Lady Jasmine (3 page)

J
ASMINE STOOD AT THE ENTRY
to the kitchen and watched Jacqueline lift the spoon to her nose, take a sniff, then dump the cereal back into the bowl.

“I don’t want it!” she declared to Mrs. Sloss.

“Jacquie, you have to eat before we can go to the park.”

“Don’t want it!” she insisted.

Jasmine smiled. “Hey, baby.”

Her daughter looked up, then wiggled from the chair. “Mama!” she shrieked, toddling toward her. She grabbed her mother’s legs.

Mrs. Sloss turned away from the sink, her face etched with lines of worry. “How’s Reverend Bush?”

Jasmine put her index finger to her lips and shook her head.

Jacqueline said, “Sing song, Mama. Sing song!”

Jasmine lifted her daughter and laughed. “You always want to sing song.”

The girl giggled and nodded.

“Okay, I’ll sing, but only if you sing with me.”

“Okay,” and then before Jasmine could begin, Jacqueline started in a musical key known only to a two-year-old, “He got…whole world…”

Jasmine joined in, “In His hands.”

Together they sang, and then at her favorite part, Jacqueline raised one arm in the air, as if she was testifying, and screeched, “He got Mama, Daddy, and Jacquie in His hands…”

Jasmine laughed at her daughter mimicking what she’d seen adults do in church.

After they sang the song three times, Jasmine lowered Jacqueline back into her chair. “Okay, time to eat your cereal.”

A moment ago, she’d been singing, but now, with her lips pinched together, Jacqueline whipped her head from side to side. “Don’t want it!”

“Really? That’s too bad, because I was thinking, if you ate your cereal, then we could watch your favorite movie tonight.”

Jacqueline smiled again, clapped her hands.

Jasmine shook her head. “But we’re not going to because you won’t eat your cereal…”

Now the glee was gone from her face as images of the Prince of Egypt faded away. Jacqueline stared at the bowl of soggy flakes, looked up at her mother with the saddest eyes, and then with a sigh and much effort, she said, “I eat it.”

Drama Queen!
Jasmine chuckled as she kissed the top of her head.

“Mrs. Sloss, I’m going to take a shower.”

The look in the nanny’s eyes said that she wanted some news. But Jasmine wasn’t going to discuss anything in front of her daughter.

Inside her bedroom, Jasmine stood at the door, hoping to gather some of the peace that she always felt when she stepped into this space.

When she and Hosea had returned from Los Angeles, she’d trashed their bedroom set (even though it was just a bit over a year old) and purchased all new furniture—all white. Stark white. From the bed to the dresser. From the ceiling fan to the chaise. The one-thousand-thread-count duvet that covered
them with the gentleness of a cloud and the plush carpet that felt like velvet beneath her feet. She’d created an oasis that symbolized their love. Pure, untouched.

Their heaven.

But the serenity that always enveloped her when she entered this room was not here now. There was no tranquillity—only the burden of exhaustion. Her body ached, but what disturbed her most was the pain inside her head.

That throbbing had been there for the last hour, from the moment Dr. McCollors had introduced her and Hosea to the intensivist, Dr. Lewis, the doctor who specialized in intensive care and was assigned to Reverend Bush’s case.

But all Dr. Lewis had said was, “We’re not sure; the next few days will be critical to your father’s survival.”

Jasmine closed her eyes, but behind her lids, the image was there—of Reverend Bush when she and Hosea had walked into the ICU. The man in the bed looked nothing like her father-in-law.

He lay still, on his back, his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping—or at least that’s what Jasmine had told herself. He really looked like he was dead.

It wasn’t because his head had been shaved that made her think that way. Nor was it because three-quarters of his head had been draped with heavy gauze and bandages. It was in his face where she saw death—his eyes were puffed; his cheeks were swollen, as if his mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls; his lips were distended. He didn’t look anything like the man she called Dad.

She had stood next to Hosea, staring down at Reverend Bush, watching the very slight rise and fall of the cotton sheet that covered him. A whoosh of air traveled from the machine behind them through the thick tube that was thrust deep into his mouth. And she knew it was only because of that tube and the other equipment surrounding them—with their squiggly
green lines and numbers that made no sense, that her father-in-law was even alive.

Jasmine had to swallow the feeling of nausea she felt rising with those memories. She took deep breaths until the queasiness passed. Then she grabbed the telephone; she really needed to talk.

Two rings and then, “Jasmine Larson, what took you so long to call me today?” Mae Frances huffed. “It’s after noon. I thought you were going to call before you left for church.”

Jasmine settled back and rested in the familiarity of her best friend’s discontent. She wasn’t bothered one bit by Mae Frances’s tone—this is just how she was.

Mae Frances asked, her tone sad, “Have you forgotten all about me down here?”

“No, Nama,” she responded, calling Mae Frances by the name that Jacqueline had given her from the moment she started talking. “How’s it going in La Marque?”

Mae Frances sighed. “How do you think? Today is just like yesterday. All my mother wants to do…”

The rant was the same—every day since Mae Frances had left New York for La Marque, Texas, on New Year’s Day to take care of her mother.

“I’m telling you, if Billie Jean wasn’t dying,” Mae Frances said, “I wouldn’t be here at all. Hmph, it wasn’t like she cared about me when I was growing up. I don’t know why I’m caring about her now.”

“She needs you, Mae Frances. You’re doing a good thing,” Jasmine encouraged, just as she did each time they spoke.

“A good thing? Shoot, I’m darn near a saint. There’s a special place in heaven for me—right next to Jesus. And when I get there and sit down with Him, there’re a few things I’m gonna say.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine Mae Frances telling Jesus how He needed to run things. What was amazing, though, was that Mae
Frances even talked about Jesus. Just four years ago, when she and Jasmine first met, the cantankerous sixty-something-year-old woman had cared nothing about God, family, or friends. She’d been a bitter woman who’d spent three decades hating her ex-husband for divorcing her after
she’d
had an affair. But a little affection from the Bushes had brought love—and forgiveness—into her life.

“What took you so long to call?” Mae Frances asked again. “You know I need to hear from you so that I know what’s going on in New York or I’ll absolutely lose my mind. And what are you doing home from church already? I know Reverend Bush must’ve preached up a storm.”

Those words reminded Jasmine that there was little room for joy in her life right now.

“I have something to tell you,” Jasmine began.

“Oh, Lawd, sounds like bad news. What did you do now, Jasmine Larson?”

“I didn’t do anything—”

Mae Frances continued anyway, “Oh, I know. You slept with somebody and Preacher Man found out. Oh, Lawd.”

Jasmine sat up straight on the bed. “No!”

But her protest didn’t stop Mae Frances from rolling with the story. “Don’t worry, Preacher Man always forgives you. How many times have you lied to him—”

“Mae Frances!”

“He always comes back. That man is a boomerang. You toss him out; he flies around for a little while, but he always comes back. And he should. He’s from good stock. Just like his daddy. So who did you sex up this time?”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone,” Jasmine said, not hiding her attitude. “I’m not like that anymore.”

“Oh, I forgot. So what is it then?”

Jasmine took a long breath. This wasn’t going to be easy news to share. Mae Frances was a de facto member of the Bush clan.
She was like a mother to Jasmine, a grandmother to Jacqueline, and to Reverend Bush…well, it was clear that Mae Frances held a special place in her heart for that man of God. Jasmine was sure that if Mae Frances had been a decade younger, her claws would have already been hooked in him.

She pushed the words out, “Reverend Bush was shot last night.”

“What?”

“Last night, coming out of the church. Someone shot him.”

“Is he—”

“No,” Jasmine rushed to say before Mae Frances could ask. “But it’s serious. He was in surgery all night, and then this morning, the doctor met with Hosea and me—”

“What did they say?” Mae Frances wailed.

“Well, there’s some good news.” Jasmine decided to start there. “The doctor said he’s lucky the bullet didn’t get lodged in his brain. They were able to get it.”

“Thank God!”

Jasmine imagined Mae Frances with her hands in the air, getting ready to do a holy dance. “But…there was a lot of bleeding,” she continued. “Blood that gathered and pushed against his brain.”

“Well, they just need to get in there and get it out!”

“They did. When they opened his skull—”

“Lord Jesus!”

“They drained the blood, but—” This was where she had to stop. This was the part at which, when the doctor had spoken, Hosea had gasped and she’d started to cry. She could feel the tears rushing to her eyes now. “There might be a lot of damage from the swelling and pressure inside his skull,” Jasmine sniffed. “They just don’t know. Said it was too early to tell.”

There was a long silence before Mae Frances said, “I’m coming home.”

“You can’t do that,” Jasmine said, although she wished that
her friend was with her right now. Since they’d met, Mae Frances had been by her side through her toughest times, and she really needed her. But so did Mae Frances’s mother. “You have to stay in Texas.”

“Billie Jean can take care of herself.”

“How’s she supposed to do that?” Jasmine asked.

Mae Frances’s eighty-three-year-old mother, after a drunken night of holiday celebrating, had fallen and broken her hip. She’d had surgery and was confined to bed for weeks.

“Stay in Texas,” Jasmine encouraged. “That’s what Hosea would want. I’ll keep you posted every day.”

“Call me three times a day.”

“I will.”

“And make sure you take care of Preacher Man and my grandbaby.”

“I will.”

With a softer voice, she said, “Make sure you take care of the good reverend, too.” A beat. “I’ll be praying.”

Jasmine hung up, and with a sigh she pushed herself off the bed. Even though all she wanted to do was ease underneath the covers and then dream that last night never happened, she had to go back to the hospital. There wasn’t much she could do for her father-in-law, but her husband was waiting.

And she would do whatever she could to take care of him.

J
ASMINE TIPTOED INTO THE ROOM
and stood behind Hosea, still in the same place where she’d left him late last night. Hosea’s chair was pulled close to the edge of the hospital bed, his hands perched under his chin as if he were saying a perpetual prayer.

She’d wondered if he’d moved at all through the night. He probably hadn’t had a moment of sleep—just like her. It had been hard to close her eyes as she’d lain in their bed worried about her husband and his father. She would have never left the hospital if Hosea hadn’t insisted that one of them needed to be home with Jacqueline.

Gently, she put her hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said.

She whispered, “How is he?”

“The same.” His tone was filled with more hope than his words.

Jasmine dropped her bag to the floor, stepped between two monitors, and then kissed her father-in-law’s forehead. Staring down at Reverend Bush, she said, “He looks good,” because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

But the way Hosea’s eyes moved up, then back down, told her that he knew she was lying.

“I brought you some things.” She pointed to the bag. “Your toothbrush, a fresh shirt, some other stuff.”

He nodded.

“But I wish you’d go home, Hosea. Just for a little while.”

He was already shaking his head.

She continued anyway, “You’ve been here almost two days. I’ll stay until you come back.”

“I can’t leave him,” he said, his tone full of tears.

She wanted to cry, too, but she was working hard to stay strong. “You’re not helping him, though. Not—”

A knock on the door stopped the rest of her words.

“Can I come in?” Brother Hill asked.

Hosea nodded, and as his godfather moved toward the bed, Jasmine edged back against the wall. She watched as the men stood side by side and whispered together.

Brother Hill took one of Reverend Bush’s hands into his. Hosea bowed his head, and after a minute of silent prayer, Brother Hill said, “Let’s go outside. We need to talk.” In the hallway, he faced Hosea and Jasmine. “I hate to bother you with this, but Pastor Wyatt has called an emergency executive board meeting for tonight.”

“For what?” Jasmine and Hosea said at the same time.

“He wants to replace your father.”

“What?” Again the couple spoke together.

“Wyatt feels the church would be vulnerable to confusion without leadership.”

“What is he talking about? It hasn’t even been two days. My father could wake up in the next minute, the next hour, tomorrow.” He paused. “Whenever…Pops will wake up soon.”

Brother Hill hesitated before he said, “I know, but even when he does, he’s not going to be able to step right back into his duties.”

Hosea shook his head as if that was too much to hear. “Still…what’s the rush? Why is Wyatt pushing this?”

“Well, you know the talk on him—he’s ambitious. And so is his wife.”

Jasmine folded her arms. “So he’s trying to steal my father-in-law’s church?” She fought to hold back her rage; she couldn’t believe that man would take advantage of this situation that way.

Hosea said, “I can’t even think about this right now. Let Wyatt do what he has to do. I’ll take care of my father.” He turned back toward the hospital room.

“Hosea, wait.” Brother Hill pulled an envelope from his jacket. “This is a notarized letter from your father, and you can read it later, but basically it says that if anything ever happened, he wanted you to take his place. He wanted you to be the senior pastor.”

“What?” Jasmine said. But the way her husband stood let her know that he wasn’t as surprised as she was.

Hosea said, “Pops talked about this, but I didn’t think he was serious.”

“Why not?” Brother Hill asked. “It makes sense that your father would want you standing at the pulpit.”

Hosea stared at the sealed envelope.

Brother Hill said, “Look, I agree that this doesn’t have to be done now, but the fact is, Wyatt called this meeting, and as the associate pastor, he can do that. However, if there’s going to be an interim pastor at City of Lights”—he put his hand on Hosea’s shoulder—“it has to be you.”

“Who else knows about this?” Hosea asked, holding up the envelope.

Brother Hill said, “I believe I’m the only one.”

With a deep breath, Hosea said, “I need some time.”

“You don’t have that.”

“I need to think about this, need time to talk to Jasmine…”

Brother Hill frowned. “Talk to Jasmine?”

Jasmine’s eyebrows shot up. But before she could protest, Hosea said, “Yes, I’m going to talk this over with my wife.” He looked Brother Hill straight in his eyes.

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t need to think, Daniel.” His tone was sharp, like his stare.

It was the first time Jasmine had ever heard Hosea call his godfather by his first name.

When Brother Hill leaned back a bit, Hosea softened. “I’m sorry; it’s just that—”

“I understand.”

“Look, no matter what I decide, I’ll be at the board meeting.”

Brother Hill nodded. “He called it for six.” A pause. “Just remember, this is what your father wants.” With a nod to Jasmine, he left them alone.

They watched him amble down the hall, the weight of this tragedy as heavy on him as it was on them.