2-in-1 Yada Yada (37 page)

I stared in disbelief at the message. Words like “if convicted” and “jail time” swam before my eyes. Suddenly, I felt desperate to get rid of it, make it go away. With shaking hand, I moved the cursor to “delete” then closed the window, shut down the computer . . . and as an added measure, squeezed my sore body around the side of the computer desk and pulled the plug.

Now I was sweating. I needed to lie down. I swung my crutches toward the living room and the comfort of the couch— but knew I had to fill my mind with something, or the words would taunt me, shout me down in the silence. I stopped by the music cabinet and picked up the other CD Avis had brought me. Clint Brown. Never heard of him. But I stuck the disc in the changer, took the remote and the CD insert with me, and collapsed on the couch.

I hit the “play” button.

The music filled the room, rolling around me, over me, through me. No cutesy songs. Every song was about Jesus, about resting in His presence, about finding “strength while I'm waiting,” about Jesus being “my everything.”

Florida had said,
“Listen!”
I listened. I wanted the lyrics to drown out the terrifying words still knocking around in my brain.

A killing . . . not murder . . . felony . . . misdemeanor . . . prison . . . fine
. . . not guilty . . . guilty . . .

I concentrated on the next song. “Where would I be? You only know . . .”

Did God know I would make such a mess of my life?

“I'm glad You see through eyes of love . . .”

Exactly what Florida had said.

The voice on the CD seemed to be singing from inside of me, capturing every thought, feeling, and dread of the past two horrible weeks.

“A hopeless case, an empty place . . .”

O yes, God! That's me, that's me!

“. . . if not for grace.”

My eyes, wet with tears of self-pity, flew open. I hit the “repeat” button and listened to the song again. There it was.

“. . . if not for grace.”

I played the song again . . . and again . . . and again.

“. . . if not for grace.”

SOMEONE FROM UPTOWN COMMUNITY sent home a wonderful Sunday dinner with Denny—chicken stew with dumplings along with homemade rolls, crunchy coleslaw, and peach cobbler for dessert. For the first time since the accident, I actually felt hungry.

Then, true to his word, Denny got me and my crutches in the candidate for Rent-a-Wreck and drove up to Evanston's lakefront, where we walked slowly along the jogging path for about half an hour then sat on a bench and gawked at all the bikers, in-line skaters, stroller pushers, and dog-walkers enjoying the lakefront park.

I told Denny I'd read the lawyer's e-mail. He looked pained. “I didn't mean for you to see that.”

I took as deep a breath as my ribs would allow. “Can't hide my head in the sand forever, can I?”

The walk wore me out completely, and I practically collapsed into bed when we got back home around four o'clock and fell asleep. I had a dream that I was lying in a plain wooden coffin, but I wasn't dead, and the lid wasn't on. And stamped all around the outside of the wooden coffin was the same word again and again: Grace . . . Grace . . . Grace.

I woke with the dream still clear in my mind and lay there thinking about it. The funny thing was that in the dream I wasn't panicky, but I just lay in the coffin, peaceful-like.

As I lay on the bed in that twilight between sleep and being awake, I thought I heard voices . . . and laughter. Now I really was awake. Who on earth could be here?

I looked at the clock beside the bed. Five-thirty. Reluctantly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and got my crutches. I didn't really want company. But I was curious. I hobbled down the hallway, but even before I got to the living room, I could pick out voices: Florida bragging on Carla while Delores kept exclaiming, “Oh!
Es
wonderful!” . . .

I stood in the archway leaning on my crutches, giving the living room a once-over. Practically everybody from Yada Yada was there . . . except Chanda and Edesa. And Stu. I cleared my throat.
“What
are you guys doing here?”

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty waketh!”Yo-Yo called out over the hubbub.

Yeah, right.
Though I did look a little bit more like a normal human being today, after getting a shampoo from Denny last night. The bruising on my face was almost gone, too; I'd even put on a little makeup for our afternoon outing. And the denim skirt and sleeveless top I was wearing hid the scars on my leg and abdomen.

“Why aren't you home with Carla?” I growled at Florida.

“You think I'd be here messin' with Yada Yada if I still had Carla? Ha. I had to take her back by three this afternoon. If I was home, I'd just be blubberin' on my sleeve, so I might as well be here.”

“It's the Sunday Yada Yada is scheduled to meet,” Avis explained.

“Knew
you
wouldn't come out,” Ruth butted in, “so . . . to you we brought the Yada Yada!”

Gosh, she looked smug. “Why didn't anyone tell me?” I asked, exuding patience.

“You? You would've said no; that's because why!”

“That's it” . . . “Got that right.”

Florida snickered. “So we asked that soft-hearted husband of yours, who we got wound around our little fingers.”

Figured. Wasn't Denny supposed to be protecting me from overstimulation? But I let slip a grin. I was glad to see everybody, in spite of myself. My sisters. All of them. Even Adele. A few weeks ago, I could never have imagined that this group of women—like so many pairs of crazy, colorful socks—would become the kick-off-your-shoes-and-let-it-all-hang out kind of girlfriends I desperately needed. Yet God put us together in time to help me through the most difficult days of my life.

Yo-Yo scrambled up. “Okay, everybody. Off the couch. Peg-leg, here, needs a place to prop it up.”

“No, no.” I moved quickly toward a chair. “Just give me that footstool. I'll be fine.”

“You sure?” But Yo-Yo dragged over the footstool, and I sat in one of the dining room chairs Helpful Denny must have carried in.

“We won't keep you long.” Avis was sitting on one end of the couch with her big Bible in her lap. “But tonight seemed like a good night to keep you covered in prayer.”

So. Everybody has probably heard about the preliminary hearing
tomorrow.
I sighed. Couldn't keep it under wraps forever. Well, they were here, and I certainly did need the prayer. I cast a glance at Adele filling the La-Z-Boy, remembering her comment:

“Maybe Jodi doesn't need our prayers.”

She'd been right. I hadn't felt any real
need
for Yada Yada's prayers, though I'd been willing to scratch out some prayer requests. But now . . .
Oh God, yes, yes, I desperately need their prayers
big time—especially since I really don't have a clue how to pray right
now.

Avis opened her Bible. “Just wanted to share a short parable that Jesus told about how we should pray.”

I didn't have my Bible, so I just listened as she read the familiar parable from Luke 18 about the two men who went to the temple to pray. The Pharisee—upright citizen, religious leader— stood tall and thanked God that he wasn't a sinner like other men. He didn't rob banks or commit adultery or plot evil. He wasn't even a lowlife like the tax collector standing nearby. And the things he
did
do! Why, he fasted (twice a week!) and was faithful to pay his tithes down to the penny.

But (Avis continued reading) the other man—a tax collector, generally assumed by everyone in that day and age to be padding his own pockets—bowed his head and beat on his chest in remorse, crying out, “God, have mercy on me, a sinner!”

Avis shut her Bible, but those last words rang in my ears:
“God,
have mercy on me, a sinner!”

Florida had said I didn't really know what it meant to be “just a sinner, saved by grace.” Did she mean . . . I was like that self-inflated Pharisee? The realization was shocking. Everybody knew the Pharisees were self-righteous bad guys.

But it was true. I was proud.
Hey, God, it's me, Jodi the “good
girl”! God, aren't You proud of me? I've been married almost twenty-years—
unlike Ruth, who's on her third husband, or Chanda, who has
kids by several daddies. And thank You for my kids, off on their mission
trip to build houses for Mexico's poor—while Yo-Yo's brother is sneaking
off to those teen raves and doing who knows what. You should be
proud of me, God, because I know the Bible from cover to cover (even
though I forget those pesky references). And don't forget, God, I've never
done drugs like Florida or even smoked a lousy cigarette! Have never
forged a check like Yo-Yo . . . or played the stupid lottery like Chanda.
But I'm no fuddy-duddy, God—why I occasionally drink wine on special
occasions, but of course I'd never get drunk . . .

But Jesus had said that it was the
other
man, the one who
knew
he was “just a sinner,” who went home forgiven.

That “other” Jodi, the one who's basically selfish and petty . . . who flies off the handle at her husband . . . who was “driving angry” a couple of weeks back . . . the one who was driving too fast for weather conditions . . . who hit a young kid . . . and killed him . . . killed him . . .

“Oh
God!
Have
mercy
on me! I'm just a sinner! Have
mercy!”

I didn't even realize I'd cried those words aloud, except that everybody looked startled and stared at me. Both Avis and Florida moved quickly to my side and began to pray. I couldn't stop the tears, but they didn't stop the prayers. Someone stuck a tissue into my hand, and then I felt Yada Yada gathering around my chair, as first one hand and then another was laid on my stuck-out foot, my head, even a gentle hand touching my belly.

“Thank
You, Father, for Your great mercy!”

“Thank ya,
Jesus!”

“Gracias,
Father God . . .”

Nony's voice rose above the rest, and I recognized the psalm Avis had pushed me to read. “Thank You, Father, that You are compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love! You will not always accuse, nor will You harbor anger against us forever! You do not treat us as our sins deserve . . . so great is Your love for those who fear You—”

I heard a strange sound out in the hall. Others heard it, too, and glanced at one another. It sounded like Denny . . . weeping.

I suddenly felt afraid. Why was he crying? I didn't think I'd ever heard my husband sob like that. I wanted to get up and go to him, but I saw Florida leave the huddle around my chair and head for the hallway. In a moment, she was back, her arm around Denny, pulling him into the middle of the circle.

Denny fell to his knees beside my chair, head bowed, hands on his knees, and continued to weep. I felt confused, but I reached out and laid my hand on his hair. Soft dark hair, flecked with gray. Beneath my fingers, I could feel the heaving of his body . . .

After several moments, his sobs quieted, and he pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his face, blew his nose, and looked at me. Around us Yada Yada seemed to hold its collective breath.

“I . . . heard you cry out . . . for mercy.” Denny reached for my hand. “But I'm the one who needs to ask forgiveness—from God and from you. Because—” He swallowed. “Because I
did
have too many beers the Sunday of the accident. Four to be exact. It was . . . stupid. I was irritated that you'd gone off to visit Nony's church instead of coming to Uptown with the family, jealous that Yada Yada was taking up half of our Sunday evenings . . . and scared, too, scared that I was going to lose my job and that we'd made a big mistake moving into the city. So while I was out playing ball with the guys, I thought,
What the heck? What difference does it make?
Live a little, Baxter.”

“Uh-huh,” Florida muttered. “Been there.”

I couldn't believe Denny was spilling our business like this in front of other people—a bunch of women at that. But . . . maybe it felt safer than just talking to me.

“But I didn't mean to make you late, Jodi. I thought you said to have the car back by five o'clock—”

“I know, I know.” I was shredding the tissue I'd been given into little pieces on my lap.

“But I did wait till the last minute. On purpose. I wanted to make you sweat—but still get the car back on time. But then you jumped all over me for making you late, and it made me mad. And it made me mad that you smelled beer on my breath and accused me of drinking too much . . . but—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “—you were right. I just couldn't admit it. Didn't want to admit it. Didn't want you to be right . . .”

The room was incredibly quiet. Denny seemed to have forgotten everyone else and just kept his eyes on me. “But when the hospital called and said you'd been in an accident, said there'd been a fatality, I was terrified, because . . . I knew it was my fault!”

“No, no, Denny!” I moaned. It wasn't fair, Denny taking all the blame. “I was angry. I was distracted. Too angry to be driving in that rainstorm.” I could hardly believe what I was saying, admitting how wrong I'd been to be “driving angry.” But for some reason it felt okay, even in front of Yada Yada. After all, I was “just a sinner”—just like everybody else. Except I was the last person to know it.

But it was like Denny hadn't even heard me. “Jodi, will you forgive me? I can hardly bear the suffering you're going through— not just the surgery and your leg. That's bad enough. But the
charges
they're bringing against you, the
hearing
tomorrow . . . I'm so sorry. So sorry.”