The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught (39 page)

“No, it's not going to be all right!” Ben's voice was suddenly so loud, so sharp, that it felt like a slap to the cheek.

“What . . . what do you mean? I don't understand.”

“That's right! You don't understand!” Ben was suddenly on his feet, yelling, as if a surge of anger had strengthened all his bones. “We're Jewish, don't you get it? And I'm a carrier! I've got the gene! If Ruth's got the gene, one or both of those babies got a high chance of dying by age five—a horrible, debilitating death! But she won't get tested, will she!
Will she!
” Ben's fists clenched in utter frustration.

Even Denny's face had paled, his summer tan gone, the blood rushing downward. He grabbed Ben's shoulders. “What gene? Ben! What are you talking about? ”

Ben stared at him, eyes wide. Long seconds hung in the air. “Tay-Sachs,” he finally croaked. “Tay-Sachs disease. I saw my cousin's kid die . . . it was . . .” He suddenly crumpled backward into the chair and began to weep, his head in his hands—huge, gasping sobs, as if speaking the words haunting him since Ruth first announced she was pregnant had pulled the finger out of the dam.

BY THE TIME WE CLEANED UP THE SUPPER REMAINS at the Garfields', picked up Amanda and José at Yo-Yo's apartment where they were all watching a video, drove José home to Little Village, and finally dragged into our house, it was going on one a.m. Josh wasn't home either. I was too wound up to sleep, so while Denny steered a sleepy Amanda into her bedroom, I turned on the computer and called up the Internet. “T-A-Y S-A-C-H-S,” I typed into the search engine.

Instant list of Web sites.
Article after article, much like the ones I read before.
None of them encouraging.

“A genetic disorder . . . prevalent among Eastern European Jews . . .if both parents carry the gene, a one-in-four chance that their children will have the disease . . . a seemingly healthy baby ceases to smile, crawl, turn over . . . ultimately becomes blind and paralyzed . . . kidney failure, mental retardation, skeletal deformities . . . shutdown of the entire nervous system . . . death by age five.”

Willie Wonka, awakened from his sound slumber by all the strange nighttime activity, pushed his nose into my lap. Forehead wrinkled. Dark eyes worried. “Oh, Wonka,” I moaned, and suddenly I was on the floor, cradling the dog's head in my arms, crying, shaking.
Ruth . . . Ruth . . . Oh God, not Ruth's babies . . . don't let it end like this, please God . . .

Denny came in, turned off the computer, picked me off the floor, and held me until I'd cried it all out. Somehow we got to bed, slept a few hours, woke exhausted. I briefly considered staying home from church that morning, then decided the second Sunday of the merger wasn't a good morning to skip. People would wonder. (Did I care? )

But I did get on the phone and call Yada Yada, especially the sisters who didn't attend “Uptown–New Morning” or whatever we were going to call it, since I'd see them in a few hours. I didn't say anything about Tay-Sachs disease to anyone. Ben had kept it to himself all these months, hadn't even told Ruth—especially not Ruth. But I did tell Delores Enriques about the preeclampsia, wasn't sure if it was “for sure” or “possible,” but I knew she'd be able to figure it out.

“Jodi,” Delores said before she hung up, “Yada Yada meets tonight, supposedly at Ruth's. Ironic, no? ” She slipped in a little laugh. “But if Ruth's still in the hospital, why don't we meet there? To pray for our sister. For God's mercy.”

God's mercy.
I wrapped those words around my heart as we automatically got ready and drove to church. I don't know if I went to meet God—I was too numb at the danger hanging over my dear friend and her babies, too burdened by carrying Ben's secret—but God met me there. Showed up when Peter Douglass sang a solo—Avis's Peter, shy but steady at the front of the church, accompanied only by the keyboard and a sweet, mournful sax.

“Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand! . . .” Peter's voice was surprisingly deep, slow, rich. I didn't know he could sing! I remembered the story of the famous gospel singer, Thomas A. Dorsey, who wrote this song, grief-stricken after his wife and child had died in childbirth.

“I am tired, I am weak, I am worn . . .”

Oh Jesus! That's Ben Garfield! He's living in fear, and it has worn him out.

“Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light . . .”

Yes, Lord! Ben and Ruth are in the middle of a storm, raging around them, a storm others can't see.

“Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home”

Tears poured down my cheeks; Denny handed me his handkerchief and laid a comforting arm across the back of my chair.
Yes, Lord, yes! Lead Ben home—home to You, Jesus.

I don't remember much about the rest of the worship service. Didn't even notice that it was the second Sunday and we
didn't
have a potluck afterward—though Stu told me later, as she and Becky and I drove to the hospital that evening, that some disgruntled Uptown members decided to go out and eat together, grumbling about Uptown's traditions getting walked on in this merger.

“Aw, y'all gonna get that kinda stuff worked out,” Becky said encouragingly. “After all, we had that big spread
last
Sunday after church. Don't seem like a big deal to me.”

I wanted to laugh. A pitiful laugh. Sometimes we church-born Christians were our own biggest enemies.
Oh God, give us all a newborn heart like Becky's.

Adele, Chanda, and Yo-Yo were already in the maternity waiting room when we arrived at Rush North Shore. I was surprised to see Chanda, parked in a padded chair, still moving gingerly and waving off any hugs. “Nah, nah. No bumpin' an' grindin' for mi yet.”

“Hey, Stu. Hey, Becky.” Yo-Yo gave
me
a punch on the shoulder and a grin. “idn't I see you this mornin' already, 'bout midnight? ” I just rolled my eyes.

Delores and Edesa were already in Ruth's hospital room, no doubt trying to find out “what's what” and praying the blood of Jesus over every inch of that room.
If they only knew the real deal,
I started to think—and caught myself.

They didn't have to. Jesus knew.

As the other Yada Yadas straggled in, we all slipped into Ruth's room in twos and threes, stayed for about five minutes, and gathered back in the waiting room.Ruth, bless her, pooh-poohed all the concern, saying there wasn't anything ailing her that couldn't be fixed with some bed rest and some hot blintzes.My heart squeezed. Ben obviously hadn't spilled his guts to Ruth about the Tay-Sachs gene yet. But back in the waiting room, we held hands and fervently prayed for Ruth and Ben and the babies.

“Oh God!” Nony prayed. “Your Word says that You knit us together while we were still in our mother's wombs. So you know these babies! You even know their names! Thank You, Lord God of heaven! You know them by
name
!”

A chorus of “Glory!” and “Hallelujah!” followed
that
prayer.

But no “Thank ya,
Je
sus!” That's when I realized Florida wasn't there. Hadn't seen her at church this morning either.

Others asked about Flo. “Don't worry. She's where she should be,” Avis said. “Resting at home with the kids and Carl. She's been working double shifts.”

Everyone nodded and seemed satisfied. Except Chanda. “Sista Jodee!” she hissed at me as we were giving goodnight hugs and heading for the elevator. “Why Sista Flo working double shifts, when dat girl got t'ree kids at home an' a working mon in she bed! ” She shook her head. “What be going on dere? ”

Straight question. Deserved a straight answer. “Chris was caught tagging. Not sure what's going on, but my guess is they've put two and two together and got him for two or three other walls they have to blast clean. The city sent them a big bill.Guess who pays.”

I expected Chanda to roll her eyes, give a short, impassioned discourse about the city soaking its citizens out of their money left and right. But she just hung back with me as others crowded into the elevator and headed down to the first floor. She seemed to be thinking. Hard.

“How much? ”

The question startled me. “I don't know. Blasting two or three walls, three or four hundred per wall—really, I don't know Chanda. Enough to make her work double shifts.”

Again the thoughtful look on Chanda's round face. Her chin came up. “I will pay it. Dat's what God's bin saying to mi dis week, Sista Jodee. Maybe mi been spending me money in all de wrong places.”

37

W
e totally forgot Yo-Yo's birthday. “Ack!” I screeched, staring at the kitchen calendar a few days later. Denny and I had had Monday off—Columbus Day—so I'd gone back to the hospital to see Ruth. Josh couldn't believe
he
had to work when his parents and sister were on holiday, a fact Amanda had rubbed in with a few phone calls to Software Symphony's shipping department:
“Yeah, sunny and breezy, think we just hit seventy-something, no humidity though . . . slept in till ten . . . Dad and I went for a bike ride along the lake, lots of windsurfers out there . . . Oooo, big brother, you better talk nice to me or I'll tell Willie Wonka on you.”

Later that day, Denny and I had taken advantage of the holiday and actually gone out for supper—on a Monday! Over a big Greek salad with gyros slices and fat Greek fries sprinkled with vinegar at Cross-Rhodes, a wonderful little restaurant we'd found in Evanston, I'd told Denny about Chanda's offer to pay off Chris's wallcleaning bill. He'd frowned. “Hm. Don't know if they'll take it.The Hickmans have their pride, especially Carl. They don't want ‘charity.' Not sure it's a good thing for Chris either. Hope they're taking this out of
his
hide some way, not just Florida's.”

I hadn't thought about it that way—had just been amazed at Chanda's response to my little suggestion that she “listen to God.” I shrugged. “Guess it's between Chanda and the Hickmans to figure it out.”

That was Monday. Now it was midweek, all systems were back on schedule, and I had taken a quick glance at the calendar just to see what was coming up on the weekend. And there was Yo-Yo's name: “Birthday, 24.”

I called Yo-Yo that afternoon when I got home from school but only got her voicemail. “Yo-Yo!” I said when I heard the beep. “I can't believe we forgot your birthday! lease call me back. We still want to celebrate.”

She called me back the next day. “Yo, Jodi.Whaddya mean, forget? You called me on my birthday. Thought that was cool. By the way, tried to call you back last night, but no one answered.”

“Sorry about that. Amanda's a phone hog; she doesn't answer the other line sometimes. I just mean we forgot to wish you happy birthday at Yada Yada last Sunday night. Should've remembered, even if we were at the hospital.”

“Aw, that's OK.You guys gave me a cake an' everything last year.”

“Well, we can still celebrate. Sorry you have to wait a couple of weeks.”

“Nah, that's OK. But if you really wanna do somethin' . . . aw, I shouldn't ask.”

“Yes, you should! Ask away.” I hoped it was within reason.

“Well, um, ya know that violet thing—that flowerpot you guys gave me last year for my birthday, because of my name, ya know.”

I grinned. “Yep. Yolanda, ‘lavender flower.' ” That had been a hoot, giving a pot of purple violets to Yo-Yo of the perpetual overalls.

“Well, I really liked those flowers, made me feel kinda special every time I looked at 'em. But, well, I kinda killed 'em about ten months ago, an' I was wonderin', if it's not too much trouble, could you find me another one? ”

I sat looking at the phone after we hung up.
Dear, sweet Yo-Yo. Jesus, thank You for dropping her into my life. She always goes for the simple, not the complicated. Reminds me to find joy in the down-to-earth things of life—

“Mo-om! Are you off the phone? ” Amanda's head poked into the kitchen, then she yelled over her shoulder. “Dad! Mom's off the phone!
Pleeease
call and ask him!”

I followed Amanda and the phone back to the living room,where Denny had his feet up in the recliner, papers in his lap, briefcase open on the floor. Those weren't game plans, I'd bet—not as athletic director. Probably tons of administrative mumbo jumbo.My heart gave a tug. I wondered if he missed coaching, regretted taking the AD job.

“Please, Dad? ” Amanda said, holding out the phone. “Just ask him again.”

Denny looked up at our sixteen-year-old girl-woman with thinly disguised patience. “Amanda. I've already asked Mr. Enriques
twice
to come to the men's breakfast. Both times he said no. Get the drift? ”

“Da-ad! José says the guys his dad hangs out with aren't, you know, they drink and gamble a lot, stuff like that. He doesn't go to church either. Just ask him!”