2-in-1 Yada Yada (14 page)

True, but it had always seemed . . . far away. Not up close and personal.

Denny reached out a finger and tipped up my chin. “Hey, don't get all morose. I wish I could meet these new friends of yours. I'm feeling left out. Sounds like an interesting bunch. An ex-con named Yo-Yo . . . an ex–drug addict . . . a Japanese university student . . .”

“You will . . . I hope.” Suddenly I wanted to see the women in the prayer group—the Yada Yada Prayer Group—again. It had been great to see Delores tonight and meet part of her family and pray in person for José. How could we make that happen for the rest of the women?

“That reminds me,” I said, pushing myself off the couch. “I've got to send out an e-mail. Won't take long.”

“Promise?” Denny waggled his eyebrows suggestively then picked up the remote. “Okay. I'll catch the news for a few minutes, then come to bed.”

Willie Wonka followed me into the dining room and plopped himself under the computer desk, leaving no room for my feet. The screensaver contorted on the computer screen, like a Slinky toy on amphetamines. I called up e-mail. Two or thee spam junk ads . . . a reminder from Uptown Community about the Mother's Day potluck after worship next Sunday, please bring a friend . . . and something to “Yada Yada Prayer Group” from “Yiddish@ online.net.” Ruth.

Chuckling already, I clicked it open.

To: Yada Yada Prayer Group

From: [email protected]

Subject: “Yada Yada”

So who's the brilliant person who came up with the name, Yada Yada? I knew it meant something. I looked it up in my Hebrew dictionary.
“Yada
: to perceive, understand, acquire knowledge, know, discern.” And a whole lot more. Here's one I like: “To be known, make oneself known, to be familiar.” And another: “To distinguish (yada) between right and wrong.”

If we add an “h” it gets even better.
“Yadah:
to speak out, to confess; to praise; to sing; to give thanks.” Later it says Yadah “essentially means to acknowledge . . . the nature and work of God.”

How about those jewels, Yada Yada sisters?

Ruth

I sat staring at the computer screen, not quite understanding the tears that wet my cheeks.

14

W
hen I got home from school the next day, Willie Wonka nearly bowled me over in his urgency to go outside. Normally we just let him pee and poop in the backyard in the morning and Josh walks him when he gets home from ball practice. But today I played on Amanda's sympathies and sent her around the block with Willie Wonka while I logged on to the computer.

There were several e-mails to Yada Yada, mostly in response to Florida's missing daughter. A couple of the responses said things like, “Oh, Florida, my heart aches for you. Of course I'll pray!” and “That's so awesome about what
Yada Yada
means.”

Avis, of course, cut to the chase: “Cling to Romans 8, sister! ‘If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also . . . graciously give us all things?' (v. 31–32).”

Nony's e-mail took it to the next level: “Satan, beware! You can't have this child, either! Florida, I'm praying Isaiah 10:1–2 for you and your precious Carla.” Hmm. Would have to look that one up.

And then there was Stu's e-mail.

To: Yada Yada
From: [email protected]
Subject: Missing foster family

Florida, I'd like to hear more about the situation. I worked at DCFS for several years after college and still have some contacts there. Maybe we can pull some strings and cut through some red tape to get your daughter back. E-mail me privately if you don't want to put out the details to the whole group.

Stu

I glared at the screen. Why did Stu's e-mail rub my fur the wrong way? She was only trying to help, right? Right. That was just it. Stu acted like she had all the answers. For half a second I hoped she wouldn't be able to find those “strings” she wanted to pull—and almost slapped myself.
Jodi Baxter, get a grip. Bottom line, you want
Florida's daughter to be found, right? Who cares if God uses a real-estate-
agent-wannabe-social-worker?
Okay, okay, I told myself. Still, it bugged me that she invited Florida to “e-mail me privately.”

I clicked “next.” A response from Adele: “Sure. Get the white folks to pull strings, and all will be well. Whatever. I'm praying, Florida.”

Ouch. I didn't know whether to wince or giggle. Adele's sharp tongue sure could snap you like a rubber band. I kinda liked it when she set Stu straight. But what
exactly
did she mean by “get the white folks to pull strings, and all will be well”?

“Mom? Can I—?”

I jumped. “Amanda! Don't sneak up on me like that!”

“Sneak?! Willie Wonka and I got back five minutes ago! But I gotta use the computer—got a paper due tomorrow.”

I sighed. Did
anybody
with teenagers have a life? Seemed like all I did was juggle around
their
schedules. They needed the computer . . . they needed a ride . . . they needed the car . . . could they eat early? or late? They had a practice, a game, a youth meeting . . .

I clicked the “close” box and headed for the kitchen. Oh, well. It was time to start supper anyway, and my plants could use a good soak. And lesson plans for tomorrow. Always lesson plans.

“Oh . . .Mom? You're supposed to sign this.”

I turned in the dining room doorway. “Sign what?”

“This.” Amanda held out a sheet of paper with all the enthusiasm of going to the dentist, making me walk back to take it. A Spanish test . . . with a big fat red F at the top.

“Amanda! What is this?” The school year was almost over! How could I not know she was doing so badly? “This isn't . . . this isn't . . .”

“No, it's not the final.” She pulled a pout, a talent bestowed on fourteen-year-olds the day adolescence was invented. “Just a quiz . . . but my teacher said you had to sign it or I'll get an F for the semester. How fair is
that?”

I grabbed a pen and scrawled “Jodi Baxter” across the bottom of the paper. “Fair? Fair? You're on rocky ground, young lady, talking about
fair.
” I threw the pen back onto the desk. “What's going to keep you from getting an F for the semester all by your own sweet self with grades like
that?”

“But Spanish is
hard,
Mom.” Amanda dragged out the word “hard” like she was pressing it into existence. “And the teacher doesn't teach good.”

“Well.”

“What?”

“‘The teacher doesn't teach
well.'
Forget it. But you can't blame the teacher, Amanda.”

“I can't help it if I don't understand what he's saying.” The pout deepened to personal injury. “Why'd you and Dad move us from Downers Grove anyway?
That
high school is rated one of the best in the state.”

I winced. “Don't change the subject,” I snapped. “What about homework? Have you turned everything in?”

“I guess. Yeah. Mostly.”

I stood there, hands on my hips, feeling frustrated. Frustrated with Amanda for waiting this long—it was May, for goodness' sake!—to say she was struggling with Spanish. And only then because the teacher made her get a parent signature on a failing quiz. Frustrated with myself for not noticing. For not asking. What did her teacher say at the last parent-teacher conference? For the life of me, I couldn't remember. I'd never taken Spanish in high school; might as well be Greek to me. That was my excuse, anyway, for why I never asked to see her homework or how Spanish class was going.

Pretty lame excuse.

And then there was the sore point about Chicago schools. Amanda had been looking forward to entering high school with all her friends and had thrown a royal fit when we—mostly Denny—decided to move. Denny had been concerned too. Chicago schools in general seemed tougher, less endowed. We finally decided to send the kids to Lane Tech College Prep, one of the better high schools, even though it was farther away than West Rogers High where Denny got a coaching job. But . . .moving had been tough on both kids. A sacrifice.

I took my hands off my hips and rested them lightly on Amanda's shoulders. She did not pull away but slumped under my touch. “Honey, I'm sorry. Sorry I didn't know you were having a hard time. Maybe it's not too late to get some help. Can you stay after school? Ask your teacher—?”

“I don't want to ask him! He's . . . I don't know. I'd rather get help from somebody else. But I don't know who.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it again. Okay, so Amanda didn't click with this teacher. Maybe her own stubbornness; or maybe he “didn't teach good.”We just needed to get her through this class, help her to pass, maybe get some help in summer school to prepare her for Spanish II. But who? That was a good question.

“Look. I'll talk with Daddy, see if he has any ideas. Just work on your paper.” I hadn't even asked what paper she was writing. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, it's kinda cool. We had to read
To Kill a Mockingbird,
and now we're supposed to draw parallels—what's the same and what's different—between the social issues in that book and the social issues in our own neighborhood today. It has to be at least two pages long, double spaced.”

I liked the way Amanda's eyes lit up talking about the paper. At least the funk she was in about Spanish hadn't spilled over to her English class. I was glad I'd asked.

DENNY WAS UPSET about Amanda's Spanish quiz, as I knew he would be. I didn't say anything till we were doing dishes after supper when I could speak to him privately. “I feel like it's partly my fault because—”

“Jodi! This is
not
your fault. Amanda has to take responsibility for her own grades. If she needs help, she should ask for it.”

I glanced into the dining room to make sure Amanda wasn't parked in front of the computer. Empty. Competing CDs blared from both kids' bedrooms. “I know. It's just . . . I haven't checked on her homework or asked how the class is going for weeks.”
Maybe months,
I thought.

“She could also
ask.
Haven't we drilled that into the kids? ‘If you don't know,
ask!'
‘There are no dumb questions!' ‘Learn how to learn!'”

He looked so comical, punctuating each axiom with a dirty plate before putting it into the dishwasher that I started to laugh.

“What?” He grinned. “Okay, you're right; we both should've asked. Maybe I could help. I took three years of high school Spanish . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared at me, another dirty plate in hand. His admission must have punched a rewind button in his mind, because he said, “Good grief, Jodi. That was over twenty-five years ago! Are we really that old?”

“Uh-huh. Twentieth anniversary coming up. Not that you'd forget or anything.”

“Sheesh.” Denny poured dishwasher soap into the little soap cups in the door and closed it with a
whump.
“Twentieth anniversary, huh?” He kissed the back of my neck as he headed out of the kitchen. “August . . .August, right? I didn't forget the month—just the year.”

I watched his back as Denny went through the dining room and disappeared down the hall toward Amanda's bedroom. Nice bod. Stockier than when we got married twenty years ago, but still in good shape. Firm muscles, only a slight pot. I smiled, remembering those first couple of years before Josh was born. We'd moved to the Chicago area—but out in the 'burbs— because I wanted to teach and he wanted to coach. We thought there'd be a lot more opportunities in a large urban area. There were—but the head coaching job he'd wanted at a choice high school out in Downers Grove had never materialized. Too much competition. And the city schools—too many politics. Disappointing. But Denny wasn't the kind of guy to wallow in disappointment. He started volunteering at Uptown Community Church in their outreach program . . . and the rest, as they say, is history.

Almost twenty years married, though . . . that was some kind of milestone, all right. Some couples would take a cruise, or fly to Cancun for a weekend in the sun. Not likely for the Baxters. But we
would
celebrate, I vowed, drying the counter with the dishtowel and tossing it toward the towel rack. (Oops, missed.) Maybe a party, invite our friends . . . then sneak away to Starved Rock or some other resort out in what passed for “country” in Illinois. I wondered what I could get for cheap on Priceline.com?

The dining room was still empty—I could hear the muffled voices of my spouse and child, calm enough, from Amanda's bedroom—so I pulled one of the table chairs up to the computer and moved the mouse. The screensaver dance froze then disappeared into its little black hole or wherever screensavers hide when they're not needed.

I called up our e-mail server. Only one new message—from Nony.

To: Yada Yada

From: [email protected]

Subject: José Enriques

Dear Sisters,

Picked up my two boys after school and took them to visit José today. I was so touched to see the answer to our prayers on the mend and in his right mind. Hallelujah! God is good . . . all the time!

Edesa was there when we arrived . . . then Delores came after her shift ended. At first I thought it was just a nurse coming in to check José's tubes—took me a second to recognize Delores in her pink flowered pediatrics tunic and stethoscope. She looked so official. Got a laugh out of that.

Edesa left to pick up the other Enriques children at their after-school program. What a sweet sister she is to Delores.

José tried to be polite but seemed exhausted, so we went out to the waiting room to talk and pray. Delores says to tell EVERYBODY in Yada Yada that she appreciates our prayers and visits so much. Her other children are quite upset. We need to keep the whole family in our prayers.