I gasped for breath, my insides flopping about like a fish stranded on the beach. He can’t be lost! He was here just a second ago. “Andy? ” I yelled, adding my voice to Denny’s. “Andy!” But in the babble of languages, rowdy laughter, and music thrumming all around me, I knew it was useless.
Denny grabbed my arm. “You stay here,where he saw us last. I’ll look.”
“Wait!” I yelled after Denny’s back, but in moments, I lost sight of him, swallowed up by the crowd.
“That’s stupid,” I muttered. “How does he know Andy went that way? ” I took a few steps in the opposite direction, squinting down the endless rows of vendors and booths. But all I could see was a swarm of T-shirts, strollers, and baseball caps.
The reality of the situation sank to the bottom of my stomach like a heavy stone with my emotions tied to it. Oh God, Oh God,Oh God . . . Tears threatened my vision. I wiped them away angrily. God! This can’t be happening! He isn’t even our own kid! Becky trusted us with him! I can’t go home and tell her, “Andy’s gone. We lost him. Sorry.”
I danced impatiently on my toes. I should go looking now, not stay here! How far could a kid get in two minutes? He’s only three. Unless—
Panic rose in my throat. What if somebody snatched him? Lured him away with promises of ice cream or kittens or—
I started to run. “Andy? ” I screamed. “Andy!” Trying to avoid a double stroller, I plowed into a man with a large paunch, both hands balancing paper boats of noodle-something. “Watch it, lady,” he growled, holding the food high.
“S-sorry. I . . . my little boy, he’s . . .” I stumbled away.
“Lost kid? ” the man called after me. “Notify security, lady. Orange vests.”
Security . . . orange vests . . .
I whirled this way and that. No orange vests. “Oh God, Oh God,” I moaned.
Jodi! Stop! The Voice in my head snatched me up short. Go back. Stay where you were, or Denny will waste time looking for you too.
I knew I wasn’t thinking straight. I wanted to keep running, yelling, doing something to find Andy. But, yes, I needed to go back. Denny was right. I should stay at the last place we’d seen Andy—the last place he’d seen us.
I took a deep breath and willed my feet to go back. The Grill’s placard, listing its menu items, came back into view. I searched the two lines waiting at the booth, hoping against hope that Andy would be standing there, crying, wondering where we’d gone.
But . . . still no Andy. No Denny either.
I wanted to bawl. But instead, I sniffled my cries into a prayer. Jesus, I need You bad. Please help us find Andy. Please, Jesus! Protect him. Send all those warrior angels to guard his life, his safety—for Becky’s sake. And for mine. I can’t . . . I can’t lose another mother’s child . . .
Suddenly, clear as day, I knew the devil was just waiting to accuse me, to drag me down, fill me with fear. But fear wasn’t going to help. This wasn’t about me or the car accident last summer or that other mother’s kid. This was just about finding Andy.
Think, Jodi. Think like a three-year-old.Where would you wander off to? Where would you want to go?
I glanced around, not in panic this time but taking in my surroundings. The crowds of people seemed to shrink into the background as I tried to see what Andy might see. Like the ice cream cart we’d seen earlier, propelled by the back end of a bicycle. Or the balloon man over there making—
Balloon animals.
I don’t remember whether I ran or walked or flew the hundred feet to where a middle-aged man in a black hat, a huge drooping moustache, and striped suspenders was twisting long sausage balloons into all sorts of critters for the admiring crew of children clustered around him. “Make a g’raff!” shouted a little boy’s voice, a voice with a giggle. “A purple g’raff! ”
I gulped relief like life-giving air.
Andy.
THE THREE OF US—Andy, me, and the purple balloon giraffe—were standing in front of the Grill on the Alley when Denny hustled up with a female security guard in an orange vest. Denny’s face lit up when he saw Andy, shot a funny glance at me, then offered a sheepish shrug at the security guard. “Guess the lost is found. Sorry.”
The guard waved a hand and walked on. “That’s how we like it to turn out.”
Denny squatted down to Andy’s level. “Hey, Little Guy! You scared the heck outta me! I couldn’t find you.”
“See my g’raff? ” Andy waggled the purple balloon in Denny’s face. “His name is Purple Guy. He’s hungry.”
Denny’s grin wobbled. “Yeah. Me too.” He straightened up. “Bet I know what he wants.”
“Pizza! ”
Personally, I was hoping we could head back, avoid any more big crowds, forget the fireworks, just focus on getting home in one piece. But, according to Andy, Purple Guy needed a slice of pizza. And he needed to see fireworks.
So we stayed.We even found a great place to sit on the low wall running along both sides of Buckingham Fountain, mesmerized as the water bounced and sprayed, lit up with brilliant, ever-changing shades of rainbow hues. But wouldn’t you know it, Andy fell asleep before the first rockets shot into the air over Lake Michigan; he didn’t even wake up when the ones with big booms shot brilliant white lights in all directions. Just stirred from time to time, snuggling deeper under Denny’s protective arm.
Denny slipped his other arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. “Kinda takes you back, doesn’t it? ” he murmured between booms and falling twinkles above our heads, his eyes fixed on Andy’s face, angelic in sleep. “Maybe we—”
“Denny!” I pulled away from him, aghast. “Maybe we nothing! We’re over forty! ”
“So? Look at Ruth Garfield. She’s pregnant, and she’s almost fifty.”
“Denny! Be serious. You know getting pregnant at her age is a big risk. All sorts of things could go wrong.”
Three big booms went off in a row, followed by brilliant corkscrews of light in red, white, and blue. Andy stirred. Denny sighed. “Yeah, I know. But maybe we shouldn’t have stopped at two. Three kids. Or four. That’d be nice.” He shifted Andy’s weight, brushing back the curls from the boy’s sweaty forehead.
I giggled. “Yeah, but I guarantee they wouldn’t be cute three-year-olds at this point. They’d all be teenagers. And we’ve already got two of those.”
But Denny’s musings left me unsettled. Ruth Garfield. Forty-nine going on fifty and pregnant. Hoo boy. After several miscarriages and a foster daughter who’d been reclaimed by the natural mother, Ruth had seemed resigned to childlessness. Which was fine by her husband, Ben, who was at least ten years her senior and looking forward to retirement. Then Ruth had missed several Yada Yada meetings the past couple of months. “Not to worry,” she’d said, waving off our concern. “What’s a little stomach upset? ”
Some stomach upset.
The doctor told her she was almost three months. Due around Christmas.
Ben had blown a cork. Acted as if Ruth had gone behind his back or something. Pushing her to get an abortion before something went terribly wrong . . .
The finale burst into the sky over Lake Michigan, booms and whistles and wheees raining stars down on the hundreds of boats out on the water, their running lights aglow. “Hey, Little Guy. Look.” Denny shook Andy awake. The little boy sat up, blinked, then clapped his hands in wonder.
I watched Becky’s child, wondering about the child growing in Ruth’s body. Boy? Girl? Healthy? What were the risks for a pregnancy at fifty?
The sky hushed. Sulfur smoke drifted lazily downwind.Boats set a course toward their harbors. Denny hefted Andy onto his hip, and we headed back toward the el station, carried along by the crowd.
I really needed to call Ruth and find out what was happening.
Like tomorrow.
HOLIDAY OR NO HOLIDAY, Willie Wonka nosed me out of bed the next morning with his usual urgency. “Why don’t you pick on Denny? ” I grumbled as I let the dog out the back door. But the dog and I both knew no amount of cold-nosing would wake up the Slumbering Sack. Wonka scrambled down the porch steps and headed for the far back corner of our postage-stamp yard to do his business.
I started the coffee. Huh. Wonka’s probably God’s Secret Service agent in disguise, assigned to me personally, to get me up before everybody else in the household for some one-on-One with my Maker. And I had to admit, these early morning prayer times had become more . . . more indispensable, especially since I’d started feeling the strange burning inside me to pray, and keep praying, for “that girl” —didn’t know her name—I’d seen at the hate group rally at Northwestern. The one I strongly suspected had later turned informer on the thugs who’d beaten up Mark Smith.
Maybe she’d done that as a result of my prayers! I hadn’t said that to anybody, though. I mean, who did I think I was, anyway? Nobody thought of Jodi Baxter as a mighty prayer warrior—myself included. But I still felt excited. God was listening! God was shaking things up, wasn’t He?
I grabbed a cup as the coffeemaker gurgled its last gasps. But why doesn’t that urgency to pray for her go away? The girl still came to my mind first thing every morning, her face—late teens, eyes wary, defenses up yet vulnerable—etched in my memory.
I poured myself that first,wonderful cup when I heard footsteps tripping down the outside stairs from the second-floor apartment. I poked my head out the back door. “Stu!”
Leslie Stuart stopped, startled, a leather saddlebag-purse slung over one shoulder. “Oh.Hi, Jodi.Didn’t think anyone else would be up this early on a holiday.” Her long honey-blonde hair was freshly tinted, one side tucked behind her ear. She wore khaki slacks, a white blouse, and a sporty denim jacket. Smashing, really.
“Becky said you’re going to a family reunion. You didn’t tell me!
What family reunion? ” Not that Stu had to tell me everything. But this was big news!
Stu jiggled impatiently. “Yeah, I know. I . . . Actually, Jodi, I could use your prayers. Yada Yada’s too. Got this invitation from one of my cousins to a family reunion.Wasn’t sure I was going to go. You know, after . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Yes, I knew. After finding herself pregnant, abandoned by the father, embarrassed and afraid to admit it to her ultraconservative family. So Stu had just dropped out. Got an abortion. Got a new life—new job, new suburb, new friends. Until earlier this year, that is, when she’d stopped running from her past, from God, from the forgiveness and unconditional love she needed so badly.
“Hey, it’s OK.” I stepped out onto the porch. “I know, you didn’t make the decision until yesterday.” She grinned sheepishly. Bingo. “Will you see your parents? Where do they live? ”
“Indianapolis. Don’t know for sure if they’ll be at the reunion. I hope so. I think.” She sniffed the steam rising from my mug of coffee. “Got any more of that in a travel mug? Can’t believe I haven’t had any coffee yet. See? I’m a wreck already!”
Had to admit, I enjoyed seeing Stu get flustered. She had a habit of getting me all flummoxed by her keen ability to do everthing right and be one step ahead of me. But I gave her a big hug, took two minutes to pray with her, and sent her off with Denny’s travel mug of fresh coffee.
“Oh God,” I murmured as Stu’s silver Celica zoomed out of the alley. “Open the arms of her family. Make this a real reunion.” Then I added, “Thank You, Jesus!” As Florida Hickman always said at Yada Yada,might as well start the thanksgiving early, since we know God’s gonna come through. Somehow.
Florida . . . I wondered what the Hickman family was doing for the Fourth of July. Fourteen-year-old Chris was at the Cornerstone Music Festival with Josh and Amanda and the Uptown youth group. That in itself was probably a real holiday for Flo. She was so worried about her eldest son hanging out on the streets too much. She and her husband, Carl, wanted to move from their old neighborhood to get Chris away from bad influences, to get Carl closer to his job working for Peter Douglass . . .
Peter and Avis. I knew they were out of town.Drove to Ohio to visit Avis’s oldest daughter and the twins. Delores Enriques had to work. Ditto Yo-Yo. Edesa Reyes, Lord help her, was at Cornerstone—Josh’s idea to invite the attractive college student from Honduras to help him chaperone the younger teens. Chanda . . . she’d said something about winning a free vacation to Hawaii.Huh. What was that all about? After winning the Illinois lottery,why did Chanda George, of all people, need to get a free anything?
My mind sorted through the rest of my Yada Yada sisters as I stripped sheets off beds, started a load of laundry, and unloaded the dishwasher, stalling for time until I could reasonably call Ruth Garfield.Maybe go visit. She and Ben never went out of town. Real homebodies, those two. But maybe they should have. Taken a cruise. Gone to Hawaii or something. If they were gong to have a baby—at their age—they’d both be ready for a retirement home by the time the kid left for college.
Sheesh.
I waited until ten o’clock to dial the Garfields’ number. Ben answered. “Yeah, she’s here. Fanning herself like a geisha doll. I tell ya, Jodi . . .” He didn’t tell me, just yelled, “Ruth! Pick it up!”
An extension picked up. Ben’s line went dead. “Ruth? It’s Jodi. Am I calling too early? ”
“Early, smearly. You’re fine, Jodi. It’s Mr. Grumpy who got up on the wrong side of the bed. I’m pregnant. I’m up and dressed. What more does he expect? ”
I stifled a laugh. “I was wondering . . . what are you doing today? Can I come over to see you? Take you out for coffee or something? ”
“Coffee! Ugh.” Ruth made a retching noise on the other end of the line. “Even the word makes me want to throw up. That’s how I knew I was pregnant in the first place. Coffee I love. But that was then. This is now. Tea I’ll take. And . . .” She hesitated.When she spoke again, she had lowered her voice. “I could use the company, Jodi. Ben took me to the doctor yesterday. Doc gave the usual song and dance about all the risks of a pregnancy ‘at your age.’ Risks, schmisks. I told him this baby is a miracle! What do I care about risks? But Ben—he thinks I’m dead and in the casket already. All that’s left to do is pick the color of the flowers. Nuts he’s driving me!”
From the background I heard Ben yell, “I heard that!”
Ruth never missed a beat. “Sure. Come on over, Jodi.We’ll have a grand time.”
I hung up the phone gingerly.Wasn’t so sure about that.