2-in-1 Yada Yada (34 page)

“Mrs. Baxter?” The first police officer was African American, a good six feet and two hundred pounds, with a bull neck as wide as his ears. The other police officer was also male, but younger, thinner, with straight black hair, olive skin. Maybe Puerto Rican. “I'm Sergeant Shipp, and this is Officer Carillo.”

I gripped Denny's hand.
It's not fair, God! Why can't I have that
. . . that female officer with the ponytail who came to see José?
I hoped they'd ask me questions I could just answer yes or no. But Sergeant Shipp went digging. “Can you tell us what you remember about the accident?”

I looked frantically at Denny's face. He nodded at me encouragingly. “Just tell them what you told me yesterday, what you remembered.”

I closed my eyes to see it again, but
the face
rose up so quickly, I quickly opened them. Breathing as deeply as my tightly bound ribs would allow, I told them about the heavy rain and the darkness . . . about the green light at Howard and Clark Streets . . . about the hooded figure that ran into the intersection in front of the minivan . . . stomping on the brake and jerking the wheel . . . about the bright headlights coming straight at me. “That's all I remember,” I said weakly.

“Mrs. Baxter,” the sergeant said, “you know by now that this accident involved a fatality. The young pedestrian died of injuries sustained when he was struck by a vehicle, possibly yours. Do you remember striking the young man?”

Panic began to rise in my throat, but Denny broke in. “Sergeant Shipp, are you saying there's a question about
which
vehicle struck the boy? If so, then I don't believe my wife is required to answer that question.”

Sergeant Shipp snapped his notebook shut. “All right. That'll be all for now, Mrs. Baxter.” The two men made for the door, but Sergeant Shipp beckoned for Denny to follow them. In the doorway, the officer lowered his voice, but it still carried into the room. “Mr. Baxter, we have at least three witnesses who are saying it was your wife's vehicle that struck the boy, and there are conflicting reports about who had the green light. The state's attorney is prepared to press charges.”

“What—what charges?”

“Vehicular manslaughter. With or without gross negligence.”

“But . . . it was an
accident.
It was raining. The boy ran out into traffic—”

“That may well be, Mr. Baxter. But my advice to you? Get a lawyer.”

37

D
enny!” I grabbed my husband's hand as he returned to my bedside. “What did he mean, vehicular manslaughter with—?”

Denny put a finger to my mouth. “Don't worry, babe. Don't worry. The family is naturally upset and wanting to blame somebody. This isn't going to go anywhere.”

I stared at Denny's face, reading the twitch in his jaw, the reluctance to look me straight in the eye . . .
Oh God! Oh God! This
can't be happening!

I looked away. “What's his name?”

“Who? The officer?”

I swallowed with difficulty. “The boy.”

“Jodi, don't—”

“What's his
name?”

Denny sighed. “Jamal Wilkins.”

Jamal Wilkins . . . somebody's child . . . no more.

“How old was he?”

“Jodi, don't torture yourself like this!”

“Tell me!”

Denny sighed again. “Thirteen.” He wandered over to the window and pulled the cord opening the blind so he could look out. “His friends say they were trying to cross the street to get under the overpass to get out of the rain. Jamal had his sweatshirt hood up and didn't see . . .”

The overpass that took the commuter train tracks over Howard
Street into Evanston. Just a few more yards to safety and shelter.

Denny turned. “Should I go tell Avis and Florida they can come back in now?”

I shook my head. “No, please . . . tell them I'm sorry, but I want to rest.”

Rest. That was a good one. I wasn't sure I would ever be able to close my eyes again without seeing that face.

BUT I DID SLEEP—slept as much as I could so I didn't have to think or talk. And each morning when I woke up, somebody from Yada Yada was already in the hospital room—usually Avis or Nony, walking around the room praying over me, over the machines, over the doctors. Even Yo-Yo showed up one morning, slouching in the corner chair in her typical pose. Like everybody else, she had opened the louvered blinds to let in the sun, and like every other morning, I wearily asked her to close them.

The light seemed obscene somehow, given the circumstances.

The nurses made me get out of bed and walk a little farther each day, using a walker. I felt like a prisoner of war, dressed in a humiliating gown that wouldn't stay closed in the back, hobbling on one good leg and an old-lady walker, with a nurse-guard trailing me, pushing the ever-present pole of liquid goodies to make sure I didn't run for it.

Denny went back to work on Wednesday—he'd already missed two days of his new summer job—but I didn't lack for visitors. Besides Pastor Clark's daily visit, Delores, Edesa, Stu, and Ruth all popped in at various visiting hours. Somebody in Yada Yada had probably made a “Visit Jodi” list, and I didn't need three guesses to know who.

Adele had showed up at noon on Wednesday, bringing with her a huge tube of hand cream with aloe. “I had two cancellations in a row,” she announced, as though needing a reason to be there in the middle of the day. She picked up one of my hands and examined it critically. “Hmm. Gotta do something about these chicken claws.” She squirted a huge gob of cream into her palm and worked it into the chapped skin of my hands, around the tape and tubes connecting me to the IV pole. I felt awkward with her massaging my neglected hands, but it felt so good and comforting that I didn't want her to stop—ever. It was the first time in five days that I felt like a woman.

To my surprise, I'd liked Adele's visit. She didn't try to talk to me or cheer me up; just rubbed my hands, layer after layer of thick hand cream. “Thank you,” I whispered as she stepped away from the bed to make room for a male nurse who came in with a large paper cup with a plastic lid and straw.

“Let's get that tube out of your nose.” The young man grasped the nasogastric tube that had been pumping fluid from my stomach. “Now, when I pull on this, I want you to cough. Okay?” Round glasses perched on his rather thin nose were topped by a shock of limp brown hair,making him look like a grown-up Harry Potter. He pulled, and I coughed . . . again and again. Felt like kicks in my side as the tube slowly emerged.

“Heard you passed gas this morning, Mrs. Baxter.” He acted as if he was making casual conversation.

I rolled my eyes. “Oh brother.” I could hear Adele snickering in the background.

The nurse was unperturbed. “Now that we've passed that milestone, Doc says to try some ginger ale today.” He handed me the paper cup with the straw. “But go easy . . . only little sips.”

I took a sip, then another. It tasted so good. I hadn't realized how parched my mouth and throat were for real liquid. I took a bigger sip . . . and suddenly it all came back up and then some, splatting all over the bed and the nurse's clean white tunic.

He stared at me as if I'd done it on purpose. “The basin, Mrs. Baxter. You're supposed to use the basin.” A big sigh. “Guess we're going to have to change this bed again.” He snatched the paper cup and took it with him as he headed for the door.

“Sorry,” I squeaked, lying back weakly on the upraised bed. Did he have any
idea
how much it hurt to throw up when you had a big incision in your belly and five broken ribs?

The moment he was gone, Adele appeared at the side of the bed with a warm wet washcloth for my face. “That boy needs a stronger stomach if he's gonna be any kind o'
nurse,”
she muttered, barely concealing a grin.

DENNY AND THE KIDS usually appeared about suppertime and stayed a couple of hours in the evening. I was glad to see Josh and Amanda, but I desperately wanted some time alone to talk with Denny about what the police officer had said. We didn't know a lawyer—and couldn't afford one even if we did! What were we going to do? But no one was telling me anything.

Not that I had the courage to ask. I clung to the veneer of normalcy, the stream of nurses and visitors popping in and out like pinballs, the annoying shots and medications in little plastic cups, trips to the bathroom to see if I could “go,” even the hated walks down the corridor with the back of my gown flapping. I was even glad when the night staff woke me up at intervals to take my vitals—anything to keep the nightmare of
that face,
lit up in my headlights, from taking over my sanity.

When the kids arrived on Thursday evening,Amanda eyed the “supper” tray of Jell-O and clear liquids an aide brought in. “Can't you eat any real food yet? It's been four days!”

I sighed. “My abdomen is still bloated. Dr. Lewinski calls it ‘post-op ileus'—doc-talk for saying that my intestines are in shock and can't handle solid food yet.”

Amanda looked anxiously at her father then back to me. “But when are they going to let you come home?”

“I don't know—I was hoping by this weekend.” I reached out a hand to my daughter. “Gotta see you off to Mexico on Sunday.” I tried on a smile.

“Uh, Mom.” Josh cleared his throat. “We've been talking to Dad and thinking maybe we shouldn't go—not with you banged up like this. I mean, Dad's gotta work, and you're gonna need somebody to take care of you when you get home.”

I stared at my children. I wanted to hug them, bawl all over their shoulders, thank them over and over for thinking of me. Yes, yes, I needed them, wanted them, didn't want them to go away to Mexico with its dirt roads and crazy bus drivers and unsafe water and terrorists just waiting to sneak over the border—

“No. Absolutely not.”

“No? Why not? Look at you, Mom!”

I had looked at me in the bathroom mirror, and it wasn't pretty. “Because you two have looked forward to this trip for six months, and you've worked hard to earn the money, and it'll be a great experience, and you're going. I'm not dead, and by all accounts I'm going to recover and be back nagging you to death about cleaning your rooms.”

Denny couldn't repress a smile. “I knew your mother wouldn't go for it.”

“But who's going to take care of you, Mom?”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm
supposed
to get up and get around. At least at home I can wear some decent clothes so I don't shock Willie Wonka. See those crutches?” An aide had brought in a pair of elbow crutches for me to use to avoid hurting my cracked ribs.

“By the time you get back from Mexico, I'm going to challenge you to a three-legged footrace.”

By this time my husband and kids were laughing. Amanda leaned over and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Mom.” She pulled back and studied my face. “But . . . are you sure? Because we really would be willing to stay.”

“Absolutely sure.”

The three of them left in high spirits. Mom was practically her old self again. She wanted them to go. Everything was going to be all right.

I watched the heavy door shut behind them, feeling heavy with guilt. They thought I was being wonderful and selfless. They had no idea how selfish I was being. I knew their offer to give up the trip and stay home “to take care of Mom” was sincere . . . but they would resent it. Resent
me.
Maybe even hate me for being so stupid and careless to have an accident, to ruin our car, and ruin their Mexico trip on top of it.

I couldn't bear it. Somewhere out there was a family who already hated me because I had taken away their son, their “baby.” “Taken away?”—huh. Killed him.
Bam!
—like that. They wanted me in court, probably wanted me in jail . . . maybe wanted to ruin
my
family.

Great silent sobs welled up inside me, each one painful as they fought against my broken ribs and sore abdomen. Hot tears spilled down my face, and my nose started to run. I couldn't reach a tissue, so I just blew my nose on the bedsheet . . . but the tears wouldn't stop.

“Oh God! God!” I wailed out loud. “Where are You? Why did You let this happen? I don't care how banged up I am—but why did You let that boy die? Everything would be okay if he just wasn't
dead!
And Jesus isn't walking around Chicago these days raising dead boys back to life, is He! . . .
Is He!”

The last two words were practically a scream, but the door stayed closed, and no visitors or nurses or aides came tripping in. I was alone . . . utterly abandoned and alone. Giving in to the fear and grief and confusion that were my life, I cried and cried and cried.

38

D
r. Lewinski discharged me on Sunday. Guess I'd peed and pooped to the staff 's satisfaction, because they started to give me real food the last two days and sent me home with a long list of instructions of what I could and couldn't (mostly couldn't) do for the next six weeks. “We'll need a follow-up x-ray on that leg and start you on some physical therapy,” the doc said.

Denny picked me up in an old car that looked like something from Rent-a-Wreck. Somebody at Uptown was loaning it to us until the insurance paid up and we could get another car—but the insurance wasn't paying anything till they found out whether I was liable.

Guilty until proven innocent . . . now I knew what
that
felt like. But the loaner was okay if we didn't want to actually go anywhere— and it looked like I would be staying put for a while.

I got home in time to hug Amanda and Josh good-bye before they left in the church van for O'Hare Airport, where they would be boarding Mexicana Airlines for Mexico City. I hunched over my elbow crutches, looking at the two large duffel bags in the hallway, packed, zipped, locked, and ready. “I . . . wasn't here to help you get ready.”