38

First, the alarm rudely assaulted my sleep. Then, my conscience hit me with a double whammy. Good grief! I forgot to send out that e-mail about Mark’s birthday party at the hospital tomorrow night! I crawled out of bed with a groan. Not even six thirty on Monday morning yet, and already I was behind schedule.

As I booted up the computer to send out Nony’s announcement, still bleary-eyed without my first cup of coffee, the last full week of school stretched out before me like a trek across the Sahara—hot and endless. The birthday party for Mark was a great idea, but when would I find time to fill out all the end-of-year reports for my students? Not to mention the main event of the week: Josh’s high school graduation on Thursday evening. The graduation announcements said it would be held in the Lane Tech Sports Stadium at 7:00 p.m. Outdoors. No air conditioning. Hot . . . endless . . .

I sent up a hasty prayer for an overcast sky, cooling temperatures, and no rain.

The Baxter hurry-scurry kicked in as two more alarm clocks went off. I ducked into the bathroom before the who-gets-the-shower-next dance began, then set out bagels, cream cheese, and OJ for breakfast.

“Kinda wish Grandma and Grandpa Jennings could come for my graduation,” Josh said wistfully as he grabbed a bagel on his way out the door that Monday morning.

“I know. They would if they could, honey.” I hid a grin. My dad would love to see Josh’s head once again covered with hair, though still army-boot-camp short. But my parents had called last week, saying my mom had been called back to have a retake on a colonoscopy and would not feel up to the long drive. No, no, nothing to worry about, they’d assured me. Another time.

The Baxter GPs had also sent regrets, saying they’d be on a cruise to the Bahamas for eighteen days. They’d enclosed three one-hundred-dollar bills for Josh. “Knowing Josh,” Denny had muttered, “he’ll probably hand it to the first homeless guy who hits him up for a quarter.”

I’d made a face. “Would buy a lot of college textbooks, but, oh yeah, Josh isn’t going to college next year.”

We’d stopped bugging Josh about college—for now—but it was hard to let it go. Josh was such good college material. He’d probably love it! But he seemed determined to wait a year and do some kind of service work or volunteering after graduation.

Graduation . . . I’d hardly had time to think about—much less plan—any celebration for my firstborn’s high school graduation. I mulled over that one all the way to school . . . but didn’t have time to think about it anymore until I was on my way home again. What did parents do for their high school graduates? A BMW was out. So was a trip to Cancun. My parents gave me a set of indestructible luggage to take me off to college. Still had a few pieces of the ugly things. But for Josh? I didn’t have a clue. Or much money.

So pray about it, Jodi. I dumped my school tote bag, stuffed full of reports I needed to complete, on the dining room table. Pray. OK. Seemed kind of a trivial thing to bother God about when we were sending up urgent prayers about healing for Mark Smith, but . . .

“OK, Jesus,” I said aloud as I let out the dog, poured myself a glass of iced tea, and booted up the computer to check e-mail. “I need some help knowing how to honor Josh at this milestone in his life. He’s a good kid. Thank You for the privilege of being his mom . . .” I stopped what I was doing. Have I ever told Josh that? That I’m proud to be his mom? That he is God’s gift to us? What I appreciate about him? I should. I really should tell him how I feel. Not just a schmaltzy graduation card, but a personal letter. It’d be a start at least.

The e-mail Inbox was jammed with the typical “Fw: Fw: Fw:” junk mail Amanda and her friends passed around. I scrolled through the new messages quickly. Several Yada Yadas had responded to the birthday invitation. “Wonderful!” Stu wrote. “I’m so sorry! I have to work P.M. shift Tuesday” (Delores). “Can I bring anything?” (Edesa). “Can I bring the kids?” (Florida). “Cool!” (Yo-Yo).

I did a double-take. Yo-Yo? I grinned as I called up her message.

To: Yada Yada Prayer Group

From: YoSista@wahoo.com

Re: Mark Smith’s Birthday

Cool! Will come if I can hang a ride with Mister B.

How do u guyz like my new computer? PD set it up for me. He’s the Man! Also worked some kinda magic and presto, e-mail. Ruth sent me Jodi’s mssg about the B-day party. Add me on the regglar YY list, OK?

Yo, Jodi. U gonna do a name thing for Mark like u did for my B-day?

Yo-Yo

I stared at her message. What a great idea! Hadn’t even occurred to me. I quickly minimized the e-mail program and called up the Internet, clicked Favorites on my toolbar, then clicked one of the baby name Web sites I’d found. Marc . . . Marcus . . . Mark . . . There it was.

Mark. Latin: Warrior. Warlike.

I sat numbly in front of the computer screen. Warrior. Warlike. How terribly appropriate. The warrior, cut down in the heat of battle. Cut down, but not . . .

I had to get my Bible. I jumped up so fast, the chair tipped over, scaring Willie Wonka, who was, of course, stretched out on the dining room floor as close as he could get without sitting in the chair with me. I found my Bible on the back porch swing, then hunted in the concordance until I found what I was looking for: Isaiah 42:3 and 4.

“ ‘A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out,’ ” I read. That was it. Cut down, but not broken. Burning dimly, but not snuffed out. That’s what I wanted to use for Mark’s birthday.

I started to close my Bible, but the verses that followed caught my eye. “In faithfulness he will bring forth justice; he will not falter or be discouraged till he establishes justice on earth.” Oh God. Mark is cut down, but You are still fighting on his behalf to bring about justice. I read on. “This is what God the LORD says . . . ‘I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness; I will take hold of your hand. I will keep you and will make you to be a covenant for the people and a light for the Gentiles, to open eyes that are blind, to free captives from prison and to release from the dungeon those who sit in darkness.”

I had to quit reading then. Tears blurred my vision, and a lump stuck in my throat. But strong words from my spirit rose to the surface of my thoughts.

Fight on, my brother. The Lord is with you!

I WORKED ON MY END-OF-YEAR REPORTS late that evening and for a couple of hours after school on Tuesday to make time for Mark’s birthday party up at the hospital. Had to beg off our Bible-reading time with Becky; said I’d try for Wednesday and Friday instead.

My emotions fought with each other as we drove up to Evanston Hospital. Part of me dreaded trying to “celebrate” with Mark lying in a coma. Part of me felt excited. I knew, I just knew, somewhere deep in my spirit, that God was at work doing—what? something!—in spite of what the circumstances looked like.

The entire Baxter tribe (sans dog) took the elevator to the ICU floor and made our way to the family waiting room. Inside the room, a bevy of helium balloons hugged the ceiling, announcing a party in progress. A good smattering of Yada Yada sisters and families were there, plus Pastor and Mrs. Cobbs and other New Morning people. Everyone was doing their best to talk in hushed tones. Two elderly brown women I’d never seen before sat quietly in a corner of the room. Friends? Family? They laughed behind their hands as Nony’s boys and Carla Hickman gleefully batted around two errant balloons that wouldn’t stay afloat.

Flo wiggled through the standing bodies and handed me a plastic glass of punch. “Girl! How Nony got permission to throw this party on the ICU beats me. Lines up right behind the Israelites crossing the Red Sea!”

I grinned. “I know. Isn’t it great? Marcus and Michael are obviously delighted to be having a birthday party for their daddy.”

Yo-Yo arrived with Ben and Ruth Garfield, bearing a gaily decorated chocolate cake from the Bagel Bakery, with MARK and 38 written in sunny yellow icing in the center. Ruth pulled a box of birthday candles from her big leather purse and stuck three on one side of Mark’s name, then lined up eight candles on the other side.

“Three . . . eight . . . thirty-eight. Cute,” I said.

“Didn’t do it to be cute,” Ruth huffed. “Had forty candles on my cake for the big Four-O. Ben insisted on lighting them. Set off the fire alarm. Not taking any chances.”

I was still laughing when Pastor Cobbs asked for quiet and opened with a short prayer of thanksgiving that we could come together to celebrate the life of Mark Smith. Then he swept a hand in Nony’s direction. “Sister Nonyameko? It’s your party!”

Nony welcomed everyone with a gracious smile. She was dressed in a brilliant blue caftan with gold embroidery around the neck and sleeves, her hair braided into a zillion tiny braids and swept up into a coil. “Thank you, dear friends. Thank you for coming tonight. I especially want everyone to meet two special guests . . .” Nony swept over to the two older women and gently pulled them to their feet. “I want to introduce Mark’s grandmother, Mrs. Bessie Smith, and her sister, Auntie Bell, all the way from Peachtree City, Georgia.”

The room erupted in spontaneous clapping. Hoshi Takahashi beamed, but tears glistened in her eyes. I suddenly had an awful thought: Would Hoshi’s family come from Japan if she ended up in the hospital? They didn’t even write since— Just then a nurse opened the door and gestured frantically for us to be quiet. The noise settled down.

“We’re not going to make this long,” Nony went on. “But Mark is the only patient on this side of the ICU tonight, praise God. So we have permission for several of us—not all, I’m afraid—to take a few balloons into Mark’s room and sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ ” Her smile took on a sly look. “I told them it was therapy. Even got a doctor to agree with me. Medicine doesn’t know for sure what comatose patients can hear or understand, and they need a certain amount of stimulation. But first we’re going to share ‘verbal gifts’ to Mark.” She motioned to her son Marcus, who held up a small boom box with a small microphone. “Marcus is going to record the verbal gifts so that his daddy can hear what we each have to say . . . later, when . . .” Nony blinked rapidly and her lip quivered. She quickly went on. “Who would like to be first?”

Nony’s younger son, Michael, waved his hand. He bent close to the mic Marcus held in his hand. “I love you, Daddy. Happy birthday. P.S. Get well quick.”

Taking Michael’s cue, several others gave “verbal gifts,” speaking directly to Mark rather than about him. Peter Douglass praised his courage. Pastor Cobbs thanked him for all his support of New Morning Church. Stu said God had given him the gift of encouragement. By now, tissues and handkerchiefs were coming out in droves, but the verbal gifts continued. Denny thanked Mark for his friendship. Josh thanked him for being a role model. “I can’t even begin to tell you how you have influenced my life, Dr. Smith,” he said. “As I walk into manhood, I want to be like you.”

I was weepy-eyed now. But decided I might as well give my verbal gift now since my family was up to bat. I pulled out the paper with the meaning of Mark’s name and the Scripture from Isaiah 42, which I’d printed out on vellum, rolled up, and tied with a purple ribbon. As I read, murmurs of “Beautiful, beautiful” and “So true” rippled around the room. After I finished, I managed to say into Marcus’s microphone, “You are a warrior, Mark. God’s kind of warrior. One who speaks truth and makes peace. But the battle is not over, Mark. We need you.”

Finally, Marcus clicked off his boom box. The room was quiet. Nony, her eyes wet but still smiling, said, “Thank you, Yo-Yo, for making the beautiful cake. Will you light the candles? Then we’ll sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and Marcus and Michael can make a wish.”

“Got it,” Yo-Yo said, whipping out her cigarette lighter. I glanced in panic at the closed waiting room door. I was sure lighted candles would break at least a hundred hospital rules, but . . . oh well. They’d get blown out in a minute. We sang a don’t-wake-the-baby version of “Happy Birthday”; then Marcus and Michael blew.

No one doubted what they’d wished.

To my surprise, Nony asked Denny and me if we’d go into Mark’s room with her and the boys, Hoshi, the Cobbs, Mark’s grandmother and aunt, and Peter and Avis Douglass. We tiptoed down the hall, each carrying a balloon, and slipped quietly into the room. The nurses had propped up the patient by raising the hospital bed and plumping an array of pillows under his arms and legs—probably to change his position. The compression stockings wheezed gently. The heart monitor and blood pressure machine still beeped; a bag of fluid dripped into his arm. A nasogastric feeding tube disappeared into his nose, and a small wire ran from the top of his head to another machine, which I’d been told monitored the pressure inside his brain.

A lot of the bruising had disappeared from Mark’s face, and I was surprised that only one eye was still bandaged. I didn’t have time to ask Nony about it, because she moved the boys close to their father on one side and encouraged Grandmother Bessie to hold his hand on the other. Denny closed the door, and once again we softly sang “Happy Birthday.”

When the last note died away, Michael said, “Happy birthday, Daddy. We had chocolate cake—your favorite.”

Mark’s grandmother, tears sliding down her cheeks, leaned close and kissed Mark on the cheek. “You be a good boy, Marky,” she scolded. “Don’t do anything your Grammy Bessie wouldn’t do.”

For a moment, I thought I heard a murmur, a mumbled reply.

Bessie Smith’s head jerked up, her eyes wide. “He—he said, ‘I won’t, Grammy’!”

We all froze. Then Nony said gently, “No, Bessie. He can’t—”

The little woman drew herself up to her full five feet. “Don’t tell me he can’t. I heard him say, ‘I won’t, Grammy.’ ” She leaned over her grandson on the bed once more. “Mark. You listen to your grandmother. If you can hear my voice, squeeze my hand.”

We saw it then. Ever so slowly, Mark Smith squeezed his grandmother’s hand.

Auntie Bell fainted dead away.