2-in-1 Yada Yada (17 page)

I winced. “Friendly fire”? That kind of language felt like throwing gasoline on live coals. I'd been worried about how Florida felt. But now I was worried about Ruth.

Was about to shut down when I realized I'd skipped over an email from Edesa because it wasn't addressed to Yada Yada, but to BaxterBears: “You don't have to pay me—I need the experience! But when do you want me to come? I'm free this Saturday late afternoon.” That was today!

I considered waking Amanda to ask if she had anything going on this afternoon and decided it didn't matter. She was failing Spanish, and this was her lifeline. She probably wouldn't appreciate me planning her
whole
day—but I could call going to see Florida a special mom-daughter time, like she had with Denny last weekend.

I picked up the phone and dialed Edesa's number.

BY THE TIME I TOLD EDESA HOW TO FIND US, called Florida and asked if I could “drop by” this morning, rousted Amanda and sweet-talked her into coming with me to visit one of my new friends (“instead of cleaning your room,” was the way I put it), it was almost eleven when Amanda and I hiked the three blocks to the Morse el station. I bought a pass from the machine good for four rides, stuffed the card into the electronic turnstile, then handed it back to Amanda so she could put it through again.

We heard a train pull into the elevated platform above our heads and did a mad dash up the stairs, but it was northbound, heading for Howard Street—Chicago's northern city limit— where any remaining commuters would transfer to the Purple Line serving the North Shore communities.

“Did you tell your friend I was coming?” Amanda asked, stuffing her hands into her jeans and suspiciously eyeing two teenagers with low-slung jeans and zigzag designs shaved into their clipped heads. I suddenly saw Amanda as the male species must see her: butterscotch blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, leaving wisps of stray hair curling around her face; a budding figure; rosy skin marred only by a few concealed zits on her forehead.
Humph!
I told myself.
I should have left her home.

“Um, sure I did. And her name is Florida—Mrs. Hickman to you. She said she'd
love
to meet you.”

I smiled, remembering Florida's barely disguised surprise when I called.
“Uh-huh. You and your daughter ‘just happen' to be in my
neighborhood and want to drop in?”

“No, Florida,”
I'd said, realizing how easy it would've been to give that as a reason—but obviously, Florida was no fool.
“I've been
missing you this week. So I said, ‘Heck with the housework. I'm gonna
go have coffee with Flo.' Or whatever you drink at your house.”

Flo had laughed out loud.
“Girl, you takin' your life in your hands
with that one. Sure, come on. House won't look like Martha Stewart,
but I'm cool. And I'd love to meet Amanda. I'll go kick my menfolk out
of bed—time they was movin' they butts anyhow.”

The southbound Red Line pulled into the Morse Street Station with a metallic squeal, and the doors slid open. Only one person got out—Morse was the second stop after Howard Street and most people who got on at Howard were heading downtown. The boys who looked like they might trip over their pants held back and let Amanda and me get on first. Nice, I thought. I hadn't expected that. The car was about half-full, but Amanda and I got two aisle seats across from each other.

Denny and I always told out-of-town guests they had to ride the el if they wanted a genuine Chicago experience—though I suspect the riders who were privy to it for everyday transportation were unimpressed by people who rode the train “just for fun.” As the train picked up speed, it snaked perilously close to apartment buildings whose second-floor windows looked out eye to eye with commuters on the elevated train. How could the people who lived in those apartments stand it? No wonder most of the windows had their blinds pulled. But how depressing was that?

“Look, Mom!” Amanda pointed out the window on her side of the train at a back porch loaded with hanging baskets and flower boxes, a profusion of bright colors spilling over the sides. “Cool,” said Amanda. “Like ‘bloom where you are planted.' ”

Out of the mouth of babes . . . I shook my head. Could
I
bloom if God planted me with the back of my house butted up against the elevated train tracks with a deafening din clattering past every fifteen minutes?
Why not?
a voice argued from somewhere inside my head as another flower-bedecked rear porch flew by.
What does
scenery have to do with it?

“Morse” . . . “Loyola” . . . “Granville” . . . the el pulled up along each platform stop, exchanged passengers, then rolled out again. Shutting out the
clickety-clack, clickety-clack,
I listened harder to the voice in my head, remembering the speaker at the women's conference—Olivia Mitchell. Even when she got up to speak, the praise went on for several more minutes.
I don't need your permission
to praise!
she'd told us.
You don't know where God has brought me
from!

“Mom? Mom! Isn't this where you wanted to get off?”

The train doors had slid open, revealing the word BRYN MAWR in block letters on the platform sign. “Yes!” I jumped up, grabbing Amanda's hand. “Let's go!”

We walked a few blocks on Bryn Mawr, crossed Broadway, and hit Magnolia just one street over. Florida's apartment building was just half a block south—a six-flat. In the foyer I punched the button that said “Hickman, 3rd Fl. N.”

A tinny voice said, “Who is it?”

“Jodi and Amanda.”

A loud buzzer echoed in the small foyer, and I jerked open the door.

“Mom,” Amanda whispered as we climbed the worn, carpeted stairs, “I feel funny. I don't even know these people.”

“I know, honey.” I felt funny, too, and I
did
know these people—Florida, anyway. “But thanks for coming with me. Means a lot.”

Two doors stood on either side of the landing at the top of the stairs. Before we could read the little paper names inserted in the door nameplates, the door on the right opened. Florida stood there in T-shirt and jeans, cigarette in hand, a big smile wrinkling her nose.

“Jodi! Give me a hug, girl.”

I gave her a big hug, feeling like my own smile was wrapping itself around the back of my head. Gosh, I really had missed her.

“This your baby?” Florida stepped back and gave Amanda a head-to-toe once-over. I suddenly felt appalled. How stupid of me!—flaunting my daughter, when Florida's daughter was missing. But Florida seemed oblivious to my self-chastisement. “Why didn't you tell me she was such a beauty! Mmm-mm. You better get yourself a shotgun and keep it loaded.” She held out her arms, the cigarette ash growing longer by the second. “C'mere, darlin'. Let Aunt Florida give you a hug.”

This seemed to please Amanda tremendously, and she returned Florida's hug with a grin. Florida opened the door wider. “C'mon in. Don't mean to leave you out in the hall. Chris! Cedric!” she yelled somewhere over her shoulder. “Turn that thang down and come meet some friends of mine.”

The living room to our left was dim, lit only by a video game bouncing on a TV screen. Two young boys reluctantly put down their controllers and came to the doorway to shake our hands. Chris, Florida told us, was thirteen; Cedric was eleven. Even though Amanda was only one year older, I noticed she towered over Chris by a good three inches. Both boys had Florida's warm hazelnut skin; embarrassed grins escaped as she bragged on how well they were doing in middle school.

“What game are ya playin'?” Amanda asked, moving into the living room. “I've never seen it before. Can you teach me how?”

“I guess,” Chris shrugged.

“Sure!” beamed Cedric. “It's really fun.”

I stared at Amanda's ponytail as the three kids settled down on the floor in front of the TV. Would wonders never cease? Two minutes ago Amanda didn't even want to be walking up the stairs.

“Come on back to the kitchen,” Florida said, leading the way down a long narrow hall. “I've got coffee on.”

I sneaked a peek into the two bedrooms to my left as we headed toward the kitchen—a double bed, unmade, in one; a double mattress on the floor in the other. The second room was so small the mattress practically touched both walls.

A man with tired eyes in an otherwise pleasant face sat at a round table in a room just off the kitchen that seemed to serve as all-purpose room. A computer monitor and keyboard sat atop a small desk in one corner, surrounded by schoolbooks and stacks of mail; a sewing machine sat on a recycled end table. The chairs around the table didn't match. The man must be—

“Carl, this is Jodi Baxter, one of the women I met at the conference last week.”

Florida's husband reached out a hand and murmured a greeting, but he seemed puzzled as I shook his hand. “Not the same one who was here last night?”

Florida snickered and headed for the coffeepot. “You got eyes, Carl! Stu was taller, had long blonde hair.”

I was startled. Stu was
here
last night? But Carl seemed embarrassed. “Sorry. Just took me a minute. You know, you both . . . you both . . .”

“White,” Florida finished, returning from the small kitchen with a big grin and handing me a cup of black coffee. “These white people all look alike, don't they?”

I couldn't help but laugh. “I'm really glad to meet you, Carl— your handsome boys, too,” I said, trying to smooth the awkwardness. But what was there to say next? I couldn't ask about his job; Florida had said he was unemployed. I turned to Florida. “Stu was here last night?”

“Yeah.” Florida sat down at the table and motioned me into a seat. Carl seemed to take the cue and excused himself. “She wanted to talk about Carla, get whatever information she could about the DCFS case. I . . . gave her the folder we had with letters, forms. She said she'd be sure to return it.” Florida looked at me. “What? You think maybe that wasn't a good idea?”

She must have seen the strained look on my face. I certainly felt my mouth tighten, my forehead frown. But what
was
I thinking? That Stu had gotten here first. I had wanted to visit Florida in person, show her I really cared about her and her family . . . and Stu had beaten me to the draw.

I shook my head, trying to shake my petty thoughts loose. Florida seemed to be waiting for my answer. I made a stab at one. “Uh . . . I don't know. Maybe. Do you have copies of all those papers?”

“No. But Stu said she'd photocopy them and return my originals.” Florida stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and muttered, “One of these days God and me gonna have a talk about
this
habit . . .” Her thoughts seemed to drift, then she sighed. “Guess I shoulda made copies first, but she seemed eager to get the process started. Though for the life of me, I don't know what she can do. She doesn't even work at DCFS. Not now, anyway.”

I pushed past my own conflicted feelings to reassure her. “I'm sure Stu just wants to help if she can. But it would be good to get those originals back as soon as possible.” I looked around the room. There was one framed poster on the wall—the poem “Footprints” done in fancy calligraphy. Christian pop art. But no framed photographs. “Do you have a picture of Carla? I'd love to see it.”

“Those were hard times, Jodi. Didn't take many pictures.” But Florida got up and rummaged in one of the desk drawers, then handed me a snapshot of a little girl about two years old, holding a ball. The quality was poor, but the grin on the little girl's face was bright, the eyes laughing—just like Florida's.

“She's adorable,” I breathed.

Florida's shoulders slumped. “That's the last picture I have of her—two years old. She'd be eight now. I try, I really try, to imagine what she looks like, but I can't. And sometimes I'm afraid . . . afraid I won't find her again, or if we do, afraid she won't know me anymore, won't want to come back.” Tears slid down her cheeks.

Tears were filling my own eyes. I clasped Florida's hands in both my own. “No, no. We're not goin' there.”
Good grief,
I thought.
I sound like Avis.
“Look what God has done for you already! You're ‘five years saved and five years sober'—isn't that what you said?”

“Yeah.” Her smile was tentative, like a small break in the rain clouds. “Five years this June. After they took the kids from me.”

“You've come so far, Florida! God has been putting your family back together again—look at your two beautiful boys! And your husband, too.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Good-lookin' guy, you know, even if he doesn't have a job. Yet.”

“Yep. You're right. God's been good . . . all the time. Hasn't brought me this far to leave me.” The old fire rekindled in her eyes. “And I can't be around negative people who think otherwise.”

“Ah. Ruth's comment.” It couldn't be avoided. It had to get out on the table.

“You got that right!” she shot back. “What does she know about me, or . . . or Carla . . . or our situation, or . . . anything!”

AMANDA AND I STOPPED AT A LITTLE CAFÉ on Broadway for Chicago hot dogs and milkshakes before catching the Red Line back to Rogers Park. “That was fun, Mom,” Amanda said, trying to keep the trimmings from falling off the bun as she took a big bite of her hot dog. “Chris and Cedric are nice.Thanks for bringing me along.” These last words were muffled by the wad of food in her mouth.

I nodded. Aside from talking with her mouth full, I was proud of her. Amanda had really risen to the occasion. I wasn't so proud of myself. The visit to Florida had clearly shown me two things:

We had to patch up the rift caused by Ruth's comment before Yada Yada ripped apart at the seams.