2-in-1 Yada Yada (10 page)

I snatched back the initiative. “Yada Yada it is—whatever it means.” I wrote it at the top of the page of my notebook, scratched my address, phone, and e-mail on it, and started it around the circle. “I kinda like it, too.”
It kinda fits this motley crew,
I didn't say.
And
we'll never agree on a name, so “whatever” is fine.

Avis smiled. “Well, I don't know about Yada Yada as a name, but keeping in touch and sharing prayer requests by e-mail is a good idea. Jodi, will you send that list to all of us by e-mail? But we still have Yo-Yo's question to answer. What are we going to do about Delores? I think it would mean a lot if a few of us—wouldn't have to be everybody—could visit José in the hospital. And the rest of us could call Delores and share a promise from the Word or pray with her on the phone.”

“Now you're talking,” said Yo-Yo. “Sign me up to visit José.”

I TENTATIVELY SIGNED UP to visit José Enriques with Avis on Monday night if he was still in the hospital—pending Denny's schedule, since he sometimes had to coach late afternoon sports at West Rogers High School. As we packed our luggage and said our good-byes to Flo, I felt really weird. We'd been thrown together for three days and two nights, right down to our toothbrushes and sleep shirts . . . and now I wasn't sure when—or if—I would see Florida again. Our lives were about as different as two people's could be, but I liked her. Really liked her. I could only imagine everything she'd been through, but she was so . . . so upbeat. So close to God. Where did that come from?

“Sorry about the snoring,” I told her sheepishly as we folded up the sleeper sofa and returned the cushions to their rightful place.
“Next
time you take the bed, and I'll take the floor.”

“Next time?” Flo wiggled her eyebrows. “Well, girl, you come visit me, and for sure I'll take the bed and give you the floor.” She laughed. “Only got one bed, anyway. The kids are already sleeping on the floor.”

I tried not to look flabbergasted. Kids sleeping on the floor? Oh, well. Not my business. But I did have something I was curious about. “Flo, when we were sharing stuff for prayer, you asked us to pray about getting your family back together again. What did you mean?”

Avis, coming out of the bathroom with her cosmetic bag and toilet kit, heard my question and gave me a look. Like maybe I was getting too personal.

“That's okay. You don't have to say,” I added hastily.

Florida shrugged, her brow knit into a frown. “No, it's all right. Just hard to talk about. Truth is, I can't find my baby. DCFS took all three of 'em when I was strung out on drugs and put 'em in foster homes. Carl—their dad—wasn't in any shape to take care of 'em, either. Since I've been straight, I've got the boys back— Cedric, he's eleven, the one who's ADD, and Chris, he's thirteen. But my girl—she'd be eight now—the foster family who had her just . . . disappeared. Even DCFS can't find 'em.” Florida's eyes puddled. “Scares me sometimes that maybe I won't find her.”

“Oh, Florida!” I put my arms around her in a tight hug. I couldn't think of anything else to do.

“Not find her? Oh, no, we're not going to go there,” Avis said firmly. “That's Satan telling you one of his rotten lies. Father”— and she started right in praying—“we rebuke Satan and all his lies. We reject discouragement. We claim victory right now for finding Florida's little girl . . .” The three of us stood in a little huddle for several minutes while Avis prayed. When she was done praying, I didn't want to let go of their hands, didn't want the moment to end. But we parted, finished packing quietly, and headed for the lobby to check out.

“You got a ride?” Avis asked Florida as we said our good-byes beside the hotel's revolving door.

“Yeah, Adele said she'd drop me off. We don't live too far.”

“Are you in Rogers Park, too?” I asked, surprised. I hadn't had time to look at the list of addresses that had gone around.

Florida nodded. “Yeah. Almost to Edgewater. Only a couple of miles from you guys, though.”

As Avis and I pulled out of the hotel parking lot, I saw Florida outside the revolving doors with her bag, a cigarette in one hand. At that moment, I didn't blame her. If I couldn't find my little girl, I'd probably be dragging on a cigarette, too.

10

A
vis dropped me off in front of the house. I couldn't believe it was already 3:30—but then our prayer group had gone past noon, so by the time we tried to get a “quick lunch” in the hotel café, the line had been pretty long. We'd made the deadline to check out by two o'clock—barely— but the traffic on I-90 going into the city crept along in typical freeway gridlock. We made better time once we got off on Touhy Avenue heading east toward Lake Michigan, even with stoplights.

“See you tomorrow,” Avis said as I got out in front of our two-flat on Lunt Avenue in Rogers Park. “Back to real life. No more maid service.”

I grinned weakly. I was glad to be home . . . but part of me hated for the weekend to end. I wasn't sure why—getting to know the women in the prayer group was part of it. But I wanted time to think about everything that had happened since Friday night, to sort it out. I couldn't wait to tell Denny—he'd be real interested to hear about it.

Picking up my suitcase, I walked up the steps to the porch and stood there. Should I ring the bell? Or use my key? I used my key, let myself into the foyer where carpeted stairs led up to the second-floor apartment, then unlocked our first-floor door on the right. Slipping off my shoes and hanging up my jacket in the hall closet, I could hear the television in the living room—a baseball game, no doubt. Then I heard male laughter—several adult voices.

Rats.
Denny had company.

I could almost taste the resentment that surged upward from my gut. Didn't Denny know I'd be home about now? That we hadn't seen each other for two whole days and nights? That I'd want some time together to catch up with each other?

I swallowed, telling myself I was being childish. I didn't even know what the situation was yet. Pasting a smile on my face, I walked in my stocking feet toward the living room archway and stopped.

Three guys—four, counting Denny—lounged on the couch, the floor, and two overstuffed chairs, eyes glued to a Cubs game on the TV as they booed a call by an umpire. Willie Wonka, our almost-deaf chocolate Labrador, lay sprawled happily on Denny's feet. Nearly empty bowls of chips, popcorn, and salsa competed with a cardboard pizza box and cans of pop on the coffee table and lamp tables. And brown bottles. Bottles? The bottles didn't compute for a moment. And just then Denny looked up and saw me in the archway.

His face lit up. “Hey, babe! You're back!” He leaped up, bottle in hand, and gave me a big smooch.

Beer on his breath. The bottles were beer bottles.

He turned back to the other guys. “Larry . . . Greg . . . Bill . . . you remember my wife, Jodi.”

I recognized the men now—coaches and assistants who worked with Denny at the high school. Larry could be Michael Jordan's brother, complete with shaved head. A chorus of “Hi, Jodi!” wafted my way, cut short by a whoop as the Cubs batter connected.

“Denny?” I said, giving the bottle in his hand a dark look.

He looked amused. “Don't worry about it, babe. One of the guys brought a six-pack.
One
six-pack. Not a big deal.”

“But what if my parents walked in right now? . . .”

“Your parents, I assure you, are safely ensconced in Des Moines, Iowa, where they belong.” I could tell he was teasing me, his gray eyes twinkling under dark eyebrows and the thick strand of dark hair falling over his forehead. “Say, did you have a good time at the conference?”

“Yeah, I—”

Loud groans from the living room. Denny stepped back where he could view the TV. “I want to hear all about it, hon. Only one more inning in the game.” He still stood only three feet from me, but he was gone.

Turning on my stocking feet, I stalked down the hallway, past Amanda's bedroom on one side and the dining room on the other, past the one and only bathroom . . . I came back to the bathroom. The door was closed. I knocked tentatively.

“Busy!” came a female voice on the other side of the door.

“Amanda? It's Mom. I'm home.”

“Oh, hi, Mom! Glad you're back,” said the disembodied voice of my fourteen-year-old.

“Come see me when you're out—I'll be in my bedroom.”

“Okay.”

I continued on down the hall and peeked into Josh's room. No sign of life, except for the mold and unsightly creatures probably breeding in the piles of dirty clothes, CDs, schoolbooks, magazines, and snack dishes littering every inch of the floor. My mouth tightened. Didn't Denny tell the kids to clean their rooms on Saturday?

Probably not. Nagging was
my
job. Everybody was on vacation when Mom went away for the weekend.

I headed for our bedroom at the back of the house, tempted to slam the door with gale force, but I thought better of it with “company” in the house, so I left it open a crack. Throwing myself onto the bed, hot tears welled up and wet the comforter. I grabbed a tissue from the bedside stand and dabbed my eyes, then blew my nose.

Some homecoming.

“Mom?” My fourteen-year-old stood silhouetted in the doorway. “Ohmigosh. You've got big black smudges under your—” Amanda, her butterscotch hair twisted in a clump on the back of her head and gripped with a big white plastic claw, sat down on the edge of the bed and squinted at me. “You okay?”

I rolled my eyes and allowed a self-deprecating grin. “Yeah. Never learned the art of bawling without ruining my mascara. I'm fine. Just, you know”—I jerked my head in the direction of the living room—“disappointed.”

She looked confused. “Why? Dad's just watching the game with some guys.”

“I know. I just . . . never mind. How was your weekend?”

“Great! Dad took me out for brunch Saturday—we went to the Original Pancake House up in Wilmette. So cool, Mom! I had one of those Dutch babies—couldn't even finish it.”

I smiled, trying to ignore the pang in my chest. It'd been a long time since we'd been to the Original Pancake House, a virtual North Shore museum of stained glass as well as to-die-for breakfast creations. “I'm glad, honey. That's neat.”

“Oh. What time is it? Gotta go. The youth group is having a meeting at four-thirty about our service project trip to Mexico. Josh is already over there.” She bounced off the bed then leaned over and pecked me on the cheek. “ 'Bye.” And she was out the door.

Thirty seconds later she was back. “The game isn't over. Can you give me a ride to the church?”

I sighed. Welcome back to the real world.

WHEN I GOT BACK FROM TAKING AMANDA over to Uptown Community—it was only about a mile, but Denny and I didn't like her walking alone, even in the afternoon—the game was over, the guys were gone, and Denny was dutifully cleaning up the living room. “Hey,” he said as I walked in. “Thanks for taking Amanda. Hope you didn't mind. It was a great game—Cubs won by seven runs!” He had that hopelessly silly look of the sports addicted.

I shrugged. “Didn't mind. Got to steal a quick hug from Josh— who knows when I'll get to see him otherwise.”

Denny balanced several bowls in each hand as he headed for the kitchen beyond the dining room. “Yeah. He's taking this ‘youth leader' role for the Mexico trip pretty seriously. Hey! You sit down,” he called back over his shoulder. “I'll finish this up, then I want to hear about your weekend! You want some coffee? Tea?”

“Tea.” That would be nice. I settled in one of our secondhand overstuffed chairs in the living room—decorated in a charming hodgepodge that Denny called “early attic.” I felt my spirit relax. I'd gotten myself worked up over nothing. The kids were gone . . . Denny and I could have some time to ourselves now . . . everything was okay.

Five minutes later Denny came back with the teapot, two mugs, the honey bear, and a couple of spoons on a tray. “Okay,” he said, handing me one of the steaming mugs. “Tell me about your conference.”

Now that I had his attention, I hardly knew how to tell him what had happened this weekend. So I just started at the beginning— our unexpected roommate . . . getting assigned to a prayer group for the weekend . . . wearing our jeans to the banquet (“You're pulling my leg!” he said, his eyes getting big; then he burst out laughing) . . . the news about José getting shot and the all-night prayer chain . . . and finally, our decision to keep the prayer group alive to pray for each other.

Denny set aside his mug and pulled me over to sit beside him on the couch. I nestled down into the crook of his arm, feeling warm and safe. “Sounds like an amazing weekend. How did it go rooming with Ms. Johnson?”

Ms. Johnson?
I pulled back to look at him. He had a smirk on his face. Of course. That's what I always called Avis at school. She was the principal, my boss, after all. “Good. Good. We got along great.” But suddenly I felt a bit schizophrenic. All weekend she had been “Avis”—a friend, a “sister.” And yet, now that I thought about it, I didn't know a whole lot more about her than I did before the conference. Except that she could lose herself in worship—totally unlike her calm, reserved, everything's-under-control presence at school. I knew she had grandkids—their pictures were all over her office at school—but she'd never said anything about a husband. Was she married? Divorced? Never married?

How had we managed to get through the entire weekend— and all that sharing in the prayer group—and I still had no idea if there was a Mr. Avis?

I just sat in the crook of Denny's arm, thinking . . . when I spied a stray brown bottle on one of the lamp tables. “Denny?” I turned to look at him again. “What's with the beer? I mean, I thought we agreed, no beer in this house.”