2-in-1 Yada Yada (25 page)

“Wait. Please. Listen to me.” Stu shoved the pan of dessert into my hands and moved to Florida's side. She took the dark, trembling hands in her own and lowered Florida to the couch cushions, kneeling down beside her. “They don't know exactly how it happened,
how
Carla's foster family got lost in the system, but my contact at DCFS thinks the original social worker quit or got fired and Carla's files got lost, or misfiled, or something. That's why they couldn't find any record of her when you went back.”

“Sounds like DCFS, all right,” Adele muttered, and sat back down.

By now all of us were glued to Stu's words.

“But . . . there's a family with a foster child who recently applied to adopt the little girl, and DCFS can't find any of
her
records. That tipped off my friend, who had copies of your papers, Florida . . . and the facts fit: first name, date of birth, date taken into custody by DCFS, all that kind of stuff. He's pretty sure it's your Carla.”

“You mean . . . the family didn't steal her? Or run off to some other state? Or . . . or hurt my baby?” The struggle to let go of her fears was written all over Florida's face.

Stu shook her head. “No. Don't think so. This family applied to adopt her, after all. They'd have to stand up to some scrutiny. And . . . probably means they love her. Enough to want to keep her.”

The word “adopt” finally sank into Florida's awareness. “Keep her? But . . . no, no! I want my baby back. Now that she's found, I want my baby back!” She made an attempt to stand up, but Stu's firm grip on her hands kept her in her seat.

“Don't worry, Florida,” Stu said patiently. “They've only applied for adoption. Nothing's final. Once DCFS matches up the paperwork, your own application to get your daughter back will certainly affect the adoption process. The fact that your husband and sons are back with you? Definitely a plus factor.”

“Si, si.”
Delores, who was sitting beside Florida on the couch, put an arm around her shoulder comfortingly.
“Muy bueno.
And we pray.”

“Are the foster parents white? Or black?” Chanda's question interrupted the flow of encouragement like an open manhole that one had to dodge in the middle of the street.

Stu shrugged. “I don't know. Does it matter?”

“Matter!” Adele jumped in, screeching to a halt right in front of the yawning manhole. “White folks think they can raise black kids color-blind. But most of 'em don't know a whit about preparing a black child for life in this society. Huh.” She folded her arms across the wide span of her bosom. “Takes more'n love or money or good intentions. Black kids need identity, the strength of they own kind. What else gonna—”

Stu stood up. “I disagree. There're too many kids wasting away in the foster care system—most of them children of color—to get all self-righteous about what color an adoptive family should be. We need more people wanting to adopt, period.”

“Why don't you adopt, then?” Chanda asked.

I felt slightly smug that Stu was on the hot seat after riding in on her white horse to save the day. Adele had a point, of course, but to be honest, I agreed with Stu. I probably would've been rendered speechless by Chanda's challenge, though, but Stu lifted her chin. “I've thought about it. Seriously.”

“Want a couple of teenage boys?” Yo-Yo snickered. “I need a break.”

“Ah . . . this might make a good discussion at another time,” Avis said. “But right now it's a moot point, since, as Stu says, we don't know. The important thing is . . . Carla was lost, but now she's found. What an answer to our prayers! We need to give some glory to God!” She stood up—I think it's against Avis's nature to praise God sitting down. “Glory to You, Jesus! Glory!”

Florida's tense body gradually melted against Delores's arm around her shoulder. “Yes . . . Yes! Thank ya, Jesus. Thank ya!
Thank
ya! You're a
good
God!”

Others began to join in the prayer and praise. I thought
hallelujah,
too—hallelujah that Avis had the wits to derail
that
discussion. I wanted to join in the praise and prayer, too—if Carla really had been found, that was worth shouting about!—but I was still standing in the doorway, holding Stu's nine-by-eleven pan. I slipped out to the kitchen and set it on the counter. Maybe it would keep the kids busy if they got back before Yada Yada was done.

The praise from the living room could be heard clear out in the kitchen—maybe even out in the backyard. I peeked in Stu's pan— yum, lemon bars—then glanced out the screen door. Denny, Mark Smith, and Ben Garfield had parked three lawn chairs in the shade of the garage. They looked relaxed, friendly. Sure were a funny trio. Denny, the all-american-guy high school coach . . . Mark, the svelte college professor, tall, dark,
and
handsome . . . and Ben, short, stocky, a shock of wavy silver hair, and features that could make him a stand-in for Itzhak Perlman if he played the violin. I could hear Ben's guttural guffaw as he raised a bottle to his lips.

Bottle? I squinted and peered intently through the screen door. Had Ben brought some beer to the party? Hadn't noticed any when they came in. Which meant—

I did a quick double-check of the other guys. Both Denny and Mark held red plastic cups. I glared through the screen door.
That
better be iced tea in that red cup, Denny Baxter—

“Jodi?”

Startled, I turned to see Ruth standing behind me. Her face was red, her eyes bleary, and she was holding a tissue to her nose.

“Ruth! Are you all—”

“Need to get Ben . . . need to go.” Ruth's voice wavered.

“Ruth . . . wait.” I put my hands on her shoulders and could feel her trembling beneath my fingers. “Ruth, tell me what's wrong.”

She began to cry in earnest then, stifling the sobs in an effort to be quiet. I pulled her into my arms, pulling past her resistance, pressing our heads together cheek to cheek, and just held her while she cried. A movement behind Ruth caught my eye, and I saw Avis hesitate in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen. I crooked a finger at her to come in.

After a minute or two, Ruth quieted and pulled back from my embrace, fumbling for a tissue and blowing her nose in a healthy snort. Avis came closer. “Ruth?”

Ruth turned her head. “I'm all right. Just need to leave . . . I'll get Ben—”

I was about to say,
You can't go! Then Yo-Yo will have to go, and her
brothers aren't even back from the lake yet
. . . but Avis cut to the chase.

“Ruth, you've got a load as big as a dump truck on your shoulders. Let us help you carry it. Isn't that why God put this group together?”

Ruth just shook her head as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

“It has something to do with Florida and finding Carla . . . doesn't it.” It was a statement, not a question. Avis put a firm arm around Ruth, who mopped her blotchy face and allowed herself to be walked back toward the living room. “Come on. Let's face into it. After all . . .” Avis gave Ruth's shoulder a tender shake. “. . . you're the one who told us Yada Yada means ‘to be known, to make yourself known.' ”

The group had gathered around Florida on the couch, their hands laid on her knees, her shoulders, her head as first one, then another, continued the prayers for Carla, for strength in the waiting, for a speedy reunion of Florida's family. Avis led Ruth back to her chair and waited quietly with her until there was a lull in the spoken prayers, even as various ones were murmuring, “Have mercy, Jesus” or, “Bless You, God.”

I probably would have said a big “Amen!” at that point, bringing the prayer time to an end so Ruth could share whatever it was that was eating her up. I was afraid that if we didn't hurry, she would change her mind and leave. But Avis just turned the prayers.

“Father God, You have loved us so much . . . loved us in spite of all our imperfections. You sent Jesus and covered all our sins with His blood . . .” A general chorus of
thank Yous
and
hallelujahs
filled in the blanks. “Thank You for bringing Yada Yada together and allowing us to pray for one another. Thank You for answering those prayers, for sparing José's life, for finding Carla . . .”

The rest of the group pitched in. “Yes, You did!” “Thank ya!” “You're a good God!”

“Now give us that same kind of love for one another . . . give us ears to hear and hearts that are open to bear each other's burdens as we listen to our sister Ruth.”

That
took everyone by surprise. Eyes popped open as the women realized Avis meant it literally. I caught a few looks that said,
What's goin' on?
passing between folks as they took their seats.

“There's joy in this room because of the news Stu brought us,”Avis said, “but there's also pain. One doesn't cancel the other out—we need to be able to bear both sorrow and joy at the same time.” She lifted her eyebrows at the still-blotchy-faced woman beside her. “Ruth?”

For a moment,Ruth just shook her head and blew her nose, and I thought she couldn't do it. But then her voice croaked, “I . . . I wanted to leave, not spoil the celebration. But a mother hen, she is.” Ruth jerked a shaky thumb at Avis. “Oh, Florida, of course you want your daughter back, and . . . and I want that for you. Yes, I do. But . . . but . . .” The tears started fresh.

“But what? What kind of ‘but' you talkin' 'bout?” Florida's voice had an edge. Avis's prayer about “bearing each other's burdens” was going to be a hard sell if it had anything to do with not getting Carla back.

Ruth squeezed her eyes shut. Couldn't blame her. Maybe it would be easier to talk if she didn't have to look at the ring of skeptical faces.

“The family that's been raising Carla for . . . what? five . . . six years? I can't help thinking about
them.”
It was a good thing Ruth's eyes were closed, because Florida's eyes narrowed. Avis simply raised her hand to cut off any comments. “Because that's me,” Ruth wailed.
“Me.”

More looks passed around the circle as Ruth took a big, shuddering breath. What in the world did she mean? When Ruth spoke again, her voice had lowered almost to a whisper and I had to lean forward to hear her. “A foster mother I was, years ago . . . three times I've been married and no kids. So my second husband and I, we decided enough of this moping! We'll adopt a kid through Jewish family services. Huh. But that process dragged on and on, so we went to DCFS and took a foster child, a beautiful little girl . . . mixed she was—Asian and black and maybe something else— and we had her for five years. Five years! And we loved her so much . . . and we wanted to adopt her. Nothing from her mother or father for five years—not a word! And all of a sudden, her daddy shows up and wants his ‘baby girl' back. And they took her . . . they
took
her . . .”

The room was deathly silent except for Ruth's gut-wrenching wails. Yo-Yo was staring at her friend, open-mouthed. Avis simply held up her hand as if to say,
Just hold the comments and hear her out.
And, eyes still squeezed shut, Ruth's sobs finally quieted and she spoke again.

“Tore us apart, it did. My husband and I . . . we didn't make it. I . . . he . . .” Ruth seemed to sink into the memory, not crying this time, just revisiting the pain that drove them apart.

The room was hushed for a long time. Then Yo-Yo blurted, “But you and Ben—you practically took my brothers in while I was doin' time. And you smother-mother me, too, for that matter. Pretty good parents, if ya ask me.”

Ruth opened her eyes and smiled at Yo-Yo in spite of her dripping nose. “Yes, my Ben. Number Three. Helped me move on, Ben did.
And
meeting you and Jesus in the Cook County Jail. I thought I'd put it all behind me . . . until . . .” Ruth studied her lap, where she had shredded at least three soggy tissues. “Until Carla.”

Florida leaned forward. “I'm gonna get Carla back, do you understand? Ain't gonna make no apologies for that. And I don't wanna feel sorry for the foster family that has to give her up. Does that make us enemies, Ruth?”

Ruth jerked her head up. “No! No . . . I'm sorry. So sorry. I shouldn't have—”

“Yes, you should,” Avis said firmly. “Florida's story is her story . . . and Ruth's story is her story. A good reminder that
every
story has two sides, maybe more. And there's no way we can be a prayer group if we don't know each other's stories.” She reached over and laid a hand on Ruth's knee. “Ruth, remember praying with Delores at the conference? All we knew was that José had been shot. Didn't know why . . . didn't know what. Some of us probably thought he was gangbanging, just didn't want to say it.”

Ouch. Avis got me there.

“But did that stop us from praying? No, because Delores's pain became our pain. And we're praying with Florida, because she's our sister and God put us together in Yada Yada to stand with each other. If Yada Yada had existed when you were going through the fire, we would have prayed with you, too. It's not up to
us
to make the difficult decisions like King Solomon. What are we going to do, cut the baby in half?”

“Cut the baby in half?
What
are you talking about, Avis?” Yo-Yo sputtered.

The tension buckled and broke into laughter. Avis smiled. “Tell you later, Yo-Yo. All I want to say is, if the Yada Yada Prayer Group means anything at all, it means standing with each other
no matter what.”

27

D
enny and I stood on the front porch saying good-bye to our guests as Yada Yada, long-suffering spouses, empty dishes, and assorted offspring straggled out of the door. Emerald Enriques had a hard time letting go of Amanda and made Edesa
promise
she could come with her the next time she gave Amanda a Spanish lesson. Yo-Yo's stepbrothers kick-boxed with the other boys on the sidewalk until Ben Garfield pulled up in the car he'd had to park two blocks away—and even then he had to yell, “Get in the car
now
or you'll walk home!”