4

It was almost 11:30 by the time Avis and I got back to our room. Florida said she’d be up in fifteen minutes—probably stepped out for another cigarette. Told us she’d be real quiet when she came back. I hoped so. I was tired.

“You didn’t leave at ten,” I teased as Avis pulled out the sofa bed in the “sitting room” part of the suite. I found two puffy pillows on a shelf in the closet and tossed them in her direction.

“I knew it would go late,” she grumbled, unzipping her suitcase and pulling out a black-and-gold caftan. Man, it looked comfy—and a whole sight more elegant than Denny’s Chicago Bulls T-shirt that I usually wore.

“Sorry you stayed?”

“Hmm. No.” Avis carefully wrapped her head with a black scarf—to preserve her hairdo, I presumed—and knotted it on her forehead. “Once we got to praying. It was the idea of sitting around talking with a bunch of strangers that put me off.”

I studied her curiously. That was the part I liked, once we escaped the cast of thousands—well, hundreds—in the main session. “Oh. Sorry if I got us off track by asking everybody to introduce themselves.” I wasn’t really sorry; somebody had to get us rolling. But the introductions had gone rather long.

“You surprised me, jumping right in like that. But I think people were glad you did,” she said. (Except Adele, I thought, but kept that to myself.) “We can spend more time praying the next time we get together,” Avis went on, picking up her toilet kit and disappearing into the bathroom. “What time did we agree to?” she called back.

I raised my voice. “Nony suggested 7:00 A.M. Before breakfast. Think anyone will show after going so late tonight?” I was personally hoping we’d all oversleep. At this moment seven o’clock sounded like the crack of dawn. But the water was running in the sink now, and there was no answer.

By the time I used the bathroom and came out, Avis was in bed and the lights were out in the sitting room. I left the bathroom light on and the door open a crack for Florida and crawled between the sheets of the humongous king-size bed on the side next to the window. My body was tired, but my mind still felt all wound up. The main session had been pretty good, even if it was loud. Prayer Group Twenty-Six was going to be interesting. I liked knowing a few more people at this conference by name. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so out of place.

The door to the suite clicked open, and two seconds later Florida slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. When she came out, I lay still, hoping she’d think I was asleep. I was too tired to do any more talking. But opening my eyelashes a crack, I noted she had her beaded braids wrapped in a scarf like Avis’s. Must be an African-American thing. But her big Chicago Bulls T-shirt? I grinned inwardly. Just like me.

SOMETIME DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, I awoke and went to the bathroom. By the time I came back into the bedroom, my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I stopped short. Florida wasn’t in the bed. Her side was rumpled, and I was pretty sure I remembered when she’d crawled in. Remembered I’d been glad it was a king, which left lots of room for two people not used to sleeping in the same bed.

But where had Florida gone? Surely she didn’t have to have a cigarette in the middle of the night! Curious, I opened the French doors between the bedroom and sitting room and peeked in. Only one lump in the sofa bed. I tiptoed in, shuffling old-lady slow so I wouldn’t bang into something. There was another lump on the floor between the sofa bed and the window. The air conditioner—hardly needed in early May—was humming steadily. Florida? Why was she sleeping on the floor?

I crawled back into the king-size bed feeling confused. Sure, it felt awkward to sleep in the same bed with a virtual stranger. When it turned out we had three in our room, I would have preferred sharing the bed with Avis. Or sleeping by myself on the sofa bed, lucky Avis. But I hadn’t thought about how Florida might feel. Was it just too weird sleeping with a white girl? Nah, I told myself. Couldn’t be that. Florida seemed cool with that. No chip on her shoulder—not like that Adele. But a sense of rejection settled over me like the kid who got no Valentines.

Suddenly I missed Denny terribly. Missed reaching out and resting my hand on his arm, feeling the rising and falling of his steady breathing as he lay on his side. Missed snuggling against his bare back and fitting my body into the curve of his legs. Missed the comfort and safety that his mere presence fed into my spirit. Missed knowing that I belonged.

I even missed the kids. Missed getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and peeking into their rooms to be sure everyone was okay. That was when I fell into my deepest sleep, knowing we were all under one roof, safe and sound and together.

Did they miss me? Was anyone losing any sleep at the Baxter house because Mom . . . Jodi . . . wasn’t under that roof? Did the house feel incomplete without me?

I sighed. Probably not. Teenagers were too self-centered to even notice Mom was gone. And Denny . . . he would miss me, sure. But once he fell asleep? He wouldn’t notice I was gone till morning.

Lying there awake, taking up a miniscule slice of space on the king-size bed, I felt terribly alone . . . and lonely. It wouldn’t feel so bad if the conference was over tomorrow—make that today, since it was obviously past midnight already. But I’d paid for two nights. Two long nights!

From here, Sunday felt like an invisible speck on the distant horizon.

I WOKE UP TO THE SOUND OF THE SHOWER. Rolling out of bed, I pulled back the “blackout” hotel curtains and was nearly blinded as a wash of sunlight poured into the room. Blue sky . . . sunshine . . . what a great day to go for an early morning walk. Denny and I often walked to Lake Michigan on weekend mornings, only a few blocks from our house. “The lake,” as everyone calls it, is Chicago’s playground, lapping at the sandy beaches and rocky breakwaters that define miles of parks along the shore, filled with joggers and bikers, in-line skaters and dog-walkers, picnickers and bench sitters, volleyball players and windsurfers, kids and old folks and family reunions. The lake is what made city living bearable for me and a million or so other small-town transplants.

But the steady hum of cars and eighteen-wheelers on I-90 reminded me that on this particular Saturday I was a prisoner in a fancy hotel with undoubtedly no place to go walking except the parking lot.

What time was it anyway?

The door to the bathroom opened as I squinted at my watch—six-twenty—and Avis emerged in her caftan with a plastic bonnet over her night scarf. I hadn’t seen a plastic bonnet since high school days, when my mother wore one in the shower to protect her monthly permanent. Avis looked at Florida’s empty side of the bed, jerked a thumb in the direction of the sitting room, and whispered, “What gives with that?”

I shrugged . . . just as Florida wandered through the French doors in her big T-shirt. She stopped, seeing us both just standing on either side of the king-size bed. “It’s not time to get up yet, is it?” She yawned. “Bathroom free?”

“Sure,” I said automatically. But I’d been up long enough now that the urge to pee was growing stronger. “On second thought, just let me go and it’s yours.” I dashed into the bathroom. From the relative anonymity behind the almost-closed bathroom door—like a pink-tiled confessional—I called out, “I was worried about you when I found you missing in the middle of the night. What happened?”

Florida laughed from the other side of the door. “You snore, girl! Had to find me another bed if I was going to get any sleep.”

I was so startled I stopped peeing in midstream. “Oh, gosh, Flo. I’m sorry!” I didn’t know I snored. Denny never complained. I emerged a moment later feeling both embarrassed and contrite. “It’s terrible to pay all this money for a hotel room and end up on the floor. I’ll trade tonight, okay?”

“Hey, don’t you worry about me. I’m a light sleeper—anything wakes me up.” Florida disappeared into the bathroom. “Besides,” she called back, “those long cushions from the sofa made a great bed—better than the one I’ve got at home. Turned on a little white noise, and I slept like a baby.”

She poked her head back out of the bathroom door. “You guys going to that prayer thang at seven? Don’t wait for me. I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

SOMEHOW AVIS AND I BOTH GOT SHOWERED and dressed and down the elevator just as the lobby clocks ticked past seven. I had even managed to pour three Styrofoam cups of coffee made in the tiny coffeemaker perched on top of the in-room “mini-bar.” Avis shook her head, which I translated as No-thanks-I-don’t-drink-coffee, but Florida, seizing the moment, simply took a cup in each hand.

Strike one against spontaneous deep sharing with Avis. What did one do with a girlfriend if you couldn’t go out and bare your heart over bottomless cups of coffee? Or celebrate with an occasional double mocha latte at Starbucks?

Nony Sisulu-Smith was the only other person from last night’s group when we made our appearance in Meeting Room 7. She was on her knees already praying out loud, so we just sat down in nearby chairs and joined her. At least I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on Nony’s prayer. Her cultured voice rose and fell like a piece of classical music. But as I listened, her prayer sure did seem full of a lot of clichés.

“. . .You are the root and the offspring of David, the bright and morning star. The Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. Let him that is thirsty, come. Thank You, Father! Thank You that You have said, Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely . . .”

On and on she went, her voice growing stronger. “I will bless the Lord at all times. Your praise shall continually be in my mouth. My soul shall make her boast in the Lord; the humble shall hear and be glad. O magnify the Lord with me! Let us exalt his name together! . . .”

I opened my eyes and peeked. Nony’s cheeks glistened with moisture. Avis was on her feet, murmuring, “Yes! Thank You, Father! . . . Thank You, Jesus! . . .” as Nony prayed. I closed my eyes again. Looked like Nony was going for the long haul.

“O God, we know that young lions do lack, and suffer hunger. But if we seek the Lord we shall not want any good thing . . .”

Speaking of hunger, wasn’t breakfast at eight o’clock? I took a peek at my watch. Only 7:22. Just then I was aware of a presence behind me, and Avis whispered in my ear. “Psalm thirty-four.”

Psalm thirty-four? Did she want me to look it up? I reached in my bag and pulled out my small travel Bible. Psalm thirty-three . . . thirty-four . . . My eyes skimmed over the verses. Duh. Of course! Nony was praying Psalm thirty-four. Had probably been “praying Scripture” all along. And Avis, no doubt, knew right where each Scripture verse came from. Double duh.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Okay, God, I feel like a dork. I’m sorry for thinking Nony’s prayer was just a bunch of clichés. You gotta help me here. Everything’s just so . . . different. But I want to learn whatever You want me to learn this weekend . . . I think.