2-in-1 Yada Yada (35 page)

“Oh, Mom! Don't apologize! Edesa came over and helped us pack—except she made me and Josh wash our own clothes. Fold 'em, too.” Amanda grinned, proud of herself. “But she knew just what to take for weather south of the border.”

I wasn't apologizing,
I thought mournfully.
I'm sad for me, that I
missed it.

And then it was another round of hugs and kisses and pats for Willie Wonka . . . and they were gone.

After waving good-bye from the front porch, Denny held the screen door for me. “Honey, let's get you in bed.You hungry? I could make you some tea and toast. And it's about time for your meds.”

“Okay. Thanks.” My whole midsection hurt, and I could hardly wait for the codeine-induced relief they'd sent home with me.

Denny turned back the wedding ring quilt on our bed, collected all the pillows from the kids' rooms to prop me up, and made sure I got in bed without falling over. Then he headed for the kitchen. I stared at the wedding ring quilt . . . and for the first time since the accident realized my long recovery was going to be hard on Denny, too. No sex, no cuddling, no fooling around.

Neither one of us had talked about the fight we'd had just before the accident. In a way it wasn't important, given the really big stuff we were dealing with now . . .

Or was it?

Willie Wonka pushed his nose over the side of the bed and tried to lick my hand, which was still bruised from the IV. I idly stroked his silky ears, but my thoughts were elsewhere, going backward, back to last Sunday night . . .

Denny had gotten home late. I'd said I had to be at Yada Yada “by five o'clock.” He got the car home “by five o'clock” . . . so, okay, maybe that was a misunderstanding. I cringed, remembering how apoplectic I'd been that he made me late. I should probably apologize—

But wait a minute. Denny had been drinking; I had smelled it on his breath. Sure, I could apologize for the misunderstanding about the time—but what about
that?
Still . . . I couldn't very well say anything now, could I, since
I
was the one in deep doo-doo. He could throw it right back at me and get off clean as a whistle. After all, he wasn't the one who . . .

He wasn't the one who . . .

A horrible realization pushed itself into my consciousness. I'd accused Denny of being a danger behind the wheel—but
I
was the one who had been drunk on anger, driving hard, driving mad—

No! I couldn't think like that. It was an accident! It wasn't my fault!
It wasn't my fault!

DENNY HAD BOUGHT A CELL phone and told me to call him immediately if I needed anything. He seemed really worried about going off to work and leaving me alone, but it was a relief. Small talk was hard for me when my whole world seemed like it was spinning out of control. After a week of doctors and nurses, being poked, prodded, and paraded, good ol' Willie Wonka was about the right kind of company I needed: practically deaf, undemanding, just there.

But around noon I heard a voice holler, “Hello? Jodi?”

I was lying in my darkened bedroom, not reading, not thinking, just in a kind of numb stupor. But I roused myself on one elbow. “Who's there?”

Footsteps came down the hallway. “Avis! I brought supper.” The footsteps diverted through the dining room to the kitchen. A few minutes later she pushed open the half-closed bedroom door. “You okay?”

I
had
been, thank you. “Yeah, I'm okay. How'd you get in?”

She came in all the way and sat on the end of the bed. She was dressed casually, in white summer slacks, a blousy pale green top, and white thong sandals that stood out against her rich brown skin, even in the dim light. “Denny didn't tell you? He gave me a key, asked me to check up on you while he was at work.”

“Ah.” I fiddled with the quilt over my legs, conscious of my still bruised face and limp nightshirt. “Thanks for bringing us supper.”

She waved a hand. “It's just mac 'n' cheese. One of the few things I can cook—everything else I touch turns out raw or charred!” She chuckled. “Just don't tell Yo-Yo.”

I tried to smile, but I wasn't very good at it.

Avis dug around in her big leather purse. “Look, I brought you some CDs to listen to. Especially when you're home alone, it'll be good to fill your days with praise.” She looked at me closely. “You're going to need some Word you can draw on, Jodi, when the going gets tough . . . oh! And I brought you this.” She pulled a piece of paper out of her Bible. “It's a list of healing scriptures. When you don't know what to pray—” She waved the piece of paper. “—pray these. Especially Psalm 103, the one I circled. That one's for you, Jodi.”

She stood up. “Want me to put it with your Bible?”

“Uh, sure. It's in my tote bag somewhere . . .” My tote bag had been in the now-wrecked minivan. “I'll have to ask Denny. Maybe he knows where it is.”

“Okay. Want me to put one of these on now?” She held up one of the CDs.

“Uh, no, that's okay. I . . . think I'm going to sleep now for a while.”

She knew I was stalling. But we both let my lame excuse stand. She came over and put both the piece of paper and the CDs in my lap. “Jodi, I don't know why God is taking you through this valley, this ‘valley of the shadow of death,' but He's got a reason. A big reason. Go
through,
sister . . . go through.”

A few minutes later, I heard the front door close, and all was quiet.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil . . .

How many times in my life had I repeated Psalm 23, feeling safe and secure, like that little lamb in the Sunday school pictures being carried by the Good Shepherd? But I had never really thought about what it meant to “walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” and I
was
afraid.

AVIS'S PAN OF MACARONI AND cheese was so huge, Denny and I figured it would probably feed us for the rest of the week. But after reheating some for lunch the next day, I decided to freeze the rest and bring it out when the kids got home from Mexico.

I sat at the dining room table, blinds darkened, my crutches propped on a nearby chair, picking at my lunch and thinking about what Denny had said last night. He'd been very quiet when he came home from work—not at all like Denny, who was usually full of funny stories about the kids he was coaching in the summer park program . . .

“I talked to a lawyer last week—”

“What lawyer? We don't have a lawyer.”

“We have one now. Stu gave me a couple of names of lawyers who
handle cases like this.”

I'd pressed my lips into a thin line. That meant Stu knew why we needed a lawyer.

“He called me today on the cell, wants to talk to you before the
arraignment—”

“Arraignment?”
My heart seemed to skip a beat.
“What does that
mean?”

“Like a hearing where the charges are read and bail is set. William
Farrell—our lawyer—says it's routine; you don't have to appear,
especially not in your condition. The defense lawyer is given a copy of
the charges by the state's attorney's office, then a preliminary hearing
is set. Maybe even next week.”

Next week? I could feel my heart beating rapidly. So they really were going to press charges; I really was going to have to go to court.

“Why didn't he call and tell me?”
I hadn't meant for my tone to be so challenging, but that's the way it came out.

Denny hid his exasperation well.
“Because you've just been
through a terrible ordeal, and I don't want the lawyer or anyone else
calling out of the blue upsetting you about this!”

“I'm upset already.”
Tears had brimmed in my eyes and splashed down into Avis's macaroni and cheese.

Denny had reached out his hand and closed it over my own.
“I
know, honey. Let's just talk to the lawyer tonight and let him take it
from there. Maybe you won't even have to go.”

Not have to go? I'd clutched at the hope.
“But . . . it's my life
they'll be talking about. Don't I get to say anything? Tell my story?”

“I don't know, Jodi. This is new for me too. We just need to pray
about it and ask others to be praying.”

“I don't want other people praying about it!”
I'd wailed.
“I don't
want everybody knowing I'm being charged with . . . with vehicular
manslaughter, or whatever he called it.”

I don't know how long I'd been sitting there toying with my food, going over the talk with William J. Farrell, Esquire, in our living room last evening, when I heard the front door being opened and another “Hellooo! Sista Jodee?”

That didn't sound like Avis. A Jamaican accent, more like . . .

“Chanda!”

Chanda stood in the archway of the dining room, loaded to the gills with a bucket, a mop, rags, spray plastic bottles, and aerosol cans. “What in the world?”

She held up a key and grinned apologetically. “Don' mean to scare you. Denny gave it to me. But you never mind. I be blessed quiet—'cept when I vacuum. You got a vacuum?”

“Oh, Chanda.” What was Denny thinking? We had a zillion hospital bills we hadn't even seen yet! “Denny shouldn't have asked—”

“ 'E didn't ask. I just tol' the mon I was comin'.”

Chanda . . . something about Chanda. Suddenly I remembered.
That
was what I was supposed to do last Tuesday—take Chanda to get her mammogram. And I hadn't once thought to ask anybody what the outcome was.

“Last Tuesday . . . I'm so sorry I couldn't take you to your doctor's appointment. Did you find another way?”

“Oh, sure. Avis took me.”

“And—?”

“T'ot you'd never ask. Got a mammogram, got a biopsy of that ol' lump.” A wide smile took over her face, making her almost . . . pretty. “No cancer! Hallelujah, Jesus! No cancer!” Chanda dropped the bucket and mop and did a little shuffle dance right there in the archway.

“That's wonderful, Chanda. I'm so glad.”

Chanda wheezed and fanned her face. “Given me history, it's a
miracle.
Now if I could just win the Big Lotto to pay off those doctor bills . . .” She picked up the bucket and headed for the kitchen. “All right if I use this sink?”

Oh, help. She really is going to clean my house.
If I didn't feel completely useless before, I certainly did now.

I turned in my chair so I could see her through the kitchen door. “Chanda?” Did I dare say anything? “Chanda, why don't you quit playing the lottery and buy some medical insurance with that money? Just a suggestion—but I wish you'd think about it.”

“Oh. That's what I plan to do. Soon as I get me some winnings, I'm goin' to buy life insurance, medical insurance, a car, and take the kids to Disney World!” Chanda poured some liquid in the bucket and turned on the water in the sink.

Well, at least she didn't get mad at me for asking. I watched her start in on the kitchen—the sink was full of breakfast dishes—then hobbled back to my bedroom. How embarrassing to have one of your friends cleaning your house. I cringed; the bathroom was the pits, though I couldn't blame Denny and the kids with the crazy week they'd had. We ought to pay her something—she did it for a living, for goodness' sake!—but she'd probably feel insulted if we did, since it was her idea.

Why was everyone being so darn nice to me? I didn't deserve it. It'd be easier if they all just left me alone.

I took another pain pill and lay on the bed in the darkened bedroom, listening to the faint sounds of Chanda singing “Winna Mon” in that patois accent of hers, water running, huffs and thumps and chairs scraping.

Jesus, You did a miracle for Chanda. Why can't You do a miracle for
me?

But I knew there would be no miracle. Not for Jodi Baxter. A boy was dead because of me, and I would have to live with the consequences.

39

B
y the end of the week, I was weaning myself off the pain medication and getting around pretty well on the elbow crutches. My broken ribs and ten-inch abdominal incision only hurt when I took big breaths—or cried or laughed—so I generally put a lock on my feelings and moved through the days and nights in a sort of detached stupor.

The Fourth of July came and went without any help from us, though Denny had the day off and did the laundry, watered the lawn and wilting flowers, and grilled some salmon fillets.

I missed Josh and Amanda so much. Their absence felt like another huge hole in my gut, right next to where my spleen used to be. But I was glad they were gone, glad I didn't have to be cheerful for their sakes.

Denny was attentive, trying to anticipate what I needed before I even knew myself, but we didn't talk much about the upcoming preliminary hearing, which had been scheduled for the following Monday. If I let myself think about it, I might just freak out. So we made small talk, watched TV in the evening, even held hands while Denny prayed for the kids, for the family that was grieving, and thanked God that I was healing . . . but things felt distant between us.

I knew what was wrong—everything was wrong!—but I didn't know how to fix it.

The doorbell rang late Friday afternoon. Grumbling, I pulled myself off the bed and hobbled down the hall in reasonably good time, considering, and hoped it wasn't someone who was going to mind me opening the door dressed only in one of Denny's extra-large T-shirts and a pair of slipper-mocs.

It was Florida, holding out a bag of sub sandwiches.

“So why don't you have a key?” I turned my crutches around and headed into the living room and the safety of the couch.