2-in-1 Yada Yada (76 page)

I wanted to ask about her family—didn't she ever see them at holidays?—but she abruptly changed the subject, looking at Hoshi curiously. “Did you guys settle on a date for your prison visit?”

Both of us shook our heads. But before Hoshi left that evening, we decided this coming Saturday, before Hoshi's semester exams, was maybe the best time to make the trip to Lincoln Correctional Center. Denny agreed. “December weekends get awful busy with Christmas stuff.”

“Holiday
stuff,” Mark teased, helping Hoshi into her coat. “You teach in a public school, remember?” Then a cloud crossed his face, like a remembered pain. “Thanks for getting me through
this
holiday. It's . . . tough without Nony and the boys. Pray for us, okay?”

Denny frowned. “Still no return date?”

Mark shook his head. “Guess this is something she needs to do.” Then he laughed, but it was hollow. “Last thing she said? Oprah Winfrey is coming to South Africa next week to film a Christmas special highlighting the plight of AIDS orphans, and they need local volunteers at each of her stops. Nony thinks it would be an awesome experience for Marcus and Michael.” He shrugged, but the pain had not left his eyes. “It would . . . if it didn't keep us on opposite sides of the world.”

JOSé STAYED until nine o'clock then shrugged off an offer for Josh to run him home. “I can get home by El—
no problema.
See you Saturday.”

I shut the door behind him and turned to Amanda. “Saturday? What's this about Saturday? Aren't you supposed to
ask
before you—”

“Mo-om! It wasn't even me. Ask Josh! Good grief!” She flounced off to her room.

I stared at Josh. “What?”

“Parental unit on overload. Begin cool-down cycle.” Josh headed for the living room, where his father had turned on the TV to catch highlights of Thanksgiving Day football. “Youth group, Mom,” he said over his shoulder—a tad too smug, in my opinion. “Service project, remember? We're going down to Jesus People USA on Saturday night to help serve dinner to the homeless. José heard us talk about it and said he'd like to come. I might ask Yo-Yo's brothers too. They'd fit right in at JPUSA.” He grinned. “Can I have the car? I volunteered to drive.”

I followed Josh into the living room, somewhat mollified that it was a youth-group activity. “No, I don't remember—and the car's a problem. Dad and I are taking Hoshi to visit Becky Wallace on Saturday. Downstate.”

“But Mom! I said I could drive! And if Yo-Yo's brothers go, I have to pick them up.”

So what's wrong with public transportation?
I groused to myself—even though I knew when it came to my own kids, I'd much rather they get a ride. “Talk to your dad,” I said, heading for the kitchen to clean up the remains of the apple crisp I'd made for dessert.
Let Denny figure it out.

AS IT TURNED OUT, Denny didn't think it'd be a problem. “We'll leave early, be back by four. Then Josh can have the car.” Amanda had dance practice at Uptown Saturday morning for this Sunday's Advent candle lighting—could the Christmas season be upon us already?—so we ended up leaving both kids at home. Had to admit it was a lot easier than the juggling act we pulled off the last time to get Amanda to Edesa's for the day. I took the cell and told her to call us if she made any other plans.

At the last minute Florida got wind that we were going to the prison this weekend and called to see if she could go along. “Carla's foster parents got her this weekend, and I'm about to go crazy if I stay here. I'm still on the visitors' list, right? Do you mind picking me up?”

So once again we hit Route I-55 heading for Lincoln, Illinois, on an early Saturday morning with our thermoses of coffee, some fruit and sweet rolls, and what was left of Delores's
pan de polvo.
The sky was overcast, like it was thinking about snow. “Sure hope that weather holds off till we get home,” Denny muttered to no one in particular.

Right away Florida piped up from the second seat of the van. “All right now, Jesus. You heard the man's prayer. We're askin' for good weather all the way to the prison and back again, and we thank ya in advance for whatcha gonna do.”

Denny and I exchanged grins.
Yes, God, make my prayers as natural
as breathing . . . or talking.
I turned back to the passing landscape, stripped of the brilliant colors we'd enjoyed on our last trip. Now bony tree-fingers jabbed the sky and blankets of tired, yellowed grass lay crumpled everywhere, waiting . . . waiting for winter.

Hoshi didn't have much to say on the trip downstate. She was probably apprehensive. At least the three of us were along to help her sort it out if she wanted. Pawing through the CDs that were starting to collect in the van, I picked up one of Integrity Music's
iWorship
albums and stuck it in the player. The first track nearly blasted the car off the road till I frantically turned down the volume. “Sorry about that,” I muttered. “Josh must've driven the van last.”

Now that we could hear the words, the song seemed to speak to the raw feelings we all had after that awful night when Becky Wallace broke into our Yada Yada meeting: “I'm trading my sorrows . . . I'm laying them down for the joy of the Lord . . .”

“I like that,” Hoshi said. “Can you play it again?”

I hit the Repeat button, and the last line was still going through my mind when we pulled up to the security gate at Lincoln Correctional Center at eleven o'clock.
“Though the sorrow may

last for the night, His joy comes with the morning.”
I took Hoshi's arm as we entered the door of the stark, gray building and headed for the visitors' desk. Had to admit it was as much for my own comfort as to comfort Hoshi. Even though this was my second visit, I was nervous. Again. I mean, how weird was it to visit the thief who'd terrorized us all with a knife?
We could all use some of
that morning joy, Jesus.

Hoshi's lip trembled when a female guard patted her down and made her leave her belongings in the locker. Didn't blame her. Getting searched made
me
feel like a criminal. But without Yo-Yo's prison history to delay us this time, we were soon shown into the visiting room and found an empty table.

And then we waited. Ten minutes . . . fifteen. “Maybe she changed her mind and does not want to see us,” Hoshi said. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands and kept fidgeting with an opal ring on her right hand.

Denny got up and spoke to a guard stationed at the door that let prisoners in and out, and the guard mumbled something into his walkie-talkie. Finally Becky Wallace stepped into the room. Not the same Becky Wallace. Healthier, fresher. She also looked incredibly young in a tank top, tight jeans, and jean jacket. She seemed to take a big breath then headed for our table.

“Hi.” Her dark eyes were wary, but she sat down and greeted us each in turn. “Mr. Baxter . . . Miz Baxter . . . an' Miz Hickman, right?” Then she looked at Hoshi. “An' you must be Miss Tak—” She stumbled. “Takahashi.”

Hoshi nodded but said nothing, like she had stage fright.

“First names are all right,” Denny said. “May we call you Becky?”

“You lookin' better, girl,” Florida blurted. She did too. The dull brown hair had grown an inch or two, even had a little wave and some shine. The dark circles around her eyes were gone, her face fuller. I noticed she even had on a hint of blush and mascara.

Good grief. She's almost pretty.
I hardly knew what to do with the revelation.

Becky's lips twitched . . . not quite a smile. “Yeah. Been clean for two months. I'm sleepin' better. Food ain't so hot, but at least it's three squares a day.”

Stillness settled around us like an invisible cocoon,muffling the hum of conversation at the other gray plastic tables. We just looked at each other or down at our hands, wondering what to say next.

Florida broke the silence. “What 'bout your kid? Heard anything?”

Becky nodded, but she swallowed several times before speaking. “Got word that DCFS put 'im in foster care.” She shrugged and looked away, blinking rapidly. “Prob'ly best. Jus' . . . dunno if I'm ever gonna see my boy agin.”

Florida reached out and gripped Becky's wrist. “Girl, I been there. But God gave me my baby back. Tell you what. We gonna track down your kid and make sure they send you word regular. We got just the friend to sic on DCFS!” Florida grinned at Denny and me and actually laughed.

Oh, Stu is going to love this,
I thought.

“Really? You'd do that? After what I done ta . . .” Becky stopped and glanced at Hoshi. “Told these guys last time, but I . . . I didn't mean ta hurt yo' mama. Hope she's okay.”

It wasn't exactly an apology, but the words seemed to electrify Hoshi. She sat up in her chair, looking lovely even in those drab surroundings. She quit fingering her ring and looked into Becky's face across the table. “Yes. She will be all right. I . . .” She stopped. We waited. The unspoken sentence hung in the air. Becky had no way of knowing that the cut that hurt the deepest was not her mother's hand. Would Hoshi say something?

To my surprise,Hoshi held out her hand, her long, tapered fingers with the perfect white moons reaching for the nail-bitten hand of Becky Wallace. “It is not easy to say, but . . . I forgive you. God forgives you too.”

Their hands touched. Then Becky pulled back. “Nah. God ain't about ta forgive
me.
Y'all don't know the stuff I done.”

“God forgave me—why not you?” I was startled to hear my own voice.

Becky looked me up and down with nothing short of a leer. “You? What do
you
know 'bout needin' forgiveness? You had a bad thought? Snitched cookies when yo' mama said not to? Huh!”

“No. I . . . killed somebody. A boy.”

Becky's eyes widened, and we just stared at each other. For some reason, the meaning of her name resonated in my head:
“Bound.”
And in the next breath, the meaning of my own:
“God is
gracious.”
And for a jumbled moment, the two names and the two meanings merged in my understanding.
I was bound . . . but God is
gracious and set me free.

Becky's eyes darted at Denny. “For real? She kill somebody?” She clearly did not believe me.

“Yes.” Denny's eyes begged my permission before he continued. I nodded, then closed my eyes while he told the short, sad story of our stupid fight, me driving angry in a storm, a boy trying to get out of the rain, the terrible crash, a life snuffed out.

“But it be an accident, right?”

I opened my eyes. She was looking straight at me. “I didn't hit him on purpose, if that's what you mean. And the charges against me were dropped, but his mother can't forgive me, just the same. Yet God has forgiven me. That's what gives me courage to go on.”
Say it, Jodi, say it! It's true—even though you don't always believe it.
Becky Wallace needs to hear it!
“You already have Hoshi's forgiveness, Becky, and God will forgive you too. Just . . . ask Him.”

Becky looked from Denny to me, then to Florida and Hoshi, testing the story with her eyes. “Man! You guys are a trip!” She slowly stood and looked toward the “inmate” door then, like she'd forgotten something, turned back and shook each of our hands. “Thanks for comin' ta see me. You guys all right.”

She walked across the room and was gone.

The four of us just looked at each other. Finally Denny scratched his head. “Well, it wasn't exactly the Four Spiritual Laws, but”—he smiled big, making his dimples cave in—“I think something important just happened for our ‘Bandana Woman.' ”

40

W
e left the prison parking lot in silence, a little afraid to break the spell. At least, I was wondering what Becky Wallace was thinking right about now. What had Hoshi's words, “I forgive you,” meant to her? Especially since B. W. hadn't actually come out and said, “I'm sorry.”

Huh. Not that you've ever fuzzed the edges of an apology, Jodi
Baxter.
Well, okay, so it was a lot easier to say,
“I didn't mean to”
or,
“Guess I messed up.”
Saying “I'm sorry” was downright admitting that a wrong had been done, a wrong that needed forgiving. And to be honest, I wasn't very quick on the forgiving end either. Didn't want to let the person who wronged me off the hook
that
easy.

But I told Jamal's mother I was really sorry—
hadn't I? Or had I? Sorry about what? That the accident had happened? That she'd lost her son? Or sorry that I'd been driving angry, distracted from my driving, responsible for—

“I am glad I came.” Hoshi's quiet voice from the backseat broke into my tumbling thoughts. “My only memory of that woman since that night was her screaming at us, waving that knife around, looking like a wild woman. Every time I thought about her, I felt afraid all over again.”

I turned my head so I could see Hoshi, staring out the window behind Denny. “Yeah, know what you mean. Except whenever I thought about her, I just felt angry. Kinda resented finding out she was a real person.”

Hoshi kept her head turned toward the window, as if talking to her own reflection. “I could not imagine saying, ‘I forgive you,' but when I saw her today . . . it wasn't so hard. Not after she said, ‘I'm sorry.' ”

I started to say,
“But she didn't, really”
—then realized that Hoshi had given Becky the benefit of the doubt; she had listened beyond her words to her heart.

“Uh-huh,” Florida muttered. “It's when they
don't
say ‘sorry' that forgivin' gets hard. Still, sometimes ya gotta do it for your own sanity. Maybe that's why Jesus told us to forgive our enemies— more for our sake than theirs.”