Sins of the Mother (34 page)

His words reminded her of the first sermon she’d ever heard him preach, when he’d taught the difference between grace and mercy. She hadn’t truly understood then, but in the years that she’d been part of the Bush family, she’d gained an understanding. She’d been flooded in His grace, and she’d been given new mercies every single morning.

Until now.

She didn’t even realize she was sobbing again until Reverend Bush took her hand.

“You’ve got to know that whatever God’s plan is here, for this time, for this family, for you . . . His power is greater even than death.”

She gasped; she never wanted to hear that word associated with Jacquie. She tried to pull away from his grasp, but he held on to her tighter.

He continued, “I know that whatever happens, God is gonna win. We may not see it that way, but He owns this game. Now, that doesn’t mean that this is going to turn out exactly the way we want. It just means that it’s going to turn out His way—the right way.”

“How could this be right? For a child to be taken away from her family?”

He shrugged. “You know, God’s thoughts, His ways, are so much bigger than ours. And though I don’t always get it, I’m fine with that. ’Cause I’m not interested in serving a God who’s as finite as I am.”

Reverend Bush’s words were soft and soothing . . . and they didn’t give her a single answer. Inside, all Jasmine kept saying was,
Why, why?

Reverend Bush said, “But not understanding doesn’t have anything to do with holding on. We may not get God all the time, but we can keep on praying, and keep on working, and keep on doing everything we can. You’ve got to pray like it’s up to God and work like it’s up to you. When this is over—whichever way it turns out—you need to know that you did everything you could to bring Jacquie home. You need to know that you prayed it and worked it.”

Jasmine nodded, but then she frowned.
Prayed it and worked it?
Had she really done everything she could?

He stood and looked down at her. “I think you need to go home; you need to rest.”

She nodded, knowing any protest would be futile.

He said, “Give me ten minutes. I have to make a call, and then I’ll ride home with you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t.” He smiled as he bent over to kiss her cheek. “It’s what I want. So give me ten, okay?”

She nodded.

“And while you’re waiting,” he said, turning toward the door that led to the offices, “look up something for me. A scripture. James five-sixteen. I think it’ll help.”

Then she was alone, in the quiet of the bright sanctuary.

James five-sixteen.

She reached for one of the Bibles stacked in the pew behind her, then paused.

When this is over—whichever way it turns out—you need to know that you did everything you could to bring Jacquie home. You need to know that you prayed it and worked it.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Reverend Bush’s words. Had she prayed it and worked it? Had she done everything that she could possibly do?

“Oh, my God,” she whispered. She
hadn’t
done
everything.
Her anger had blinded her and made her forget. Made her not do the one thing that could bring Jacquie home.

She snatched her coat, grabbed her purse, then ran toward the front doors. She’d call Reverend Bush later, as soon as she took care of this.

Outside, the wind whipped across the Hudson with a ferocity that would have driven anyone else back indoors. But Jasmine ran to the corner and held her hand up for the next available taxi. She stood there, determined and unmoving, oblivious to the wind digging its teeth into her skin. Her focus was on getting to where she needed to go, and doing what she needed to do.

“Please, God. Please, God,” she whispered as her teeth chattered. “Please, don’t let it be too late.”

J
ASMINE DIDN’T RING THE DOORBELL
. She just knocked. Hard. As if she were the police.

But the woman on the other side of the door wasn’t one who was ever intimidated. Jasmine heard her growling.

“Who is it? Banging on my door like you’re some kind of crazy. I’m tellin’ you . . .” The door swung open.

Jasmine didn’t wait for Mae Frances to invite her inside. She barreled in, knocking the woman who used to be her friend back against the wall.

“Jasmine?” Mae Frances whispered, the fight totally gone from her voice. She closed her eyes slowly, then opened them the same way. As if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“Here’s the thing,” Jasmine began, not looking at her. She paced back and forth in front of the aqua-colored couch that she and Hosea had given Mae Frances right after they’d married. “I’m dying without Jacqueline.”

“Oh, Jasmine,” Mae Frances cried as she slammed the door shut. “You don’t know how sorry—”

Jasmine cut her off; she wasn’t here to listen to any more apologies. She continued, “And I have to do everything I can to find her.”

“I know.” Mae Frances nodded her head, though she stayed in place, not taking even a single step closer. “We’ve all been working so hard.”

“See,” Jasmine said, still pacing, still blocking out every word that came from Mae Frances’s mouth, “if I want my daughter to come home, then I have to do everything I possibly can.”

“Definitely. And that’s why—”

“And I haven’t done that.” Jasmine stopped moving and, for the first time, looked up. Took in the woman whom—just three weeks ago—she loved as if she were her mother.

The woman standing in front of her, wringing her hands, made Jasmine pause. Since the day she’d met Mae Frances, the woman had dressed as if she had serious money in the bank, and today was no different. She wore a coral-colored sheath that was more appropriate for summer, but probably fit perfectly underneath the back-in-the-day mink that Mae Frances so loved.

Staring at Mae Frances made Jasmine remember just how close they’d been. Made her think about the number of times Mae Frances had come to her rescue with this plan or that scheme, using some shady connection, some unscrupulous person whom Jasmine had never heard of or met.

Well, that was all Jasmine wanted now. She wasn’t here to rekindle good feelings. She wasn’t interested in making up. All she wanted was one or ten or a hundred of Mae Frances’s connections. However many it took to find Jacqueline.

Jasmine said, “So I have to do everything, and that’s why I’m here.” She inhaled, hating to say the next words, but willing to do anything. “I need your help.”

Mae Frances smiled. Now she moved toward Jasmine with her arms open for an embrace.

But when Mae Frances took four steps forward, Jasmine took five steps back. She said, “You need to call your connections, everyone you know: Al Sharpton, Jeremiah Wright, Al Capone. I don’t care who, call them all. And get them to help us find Jacquie.”

Mae Frances frowned, confused by Jasmine’s words. “But I thought you knew . . . of course I called.” She gestured, her arms opened wide. “Everybody’s been working since we left the mall when . . .” She stopped, as if she didn’t want to remind Jasmine about what happened.

Jasmine dropped onto the couch; all during the cab ride over, she had played the video in her mind: how she was going to march into this apartment, demand Mae Frances’s help (since she was the one who had screwed up in the first place), and then Mae Frances would hit her forehead with the heel of her hand like she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t thought of it herself. Then Mae Frances would grab the telephone, make a couple of calls, and within an hour Jacqueline would be home.

“So with everyone you know”—Jasmine began, her tone filled with disbelief—“no one has been able to find her?” She felt like crying all over again. If Mae Frances’s people couldn’t do it, then maybe it couldn’t be done. Maybe Jacqueline
was
gone . . .

No!
she shouted to herself. She wouldn’t believe that; she would never believe that.

Mae Frances interrupted her thoughts. “No one has been able to find her
yet,
but Sonny’s still working on it, and you know he’s the best.”

“Sonny who?” Jasmine asked, frowning.

Mae Frances leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she was letting out the biggest secret. “I never knew his last name; everyone around the city just knows him as Sonny. But do you remember that big drug bust last year downtown?”

Jasmine didn’t know what Mae Frances was talking about, but she nodded; if she didn’t, Mae Frances would never get to the end of the story.

“Well, the police took down seven of the biggest dealers, but only six went to prison.” Then she stood upright, pressed her shoulders back as if she was proud. “Sonny was the seventh one.”

Jasmine’s eyes were wide with astonishment.

Mae Frances continued, “Sonny will never go down ’cause he has so much on everyone—from the DA to the commissioner. No one messes with Sonny.”

“So, Sonny . . . ?”

That was enough of a question for Mae Frances. “Sonny’s been working on this with me.”

All Jasmine could do was shake her head. Mae Frances had a drug dealer searching for her daughter? With a sigh, she thought,
I should’ve just stayed in church!

It was the look on Jasmine’s face that made Mae Frances say, “Jasmine, please don’t give up. If anyone can find our baby, it’s Sonny and his boys.”

For a second, she believed Mae Frances. Her connections had come through every single time before. But then, she looked at the woman who was responsible for where they were now. And she remembered that she couldn’t trust her.

Now Mae Frances took a few steps closer, and when Jasmine didn’t bark, she sat down on the couch next to her. Her hand hung in the air a moment before she lowered her fingers to Jasmine’s shoulders.

Jasmine flinched, but stayed.

“We’re going to bring her home,” Mae Frances said as if she was sure. “You know my people . . . they can do this.”

But Jasmine shook her head. She’d gone to God and He hadn’t said a word, but she’d left the church with such hope.
Now that hope was gone. It felt as if God was playing with her. And then, in the end, He’d let her down.

Why, God? Why?

The ringing of her cell phone interrupted her sadness. A millisecond later, Mae Frances’s phone rang, too.

Jasmine slipped her cell from her purse as Mae Frances moved toward her desk.

Both picked up at the same time.

“Hello,” they said together.

“Jasmine,” Hosea called, sounding as if he was out of breath. “Where are you? They found our baby!”

“What!” she screamed, and shot up off the couch.

And then an echo. “What!” Mae Frances yelled.

“They found Jacquie,” Hosea said. “She’s alive.”

“Oh, my God!” Jasmine said.

“Oh, my God!” Mae Frances said into her phone before it dropped from her hands.

For a second, they stared at each other. And then, with just three long strides, Jasmine fell into Mae Frances’s arms.

“I told you,” Mae Frances said, as she cried with Jasmine. “I told you!”

For just a couple of moments, they allowed themselves the pleasure of joyful tears. But then, right when Jasmine grabbed her purse, she heard the voice that she’d been waiting for.

It wasn’t booming. It wasn’t audible, at least not through her ears. But she heard it, loudly and clearly. It came straight from her heart.

It stopped her cold and made her listen.

I will never leave you. I will never forsake you. I am always here.

She wanted to drop to her knees right there, bow her head and her heart, and thank God. But she couldn’t do that now.
She would thank Him and praise Him and magnify Him in the taxicab ride to the hospital, where Hosea told her they were waiting.

And though Jasmine had never before been sure what God really wanted from her, she knew at this moment that He didn’t mind at all. He would take her praises in the taxi—that would be good enough for Him.

J
ASMINE FELT AS IF SHE
was running the one-hundred-yard dash when she sprinted out of the cab and through the revolving doors of Lenox Hill Hospital. What amazed her was that Mae Frances—who was at least two decades her senior—kept up with her, step for step.

“Hosea!” Jasmine screamed when her husband was finally in her sight.

He stood in the center of a circle—Reverend Bush, Malik, Detective Foxx, Mrs. Whittingham, Brother Hill, and a silver-haired man who wore a white lab coat. But Hosea broke past them all, pulled Jasmine into his arms, and hugged her so tightly, it was hard for her to breathe.

Jasmine pulled back. “Where is she?” she panted. Her eyes blinked rapidly as if she were trying to take a mental picture of every inch of the hallway where they stood. “Is my baby all right?”

Hosea nodded. Hugged her again. “She’s alive,” he breathed in a tone that revealed his disbelief. He gestured toward the
silver-haired man. “Jacquie’s been with Doctor Stewart, and he wants to talk to us first.”

“Doctor,” Jasmine said, turning to the man. “Is my daughter all right? I have to see her. Please.”

His eyes were piercingly serious, and he didn’t wear a smile. “In just a moment.” He glanced at Detective Foxx, who gave him a small nod. “But first,” the doctor said, “I need to talk to the two of you.” His eyes moved from Jasmine to Hosea. He motioned for them to follow him down the hall.

Hosea moved, but Jasmine didn’t. “No!” She stood in place, looking as if she was about to stomp her foot. “I need to see my daughter!” she demanded. She would tear this place apart—and Mae Frances would surely help her.

Reverend Bush slipped his arm around her waist and whispered in her ear, “Jasmine, talk to the doctor first. Jacquie is safe here. I promise.”

The doctor said, “Just give me five minutes, and then I’ll take you to her. Just five minutes.”

Jasmine wasn’t sure that she could do that—stay away another five minutes, after all the time that had passed? But the look on the doctor’s face told her that she was wasting time.

And so, with a deep breath, she took Hosea’s hand and followed the doctor who walked beside Detective Foxx.