Praise for Made of Honor, the first title in The Sassy Sistahood series by Marilynn Griffith

“Griffith’s debut is engaging, and Dana’s relationship with God follows a refreshing course.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“With honesty and humor, Marilynn Griffith takes you on a poignant journey through the pages of life—yours or someone you know. Made of Honor is a spellbinding tale about the power of love between family and friends, with one’s romantic soul mate, and from the Lover of our souls.”

—Stacy Hawkins Adams, bestselling author of Speak to My Heart and Nothing but the Right Thing

“Marilynn Griffith digs deep inside to write a novel about everyday people who love the Lord.”

—LaShaunda C. Hoffman, editor, Shades of Romance magazine

“With a voice that begs you to relax, sit down and put your feet up, Marilynn Griffith writes of the complexities of love, family, friendship and what it means to be the bride of Christ, and does so with honesty, humor, and grace.”

—Lisa Samson, Christy® Award-winning author of The Church Ladies, Songbird and Club Sandwich

For my husband, Fill.

You are a grace to me.

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!

—Romans 10:15

If the Shoe Fits
Marilynn Griffith

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Acknowledgments:

Love, patience, prayer and a lot of good people’s time go into making a book a reality. This one is no different. For anyone that I neglect to name, please know that I do thank you and I thank God for bringing you into my life.

Special thanks to:

Christ, thank You for seeking me when I hide, for covering my bumpy life with Your shoes of peace. Thank You for loving me.

Fill, for your quiet strength and unwavering love. Without your support, I couldn’t do any of this. You’re the best.

Ashlie, Michelle, Fill, Jr., Ben, James, John and Isaiah, thanks for putting up with me working on this through the holidays and for praying for me. I love you all.

My mother, Donna McElrath, thank you for working so hard to take care of me, for sacrificing your own desires so I could make it. May God continue to bless you.

Kent and Debbie Nottingham and the women’s Bible study of Calvary Chapel Tallahassee, for always giving me a fresh understanding of God’s Word.

My editor, Diane Dietz, for loving my work enough to make it the best it can be; and the Steeple Hill team, for working so hard on my behalf.

Claudia Griffith, my mother-in-law, whose diligent faith inspires me.

Claudia Burney, for pushing me when I wanted to give up. Thanks for loving this book and for writing books that inspire me.

Jessica Ferguson, for being my best critic and my cheerleader in hard times. I never could have done this without you.

My friends, Joy, Melissa and Gail, thanks for tolerating my silences and disappearances. Each of you is a gift to me.

The ladies of The Threshing Floor: Amy, Jennifer and Staci, thanks for your great feedback and support.

To Heather, Angie, Lisa, Claudia, Bobbie, Paula and all my friends in the blogosphere. Thanks for the encouragement.

Contents

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Questions for Discussion

Chapter one

I kicked him before I knew it.

Right on the chin.

“Lord have mercy, Rochelle done knocked the boy’s teeth out, ain’t she?” Deacon Rivers made the declaration in earnest, but he didn’t take his feet out of his own basin to get up and help the victim. Getting his feet washed seemed to suit the deacon just fine.

Mother Holloway, the head of the Seniors Bible Study and grandmother to my son’s pregnant girlfriend, tightened her grip around the deacon’s ankle, probably to get him to stop staring at my toes—the Rochelle Gardner secret feet I’d been pretty much hiding all these years. He ignored the old woman’s grip and made a sour face. “I see why you make shoes, honey. Them’s some tore-up feet. You earned those the hard way.”

If anyone else had said that to me, I would have been totally humiliated, but coming from Deacon Rivers, I knew it was a compliment. Hard work ranked high with him. (Right up there with beauty.)

Tad McGovern, my partner in this surprise foot washing, rubbed his face where I’d kicked him. He smiled at me, which made me feel even more embarrassed.

Mother Holloway pushed her plastic bowl away from us, jerking the deacon’s legs a little as she went.

“Hey! Don’t be all rough now, Mother. My feet ain’t that dirty. I soaked them in Epsom salts last night.” He looked at me hopefully. “You should try that, Chelle. It might help some of those corns. And Tad, I’m sorry she kicked you, but you should have warned the girl that a foot washing would be a part of the lesson this morning. Everybody knows how she is about them feet.” He grasped at his pants leg before it rolled down into the water.

Mother Holloway, probably the one who’d suggested this madness, winked at me. She’d do anything to get some Biblically justifiable physical contact with Deacon Rivers. (I’d spent the past two years trying to convince him that the seniors study would probably minister to him better. His response? “Isn’t that for old people?”

Anyway, like Deacon Rivers said, somebody could have warned me. Everybody at Broken Bread Fellowship knows how I am about my feet.

Everybody it seems…except Tad, who despite sitting next to me in church for ten years and co-leading the singles group with me for five, had somehow missed my foot phobia.

That roundhouse kick I’d laid on his chin would help him remember in the future. How awful. I’d actually kicked a man down in the Sunday school room. And I still wasn’t sure why. By the time my toes met his jaw, Tad had already seen my feet. It must have been reflex from so many years of trying to keep my feet under wraps. He’d pulled off my shoe and my foot had shot out like lightning. If only I could move that fast in my workouts.

From the way Tad was wiggling his jaw, he seemed okay but was definitely thinking about something. Probably having me committed. Everyone else in the room, all married couples who headed up various ministries, save Mother Holloway and the deacon, hadn’t given Tad’s exclamation of pain more than a glance. Those folks were having foot-washing church and couldn’t be bothered with us other than to glance over and check for blood.

I, on the other hand, was having a meltdown, something I’d grown used to since hearing the news that my handsome Christian son had a child on the way. First a grandmother before forty and now my crazy toes had been seen by Tad the Harvard Grad and the leaders of all the church ministries. And Tad seemed very happy about it, despite me almost decapitating him with my foot. If he knew how dangerous these feet really were, he wouldn’t be smiling.

Tad steepled his fingers under his chin. “Ready to try this again? Minus the kick, of course.”

My hand slipped from my mouth, allowing another apology to escape. “I am so sorry.”

Tad stood easily. The towel he’d borrowed from the baptismal font remained girded around his waist though a little crooked from his fall. That towel, the truth in his eyes and six days a week of Tae Bo had put my trigger foot on notice. There was too much Jesus in this foot-washing business, too much intimacy—one of Tad’s favorite subjects in the single’s group was finding intimacy with God, not a girl or guy.

“It’s okay, Rochelle,” Tad said, kneeling in front of me again. He grabbed my heel and tugged, sweeping off my other shoe this time with a sure but gentle grip. I wiggled my ankle, but he held on, dragging the bowl of water toward us with his other hand. This time, he was smart enough not to look up at me. Despite my kung fu moves, this man was determined to make his point—real leaders got their hands dirty, real servants wash feet.

My breath tangled into a knot in my throat as he emptied a familiar envelope into the tub. Eucalyptus and rose petals fluttered in a shower of chamomile tea. Lemon zest stuck to the tops of my ankles, sifted between my toes. It was Shoes of Peace, the foot soak that my friend Dana Rose named after my shop.

I’d been flattered when my best friend gave me my own scent among the goodies in her bath and body store, so much so that I included it in my care kits for first-time customers at my shoe boutique. People raved about how soft the blend made their feet, but I’d never thought to buy any. Not that I didn’t trust my girl or anything—these feet just require some industrial-strength stuff. Now, as the brisk sweetness flooded my mind, I made a mental note to buy a box of it.

Evidently, Thaddeus McGovern, the local weather anchor, adult Sunday school teacher and the most handsome and most annoying bachelor in our church, had already made a note to buy some, marking his first kindness that didn’t in some way benefit him in a long time. (Let’s plan a singles trip…to the meteorology center. I’d like to meet with some other weather people there. Not.)

Tad was acting different and it scared me. His arrogance had always kept me safe from him. Now he wanted to go and get all deep? Ever since our talk a few months before about the unexpected return of my son’s father and my definitely unexpected grandchild on the way, Tad seemed to treat me different, shouldering my load of the work with the singles group and covering for me at meetings, all the things I’d done for him over the past years.

All that was nice, but a foot washing? Come on. If I hadn’t been daydreaming about having my bunions removed when he passed out the bowls and towels, I would have run for my life. It still sounded like a good plan. Running, I mean. When he squeezed the sponge over my ankles, it was definitely time to go.

“You know what, Tad? I can’t do this. If I’d known ahead of time, I would have—”

“What? Washed your feet at home? Cleaned up before you came? No. This quarter’s theme is about leadership, service, being last to become first. It’s about washing souls—and soles. Please, let me serve you. You do so much for the church.”

A rose petal snagged on the hump on my big toe. I dunked my foot to set it free. Perhaps to set me free, too. The pleading that rushed beneath Tad’s usually condescending tone scared me more than the sight of my toes. What did Dana keep telling me? Stop trying to control everything, just roll with it sometimes.

Roll with it.

Whatever wheels I was supposed to be using felt like squares instead of circles, but I was determined to see this through. Sunday school ended in thirty minutes anyway. The worst part was over. They’d all seen my feet now. My heart groped for words, but there was nothing sensible, suitable to say. Another apology spilled out as his chin began to swell. How would he mask that on the news tonight? “I’m sorry. About kicking you, I mean. Do you need some ice?”

How many times are you going to apologize?

He grinned wide, revealing his dimples. “I’m okay, but you kicked me pretty good. Thankfully, you missed all the good stuff.” He motioned toward his head.

From here, it all looked like good stuff. Though usually a total jerk, Tad was ridiculously fine. From his spidery lashes to his cleft chin and square jaw, he was born for the camera. Usually though, his performances—on- and off-screen—were sadly lacking. Today, his acting was a little too convincing.

He touched my second toe, the Little Piggy Who Stayed Home, the digit most responsible for the knuckled imprints in all my shoes. I concentrated on the kindness in his hands, nicer than the firm rap of the pedicure lady at the mall. Still…I flirted with the thought of running to the parking lot screaming like a lunatic.

My foot slipped from his hands as I turned the thought over in my mind, deleting the screaming and concentrating on the running. A bit of pinkish water sloshed over the side of the bowl—which I now realized was a kitty litter container—and onto the floor. My head turned real slow, as if it weighed five hundred pounds. I was doing it again, thinking crazy things. “I’m so sorry. It was a reflex. I have a thing about my feet—”

“Me, too.” He paused, smiled at me. His news-at-eleven smile, only better. Special. “I have a thing about my own feet, I mean. Don’t worry, I won’t kick you when you wash mine.” A chuckle whistled through his lips.

I didn’t find it funny. Wash his? Why hadn’t that occurred to me? Service definitely meant doing for others, but in this case, I’d have to pass. Seeing my own feet was bad enough. The Little Piggy That Ate Roast Beef curled back as reality dawned on me. My whole left foot drew up like a fist. “You know what? No offense, but I’d rather not wash your feet. Or have you wash mine.”

Tad kept scrubbing, all while staring at my bumpy toes. “That’s okay. I understand. But I’d appreciate it if you’d let me finish.”

I grimaced, doubting I’d ever be able to look him in the face again.

The others around us, except Deacon Rivers and Mother Holloway, of course, worked quietly, ushering in the wings of morning, the edges of heaven, in muffled prayers and quiet sobs. Deacon Rivers’s surprise at Mother Holloway’s “pretty dogs” punctuated the harmony of soft sobs, whispered prayers and the sound of water lapping in the plastic bowls.

A woman who’d confided in me weeks earlier of her plans to leave her husband wept as she held on to his ankles. We’d gone through the Scriptures, she and I, but this touch, this tenderness, preached a much better sermon. He pulled her up beside him and they held each other, staring with eyes as wet as their bare feet. The music minister’s wife grunted in approval as her husband scrubbed her heels gently, praying as he went. They too had recently come close to parting.

My heart leaped, both at Tad’s touch and the kiss of Christ on this place, affection I wasn’t prepared for, an exchange I wasn’t ready to accept. Still, tears threatened. I’d come to church today determined to resign from the singles group, the choir, everything. I’d come sure I had nothing left to give, that there was no point in even trying. And after many years of debating about what to do with my feet (it’s a little nutty to own a shoe boutique and have Frankenstein toes), I’d decided to take my podiatrist’s advice and have my toes broken, using the time I usually spent on everyone else to recover.

A year ago, I never would have considered doing something like this. Service to my church, family, friends and customers was the call of my life. Then my son’s father came back into our lives and my best friend had a stroke and almost died. My son moved out of my house and into his dad’s apartment with his pregnant girlfriend. Everything that I’d hung my heart on, my faith on, seemed turned inside out, leaving me to wonder if I’d been trying to work for God instead of walk with Him.

Who knew? Perhaps the podiatrist could not only fix my feet but redeem something from the gnarled mess that had become my life. I certainly couldn’t. All I could do was try and protect myself, create a little safe space. That was all I’d come to church for today, to redeem the time, to set some boundaries in my life.

Tad came for something else entirely.

To wash my feet.

And to take my turn teaching Sunday school. This quarter, the pastor had implemented a new program for the lay leaders. Each ministry in the church, deacons and deaconesses, women’s auxiliary, singles group, seniors fellowship, married enrichment group, music ministers, children’s department and everybody in between, would take a turn teaching Sunday school to a class made up of peer leaders. Tad had surprised me last week by calling to say that he’d take today’s entire lesson.

I was relieved then, calculating the extra minutes I’d have to run through my choir solo and check with my ministry volunteers. For a moment, I was a little miffed that Tad responded to the pastor’s edict but never called to help with any of the programs I put together. Why can’t I just be thankful? It never dawned on me that Tad had something like this planned. It wasn’t as if we communicated verbally enough for me to read him. Though we interacted often, today was the most words we’d shared at one time since that talk earlier in the summer about my son.

Instead we spoke in actions, a language of Secret Santa gifts and assigned seats in the choir stand. We shared a silent and frustrating loyalty, both to each other and to the church. Ours was a bottomless desire to outserve, outgive and outsuffer everyone else, including each other. A need that I wanted to eliminate from my life, starting today.

I’d probably never stop serving in church completely but with a grandchild on the way and my son’s father in the congregation every Sunday with his diamond-dipped girlfriend, the unending well of my Christian love seemed to be running dry. I needed to take Dana’s advice and let God be good to me for a while, maybe even be good to myself. It didn’t seem likely than anyone else was planning to take on the job. At least not until this morning. Now I wasn’t so sure I wanted anyone to. This was just weird.

Though we were president (me) and vice president (him) of Brothers and Sisters in Christ (BASIC), Tad usually looked past me, as if too busy to give me his full attention. Today though, another man lived in his skin—a towel-brandishing, knee-bending, foot-washing man.

His towel hung from one side of his waistband now, like a child’s napkin at a barbecue. He tugged it free and tossed it to the floor before tapping my ankle for me to lift my foot out of the tub. How he knew to do that I didn’t know. Did he get pedicures too?

Too embarrassed to look at him any longer, I stared at my sunshine shoes, the yellow peekaboo pumps I’d made for Dana’s wedding but had only been brave enough to wear today, three months later. Now, I longed for a pair of fuzzy slippers. They’d be easier to escape with. I’d tried to roll with it, but this was ridiculous. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I have to go.”

I struggled to get up, but Tad held my foot, massaged my heel. He took a deep breath. “Wait…Listen.”

The rhythm of Mother Holloway’s humming my favorite hymn, the music minister praying under his breath, someone’s wife crying behind me, and the splashes of simple service moved me, moved through me. It started as a shiver at first, then a stream and finally a flood. The room faded as I shut my eyes, letting the sacred sounds close in on me. Who knew that feet could bring such peace to a place?

Warmth poured over my ankles, flowed between my toes. That Tad. Sneaky. I sat in my chair, head buried in my hands. If he’d only stopped there, I could have endured it, pretended none of it had happened. But as always, Tad went too far.

“You have beautiful feet, Rochelle, the Gospel-spreading, life-giving kind, the kind that make it to the finish line.” He said it loud, in his tornado-warning voice.

Mother Holloway stopped humming. I stopped sitting, dropping my unopened Bible from my lap as I stood. The book splashed Tad’s face as it thudded into the water. The black cover peeled back and released the gold-edged pages, billowing at first, then bloating.

Tad grabbed the book and squeezed as though saving a life. And he was saving a life. Mine. From the cover, bought by my son as a boy, to the notes scribbled in the margin on almost every page, that book contained the past ten years of my life and all God’s promises for my future. Still, I went for my shoes, to run, to save my heart. To save my mind.

“Wait.” He held out the damp Bible. When I took it, he held it with me, knowing I wouldn’t stay. Everyone was looking at us, listening, but he didn’t seem to care. “Really, Rochelle, your feet are beautiful. So are you.” He released his grip on my Bible, but tightened the grip on my heart. Why had he waited until today, when I was giving up on everything, to get all brave? I held the wet stack of pages in front of me like a shield and headed for the door.

“If that boy thinks those feet are pretty, Chelle, you’d better marry him. No offense, sugar.” Mother Holloway’s voice followed me to the door.

None taken, I thought, unable to speak. As for marrying Tad or anyone else, the thought that had always been laughable before became painful now. Why was Tad saying stuff like this now, when it was too late? When whatever shred of womanhood had that survived seventeen years of single parenting, entrepreneurship, church service and a really bad attempt at having a boyfriend last year lay dead on the bottom of my heart. It was best to leave it there. Sometimes it’s been too long for a resurrection.

On his arrival, Jesus found that Lazarus had already been in the tomb for four days.

Now at the door, I looked back at Tad, still kneeling and reaching out with those long copper fingers. He was looking at me, his lips curved into a waning moon full of star-bright teeth. “Thanks for coming. You have so much to offer.” He whispered it, but again, everyone heard.

I stabbed my feet farther into my shoes, grinding my toes into place. Water dotted the canary leather like tears. My own tears refused to fall. After months of crying for everyone else, I had no tears left for myself.

Tad’s smile, a small one, was like a boy with a secret, a man with a plan. I stepped into the hall, reminding myself of how other women in the church had been sucked into a web of mixed messages and ended up with broken hearts and, in some cases, broken faith.

A thousands Sundays of hide-and-seek with Tad had taught me never to put my trust in him. Or my hope. Our game stayed the same each week. (“It’s good to see you, Sister Rochelle.” “And you.”) Stolen glances that would have rendered lesser souls legally blind would follow, but never anything more, unless you counted that February eight years ago when he held my hand for four Sundays in a row. He’d made up for his slip by ignoring me for months, like he’d probably do after today.

On my way to the car, I reminded myself of that, as well as how cruel he’d been to say those things in front of some of the main grinders of the church rumor mill. I’d spend the rest of the year explaining that we weren’t dating, but things like that never occurred to him. I stepped painfully toward the car, trying not to think about the Bible leaking through my dress. How could I start over without my notes? My thoughts? Tad’s thoughts came to me instead.

Gospel-spreading feet.

Yeah, these tootsies could spread cement from here to Mexico. In fact, they’d tried to do just that. When pregnant with my son, the doctor had advised cutting back at work as my feet swelled and my not-so-sensible shoes cramped. Determined to show my teenage heartthrob (who I was sure would marry me at any moment) that I wasn’t a lazy woman, I ignored the doctor’s advice and worked more, not less. If my son’s father was impressed, he had a sorry way of showing it, going to the bathroom during my labor and never returning.

The next time I saw him was on a TV screen as he drank and fought his way through a few stormy years in professional basketball. Though it’d hurt to see him in magazines with pretty women on his arm, the money he sent (a couple hundred thousand, which I invested in design school, my home, my shoe boutique and Dana’s shop) was helpful. One day the money stopped and the only man I’d ever loved or made love to disappeared from the face of the earth. I realized quickly that he might not ever come back. Might not save me.

It was then that Jesus revealed Himself to me, a God more than willing to be my husband, my son’s father and my closest friend. For years, I gave myself freely to Christ without regret, except for my secret, that somewhere in a nursing home in Mexico my son’s father slumbered in a coma like a male version of Sleeping Beauty. From the returns on my well-invested funds, I paid for his monthly care, each night secretly praying the same prayer, Let today be the day, Lord. Let Jordan wake up and come home.

Instead, Jordan’s sister Dana, who’d shared parenting chores with me since her teen years, and Tracey, another friend and former neighbor, filled much of my void for companionship. Though we’d spent time together online as the Sassy Sistahood, we became something more, sisters in Christ. When Dana found out last year about her brother and, worse yet, about me knowing about her brother’s condition and whereabouts, our relationship was a little strained. Okay, so a lot strained. We’re close still but in a different, more distant way. For one thing, she’s married now. Talk about changing relationship dynamics…

Anyway, about Jordan. Though I continued to pay for his care, Jordan coming home drifted away from me with all my other happily-ever-after dreams. Many times, I almost told Dana that I knew where her brother was and what had happened to him, but I never could find the right words. Last year, Jordan woke up and found the words himself, coming home to turn my son’s head and break my heart all over again.

Working too hard to keep a man had broken these feet in the first place, broken my heart. I couldn’t let that happen again. Not for anyone. Not even intelligent, handsome, aggravating Tad.

And He will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

The Scripture leaked from my mind into one of the puddles I passed on the way to my car. I paused at the trash can near my trunk and slipped off my shoes.

Afraid that some thrifty deaconess would rescue the yellow pumps and put them in the clothes bank, forcing me to see the stain of this morning on the feet of a stranger, I gripped the shoes to my chest along with my soggy Bible. Tomorrow’s trash pickup at home was a safer option, one that ensured I’d never see those sunshine shoes again.

Chapter two

My son, his father, my son’s girlfriend—the whole crew of fools—awaited me at home. I didn’t even get to squish the rest of the water out of my Bible before facing them.

“Hi-eeee,” Shemika said, waving with one hand and covering her watermelon-size belly with the other. She bowed her head quickly, nibbling one of the emergency croissants from my freezer.

I dumped my wet shoes beside the door next to the others. I took in the scene in disbelief. Not only had these folks invaded my home—with the help of my son’s key, no doubt—they’d kicked off their shoes and cooked themselves some breakfast, too.

The nerve.

Still armed with my wet Bible, I grabbed the empty plastic bag my croissants had come in and wrapped the Bible in it. It was a total loss, but I was too afraid to throw it away. I have a thing about Bibles, too. As ink blurred in the margins and bled across the pages, I bled inside too. I’d meant to get a new Bible sometime, but not now. Not yet. Everything was changing without my permission. Sort of like my unexpected guests.

I turned to my son’s father, eating eggs at my kitchen table as though he belonged there. As many times as I’d envisioned him in that seat, the sight bothered me now.

“How did you get in here, Jordan?” I knew already, of course, but I wanted to let all of them know that keying into my home and waiting for me was unacceptable.

“Well, we—”

“Leave Dad out of it, Mom. It’s my fault. I used my key.” My son, Jericho, stood, hands shoved into his jeans.

“Dad? It’s like that now? That’s rich.” About as rich as his father, whose gifts seemed to have worn away any of my son’s remaining brain cells. Sure it was great that Jordan was here today, but what about when he disappeared again?

“Can we not start with that? What’s with you anyway? Are those the sunshine shoes?” He pointed to my wet pumps by the door.

“That’s them. It’s a long story. Sunday school was, well, interesting. I had to come home.” I looked over at Shemika. “Your grandmother had a good time, though.”

“I’m sure.” Shemika shrugged and gave me the same guilty smile she’d worn since her pregnancy started showing. Today though, something different played around her eyes. Maybe the reality I’d been trying to describe to them was finally sinking in.

My son didn’t look as amused. “Church? Is that really it? You seem really out of it. And is that your Bible wrapped up over there? The one that you write in?”

Jordan stopped pushing his eggs around on his plate and looked at me with a concern that shook me a little. I must have looked like a fool in this wet blouse and rumpled skirt, but he looked at me as if I was wearing an evening gown. Tad was one thing, but Jordan was going to have to get out of here. They were all giving me puppy-dog looks now.

“We had an exercise in Sunday school and I got a little wet, okay? The question isn’t about me. The question is, what are you people doing here!” Whoa. Had that come out of my mouth? I was definitely going to have to check with the doctor about those perimenopause supplements. Kicking folks and screaming all before noon? And on a Sunday too? I needed a nap and some sugar-free chocolate.

Shemika piped up this time. “Well, coming here was my idea, actually. I’m not feeling so well, Mrs. Rose—”

“That’s Miss—Miss Gardner, same as Jericho.” I didn’t scream this time, but my meaning was clear. What had they been telling this girl? As long as she’d known us, hadn’t somebody clued her in on the whole horrible story.

“She was never my wife, Shemika,” Jordan said. “Though she should have been. I wasn’t as brave as Jericho, but she was as brave as you. And hardworking, too. She worked double shifts in the supermarket and picked up hours at the hospital until the day she went into labor.” He paused and stared at the floor. “Even messed up her feet to do it. I’m sorry about everything, but I’m sorry about that.”

I braced myself against the chair at the sound of Jordan’s voice. For years, I’d thought that marrying Jordan would have saved me, taken the shame of my teen pregnancy away. All these years later, listening to him, looking at him, I realized things could have been worse if he’d stayed. I couldn’t think of anything he could add to my life. Nothing I needed to think about, anyway.

Shemika tugged my son’s sleeve. “I thought they were divorced—”

“Shh.” Jericho squeezed her hand and gave me a look, one that I deflected. Sure it wasn’t the best way to explain, but since my son was so bent on marrying this girl, he should have told her himself. Suddenly wishing there was another croissant, but glad at the same time that there wasn’t, I backed up against the wall. My bare feet squeaked against the floor.

Even Jordan’s cold eggs called to me as images of the morning—kicking Tad, him washing my lumpy toes, opening the door to find everyone in my kitchen—melted across my mind. This had been a crazy year all around, with Tracey and Dana getting married and Jordan coming home, but this was a bit much. A bit too much.

“Shemika, if you don’t feel well, come into my room and lie down. I need to change my clothes anyway.” All eyes in the room had been focused on my feet since Jordan’s little speech and my words didn’t break the spell. I jetted through the dining room to my bedroom, daring even one tear to fall and hoping reality TV cameramen weren’t waiting behind my drapes.

Shemika followed and stretched out on my favorite comforter—the key-lime pie set I’d gotten from Austin, our newest member in the Sassy Sistahood, during our Christmas-in-July gift swap. The plump comforter plus my queen-size waterbed brought a smile to Shemika’s face.

“Nice,” she said, as I changed into a periwinkle sundress. Not my color exactly, but I wasn’t feeling myself.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry for all the commotion this morning. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that. I just had a bad morning. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

She fluffed the pillow under her head. “I just don’t feel so good. My back hurts, but it’s not time yet and the doctor says to just come in tomorrow. We even went to the hospital, but they said it’s Brackstum Lips—”

“Braxton Hicks.” During the months of my son’s relationship with this girl, I had actually started to warm up to her. Her quietness had given the illusion of wisdom. She should have stuck to that plan. I tried to remind myself that she was only sixteen, no matter how old she looked.

Lord, help this child. And mine, too.

“Yeah, those. But now it’s really hurting. Every now and then. Grandma doesn’t remember all this stuff and my mother, well, she changed her number when she put me out. Maybe I can rest here for a while and go home—”

“Stay as long as you want.” I stroked her head to check for fever and thought about what she’d just said. Home. Jericho had brought the mother of his child to my house because she had nowhere to go. And his shacking-up baby’s daddy had done the right thing and taken Shemika in, given her something to call home.

True enough, my son hadn’t explained the situation to me, but as always, I jumped to the wrong conclusion. And as Jericho loved to remind me, if I’d just have signed the papers to allow him to get married while he was still legally a minor, this wouldn’t be an issue. But I couldn’t. Raising a baby was hard enough. Building a marriage was something else all together. Grown folks with steady jobs struggled at it. How could two teens with a new baby make it work? And what about his basketball? College? No, they needed an education. I’d help with the baby…somehow.

“Shemika, I’m sorry about what happened in June with the big fight about you being here with Jericho alone. If he’d told me the situation—”

She tried to sit up, but I shook my head and she eased back down. “I asked him not to tell you. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think bad of my mother. She has her own problems and a baby is more than she can deal with right now.”

That stunned me for some reason. Sure, Shemika had made a big mistake, but her mother was an adult who should have done better than toss her child into the street. But here Shemika was defending her. More than I could say for myself about my own mother. I tried not to speak against her, but the way she’d abandoned me when I was pregnant with Jericho still hurt all these years later. I hadn’t realized it until now.

Kids. Who needs therapy with them around?

“Embarrassed? You didn’t need to worry about what I think. And you told Mr. Rose, right? Why weren’t you embarrassed for Jordan’s dad to know?”

She shrugged. “He’s different, you know? More like us. You’re like Grandma. All holy and everything.”

I laid down on the bed beside her and stared at the ceiling. “Shemika, I try to live by God’s Word, but I’m far from perfect. A long way from holy. I don’t know what I’ve done to give you the idea that I couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with your problems, but I’ll do better. Try harder.”

She smiled and closed her eyes. “It’s okay. Like I said, I just want to go home.”

My eyes closed, too, with images of Jordan’s glamorous town house scrolling behind them. Sure I was glad that he’d snagged a job as a consultant to the NBA, but sometimes it didn’t seem fair. Though Jordan’s “I’ve been in Mexico in a coma for the last decade” story fell hard on most people’s ears, the NBA had heard stranger tales.

And so came his new job, a fresh start, a fraction of what Jordan might have had if he’d kept playing, but so much more than he’d hoped for. I tried to be happy for him, even if the way my son had come to depend on him made me feel a little lost.

Hadn’t that been what I prayed for all those years when it was just me? That one day Jericho would have a dad he could depend on? Believe in? I hadn’t realized then that prayers seldom have an expiration date and sometimes they’re answered when you least expect it. So I went on, working hard and praying hard and trying to embrace this new life alone—no husband, no son, no single friends. The people in BASIC didn’t really count. I couldn’t really talk with any of them. They’d be shocked enough to know that I’d kicked Tad, let alone the things I thought about sometimes.

And most of them had little sympathy for my up-and-down feelings for Jordan. So what that I’d worked my fingers to the bone building a business? He’d given me the start-up money. Really, there wasn’t much I could say if he hadn’t. He was still my son’s father no matter how I turned the plate.

Shemika’s chest moved up and down, her round belly rising as if it was breathing, too. Jericho had done that in my stomach, too, even danced when I ate lasagna or Adrian Norrell’s mother played Sting full blast next door. Adrian married Dana, Jordan’s sister—but I digress. Watching Shemika sleep, I prayed for all of us, even for the guys around the league that Jordan was helping. I prayed that he’d keep them from turning out regretful, like us. Well, like him. I’d stuck around, done my duty….

I covered my eyes. Yuck. There it was, that holier-than-thou thing Shemika was talking about. Why was I like this? Why did I always have to be right? It wasn’t that I didn’t have regrets, too. I had plenty. Jordan was here now and trying to do what was right. I had to find my way out of the past and make peace with that. Somehow.

With Jordan convinced that a shotgun wedding would solve this new problem, the Jericho-and-Shemika problem, it was difficult to deal with him, especially when Jordan hadn’t married his own live-in girlfriend yet.

I reached out and touched Shemika’s stomach gently, thinking about the many women from our church I’d helped through labor. Shemika didn’t really have the look of a woman in labor, but with the young ones it was hard to tell. I once had a girl laugh and talk with me all the way to the hospital and deliver as soon as we got her into a room. This time would probably be a typical first baby, hard and long. Just like mine.

The door creaked open and Jordan entered, taking a few steps and peeking at us. When he leaned over far enough to see my open-eyed stare, he jumped back. “Girl! I thought you were sleeping, too.”

I wish.

“Nope. Just thinking.” I squirmed a little as he looked around my room. I could tell he liked it by the way he narrowed his eyes at the picture on the wall. Some things never changed.

He moved closer to the bed, then settled on a chair in the corner. “Thinking about what?”

“Nothing.” Frustration whistled through my lips. Why did just the sight of him make me angry? Maybe because hard as I’d worked to get these two kids to finish high school, he’d pressed just as hard for them to get married, something I still wouldn’t agree to. Most likely it was because of Shemika’s words earlier, that Jordan’s place was her home. The other thing that bothered me, the thing I wasn’t ready to deal with, was that the grandchild that I’d refused to deal with might be coming.

Soon.

Careful not to wake her, I reached for Shemika’s hand, praying as I touched her fingers. I wasn’t ready for this. I might never be ready. But God was ready. God was here. As I prayed, the soft flesh under her shirt stiffened into a tight ball. Her back arched, but she continued sleeping.

Jordan saw it, too. “Hey, what was that?” he whispered.

I checked the clock next to my bed—11:02 a.m. “That is the beginning of labor. Looks like our granddaughter wants to meet us a little early.”

“So what did the doctor say?” Jordan’s voice went with his feet, pacing up and down my front hall.

“They said to let her rest as long as she can. That if it’s the real thing, it’ll wake her up and we should time the contractions when it does. When they’re five minutes apart, we should bring her in.”

I nodded and started again, puttering around the kitchen, trying to make something to bring along for Shemika to eat. Every doctor was different, but some still believed in nothing but ice cubes and for a long labor that could be torture.

Somehow I sort of felt like that now, pulled by my anger one moment and my happiness the next. Angry yet happy that they’d come here, put me in the middle of it all.

I should have been happy to come home and find my son and people I hadn’t invited inside my kitchen. Throughout Jericho’s childhood, I’d turned the key in my front door every day knowing there’d probably be some child with a problem on the other side. Only this time, it was my child. My problem. And I had no solution. Only hurt and a strange hope, a joy at the thought my grandchild’s arrival remained. The feeling was stronger than I’d expected, but overshadowed by my pain.

Still, it hurt to see my son, so much a kid, trying to be a father, doing what a husband should. It made me want to go upside his head for doing this in the first place. “So you were just going to hang out and hope it stopped hurting, huh son? Sounds like a very well thought-out plan.”

My words came out sharper than I’d liked, but the question rang true. I should have been honored that my son had thought of me first (well, second—he went to his dad first) after all we’d been through this summer, but I wasn’t. I was disappointed. I tried hard not to be, but I was. This just wasn’t how it was supposed to go. God had only given me one child. There wasn’t any room for black sheep and mess-ups. This wasn’t on the program.

I wiped my eyes and kept at the cupboards until I unearthed a can of Chunky soup my son had left behind. I zipped it open with my electric opener and dumped the goo into a pot, wondering if this was how my mother had felt when she’d happened upon my growing belly? Though my mother had split town, leaving me in my aunt’s care long before my first contraction, my current emotions explained a lot. Not enough, but a lot. Maybe one day I’d be as spiritual as Shemika and even be able to defend her. For now, my feelings peaked and dipped all over the chart, resting on happily disappointed.

Jordan joined me at the stove and gathered my free hand into his. My heart did a free fall, like an eaglet tossed out of its nest. In all these months since he’d come back, he hadn’t touched me. I’d made sure of that. Even with all he’d done to me, the physical connection between the two of us hadn’t diminished. From the first time he’d held my hand at one of his father’s Sunday evening fish-fry dinners, Jordan and I were physically drawn together like two magnets on a refrigerator. Spiritually though, our poles had always been opposite. (Now he professed Christ, but loved someone else.) I tried to pull away, knowing better than to let his touch linger.

He held my hand with that loving grip of his and snaked his other hand around my waist, the way he had when I was pregnant. Though my belly was flat now, he rested his hand at my waist, barely touching my dress.

Jordan cleared his throat. “Father God, we haven’t done everything right, but let us get this right. May this baby be a grace to us, a healing. Help me to be to this girl what I wasn’t to Chelle, to Jericho. Help me to be as a grandfather everything that I wasn’t as a father. Help us all to hold together. To be a family. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” As he released me, his mouth brushed my ear.

“Amen.” My knees felt like rubber bands. Jordan’s Halston Z-14 cologne, the same scent I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day our senior year, whispered along my neck, mocking me. I felt God holding me now instead of Jordan, extending an invitation for me to walk with Him, to fly with Him on the wings of the morning, to walk into this grace, this second chance. Instead, I backed away from the pain that was Jordan, who had never been there for me, for us.

Until now.

Before I could melt down again, Jericho tiptoed into the kitchen. “Mom? She’s still sleeping, but I can see the contractions. Should I wake her? What do you think?”

I sighed, again calling upon my birth-coach training for many of the mothers of our church. First labors were always the longest and the worst and Shemika seemed calm so far. “Let her sleep. I think she’s in early labor—”

“Ohhhh.” Shemika’s voice thundered down the hall, sounding more like a moo than anything.

My eyes met with my son’s first and then with his father’s. That sound was one I’d heard before…from my own lips. I bit the inside of my cheek as the memory, the terrible pain, came flooding back. Fifty-six hours of anguish and all of it paled to the hurt of realizing that Jordan hadn’t just gone for a drink of water, that he’d run for his life and would never come back.

“Perhaps I spoke too soon. Put her things in the car,” I said, checking the kitchen clock—11:13 a.m. “We’ll watch the next few for a pattern.” My mind locked as I tried to sound calm instead of screaming like I wanted to. Why had helping strangers have their babies been so much easier than helping bring a piece of me into the world?

“We’ll stay here as long as she’s comfortable. Keep her moving, Jericho. Walking, squatting. I’ve got something for her to eat before we go.”

My son looked scared but strong. “Thanks Mom. I know this has to be hard.”

You have no idea.

Were those pink onesies and blankets still in my trunk? I hadn’t touched them in months. “I’ve got some clothes and things in the car. It’ll be fine.”

“I knew you’d know what to do. I love you, Mom.” My son pecked my cheek, leaving a wet spot on my face.

As he turned away, I blinked back a tear of my own. In all the fighting, I’d forgotten how much I missed hearing that I was loved, being called the name that had defined my very being for so many years.

Mom.

Jordan stood in the kitchen doorway with admiration and confidence in his eyes, the look that had made me fall for him in the first place. A look that said, You amaze me. You can do anything. Nobody had ever talked to me like that back then. Nobody but him. And he really must have believed it, because he left me with everything to do. I turned from him now.

His long legs covered the distance to me with ease. “I know I’ve said sorry a million times, but I have to say it again. I’m sorry.” He choked up a little. “Seeing that girl like this. Remembering—”

“Fuhgetaboutit,” I said, adding a fake laugh for decoration. He would, or course, forget about it, so he might as well do it now. I, on the other hand, wouldn’t have such a luxury. Someday soon, he’d disappear and I’d be stuck again, this time with a grandbaby to take care of. They all assured me otherwise, but I’d been around long enough to know how the story would end. He’d get his fairy tale like everyone else. Everybody but me.

Jordan leaned in closer. “I can’t forget about it. Ever. Even now, marrying Terri…I told her that I don’t know if I want to have children with her. I don’t think it’d be right. Or fair.”

My foot lifted off the floor, but I caught myself before I kicked him.

I’ve really got to try a new workout.

The pan slammed against the burner, a redirection of my anger. I wished I could escape this room, this conversation. One reason I hadn’t been able to deal with this baby, to go to Jordan’s house and even discuss it was because of her—Terri, his girlfriend. I had no reason to care, no claim to him. In truth, he’d tried to get back with me again, but too much had passed between us to make things right. Still, seeing the two of them together was hard. At least he hadn’t brought her along today.

“Have all the babies you want. It doesn’t matter to me.” I jerked away from him, ransacking the cupboards.

Another moan, this time followed by a shriek, sounded in the living room. I checked the kitchen clock—11:22 a.m. The contractions were consistent and getting closer. So much for the soup. A box of my precious Zone bars would have to do.

“You care about me, Chelle. I know you do. Sometimes I even think about calling off the wedding until you can forgive me—”

“I have forgiven you.” Another box of low-carb bars, the ones I’d bought off of a cable shopping network during a bout of insomnia, tumbled down out of the cabinet. I forced the box back into the cabinet and when it refused to stay, I wedged a box of low-carb pancake mix in front of it, wishing I had something to prop myself up with. Why hadn’t I stayed at church and let Tad give me a full pedicure? Someday I’d learn to take my blessings where I could get them.

Jordan continued. “Your head may have forgiven me, but not your heart. If so, you wouldn’t retract whenever I come near you, or look away when I enter a room. The sight of me brings you pain. I know that. If not for Jericho, I wouldn’t have stayed in this town. But I have to stay. You of all people should understand that. I have to make things better for him if I can. You did well with him. Better than I ever could have.”

“But still not good enough, or we wouldn’t be here hoping a baby won’t be born in the next room. I did everything to keep him from turning into you—into us—but it wasn’t enough. He messed up anyway.”

Shocked that I’d actually said that, I grabbed the three Coke cans they’d left on the counter and rinsed them before crushing them in my new Can Killer (another insomnia-induced purchase) and tossing them into the recycle bin. It wasn’t as gratifying as kicking people, but much safer.

“So that was your parenting goal? Keeping Jericho from becoming me? From becoming us?”

I scrubbed the counters as if my life depended on their cleanliness. “Us? That was a bad choice of words. There is no us. There never was. I don’t have your name. I only have your child. That was the only blessing that came out of my sin.”

Jordan’s face sobered. “You make it sound so horrible, like my leaving was God’s punishment to you for being with me.”

I shrugged. What difference did it make? I’d sowed a lot of bad seeds with Jordan and reaped every one. In the midst of it, God had given me more than I could ask for: His love, friends, family, a handsome, intelligent son, a business I loved. The questions didn’t matter anymore. The answer remained the same—Jesus Christ.

“We were young, Chelle. We didn’t know. We didn’t get it.”

“Didn’t we?” I stirred the soup like a madwoman, trying to hide my trembling hands. “It doesn’t matter whether we knew or not, Jordan. God knew. He’s loving, but He’s holy. He couldn’t change that for us.” I leaned forward to listen for Shemika. Nothing. “He can’t change it for them, either. It is what it is—”

Jordan kissed the back of my neck.

Even after so many years, my body melted at his butterfly kiss, reserved for times when words wouldn’t suffice. My womanhood leaped to her feet and sighed in satisfaction. I pushed her back. And him, too.

My heel crunched down on his toes. I was embarrassed and sorry for doing it, but he wasn’t going to toy with me like this. I’d come too far, been through too much. I was past angry now. I was “salty,” as his sister Dana would say.

“Ow!”

We both turned. Shemika’s voice carried over Jordan’s grumbling. I stared at the clock—11:26 a.m. This one was closer. Too close.

Jordan gave me a puzzled look and let his hurt foot drop to the floor. He took my shoulders into his big, brown hands.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” he asked in a steady tone.

I nodded and pulled away, turning off the stove and grabbing my protein bars plus the extra pack I’d so carefully put back. I tossed the soup pot into the dishwater to soak. Jordan looked at me as if I was insane. I sucked my teeth. “Nobody else has to think about later, but I do. When I come back home, I’ll be alone.”

Jordan ignored my words. “Just tell me what to do. I’m here for you. For us. Whatever you need.”

How I’d love to believe that, but I just can’t.

“Thanks.”

It took us a lot of stopping and starting between contractions to make it to the living room. When we made it there, the doorbell rang.

No one moved at first.

“I’ll get that if you’d like,” Jordan said.

I nodded. There was no way I could untangle myself from Shemika now if I tried. Her arms were around my neck, her hair in my face…and my son was holding up the both of us.

As entwined as I was, I heard the woman’s voice at the door. Terri, Jordan’s girlfriend.

“I never thought it’d be this bad,” Shemika whispered as we struggled forward after the next contraction.

“It’s not bad, even though it feels bad,” I said. “It’s good. It’s bringing your daughter to you. To us. Now hold my hand. We’re all here for you.”

Terri fluttered toward us like a bird made of pink silk. I tried to ignore her, but that was a tall order.

“That’s right, darling. I’m here. Breathe just like we did in the class. Puff! Puff! Puff!” Jordan’s girlfriend pushed around me to reach for Shemika’s hand, but I couldn’t get out of the way. Nor did I want to. Puffing was good if you were trying to smoke a cigarette, but it wouldn’t help now. Reading books about having babies and actually having them were two different things. I was about to tell Miss Thing so, but Jordan beat me to it.

“Terri, thanks for being so supportive, honey, but I’m going to need for you to go.”

One of her rings, a starburst diamond, almost gouged out my eye as she whirled around. “What?”

“You heard me, hon. We’re going to the hospital now. My family needs me.”

Her bottom lip quivered. I looked away. Terri wasn’t my favorite person, but this was a private thing.

“But…but…aren’t I your family too, Jordan?”

He took a deep breath. “If we were married, you could come. We’re not. This is Rochelle’s home, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have come here. We talked about that, remember? Now, relax and go home. I’ll be back soon.” He smiled. “Hopefully with baby pictures.”

With that, he took Shemika’s hand and pulled her to the door. Jericho and I helped her outside, one of her arms over each of our shoulders. Jordan joined us again as we paused for two more contractions then finally got Shemika into the car. It wasn’t until the hospital floor chilled my bare soles that I realized that I’d never put on any shoes.

Chapter three

Shemika made it to the trash can. Then she went down just where I did, in the lobby of Saint Elizabeth Hospital, by the west entrance. The security guard took one look at us and shook his head.

“Oh no. I’m not delivering any more babies out here this week. Had one looking just like her the other night. I had to do the whole thing.” He wiped his forehead. “Don’t think I ever will get over it.” He jogged to a wheelchair and pushed it toward us.

Shemika doubled over before he reached us. She let out a low rumbling noise, letting the earthquake inside her fill the room.

The security guard’s eyes widened. “The other one, she made that sound, too! Right before she fell out and…” He pinched his eyes shut and grabbed Jordan’s sleeve. “Help me get her in the chair, man. I’m going to have to run for it!”

Jordan looked at me and then back at the man, who looked to weigh about a hundred pounds—well, maybe if he was under water holding dumbbells he’d be that heavy. There was no chance of him running Shemika anywhere in a wheelchair.

“I’ve got it, man,” Jordan said as, to my amazement and shock, he did for Shemika just what he’d done for me seventeen years before—picked her up and made for the elevator like only a former basketball star can.

The security guard followed in a limping run. “The second elevator,” he shouted before a fit of coughing overtook him. Before I realized it, I was running too, along with Jericho, who was less than thrilled with his gray-headed father’s show of athleticism. Shemika was a big girl and Jordan was about fifty pounds lighter than he’d been back in the day. His gait showed the strain. My son’s face showed it, too. “Dad, slow down!”

“Triage elevator. Right there.” The security guard pointed us in the right direction and explained to the approaching nurse what was going on.

The last in line for the elevator, I ended up taking the nurse’s questions as we waited for the elevator to arrive.

“Who’s her doctor? I can call that up for you at least.”

I smiled, embarrassed to have no response to a question any grandmother should be able to answer. “Um…Jericho?”

My son punched the button with one hand, with his other hand he tried to comfort his girlfriend, now standing on her own but making faces. “It’s Dr. Wallace.”

Shemika shook her head. “No, it’s his midwife, Chris,” she managed to say as the elevator arrived.

The nurse smiled. “Great. I’ll call it up.” She patted my hand. “Good luck, Grandma.”

I filed my new title in the back of my head as we all squeezed into the elevator. Once the door slammed shut, a manly quiet, the kind of silence that only males at an impending birth can muster, filled the elevator as Shemika turned into a brown spider, legs and arms everywhere, trying to climb away from the pain.

Though Jordan had helped usher her to the elevator, it was my son who held Shemika now, rubbing her back, trying to get her to calm down.

“Breathe, babe,” he said in a voice I’d never heard.

Shemika tried to suck in a breath, but screamed instead, her arms swimming against a wave of contractions.

After several blows to his back and shoulders, Jordan moved into the front corner of the elevator. I fought against the urge to be happy that she’d landed a few blows. The image of his girlfriend in my living room would be forever stained on my mind. I flattened myself to the front, too, leaving my son to endure the kicks. During first births, I tried to stay out of the way and not take anything personally. I did hope she’d calm down upstairs, though, before she wore herself out.

Moments later, as we spilled from the elevator, I touched Shemika’s hand, hoping a soft touch would help her relax. We made it to triage quickly. Jordan opened the door, while my son and I helped Shemika inside.

I tried to encourage her. “Remember our deal? You relax, your body works and your baby comes.”

Shemika didn’t look convinced. Evidently my birth-speak was a little rusty. It’d been a full year since I’d attended a laboring mom, but it was all coming back. Good thing, since my friend Tracey would be delivering soon. She lived out of town, but I hoped to be there somehow. “I know I’m making it sound easy, but really—”

Shemika grunted in response.

“Are you okay? Just a few more steps…”

Shemika didn’t even try to answer. She just started sliding to the floor. Jericho and I grabbed her, but Shemika’s weight, combined with her flailing arms and legs, proved too much for both of us. We were all still standing, but heading for the floor. Where was Jordan?

“Let me help you.” The voice stung like hail.

Tad.

One look at him and I lost my grip. The whole wild, pregnant mess that was the three of us landed in his arms, including my supersize son. Jericho jumped as though he’d touched a hot stove. Must be a man thing.

As we untangled, Jericho helped Shemika up. I looked into Tad’s kind eyes and at his bruised chin. Bless his heart, now here I was about to beat up the rest of him. “You poor thing. What are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I got a call from someone on the Men’s Fellowship prayer chain.”

I shrugged. Who’d made the call I didn’t know, but I was thankful. For all Tad’s annoying traits, he was calm in a crisis.

Jordan’s face glistened with sweat. His eyes looked bloodshot. Maybe this whole birth thing was weighing on him harder than I’d thought. He shook Tad’s hand. “Thanks for coming. Sorry for calling you out of service, but you said—”

Tad nodded. “I said call anytime. And I meant it.” He spoke to Jordan, but his eyes were locked on me.

And my bare feet.

Shemika managed to get herself into a tan gown and we were guided behind a series of curtains and asked to wait for a nurse. Shemika latched on to Jericho’s hand with a death grip. Or maybe a life grip.

My son gave her a smile, then leaned down to me with wide eyes I’d seen only a few times, one of them on the day he’d met his father for the first time. “I have a bad feeling, Mom.”

A snort escaped my lips. “Me, too, but my bad feeling was about nine months ago.”

“No, really,” he said, trying to whisper but forgetting to do so. “And she’s grabbed my hand so hard. It was almost like she was…pushing?”

“Pushing?”

My voice must have really carried, because a nurse emerged from what seemed a thousand layers of curtains. “Who’s pushing?”

Cringing from the way his girlfriend was squeezing his hand, my son nodded slightly. “I’m not sure, but she’s doing something.”

The nurse’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. I’ll check her. Could you all step outside? And Grandma, can you stop at the desk and answer some questions?”

Grandma.

“Sure,” I said.

As Tad led the way, a woman behind one of the curtains let out a scream worthy of a horror movie. Jordan cringed. “Whoa…”

I snickered. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” I wanted to say that he’d have seen worse if he’d stuck around with me, but that water was under the bridge. And over it.

Conscious again of my bare feet and lack of preparedness, I fumbled in the suitcase-size bag that serves as my purse as we approached the front desk. I immediately stumbled on my wet, ruined shoes. Who’d slipped those in for me? It didn’t matter. This time, I was much happier to see them.

Jordan’s voice creaked as he spoke to the nurse. “Yes, ma’am. She’s thirty-six weeks, six days according to the wheel. Thirty-seven by the ultrasound…”

I felt jealous for a moment and suddenly wished I’d been the one to let the kids stay with me, the one who’d taken Shemika to her doctor’s appointments. At least they’d listened to me and preregistered for the hospital.

“Her medical card?” the nurse said coolly. “The number wasn’t filled out on the form that was mailed in. We’ll need to copy that card.”

Jordan and Tad looked blankly at me.

Known to be quick on my feet, even when they’re cold and wet, I started mumbling. “In our haste, we—they—don’t have the cards handy, but I’ll stop home and get them once she’s in a room. Until then, perhaps the doctor’s office could provide the number by phone?”

The woman tried but failed to smile. “They will, but we’ll still need the cards. I’ll be back shortly.”

Jordan’s arm brushed mine as I ransacked my purse for my emergency copy of the big, gold card that signified my son’s inability to take care of his child.

Though covered by my self-employed insurance, there was no policy clause for the offspring of unmarried dependents. It turned out that Shemika already had a state medical card anyway. I dug for my copy of it now, knowing it probably wasn’t there. Didn’t my mother used to go through her pocketbook like this? Yes. And it had freaked me out. Totally. I was officially turning into her.

“That’s fine. Perhaps you want to go to the waiting room for a while? They’re probably going to get her a room.”

We went quietly, dividing in the waiting room. I dropped into a chair to continue attacking my purse. Tad went to the window. Jordan approached the TV. Suddenly, he looked more interested in the game show prizes than the birth of his first grandchild. For once, I wasn’t sure if I blamed him. This was a wonderful, horrible day.

I rifled through the contents of my life, dumped on the next chair: cell phone, nail files, Bible memory cards, old church bulletins, Franklin planner, Montblanc pen, a key to Dana’s store and a handful of low-carb bars I’d stupidly brought along for Shemika.

She needs carbs. She’s in labor, not a beauty pageant.

Still, I hoped her hairweave was tight enough to endure labor. In my post-birth pictures, I’d looked as if my hair had been rotated ninety degrees—without bringing my head along. Shemika would look much better, so much better than I did. She had to. I’d make sure of it.

Shemika rolled by on a gurney and Tad and Jordan shot out of the room like toothpaste from a new tube. I shoved my things into my purse, jabbed my feet into my shoes and ran to catch up. I guessed that chivalry was dead during emergencies.

Without my consent, the memory of my son’s birth came to me—a blur of helplessness. I forced it back. This wasn’t my birth. And my son wasn’t going to run out on this girl. Thoughts of today replaced my memories—images of me with Shemika’s head cradled to my chest on the ride over, the sound of my voice saying, “You are strong, Shemika. And beautiful.” My heart ached as I walked down the long hall, realizing that I’d shown Shemika more kindness today than in all the time I’d known her.

Though still far-off, I could make out Shemika’s birth soundtrack—a ballad of moans and wide, wonderful sounds. Sounds that make men very, very afraid.

“It hurts…” she said in a low wail, not a scream anymore but a moan of discovery, a beach that seemed lifetimes away.

I was running now, purse banging against my shins. On the right, I passed a room where a woman was shouting at her husband. He waved at me and munched ice chips. He’d done this before, too.

Jordan took my hand and I reached the room, where I heard a different cry, the birth call of my grandchild. It played in my ears like a symphony.

In my nightmares, there is a monster with a pink cell phone. In real life, she has a matching Prada bag, the messenger model that I admire but would never pay that much for, and the love of my high-school sweetheart. No doubt Terri bought it for use as a diaper bag. Dealing with Jordan is one thing, but this chick? She’s going to make me go Tae Bo all over again.

“I kept calling the hospital for news. Imagine when I heard the baby had been born! I sped right over, love.”

Jordan deflected my eyes. “Oh. Yeah. I was going to call once we saw the baby. We’re waiting.” He tried to slither out of Terri’s grip, but she wound him up like my son would soon be winding a baby swing.

I held my breath for a moment, fighting the urge to pull Tad toward me, inferring a relationship that didn’t exist. Being the gentleman he was, Tad took a step toward me…and away from the nauseating couple. He brushed the bruise on his chin, then extended his hand to Terri. “I’m Thaddeus, Jordan’s prayer partner in the Men’s Fellowship. And Rochelle and I run the singles group at the church as well. We’d love to have both of you—”

The inference that she was single and the thought of Jordan praying with anybody didn’t seem to go over well. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you at church. Thanks anyway, but we’re getting married, the singles group isn’t the place for us. We already live together—”

“I’m going to go get a drink. Anybody want something?” Jordan’s voice was even. Detached.

Tad pursed his lips. “Sure. Get me some coffee.”

Terri smiled, pulling Jordan closer. “Sugar? They probably make it stiff here.”

I silently prayed that the coffee would be strong enough to shock some sense into her or wake Jordan up from the fog of stupidity he was living in.

Tad shrugged. “Sure. Two sugars.”

“Got it. Anything for you, Chelle?” Jordan looked at a spot just above my head.

I stared right into his eyes, trying to see something better, something different than what I’d seen seventeen years before. Looked the same to me.

“I don’t think so, J.” Why was I calling him “J” again? All I wanted was to get back into that room with my grandbaby, not all this drama. The hospital staff had shooed us out like flies. Needed to check a few more things, they’d said, but I didn’t feel right out here.

Jordan nodded. “Right.”

My stomach turned as Jordan and Terri walked away, taking the stairs instead of the elevator, probably going straight to her car. I closed my eyes, wondering if I shouldn’t be thankful. At least Tad would pray with me if I came down to it. Jordan seemed to put his faith and his family on layaway, investing a little bit at a time. I liked to live debt-free myself.

“Sorry about all that,” Tad said. “I meant what I said to Jordan. I know this can’t be easy. But I do believe God is working on him.”

I didn’t know what God was doing to Jordan and I wasn’t sure that I cared. “It meant a lot for you to be here today. I know it may have been difficult.” In truth, it probably wasn’t difficult at all. Answering Jordan’s call as a member of the Men’s Fellowship would have been much easier than responding to my call as a friend. I didn’t dare think past friendship—it made my head hurt. Either way, he’d come.

I squared my shoulders and turned to Tad. “Two sugars you said?” As much as I wanted to be with my grandbaby, getting Tad a cup of coffee was the least I could do. Hadn’t there been a coffeepot back in triage? Maybe they’d be kind enough to let me get a cup. Jordan had left me with the bag again. Everything was on me now. As usual.

Tad stared toward the stairway Jordan had left by a short time before. His eyes narrowed. “They went for coffee. You don’t need to—” Slowly understanding spread across Tad’s face. He shook his head. “I don’t know Jordan as well as you do, but I don’t think he’d make the same mistake again. I don’t think he’d leave.”

I didn’t need to think. I knew. “Two sugars?”

Tad stared at the floor. “Make it black.”

Ten minutes later, I drank the black coffee. I’m a tea girl, and burnt hospital coffee is a hot, slow way to die, but I had to play it off somehow.

Jordan wasn’t buying it.

“Here, take this tea,” he said, opening a cup with a milky streak running through it. I took creamer in my tea. Everyone but Jordan had always thought that strange. He’d always laughed at my old habit. He held out the cup and produced two packets of Equal from his pocket, another trend of mine he’d obviously picked up on.

Somehow I turned down the perfect cup of tea. “You have it. I’m fine, thanks.” If drinking black glue was fine, then fine I was. In my anger, I turned down even that small peace offering.

Tad sipped his just-right coffee with a smile, obviously grateful that Jordan had returned to prove him right. Something else—pity or understanding, I wasn’t sure—tinged his eyes.

Jordan took a pack of sugar from his pocket and emptied it into the tea. One stir with his finger and he took a gulp even though it was still steaming. He’d always been crazy like that.

Terri, who’d almost tricked me into thinking she had one sensible brain cell, refused to stay silent. “You didn’t think we were coming back, did you?”

I sighed, surveying the duck wallpaper. What did she want me to say? “No, I didn’t.”

Terri’s face clouded with anger. Her pink exterior shifted black. “You see, J? You see? She’ll never believe anything you say. I don’t know why you try so hard. Your son forgives you. Why don’t you move on so we can move on? It’s like she holds you captive or something.” She reached for Jordan, but he pulled away, taking a sip of my once-perfect tea.

He shook his head at Terri, then took my hand. “I don’t blame you. I haven’t given you any reason to believe in me. But I just thought—I thought that maybe you could.”

Why was I always the villain? “I have forgiven you, Jordan. Some things are just hard to forget.” I looked around the waiting room. Were those ducks the same ones from when my family had waited in this room? Surely not. Maybe they’d bought the stuff in bulk.

Jordan smiled weakly at Tad. “I guess some things don’t change no matter how much you pray.” His wide palm smacked Tad’s shoulder, before Jordan took a few steps and plopped down in front of the television. The NBA finals, of course.

Tad passed Jordan’s weak smile on to me with his own mouth. He scanned my face as if looking for something. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it. I pitied him. I knew the feeling. I wish I could say that Jordan’s pain or Tad’s frustration moved me, but I’d be lying. And Terri? Well, she was doing good to still be standing.

Lord, what does he expect me to say? What do You expect?

Tad walked over to Jordan, ignoring Terri as he sat down. “Give Rochelle more time. And yourself, too. None of this is easy.”

Wow. Tad sounded like some counselor assigned by family court. All he was missing was a comb-over hairdo and a bad suit. It was nice of him to be here, but right now, I needed my friends from my Sassy Sistahood—Jordan’s sister Dana, who was off at a trade show with her new husband and my other dear friend, newly married, quite pregnant and two hours away. How dare my friends have lives of their own? Right now, I’d even take Austin, one of our newest members and someone I hadn’t quite clicked with yet.

I wanted anybody who’d understand how bad I wanted to see my granddaughter, but how scared I was to see her, too. I’d failed at being a parent, made a mess of my own life and now had a pink-clad monster, the local weatherman and a washed-out NBA player to deal with, none of whom had a clue how I really felt. And vice versa. No, for times like these, a girl needs God…and her girlfriends.

“Let’s go back and see about the baby. They said twenty minutes.” It was all I could think of to say. This was supposed to be about the kids, wasn’t it? And the baby? How it turned into some grown folks’ version of baby’s mama drama, I had no clue.

Jordan and Terri walked ahead of us to Shemika’s room, with the former giving Tad the look of an apprentice hoping for his master to fix the situation.

Tad had sense enough not to signal any hope. Instead, he picked up my purse from where I’d almost left it. “Here. You might need this, Grandma.” His smile and his tone were comforting.

I pushed my purse up on my shoulder and stared down at my now war-beaten shoes, shocked at how good they looked despite the stains.

“Thanks.” This let me know that I was totally out of control. My purse was like an extension of my body, always attached.

His gaze rested around my ankles as we started back to the room. “I’m glad you found your shoes. Gotta take care of those—”

“Don’t say it.” I sucked up half the oxygen in Illinois. Didn’t he know not to go there while my illegitimate grandchild was being born? Goodness. My feet had been through enough. My mind, too.

He smiled, the little-boy-with-a-secret grin again. “I won’t say it. I don’t have to.”

The baby, whose cry had filled the room not long before, now rested in a nurse’s arms, swaddled by enough baby blankets to almost double her size. We’d only been allowed a peek at her before, but this time, the nurse motioned for Jordan and me to approach. The little face, cocoa with a splash of milk, looked beautiful to me. A bed of thick curls framed the baby’s face.

Her face.

“A girl, right?” Jordan asked.

“Yes,” my son said, pointing to the card attached to the bed. “Girl. Seven pounds, eight ounces.”

Tad patted my hand as I moved closer to my grandchild and then to my son.

Jericho smiled but didn’t say anything more. Instead, he mopped Shemika’s brow. The furrows in his forehead worried me. Terri chattered on, pulling designer baby clothes from her bag in more shades of pink than I knew existed. I paused, listening to the deadly quiet that had rushed into the room.

“Should she still be bleeding?” my son whispered to me.

“No.” I tried not to get anxious, turning to the midwife for the look of reassurance. Instead, concerned eyes met mine. My toes balled up in my shoes. This couldn’t happen. Not again.

The midwife pushed her glasses up on her nose with a gloved wrist. “Shemika’s blood pressure rose significantly during the birth, almost to stroke levels. Her pressure is coming down, but not as quickly as I’d like. There’s also a blood-loss concern. My backup doctor will take over from here.”

Jordan, who’d somehow managed to hear over his girlfriend’s loud talking, gripped my arm. We’d never talked about what had happened to me after the birth of our son, but someone must have told him. Or perhaps he figured something must have happened for me to only have one child. That the woman he’d known back then could have been celibate all these years was probably his last guess.

As I started running through all the scenarios and how my son and I could split the care for Shemika and the baby, something told me to be still. I was.

The nurse took the sweet bundle from my arms. Terri reached out her hands, but the woman ignored her. “The baby is going to the nursery now to get cleaned up—”

“Can I come too?” Jordan interrupted the nurse. “I’d just like to make sure that she’s okay.” Terri gave me a contented look of victory, but the voice in my head remained.

What was that Scripture in Ephesians that Tracey liked to quote?

Having done all to stand…stand. Stay here.

“You can come on with us, Tad. I know all this can be a little overwhelming, especially for a single cat like you.” Jordan nodded for Tad to follow.

Tad shook his head. “I’ll stay here.” None of that “if it’s all the same to you,” or “if you don’t mind” stuff, just, “I’ll stay here.”

Already walking behind the bassinet, Jordan waved. “Suit yourself, man.” He turned to Shemika. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Grandpa’s on the job.”

It was a sorry attempt to lighten the mood, but it was much needed, even if it only lasted a few seconds. As soon as the baby was out of the door, things went downhill quickly.

“Prep the O.R. She’s bleeding out.”

“Lord, we ask that You stop this blood, in Jesus’ name…”

Those voices, first the doctor’s and then Tad’s were the last I remembered hearing. From there, I was back in an icy recovery room, waking to the sensation of my insides on fire. No one was in the room but a nurse who looked as if she’d rather be somewhere, anywhere else. Her voice, though, was much kinder than her appearance when I asked about the baby.

“He’s fine,” she’d said in a soft tone. “There won’t be any more, though. Babies, I mean. You had some problems. The doctor will come and talk to you about it later. Just be thankful that you got one.”

She wasn’t the last person to tell me that and the doctor never came to explain. But now, here in Shemika’s hospital room, all the pain and regret came back to me. I gripped my waist and doubled over.

“Are you all right, Grandma?” one of the nurses asked as they moved Shemika from the bed to a stretcher.

I could hear Tad still praying under his breath. “I’m fine, just a little shaken.”

Jericho, who had said nothing in the past few minutes, squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, Mom. I never knew it was like this.”

My fingers trembled. I didn’t know if he was sorry for what was happening to Shemika or for what had happened to me. Either way, I wasn’t the one he needed to be concerned about. “Go with her, son. Go on.”

He nodded and disappeared down the hall. I fumbled for my purse as the room emptied, leaving Tad and I alone. I grabbed for my phone but dropped it.

Tad picked it up. “Who do you need to call—Mother Holloway?”

I nodded. Shemika’s grandmother hadn’t wanted to come to the birth, but now I needed to let her know what was going on. Most likely she wouldn’t take the news any better than I was.

As he pressed the buttons from memory, Tad moved his lips silently.

I was too tired to make out the words. “What are you saying?”

“Still praying. There’s always a chance—Hello? Mother Holloway—”

The stretcher crashed back through the door on the way to the operating room, with the whole cast following. Tad and I scurried out of the way. Shemika looked sedated or seriously asleep. Jericho was crying.

“She’s stable, Mom. They were prepping her for surgery and…” He buried his face in his hands.

Tad grabbed him around the neck and hugged. “Mother Holloway? It’s me, Thaddeus from the church. This morning’s lesson? I enjoyed that, too. Yes, ma’am. Look, I just wanted to tell you that your great-grandbaby has arrived. A girl.”

He covered the phone with his mouth and leaned in to my son. “What’s the baby’s name?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Just tell her we don’t know—”

“Moriah.” Shemika’s voice was barely more than a breath, but we all heard it.

“Moriah,” Tad repeated into the phone. He laughed, then nodded. “Yes, it is a good name. I pray she’ll live a mountain life.”

“Me, too,” I whispered into the folds of Tad’s shirtsleeve as he held me up, too. “Live tall, little one. Live tall.”

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