. “ ‘Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.’ ” Sheesh. It was like God talking back at me after my prayer a few minutes ago. I kept reading. “ ‘In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.’ ”

“Yo, Jodi.” A voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but it was followed by Becky’s square face peering over the railing halfway up the back stairs. “You read that thing every day? Wait a minute.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but her head disappeared. She was back in thirty seconds, scooting down the outside stairs in her bare feet, the ankle monitor making a small bulge under a sloppy pair of gray sweatpants. She had the Bible I’d bought last night sitting atop Avis’s giant Bible, lugging them in both hands. “What’s that ya readin’? Can ya show me?” She grinned. “Thanks for the Bible. Here. You can give Avis hers back now that I got my own.”

I wanted to ask Ms. Sunshine what happened between last night—when she was high on grass, weepy, and yelled at by Leslie Stuart—and now . . . but I decided, Uh-uh. Not going to go there. “Sure.” I scooted over on the porch swing. “I’ve only got a minute till rush hour starts at our house, but I’ll show you where to find it.”

I showed her how to look up Proverbs in the table of contents at the front, then I pointed out the verses I’d been reading in the third chapter. “Go ahead, read them.”

She squinted at the tiny type. “Uh. ‘Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.” She read slowly, with a hairsbreadth between each word. “ ‘In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.’ ” She leaned against the back of the swing. “Huh. Lotta stuff ’bout life I don’t understand. Sure could use some of that ‘He will make your paths straight’ rap.”

I don’t know what possessed me. I just started to pray aloud, like God was hanging out on the porch with us. Didn’t even close my eyes. “Jesus, Becky and I don’t understand a lot of things that have happened, things still going on. We don’t understand what all You’re doing in our lives. But we need direction for the paths we’re on. I need Your help knowing how to be there for my kids. For Denny too. Becky needs Your help knowing how to be a mom to Andy when he’s living with someone else. So we want to own up that You’re the one in the driver’s seat. We want to go where You’re going. We want to walk on the paths where You’ve cleared the way. We . . .” I ran out of words. So I just said, “God, I want to thank You for Becky. Thank You for her Bible. Forgive me for being so slow getting her one. Show her Your paths in the Word. And give her the courage to stay on the path with You.”

“Amen.” Becky said it reverently, rolling the word around in her mouth like a sweet peppermint. She gave me a lopsided grin, matching the disarray of her mousy hair. “Guess I blew it last night with Stu. Don’t think she’s talkin’ to me.” She held up her new Bible. “Maybe this gonna have some help for me.”

Yeah. Me too.

Willie Wonka stood with his nose to the back door, ready for his breakfast. Somewhere inside I heard an alarm clock shrilling. Yet the early morning sunlight sifting through the branches of our neighbor’s tree felt warm and soft. Gentle. Like a tender nudge from God to get on with my day.

I PLOPPED Avis’s oversized Bible on her desk in the school office. “Becky says thanks.” I grimaced. “I finally got her that Bible I promised weeks ago. We’re, um, going to do some study together.”

Avis’s eyebrows went up in approval. Then she looked at me closely. “Are you all right, Jodi? You look . . . stressed.”

Ha. If she could have heard the way I ranted at God yesterday! I found myself blurting out the troubled waters at home since the attack on Mark. Amanda upset, using the situation to excuse her behavior. Josh struggling to make sense out of what happened to him at the rally, devastated by the assault on a man he admired, confused about all the racial boxes we end up in, tangled up in his feelings like a hog-tied calf. Denny stuffing his fears and feelings of helplessness someplace deep and not letting me anywhere near.

I sighed. “I’m guessing here. I don’t know exactly what Denny’s feeling.”

Avis nodded. “I know. Peter too.” She sighed. “Not what I imagined our first weeks of married life would be like. He’s been calling the police every day, asking what they’re doing about the investigation.” She made a face. “The air in our house is turning blue. You’d think he was back in the navy.”

I giggled. Even Avis had a hard time keeping a straight face. But she cleared her throat and resumed her “professional” voice. “Oh, before I forget. Peter is updating his office computers, has a couple of old ones to give away. Still in good shape for most things. You think Chanda and her kids would want one? What about Yo-Yo and her brothers? They don’t have a computer yet, do they?”

“That’s awesome! It’s high time Chanda and Yo-Yo got their own e-mail. I’m sure they’d be tickled. You could ask them at Yada Yada. Supposed to be at Stu’s Sunday evening . . . unless you think we ought to meet up at the hospital again.”

Avis shook her head. “No. Let’s try to get Nony out of the hospital instead. That girl’s got to pace herself if she’s going to get through this.”

ON THE WAY HOME FROM SCHOOL, I marveled at the sense of peace smoothing my day, ever since my spontaneous two-minute rendezvous on the back porch with Becky and the Bible. “God,” I murmured, lifting my face and drinking in the no-humidity, perfect June sunny day, “You sure do work in mysterious ways. Yesterday, I’m fussing at You big-time because nothing good is happening with Mark and Nony. Last night, Becky and Stu are on the verge of a major meltdown . . .”

A couple of teenage boys in baggy denim pants, crotches around their knees, slouched past me on the sidewalk and gave me a funny look. I didn’t care. I kept right on talking out loud to God. “Then those verses in Proverbs practically fall out of my Bible into my lap this morning, and Becky eats ’em up like Willie Wonka scarfing up his kibbles—and it’s like You telling me it’s OK that I don’t understand what’s going on, because You’ve got it covered . . .”

I turned up Greenwood Avenue, glad I only had to walk three more blocks, since the rod in my left thigh was beginning to protest. Funny, I hadn’t thought about my car accident—not since Mark got hurt. Hadn’t thought about Hakim or his mother. Not even Jamal, Hakim’s brother, who was buried in a Chicago cemetery on my account. Yet in a few more weeks, it would be exactly one year—

“Smile! Smile!” someone yelled. Distracted, my head swiveled to make sure no one was talking to me. A vision of chiffon and silk and sparkling rhinestones caught my eye on the porch of one of the older frame houses crunched between apartment buildings in this neighborhood. Two lovely young ladies with creamy skin and long, dark hair sat on the porch railing, posing regally. Their incredibly baby-faced dates stood behind them, dressed in tuxedos and funky open-collared shirts, sporting earrings and maximum-hold spiky hair. A long, black limo sat at the curb, hazards blinking.

My heart lurched. Tonight was prom for some of the high schools. Next week, it would be prom for Lane Tech.

But not for Josh. He was going to spend the night keeping vigil in a hospital room.