The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out (19 page)

“Josh and Edesa, I now pronounce you husband and wife—and mom and dad!”

AND THEN WE
did
party! During the service, Ricardo Enriquez's
mariachi
band had sneaked in through the alley door and were still setting up their instruments and sound system. Tables along both sides of the room groaned with food—the inevitable macaroni and cheese, sliced ham and hot rolls, fruit salads, several versions of rice and beans, enchiladas, platters of veggies and dips, and cute little pastries filled with spinach and cream cheese. Several Manna House teens manned the punch bowl—a tangy red punch with lime sherbet floating in
it, which was going over big with the younger set.

Instead of a receiving line, Josh and Edesa just mingled with their guests in the downstairs dining room, greeting people, introducing Gracie, smiling until I'm sure their mouths hurt. A crowd gathered around the Sisulu-Smiths, peppering them with questions about their recent time in South Africa. I wanted to eavesdrop, but felt obligated to introduce Denny's and my parents to the pastors and others who greeted them.

“Yo! Jodi!” Yo-Yo, her hands full with a plate of food and a plastic glass of punch, elbowed me in the side. “Didn't know you could preach like that!”

I opened my mouth to rebut her teasing . . . and instead said, “Whoa. You look great!” For the first time since I'd known her, Yo-Yo was
not
wearing a pair of overalls or cargo pants with big pockets. Instead, she wore black slacks, low sling-back heels, and a soft, silvery, jersey top with a scoop neck and little cap sleeves. A single-strand, silver cross necklace complemented the scoop neck, along with simple silver earrings. A fresh cut, color, and lots of gel gave her the cute, pixie hairstyle that seemed to be her trademark.

She gave me a lopsided grin. “Like it? Ruth took me to the Gap. What can I say?”

Ben Garfield was busy snapping pictures with his new digital camera, and at one point rounded up all the Yada Yadas for a group portrait. “The bride in the middle,” he bossed. “No, no, I can't see Yo-Yo. Come to the front,
gelibte
. . . ”

“Huh. Can't never tell if he's saying somethin' nice or cussin'me out,” Yo-Yo complained, reluctantly moving to the front of our little crowd.

“It means sweetheart,” Ruth hissed. “Now smile, or I'll call you something not so nice.” At that we all laughed and Ben snapped his picture.

As people finished eating, Josh took off his jacket, stood on a chair, and hung a brightly colored
piñata
in the shape of a donkey
.
“Yeaaa!” the kids yelled. Out came a plastic bat and a blindfold, and Josh—ever the kid himself—lined up the kids along one wall according to height. Most of the adults bunched nervously along the other walls, afraid the swinging bat might come flying. Littlest kids got three tries, bigger kids got two—and finally Michael Sisulu-Smith whacked open the
piñata
, setting up a squealing melee as the kids scrambled for the rain of candy.

“And now . . . ” Ricardo Enriquez clapped for attention, a wide smile on his rugged face. “ . . . we dance! First, the happy couple.” He turned to his band. “One, two, three—”

Josh, in his rolled-up shirtsleeves and red vest, led Edesa—minus the long
mantilla
—into the middle of the room, and they began to dance. The song sounded familiar, and then I remembered. It was the same song Ricardo had played at the La Fiesta Restaurant when Josh and Edesa had announced their engagement. My eyes teared up as I watched my son and his new bride, not slow dancing, but whirling each other around, laughing. I closed my eyes, capturing the moment in my mind's eye.
Oh Jesus!
Whatever life holds for them, don't let them lose their joy . . .

I was so busy silently praying that Josh surprised me when he grabbed my hand with a teasing grin. “May I have this dance,
Mamacita
?” Edesa had already snagged Denny, but it didn't last long as Peter Douglass, Carl Hickman, Mark Smith, and even Denny's dad kept cutting in on the bride. It was easy for me to dance with Josh—he was a good dancer, easily taking the lead, making me feel as if I could dance, too, in spite of the elastic band-age still wrapped around my ankle and the rod in my left thigh.

And then the room was full of dancers, even the kids, as the happy music of mariachi violins, guitars, and drums filled the dining room of the Manna House shelter. No one needed a partner—though Chanda's thirteen-year-old son,Tom, looking manly in his dress shirt and tie, managed to finagle a dance with twelve-year-old Carla Hickman, who didn't seem to mind at all.

I found refuge in a chair after my dance with Josh, and then watched José and Amanda dancing together, both of them rebuffing any efforts on the part of others to cut in. Florida guessed my thoughts as she flopped down in the chair beside me, mopping sweat from her face. “Mm-hm. I'm thinkin' them two just parked that ‘just friends' nonsense and got their little romance back in gear.”

Well. So be it, Lord. They're in Your hands now.
But I smiled.
After
Mr. Tallahassee, José Enriquez is a gem. A real gem.

It was almost as fun watching the dancers as dancing ourselves. Chanda—who, true to her word, came “decked out” in four-inch silver heels and a silvery dress that hugged her hips and fell in flounces at her knees—seemed determined to dance with every man in the room. Silver-haired Ben Garfield schlepped past us with Ruth in his arms, who was panting, “
Oy!
So fast you have to go?” while Chris and Cedric Hickman gallantly cavorted with two-year-old Havah and Isaac Garfield, making everyone laugh.

No one noticed that Josh and Edesa were missing until they reappeared in street clothes carrying Gracie and a bulging diaper bag. They cut Denny and me out of the herd like a good cow pony might. “Here she is, Mom.” Josh handed the baby to me and the diaper bag to his dad. The frilly baby dress had been replaced by a soft flannel sleeper and a warm blanket. “Dad, the porta-crib is in your car. Thanks so much for being willing to keep her this week-end . . . and thank the grandparents for the use of their car tonight.”

Edesa leaned in to kiss the baby, and then kissed me on the cheek. “
Gracias,
Jodi. I just fed and changed her; she should be all right for a while. Feed her again when you get home, and she should sleep till about three or four in the morning.”With assurances that the bag contained bottles, formula, lots of disposable diapers, a pacifier, several changes of clothes, and written instructions, the pair headed up the stairs, followed by a herd of chattering guests who wanted to see them off and shower them with wild birdseed—the city-friendly version of throwing rice.

But I stayed behind, Gracie in my lap. The weight of her in my arms, the softness of her one-piece sleeper, and the powdery smell of her latte skin made her seem so . . .
real.
I touched the soft dark hair trying to curl on top, then traced her ear and cheek with my finger. At my touch, Gracie's dark eyes focused on mine, and she reached with one hand toward my face. I caught two of her fingers in my mouth. Her face dimpled into an open-mouthed grin, like a silent baby laugh.

I could hardly breathe.

If all went as hoped with the adoption, this little girl, Gracie Francesca, was my granddaughter.

Me.
A grandmother.

18

A
baby was crying . . . somewhere . . . why didn't its mother
pick it up? . . . still crying . . . there, it stopped . . . that's
better . . . oh no, crying again . . . better find the mother
. . . why can't I find the mother? . . . what if, oh no, what
if she abandoned the baby? . . . better get help—

I sat up with a start. The room was dark. But the crying was—

Gracie!
I threw back the bedcovers. Oh no! How long had she been crying? The glowing numbers on the alarm clock said
4:10.
Stuffing my feet into a pair of slippers, I hustled to the porta-crib at the end of our bed. “Shh, shh.” I picked up the squalling infant and a blanket, fishing in the dark for her pacifier. What lungs! The whole house was probably awake by now.

Tiptoeing to the door with the baby tucked in my arms, I glanced back at the bed, where presumably that large lump under the covers was my husband. The lump didn't move.
Humph.
Seemed like I remembered this same scenario when our kids were little.

“Hold on, sweetie, hold on,” I murmured, scurrying toward the kitchen in the darkened house, lit only by a night-light in the hall-way. Juggling Gracie, still wailing, in one arm, I pulled a bottle of formula
from the refrigerator, put it in a pan in the sink, and ran hot water over it as I jiggled and paced and shushed.

When the warm milk passed the drop-on-the-inside-of-the-wrist test, I cradled Gracie in the crook of my arm, poked the nipple into her hungry mouth, and watched in satisfaction as she latched on and began to suck. Slowly I carried her into the living room, where I awkwardly bent down with my bundle to plug in the Christmas tree lights.
Ahh, magic.
The reflection of multicolored lights danced in the dark windows and on the ceiling and walls. I started to settle into the recliner, when I remembered.

It's Christmas morning!
I had another Babe to take care of.

Amanda had already moved the Mary and Joseph figures into the stable under the tree last night after the wedding. Now, searching for the little wooden “Baby Jesus,” I finally found it on a window ledge and put it into the tiny manger inside the stable. Spying the shepherd figures and their sheep on the coffee table, I moved them under the tree as well. After all, the shepherds had “made haste” after they got the glorious news from the choir of angels in the middle of the night.

With Baby Jesus tucked into the manger, I finally settled down in the recliner with Gracie, her cuddle blanket, and an extra afghan. She'd already drunk half the bottle, but her eyes were wide open. Good thing I didn't have school on Monday! But once I quit moving around, Gracie's eyelids fluttered and sagged . . . and by the time the bottle neared empty, her eyes had closed. The nipple slid out of her mouth. Her breathing steadied.

Should I put her back in the porta-crib? Probably. But I didn't move. I didn't want this moment to end. Josh and Edesa's soon-to-be adopted child—my granddaughter—asleep in my arms . . . the hush of early Christmas morning, as if the world was standing on the cusp of a glorious sunrise . . .

THE SMELL OF yeast and cinnamon tickled my nose. Gracie stirred on my lap. My arms ached. I opened my eyes to see the windows framing the pale blue light of morning. I looked down; Gracie's round eyes were staring up at me.

I grinned. “Merry Christmas, little one.” I carefully slid out of the chair, shifting the baby to my shoulder, and followed my nose into the kitchen. My mother, wearing pink fuzzy slippers and an apron over a faded pink robe, was taking a large pan of bubbling cinnamon rolls out of the oven. Coffee gurgled and dripped from the coffeemaker.

“Mom! When did you have time to make cinnamon rolls? I mean, don't they have to rise and all that?
Uhh
. Take Gracie a minute, will you? I've got to stretch my muscles.”

My mother, her cheeks flushed, her gray hair askew, took Gracie from me. “Pooh. Too many questions. Put some cups on that tray, will you? Uh-oh. You need changing, little girl. Where's her diaper bag?”

By the time my dad, Denny, and Amanda wandered sleepy-eyed into the living room, Gracie had dry pants, had inhaled a morning bottle, and was kicking her legs on a blanket in front of the tree, fascinated by the lights and dangling ornaments. I'd popped the turkey into the oven for a two o'clock dinner, sneaking it into one of those newfangled “roasting bags,” because who had time to baste that sucker! A Christmas CD filled the air with carols. And the tray of tempting cinnamon rolls, coffee, and orange juice sat ready on the coffee table.

“Mm,” said Amanda, her mouth full of buttery cinnamon roll. “What time is church? Can we open our stockings now?”

The quilted Christmas stockings I'd made years ago for Denny and the kids and me hung fat and bulging from tiny nails along the middle window frames of our bay windows, along with cheap red fuzzy stockings we'd picked up last week at the Dollar Store for the grandparents and Edesa.
THAT'S what I should have made for Josh
and Edesa's wedding gift,
I thought.
Christmas stockings! Maybe I
could still—

The back doorbell bleated, along with several loud raps on the door window. Denny leaped to his feet and headed for the kitchen. “I'll get it.”

I heard murmuring and whispering. What was going on? But half a minute later Stu and Estelle stuck their heads around the living room archway. “Merry Christmas, everybody! No, don't get up . . . we're off to Indianapolis to have Christmas dinner with my parents,” Stu said. “Pray that we make it okay—weather report says rain mixed with snow.
Ugh.
Pray for Avis and Peter too. They're on their way to Ohio. Bye,Mr. and Mrs. Jennings—you'll probably be gone by the time we get back on Tuesday.” They waved and were gone.