PROLOGUE
JORDAN
I thought my education would protect us—like forged armor too strong for the evils of hatred to penetrate. But I was wrong. Maybe every generation needs to believe they will end the trampling, as if it had not been thought of before. Without that certain and foolish hope, I don’t believe we could go on.
CHAPTER 1
JORDAN
Chicago, Illinois
April 1894
“Well, I guess I ain’t never gonna see them beautiful poppies . . . or look on Lisbeth’s face again,” Mama declared, looking straight at Jordan.
Her dark-brown eyes were glossy. She didn’t bother to blink away her tears. Jordan’s eyes matched her mother’s. She stifled a protest, forcing down the urge to tell Mama she was wrong, that her appetite would come back along with her strength. But there was no point in fighting for a lie. Mama was dying and leaving Jordan forever.
Invisible hands choked Jordan’s throat tight. She sat on the bed by her mother, so close she felt a bony hip against her thigh. Her daughter, Naomi, stood near. For weeks they’d searched in vain for something, anything, that would stay in Mama’s stomach. The devastating truth, hiding in plain sight, had finally been spoken.
Mama took Jordan’s hand, her shriveled thumb stroking the back of it. “I had a good life . . . a ver’ good life. The Lord has blessed me more than I have a right to. I ain’t afraid to go home.” She sighed. “I jus’ wish I could see how it all turns out.” Mama let out a weak laugh. “Ain’t I a foolish ol’ woman!”
“Grammy, no one would ever call you a fool,” Naomi countered. “You deserve everything you have . . . and more. After working so hard for all of us your whole life, you get to just rest. I’ll be back with a tonic to ease your pains.”
Jordan was struck by Naomi’s calm confidence. Her reserved daughter had somehow turned into this poised young woman.
Naomi left her grandmother’s bedroom. The click of the door echoed in the chamber. A dim ray of sun filtered through the lone window. It faced a narrow light well, a small gap between row houses that were built right next to one another.
Mama’s body had shrunk under her faded quilt. Jordan’s gaze traveled across the various fabrics that kept her mother warm—disjointed parts of their lives stitched into a whole. The dress Mama had escaped in was at the center, the homespun plantation cotton still strong and whole, though many of the other fabrics had worn through over the years. Surrounding the rough, enduring material were blocks made from the remnants of Samuel’s trousers, Jordan’s dresses, and Pops’s shirts.
Jordan stroked some of the colorful patches that skipped across the top of the quilt. Whenever a hole wore through, Mama cut a square from the best part of a grandchild’s worn-out shirt so “they can warm my spirit whiles I sleep too.” Jordan rubbed the pieces of her children’s clothes, reflecting on the days when they were young. She ached for the feel of Naomi’s and Malcolm’s precious little bodies in her arms.
Jordan ran her finger over an embroidered red shoe. It was all that remained of the baby blanket Lisbeth Johnson had made for her more than four decades ago—a little girl trying to stitch her way into their family. As a child, Jordan used to imagine herself with a real pair of those bright-red shoes, dazzling the sanctuary on Sunday morning.
The maroon dress Jordan had been married in had become the new binding for Mama’s quilt fifteen years ago.
Mama had rejected every offer to make her a new quilt, saying she was going to sleep the rest of her days under the one that kept her warm for so long. Too soon she’d get her wish. Mama would take her last breath underneath the same comforter that covered Pops when he died ten years earlier in this same room.
Jordan picked up the treasured family Bible and rubbed the worn leather cover. Its thin pages were the first words she had ever read. The Lord’s messages of hope and faith had been a reliable source of comfort throughout her life, but in the months since her husband’s sudden death, the words rang hollow. She’d recite them to soothe her mama, but she didn’t expect them to penetrate the pile of pain that covered her own soul.
“Would you like me to read to you, Mama?” Jordan asked.
“Oh, yes.” Mama nodded with a satisfied smile. “You know jus’ what I need.”
Jordan opened to the bookmark, swallowed hard, and continued where they’d last left off: Matthew 5.
“No,” Mama interrupted. “Not that. My heart wants to hear Matthew 13.”
Jordan sighed quietly. Mama was preaching to her through the good book. She turned the silky pages until she found the passage. Jordan took a sip of water and read in a hushed voice. Mama closed her eyes, a soft smile on her face, as she listened to the parable of the Sower.
13:3 And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying,
Behold, a sower went forth to sow;
13:4 And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side,
and the fowls came and devoured them up:
13:5 Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth:
and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth:
13:6 And when the sun was up, they were scorched;
and because they had no root, they withered away.
13:7 And some fell among thorns;
and the thorns sprung up, and choked them:
13:8 But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit,
some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold.
13:9 Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.
Jordan continued, knowing that Mama had chosen this passage to remind Jordan to be good soil for the word of God. Her voice choked up, but she kept going through the assertion that faith was like a mustard seed: small but mighty. Mama patted her hand, comforting the comforter.
Jordan’s faith had vanished into the August night with her husband’s last breath. They’d been preparing for bed when Booker called for her. She’d found him splayed on the ground against his wardrobe; his brown eyes, round and panicked, conveyed in an instant he was leaving this earth. She knelt by him, straightened his body, and took his hand. She did her best to provide comfort in his last moments. Tears streaming from her eyes, she kissed his cheek and whispered, “Thank you” into his ear. She rubbed his forehead and patted his chest as he struggled to breathe.
She hadn’t called for Naomi or Mama—out of kindness or selfishness, she didn’t know. It had just seemed right to be alone with her husband as he passed over. She stayed by him until the warmth left his beautiful brown skin, and her own heart was left cold.
Now Mama was being taken from her. God was testing Jordan and, unlike Job, she was failing.
When Mama was snoring softly, Jordan crept away from her bedside. Naomi pounced with a demand before Jordan could sit down on their worn but comforting couch.
“Ma, write to Lisbeth; ask her to come before Grammy passes over,” Naomi urged.
Jordan smiled at her daughter. At nineteen years old, Naomi had stepped past childhood, but the echo of it was still on her face. Her training as a nurse was a blessing in this painful time.
Naomi had finished school just before the turn of the year from 1893 to 1894, but hadn’t secured a full-time position yet because they’d agreed to move to Oakland. A transition that would be delayed now that Mama’s stomach couldn’t keep down any food.