21

We played ring-around-the-rosey with the car the next morning. Denny left at six-thirty to pick up Ricardo Enriquez for the prayer time some of the guys were having before the official men’s breakfast at eight-thirty. On his way back, Denny swung past the house and picked me up a few minutes before seven-thirty so I could keep the car for a visit to the hospital that morning. When I dropped them off at the church, Peter Douglass’s Lexus was just pulling in with Carl Hickman and Mark Smith inside.

Huh, I thought, as I watched our Yada Yada men unlock and enter the dimly lit storefront “sanctuary.” Mark still must not be able to drive after his head injury. Even though the vicious beating had happened eight months ago, he still experienced occasional confusion and short blackouts—a frustration, Nony had once confided, that made him feel as if his ankles were shackled together and the key lost.

Oh God, forgive me, I prayed as I headed for the exit of the shopping center. It’s so easy to forget to keep praying for Mark. Please God, heal that man one hundred percent! The driver of the car behind me honked angrily as I suddenly did a U-turn back into the parking lot. Might as well get my weekly groceries at Dominick’s as long as I was here.

By nine-thirty, Estelle and I were in the elevator heading up to the ICU at St. Francis Hospital. We had stopped at Adele’s apartment—using Estelle’s key—and picked up a change of clothes for Adele, her toothbrush, a pillow and afghan, and her personal address book. Stu had sent along a basket of goodies: hand lotion, gel hand sanitizer, facial wipes, a small notebook and pen, trail mix to munch on, a small box of Fannie May chocolates, and breath mints. She’d wanted to come with us but had several DCFS visits to make that morning. “Tell Adele I’ll be up there this afternoon!”

Strangely enough, the ICU waiting room was almost empty, except for a dark-skinned woman with bleached-blonde, straightened hair zonked out on one of the couches. Estelle and I went to “ICU Central”—the squared-off desk area with a visual shot of every ICU room—and asked a woman frowning at a computer screen if someone could let Adele Skuggs know she had, um, “family” here.

Five minutes later Adele met us in the waiting room. “Humph,” she said, glaring at the sleeping woman on the couch. “That Sissy still ’sleep? She been there since midnight.”

I blinked. That skinny wraith was Adele’s sister? She looked like an aging hooker.

“No matter,” Adele said, linking her arm into Estelle’s. “Just as well she’s out, ’cause we goin’ in.” She handed each of us a sterile face mask and marched us right past ICU Central and into a dimly lit room with its curtains pulled.

MaDear barely took up space in the bed. She was on a ventilator, breathing rhythmically, in and out, but even I could hear the raspy sound of each breath. For a moment, the room blurred because my eyes teared up. I grabbed the hospital-issue box of tissues from the adjustable tray table and mopped my face above the mask. If MaDear were awake, she’d probably tell me I looked like a raccoon with smeared mascara.

The thought made me smile. Estelle was talking quietly to Adele, asking questions. But I just reached out and held MaDear’s bony hand, being careful not to disturb the IV tubes taped to her caramel-colored, paper-thin skin. Many of us in the Yada Yada prayer group had parents who lived far away, so we’d adopted MaDear—even though she hardly ever called any of us by our right name. Dementia had scrambled her mind, and she often confused us with cousins or neighbors from her girlhood back in Mississippi.

It didn’t matter. We’d loved on her, taking her for “walks” in her wheelchair on nice days to get her out of Adele’s shop, even “elder-sitting” from time to time so Adele could get out for an evening. Now I held her fingers and thought about the big box of miscellaneous buttons that kept MaDear busy sorting them by color into an empty egg carton.

“Hang on, MaDear,” I murmured, “hang on! Jesus, please let her stay with us a while longer.”

On the way home, I had a little spat with God. How are we supposed to pray for someone at the end of life? Huh? Avis would say that as long as there’s life, we pray for healing. After all, God is the Creator of life, not death! But, my mind argued (ignoring Estelle, who was humming quietly in the passenger seat of the Caravan), we all have to die sometime. Don’t the preachers say at funerals, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away”? And death is the only way we pass from this painful, imperfect life to our resurrected life—no tears, no pain, joy forever! Why keep MaDear here on earth with our desperate prayers, when she will have a clear mind and a whole body in heaven?

When I unlocked the back door and realized Willie Wonka’s food had barely been touched that morning, the tears I’d been holding back spilled over. I sank down on the floor beside the old dog, stroking his soft head and letting him lick my hand.

Oh God! Why do dogs and people we love have to get old?

MOST OF YADA YADA STOPPED BY St. Francis Hospital at some point that day. Stu said she’d coordinate meals for Adele and MaDear as soon as they came home from the hospital. In the meantime, she lined up a few volunteers to take some non-hospital food to Adele and Sissy at least once a day: salads, homemade sandwiches, fruit—all the stuff one’s body craves after two days of starchy cafeteria fare.

Denny had come home from the men’s breakfast that morning with a form he had to fill out from the Cook County Sheriff ’s Department for a background check before he could sign up with Captives Free Jail and Prison Ministry. That night at supper he said, “At least six guys from SouledOut have volunteered, so that’s three more Bible study teams. Assuming I pass the criminal background check”—he waggled his eyebrows—“I signed up to attend a training session next Saturday morning.”

Josh helped himself to seconds of beef stew. “I dunno, Dad. Not if they count all the rules you broke in high school.”

“Uh-uh. Nobody knows I hid the homecoming mascot to this day, bucko. Unless you’re talking.”

I pretended to ignore their sparring and got up from the table to look at the kitchen calendar. Next Saturday was blank, so I wrote in “Captives Free training a.m.” But it was good to hear Josh joke with his dad. He’d been so glum ever since the fire.

After the kids excused themselves, Denny and I lingered at the table over cups of decaf hazelnut coffee. “How was the Bada-Boom Brotherhood this morning?” I grinned.

He groaned. “Don’t say that out loud. It might stick.” But he leaned toward me, eyes keen. “We had about an hour before the other guys showed up for the breakfast. Ricardo actually opened up, said how desperate he feels about finding a new job. He applied to a moving company that needs long-distance drivers, but it would mean days away from home, and he’d probably have to give up the mariachi band. It’s a tough choice. But except for the restaurant gigs, he’s been unemployed for over a year and a half.”

I winced. Give up the band? That was the one sphere where Ricardo Enriquez seemed to come alive. Even though he’d been a truck driver for years, he had the soul of a musician. But Delores’s income from her job as pediatrics nurse at the county hospital was barely enough to keep the family of seven afloat.

“Peter had to twist Mark’s arm to get him there, though. I’m worried about him, Jodi. Almost feels like he’s giving up. Peter got in his face, told him he needs to kick self-pity to the curb and move forward. ‘God brought you back from that coma for a reason!’ he said.”

I widened my eyes. “Whoa. How did Mark take that?”

“Humph. He didn’t say much. But he listened. And we prayed over him—yeah, literally. Carl rebuked Satan trying to discourage this man; made a point that the devil was dissin’ God’s man. He asked God to give Mark the courage to fight back, because Almighty God still wanted to use this man in a mighty way . . .” Denny wagged his head thoughtfully. “Never heard Carl Hickman pray like that before.”

Wow. Neither had I. But I knew it was true. They say adversity will make or break you. Could the pain of his son be the making of Carl?

Denny collected our empty mugs and headed for the kitchen. “By the way,” he said, lowering his voice. “What’s with Amanda? She hardly said anything all through supper.”

I sighed. “Still hurting because José broke up with her, I think. Maybe she needs some daddy-daughter time, you know, to assure her she’s not ugly and unlovable. Mom can’t tell her that. Takes a dad.”

TEMPERATURES HAD BEEN RISING STEADILY all that last week of February, melting the ugly snow and leaving behind the trash it had collected in its frozen grip. By the time we arrived at the church on Sunday, the parking lot boasted a miniature lake from the melting mounds of ice that zealous snowplows had piled all around the edges, and the temperature was heading for the high fifties.

But all our laughing comments about getting out our swimsuits and wading to church died at the church door. My mouth dropped open. People stood in little groups, murmuring comments of wonder and delight as we surveyed an amazing sight.

New chairs.

Rows and rows of sturdy new chairs. Each one with an upholstered padded seat and a padded back, with a rack underneath to hold hymnals—not that we had hymnals—that could interlock with other chairs to make a row of any size, or be used individually.

“Good color,” I heard someone comment. “That tweedy material picks up the coral and salmon walls, even the blue trim.”

“Where’s Stu?” I whispered at Denny. “I had no idea the Chair Fund had collected this much money. She didn’t say a thing!” I spotted Stu and Estelle coming in just then and made a beeline in their direction.

“Stu!” I exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d collected enough money in the Chair Fund to do this! It’s wonderful!”

But Stu’s mouth and eyes were matching O’s. “Uh-uh. Not our Chair Fund. Last time I counted, we had about ninety-six dollars.”

Pastor Cobbs and Pastor Clark had grins as wide as Cheshire cats, watching as people tried out the chairs, breathing out sighs of comfort and contentment.

“Okay, pastors,” Sherman Meeks called out. “Let us in on the secret. Where did these chairs come from?”

Both pastors laughed. “We don’t know! That’s the amazing thing. A truck just pulled up yesterday with this address on their lading bill—and what you see is what they unloaded. All they said was, ‘Sign here.’ No bill. All paid for.”

Now the room buzzed like a queen bee convention. What anonymous person knew we needed chairs and had enough money to give the church an outright gift? Had to be someone in the congregation, didn’t it? Heads were shaking everywhere.

“Come on, church, let’s give God some praise!” Pastor Cobb boomed.

Someone started to clap, and everyone joined in with spontaneous applause, punctuated with “Praise Jesus!” and “Hallelujah!” from all corners of the room. And just then my brain clicked and my eyes widened. I looked at Stu . . . and caught Avis and Florida looking at us. All of us nodded slightly, reading each other’s thoughts.

We knew where these chairs came from.

Chanda George.