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Cancer? ! Wait, wait—she’d said, “might be.” I shored up my own ragged emotions, which had already been close to tears even before the phone rang. “Chanda, now wait. Don’t run ahead of the facts. Sounds like they don’t know anything for sure yet.What do they want to do? ”

Between sobs and nose blowing, Chanda managed to tell me her doctor had ordered both a mammogram and an ultrasound earlier that week. It was not a cyst. She had to go back the next day for a “core needle biopsy,” taking some cells from the lump . . . just got a call from her doctor . . . cells were abnormal, but inconclusive . . . but her doctor and the radiologist agreed: the lump should come out.

“Dey want me to talk to a surgeon next week. Surgeon, Sista Jodee! Dat mean dey going to cut it out! Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help mi, Jesus!”

I didn’t know what else to do, but I offered to pray with Chanda on the phone. Felt like a hypocrite, when my own prayer life had been suffering big-time lately. Oh God, forgive me, I prayed, a silent rider hanging on to my out-loud prayer.

“Tanks, Jodee,” Chanda sniffled. “Uh, one more ting.Mi really don’t want to go alone talkin’ to dis new doctor. Could you . . . do you tink—? ”

“I teach every day, Chanda. It’d have to be a four o’clock or something. Don’t know if they make appointments that late.”

“Mi try dat. Let you know.Tanks.” And the phone went dead.

I sat a long time on the swing, feeling like my emotions had just been run through a spin cycle. I tried to unscramble my brain and refocus on what God had been saying to me just before Chanda called. I’d taken my “good idea” and run with it. I’d shut Denny out. And maybe my idea wasn’t that good after all. Good intent, maybe. But poor implementation. Maybe even poor context. So we gave the kids lemonade.What kind of follow-up was possible?

Zero. Nada. None.

Willie Wonka lumbered up with difficulty and stuck his wet nose into my lap. “Whaddya think,Wonka,” I murmured, stroking the white hairs sprouting around his mouth and eyes. “Am I ever going to quit tripping over my own goody-two-shoes? ”

The dog just licked my hand. Good ol’ dog. Always thereLike God’s forgiveness. “Just for me, just for me, Jesus came and did it just for me . . .” The words of a Donnie McClurkin song caressed the soreness in my spirit. I soaked in it for a while, letting the tears run free. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You.

But I also had some apologies to make—starting with Denny.

THE FOURTH WEEK OF SEPTEMBER bumped along over the usual rocky road of worldwide and hometown turmoil. The U.N. arms-inspection team reported no WMDs had been found in Iraq . . . Earthquakes devastated Hokkaido, Japan . . . Uptown Community was down to the last two Sundays before our official merger with New Morning . . . Carla got in another fight at school, this time with Mercedes LaLuz for “stealing” her mechanical pencil . . . and Chanda made an appointment with the cancer surgeon for four o’clock Friday—on Josh’s birthday.

But my wheels had been greased by my talk with the Lord Saturday morning and my talk with Denny Saturday afternoon, and to me the difference between last week and this one was like January and June.

Denny had dragged in about four o’clock that Saturday, covered with plaster dust, obviously weary. I considered a big hug and kiss then discarded the idea. He wasn’t exactly huggable in that state; even more to the point,we needed to clear out the garbage between us first.

“I’d . . . like to talk,” I’d said, handing him a glass of ice water. “Maybe after you get cleaned up? ”

He took the water and hesitated. Then tipped the glass and drank. Stalling. I knew I was asking a lot. He was beat, and a “talk” probably seemed as appealing as scooping up after Willie Wonka. A nap in front of the TV would be more like it.

But he came out of the shower looking less like a survivor from a chalk factory explosion and more like my husband. Shaved. Clean. Good smelling. Downright yum—

Nope. Couldn’t go there. Yet.

Actually, our talk didn’t take long.We sat on the swing on the back porch, more ice water on hand, and I told him I was wrong. I’d suspected he wouldn’t like the lemonade-stand idea, so I deliberately didn’t tell him until afterward to prove him wrong. But God had showed me my motives were full of pride.Worse, I’d shut him out. Had practically shouted that what he thought wasn’t important. A violation against our marriage really. And I was sorry, so sorry for hurting him like that.

I blew out a breath when I was done, and we sat silently in the swing, letting it drift in a small breeze coming in off Lake Michigan. A few birds fluttered to the birdfeeder hanging from the corner of the garage, then flew off. Probably empty again. Then Denny put down his glass of ice water, drew me into his arms, and just held me tight, not saying anything for a long time. But his embrace spoke volumes.

“Thank you, babe,” he finally whispered into my hair. “Funny thing is, I couldn’t even pinpoint why I felt so bad. Kept asking myself, what was the big deal, anyway? ut when you said, ‘I shut you out’—it was like you touched the sore spot on my heart. That’s what I was feeling and hadn’t even known how to put it into words.”

We sat on the swing like that for a long time.Then Denny murmured, “Kids gone? ”

“Yup.”

I felt him grin.

JOSH’S BIRTHDAY ALWAYS SNUCK UP ON ME, only a week after mine.Nineteen! But I tried to get things ready the night before for a birthday supper, and Denny said he’d pick up our gift for Josh—several music CDs and a CD case with a shoulder strap. Good thing he was taking care of that, because Chanda had left a message on our voice mail, saying she’d pick me up at Bethune Elementary on Friday afternoon at three thirty.

Pick me up? That must mean . . .

Sure enough. There she sat in the school parking lot behind the wheel of a sleek, brand-new, slate gray Lexus. “Wow!” I said, sliding into the front seat. That new car smell—part leather, part ocean breeze, part excitement—kissed the interior. “You did it! You got your license, you got your car . . . Congratulations, girl!” I leaned over and gave Chanda a hug, then double-checked my seat belt,wondering if I was a guinea pig for Chanda’s maiden voyage as a driver.

“Surprise!” I jumped—well, jerked is more like it, given how tight I’d pulled the seat belt—as Thomas, Cheree, and Dia all screeched from the backseat, where they must have scrunched down, hiding from their prey. “Do you like it? ” “Isn’t it fancy? ” “We got the bestest car on our whole block!”

I needn’t have worried about Chanda’s driving. She crept along at twenty-five miles an hour, the kids chattering the whole way, until she reached Evanston Hospital and pulled into the small parking lot next to the Kellogg Center. The cancer unit. She didn’t say much to me, but while we sat in the waiting room, she pulled out snacks, activity books with mazes and puzzles, even Dia’s favorite stuffed animal, a snuggly black and white dog. “To-mas! ” she ordered when a nurse called her name. “You kids be quiet here, now. Mama in no mood to give you t’ree a whippin’, but mi will, from bigg’un to little’un if you don’ behave. Sista Jodee going wit mi.” All three kids meekly nodded.

In the consultation room, the nurse gave Chanda one of those ugly hospital gowns—the kind that make you feel sick just putting it on—and she hugged it around herself as she sat shivering on the paper-covered examining table. I took her hand, trying to reassure her. It was icy cold.When the doctor came in, I faded into a corner with a pen and notebook. As scared as Chanda was, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t remember a thing the doctor said afterward. He seemed like a kind man, even gentle as he examined Chanda’s breast. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “I’d like to do another needle biopsy,” he said. “This lump is very suspicious, and I don’t want to take any chances.” He smiled warmly at Chanda. “And neither do you, Ms. George.”

While the doctor did the biopsy, I took the elevator to check on Chanda’s kids. I peeked into the waiting room. All three were immersed in the books their mother had brought. I left without disturbing them, anxious to get back to Chanda. “Like they say,” I murmured, punching the elevator button, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

We waited a long time for the doctor to come back after the biopsy. We even started singing, Hold to His hand, God’s unchanging hand!” to pass the time, giggling as we tried to sing a beltitout gospel song in quiet hospital tones. At which point the doctor came back in, catching us in the middle of “If by earthly friends forsaken—”

The doctor said the biopsy was still inconclusive but troubling. “The best thing to do is schedule a lumpectomy and send it to the lab on the spot. If it’s not cancer, we’re done! Sew you up, you can go home the same day.” He allowed a brief smile. “But if there are cancer cells, we will need to remove the sentinel, or gateway, lymph nodes, and get those analyzed. If the cancer has not spread, again, we’re done.” He cleared his throat, not exactly looking at Chanda. “But if the cancer has spread to the sentinel nodes, we will need to assume the cancer has spread to other lymph nodes, remove them, and, ah, if necessary do a mastectomy. It all depends what we find when we go in there.”

Chanda just stared above the doctor’s head. She seemed to be in shock.

I spoke up. “Do you mean that Chanda won’t know when you put her under whether or not she’ll have a breast when she wakes up? ”

The doctor looked truly regretful. “Well, we could just do the lumpectomy and then do a second surgery if we need to do a mastectomy. But surgery is surgery, Mrs. Baxter. There’s always a risk. You don’t want to do two if you can do it all in one.”

He scheduled surgery for the following week.

Chanda was so shook after we left the Kellogg Center, she handed me the keys to the new Lexus. “You drive, Sista Jodee.” And she climbed into the front passenger seat. The three kids, sensing all was not well, climbed wordlessly into the backseat and put on their seat belts without being reminded. I realized arguing was useless. But now I was the one driving twenty-five miles an hour back to Rogers Park. No way was I going to be the first one to put a scratch on Chanda’s dream car.

But when I pulled up in front of our stone two-flat, I took one look at Chanda and realized there was no way in good conscience I could let her just drive back home. “Chanda? ” I laid a hand on her arm. “You and the kids want to stay for supper? ” I knew I was crawling out on a limb—waaay out—inviting the George family to Josh’s birthday supper unannounced. But I felt the Holy Spirit prodding me, and I figured, Hey! If God’s kicking my rear,He’ll make it all right with Josh too.

But just in case God was busy taking care of Chanda and Josh and didn’t have time for the new Lexus, I parked it in our space in the garage and double-checked the garage doors to make sure they were locked.