As the Wicked Watch(22)
“I’m not going to survive this,” Pam said. “I already know, this is going to kill me.”
Say something, Jordan. But what? How does a person respond to something like that?
Pam continued: “But while I’m still breathing, I’m going to do everything that I can do to send the bastard to the funeral home or to death row. And I already know, I can’t count on the police!”
Unfortunately, Pam, you’re right.
“They told me my child ran away from home, ran away from me and her little brother. Mal-co-o-om,” she said as her sobbing escalated. “He’s traumatized. How am I supposed to explain this to him?”
Pam’s voice reached a fever pitch, and I could no longer suppress my grief. It lunged out of me.
“I’m so sorry,” Pam said. “I didn’t mean to put all of this on you, Jordan.”
“Pam, please, you don’t ever apologize to me. Okay?” I said.
Silence.
How long can we sit here like this? This is not where I want to be.
“Jordan,” said Pam, slightly more composed. “Before this pain takes me from this earth, I will see justice done. Somebody out here knows who did this. I want to issue a public plea for anyone who has information to come forward, and I’m going to set up a reward, even if I have to cash in every dime of my retirement. I want to go on the air, Jordan, as soon as possible. Finding the person who took my angel from me, this is my life now.”
And all I could say was “All right. Just tell me when you think you’ll be ready.”
“I can tell you right now,” Pam said. “Tomorrow.”
*
If I hadn’t already committed to meeting María Elena at church, I would’ve stayed in bed. My soul said, Uh-uh. Get up and receive the word of God. You’re going to need it.
I wanted to beat María Elena to church for once, but by the time I finished texting back and forth with Ellen and Scott about interviewing Pamela Alonzo one-on-one tomorrow, I had to scramble to put myself together. When I arrived at St. Matthew’s, she was already sitting on a stone bench in the attached side garden, her petite frame folded in half, intently reading a paperback romance novel.
“Oh, so that’s what you’re going to be thinking about during service,” I said.
María Elena looked up with a startled smile, stuffed her book in her oversize bag, and embraced me robustly.
“Good morning!” she said excitedly, squeezing my size 6 frame with her size 0 arms. María Elena is small in stature but gives the biggest hugs.
“Hey, gorgeous!” I almost added, I thought about crawling back in bed this morning, but thought better of it. I was here now.
“I forgot that Pastor Byrd isn’t here today. We have a guest speaker,” María Elena Suárez-Sallen said in her thick Latin accent. She came to the United States from her native Bogotá, Colombia, to study to become an optometrist. She performed the first eye exam I had after I moved to Chicago, and we just clicked. María Elena always looked stunning, her long, light brown hair swept to one side. She wore a maroon jumpsuit with a thick matching belt, a black shrug, and four-inch strappy gold sandals. At five-two, María Elena was almost always in heels and one accessory removed from transitioning from day to evening, no matter the occasion.
I, too, had forgotten that Pastor Byrd wouldn’t be preaching today. Now I really did wish I’d stayed in bed. When I worked at the station in Dallas, I grew attached to a small Baptist church pastored by a Black woman. She could really preach. Pastor Andrea Byrd, who is White, approached the word in a similar way that resonated with me, relating Scripture to everyday life. She was just as likely to quote well-known literature as the Bible.
We decided to stay, but I was unable to focus. Pam’s request had rendered me impenetrable. All I could think about was the exclusive interview tomorrow. Wait . . . did she say exclusive? Or did I just assume that? Is she ready for this? A grieving mother was catnip to a television news station, and I didn’t want her to be exploited.
After service, María Elena said, “I want to put on something more comfortable. I’ll meet you at your place in a half hour.”
Good. That will give me time to dress the enchiladas and whip up a pitcher of margaritas. I turned my cell phone back on. Thomas had left me a voice mail. I was surprised; Sunday wasn’t our day.
That’s sweet. He called to check on me.
After an emotionally exhausting week, I was looking forward to spending some quality time with my Chi-Town posse. All of them, like me, are Chicago transplants. Dr. Courtney Felix, who was born in Detroit, is an OB/GYN who’s married to a doctor of internal medicine, Dr. Nathan Blackwell III. They are the most idyllic couple I’ve ever met. Both thirty-nine, they have two beautiful sons, Elijah and Nathan IV, ages three and five. I have never seen them argue or throw verbal daggers at each other. Not once. They are the real-life Huxtables. Last year on Halloween, Courtney invited me to their home in suburban Naperville for a pumpkin carving party with the kids. It was a scene straight out of Good Housekeeping magazine.
Courtney and I met at the annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Chicago. I hosted the event that year and also participated in it, though I did more walking than running. It was a rare warm October day in Chicago. Our respective groups had common members and blended along the route. Courtney and I struck up a conversation. Her smile is arresting. I imagine that’s one of the features her husband fell for when the two of them met while vacationing with friends in Bali. They were always trying to fix me up with a guy, but neither of them had figured out my type yet.