22

I called Chanda as soon as we got home from church. No answer. Rats. I’d forgotten that services at Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist ran late. But I left a voice mail: “Nice try, Chanda. We know you’re behind those new chairs that appeared out of nowhere at our church. Gotta say, a lot of weary bottoms thank you very much! Don’t worry, we won’t spill your secret. Maybe.” I laughed and hung up.

Then I called back and got voice mail again. “Sorry, Chanda, almost forgot. Avis is suggesting that as many Yada Yadas as possible gather at St. Francis Hospital later this afternoon to pray for MaDear and Adele. See you there if you can make it!”

Next, I called Ruth with the same message. I heard one of the twins squalling in the background. She didn’t commit, but thanked me for calling. I almost asked her to call Yo-Yo, but thought better of it and dialed her myself. No answer. Oh, right. The Bagel Bakery is open on Sunday. I dialed her work number and asked to speak to Yo-Yo.

Yo-Yo seemed subdued. “Real sorry to hear MaDear’s doin’ so bad,” she said. “But don’t think I can make it.”

“What time do you get off work?”

“Ain’t that. I don’t have no way to get there.”

“Yo-Yo! Just call the Garfields and see if Ruth’s coming. Get a ride with them!”

Silence on the other end. Then, “I’ll see what I can do.”

I hung up, frustrated. This was getting ridiculous.

Stu, Estelle, and I rode together to the hospital later that afternoon, bringing a shopping bag full of raw veggies, dried fruit and nuts, and orange juice to help get Adele and Sissy through the long days and nights at the hospital. Edesa and Delores had come up by el. When we arrived, Delores was huddled with Adele, translating some of the medical gobbledygook so she could understand what was happening with MaDear. Avis picked up both Florida and Becky at the Hickmans.

Hoshi came in with Nonyameko, eliciting gleeful hugs from the Yadas who attended other churches and hadn’t seen her that morning at SouledOut. “I have only missed one Yada Yada,” the Japanese student protested. “Not a trip around the world.”

“Si, mi amiga,” Delores beamed, “but missing one Yada Yada means we do not get to see you for several weeks! How is your last semester going?”

We chatted—too loudly, I thought—in the ICU waiting room as we waited for any others to arrive. To my surprise, Yo-Yo walked in. Alone.

“How did you get here?” I whispered, taking her parka and tossing it on the growing pile filling up two chairs.

The pixie-haired girl shrugged, hands in the pockets of her faded denim overalls. “Took a taxi. Wasn’t too bad.”

I opened my mouth to fuss at her, then shut it. Okay, so maybe it was good for Yo-Yo not to rely on the Garfield limo service all the time. Anyway, Ruth wasn’t here; maybe she couldn’t make it. Yo-Yo headed across the room to say “hey” to Adele, who was giving a rundown—for the millionth time, probably—about MaDear’s condition and treatments.

Chanda blew in like Little Red Riding Hood—well, not little—in her red wool coat with the fur collar, matching hat, and leather boots with skinny heels. I noticed that none of the other SouledOut church members rushed to say anything to her about the new chairs—had they decided that “anonymous” meant anonymous?—but I sidled up to her and put on my sing-songy voice. “The new chairs were a big hit this morning.”

“Chairs?” She dumped her coat and hat on top of the pile.

“Aw, come on, Chanda. Did you donate new chairs to our church or not?”

She tipped her nose in the air. “Amendment Five. Don’t have to answer. Mi learn ’bout dat in citizenship class.” Then she dropped her voice near my ear. “Did dat fine Oscar Frost like dose chairs?”

My mouth dropped open. “Chanda George! You didn’t!” I rolled my eyes. “You ordered those chairs to impress the saxophone player?!” I was laughing now. “Don’t forget the donor was ‘anonymous.’ How would he know?”

“Humph. Well den, no matter. Mi just asking.” She flounced around the room, giving overzealous hugs.

Avis had just called us to gather around Adele for prayer when Ruth stole in, hair askew, lipstick crooked. “I know, I know, late I am. And I can’t stay long. Ben is driving around with the twins in the car.” She suddenly seemed aware of Yo-Yo in the circle. “Oh! Yo-Yo. What, you sprouted wings and flew? We could have . . .” Her voice trailed off and she seemed momentarily confused.

Avis wisely took the cue and began to pray as we grabbed hands, ignoring the sullen looks of the few others in the room. For several minutes, we all prayed at once in quiet voices. “Oh Jesus, we need You now” . . . “Come, Holy Spirit, Comforter, fill this place” . . . “We love You, Lord” . . . “Yes, Lord, yes!” . . . “Bless Your name, Father” . . . “You are Jehovah-Rapha, the God Who Heals!” . . .

Then Avis led out in a specific prayer for MaDear. “Father God, Your daughter Sally is fighting a tough battle right now. Sickness and pneumonia are ravaging her body. But life and death are in Your hands, Oh God. You created us to be whole, to be strong, to be about the business of the kingdom! Jesus raised up Peter’s mother-in-law from her sickbed, so we know nothing is impossible for You. You can raise MaDear up out of that bed in the ICU and restore her body and her mind.”

“Yes, Jesus!” and “Hallelujahs” from others rode under Avis’s voice. I squirmed. Heal her mind too? MaDear’s dementia was pretty far gone. On the other hand, Jesus had healed that crazy guy named Legion running naked among the tombs.

Oh Lord, I breathed silently, I want to believe. Could it actually be?

Nonyameko picked up after Avis. “Praise the Lord, O my soul; in my inmost being, I praise Your holy name. Praise the Lord, O my soul! We do not forget all Your benefits. For You are the One who forgives all our sins and heals all our diseases, who redeems our lives from the pit and crowns us with love and compassion, who satisfies our desires with good things so that our youth is renewed like the eagle’s! . . .”

Even though I had heard Nony pray the psalms many times, I felt mesmerized as she prayed Psalm 103. God forgives our sins and heals our diseases—yes! . . . God satisfies our desires with good things—yes! . . . He renews our “youth,” giving us strength and energy to fly rather than plod—yes! . . .

How true that is, I thought. How easy to take for granted the many small miracles of forgiveness and healing happening daily in this very group, in my own life. Though—I peeked at Ruth and Yo-Yo—God knows we could use a few more.

As the prayers ended, Avis asked Adele if a few could go into MaDear’s room to anoint her with oil and lay hands on her. Adele nodded and marched resolutely out of the room with Avis and Florida in tow. I doubted whether any hospital staff would deny her.

I wanted to see MaDear again and would’ve asked, but I knew all of us couldn’t go in there. Avis and Florida soon returned, saying that a doctor came in and wanted to talk with Adele about switching MaDear to another antibiotic. Florida shook her head. “They talkin’ ’bout some kind of chest physiotherapy—somethin’ to clear her lungs out, so she can breathe easier. Ain’t a pretty sight. But . . .” She grinned. “We got her anointed and prayed over ’fore they chased us out.”

We untangled the pile of coats and started to leave the ICU floor. While we waited for the Down elevator, I nudged Ruth. “Ruth,” I murmured, “why does Ben always have to drive you? Especially if it means bundling the twins up and taking them out, or driving circles around the hospital. You drove to Yada Yada on Super Bowl Sunday—I saw you!”

Ruth grimaced. “So call me a criminal. What, they expect a mother of twins to remember to renew her license?” She rolled her eyes. “Ben, of course, conveniently ‘forgot’ my license had expired when he wanted to watch the Super Bowl with his buddies. But his mind is sharp as a fox now. ‘Get your license! Get your license!’ he says. How, I ask? I drive myself, I break the law, and who wants to take along a grumpy husband and my two little oysters”—she kissed her fingers twice, like a little blessing.

The elevator door slid open. Half the group crowded inside. “Yo-Yo, wait!” Ruth waved her hand. “If you want a ride—” But the door slid closed. We heard the car whirr and fade. She looked at me and frowned. “What mishegoss is that?”

TEMPERATURES DIPPED THAT WEEK back into the Ice Age, but at least no new snow. Still, I lusted for spring, when I could send my class full of Tiggers into the playground so they could boing boing outside rather than off the walls—sometimes literally.

I was shouting, “Caleb Levy! Sit down!” for the fourth time on Tuesday when my classroom door opened and Avis Douglass motioned to me. Embarrassed, I held up my finger and nodded that I’d be there in a moment, then marched to Caleb’s desk and placed my hand firmly on his shoulder. “If you get out of your seat once more, young man,” I murmured, “or if I hear your voice even once while I am speaking to Mrs. Douglass, you will sit in the principal’s office the rest of the day. Understand?”

The boy gave a slight nod, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. Like his ears, I thought uncharitably, as I gave the class instructions to complete the math paper I’d just handed out. “In silence,” I added before stepping out into the hallway.

Avis took a deep breath. “She’s gone.”

“Gone? You mean . . . Rochelle?” I couldn’t fathom why.

Avis shook her head. “No. MaDear. She died this morning about six o’clock. I just got a call from Adele.”

I took a step back, as if an invisible hand had slapped me. Gone? But . . . hadn’t we just pounded heaven with our prayers Sunday night? How could she—

Avis touched my shoulder. “We can talk later. I know you need to get back to your class. But I thought you’d want to know sooner rather than later.” She gave me a half smile, her eyes sad. She seemed weary. “God knows, Jodi. He’s in control.”

I watched her walk down the hall toward the school office, her usual erect posture slightly deflated. Was she saying that for my benefit? Or hers?

I tried to get a breath, but I seemed to have a slow leak, draining the energy out of my body. MaDear was gone? Dead? In my mind, I saw her wrinkled, arthritic hand gently stroking Denny’s head when he’d knelt beside her and asked for her forgiveness that strange day two Christmases ago. The image sent a shudder through my body.

Couldn’t go there . . . I had to get through the rest of the day.

I gulped another prayer. God, this is hard. I know she’s old and has to go sometime, but . . . My whole body felt tied in knots; I shook myself, as if shaking would loosen up my neurons and make them function again.

I pulled open the door to my classroom and stepped inside. Several pairs of eyes peeked at me guiltily, as if wondering if I’d caught them doing . . . whatever. I didn’t care. What was a whisper behind hands or a doodle on the math paper or a booger under the desk, when a precious old woman, as much a fixture at Adele’s Hair and Nails as the hair dryers and nail art and weekly chatter, was suddenly gone?

No, I couldn’t go back to “class as usual.” “Caleb?” I called.

The boy looked up, startled, mouth open, ready to protest, “I didn’t do anything!”

“Would you like to choose a chapter book from the bookshelf for us to read? Everyone else, come to the Story Rug . . . That’s right, just leave your math pages on your desk. We’re going to get comfy and listen to a good book . . . Encyclopedia Brown, Caleb? Good choice.”

AS WORD FLEW FROM PHONE TO PHONE, Stu’s meal plan for MaDear’s homecoming kicked into action, only the food now was for Adele and out-of-town relatives who started arriving the very next day. Estelle took herself over to Adele’s apartment every morning that week and lit into cleaning the house, doing laundry, answering the phone, kicking out visitors so Adele could get some rest, helping Adele find MaDear’s insurance papers, and in general holding things together at the Skuggs household so that Adele could fall apart.

Florida had dropped by to see Adele when a male cousin from Memphis—who’d just been told to take his feet off the coffee table—fussed at Adele: “Baby, that maid o’ yours is too bossy. You shouldn’t let no maid talk to family like that.”

According to Florida, Adele had reared up and spit fire. “Estelle is not a maid, and don’t you forget it! She’s family as much as you are, cousin—more so in my book. I see you makin’ more work ’round here, ’stead of helpin’ out.”

“Couldn’t help myself,” Florida had written in an e-mail to the Yada Yadas. “I bust out laughing. Don’t want to say Manna House burning down was a good thing, but the day Stu invited Estelle to move in was like a gift from the Wise Men.”

Estelle called from Adele’s on Thursday to say that visitation was scheduled for one o’clock on Saturday at Paul and Silas Apostolic Baptist Church, the funeral would begin at two, and Adele wanted Denny to read the scripture during the service.

Denny scratched his chin nervously when I delivered the news. “Uh, I don’t know, Jodi. I’m scheduled to do that Captives Free prison training Saturday.”

“Denny!” I gaped at him. “You can’t mean that’s more important than showing up at MaDear’s funeral, do you?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just . . . let me get my information sheet.” A moment later, he was back. “Okay.” He blew out a breath. “The training is from eight to one. If I go straight from there to the church, I ought to make it in time for the funeral. Maybe even time to spare.”

“Except that means you’ll have the car,” I grumbled. “How are we supposed to get there?”

The phone rang, cutting us off. “We’ll figure it out,” he called over his shoulder. “. . . Hello?” He listened for several moments. “Okay, mi hermano. That’s good news. We’ll be praying with you. Adios.”

Denny looked at me, a grin slowly deepening his side dimples. “That was Ricardo. His job application was accepted by Midwest Movers. They only cover eight states—so most trips will only take two to three days, both ways.”

I felt a pang. Good news . . . and bad? “What about his mariachi band?”

Denny shrugged slightly. “He doesn’t know. José’s going to fill in for him for now if he can’t make it. But the good thing is, Jodi, Ricardo said he’s taking the trucking job—band or no band—because he knows he has to put first things first. ‘Mi familia,’ he said. ‘They are most important.’ ”