Where Do I Go? (26 page)

Lester grinned at me from behind the wheel. “When we heel up like that, Gabby, just move to the other side. Brace your feet on the opposite seat.”

I was afraid to let go, but Sandy reached over and gave me a hand. Once on the high side, I sat sideways between Mona and Sandy, clutching at the rail, one leg straight out, foot planted against the fiberglass bench where I'd been sitting. Mona just lifted her chin and let the wind tousle her golden hair, but to my satisfaction, I noticed she did put on her life vest.

Every ten minutes or so, Lester changed direction, tacking back and forth, farther and farther from shore. The higher we “heeled up,” the more Philip and Henry seemed to be enjoying themselves. “What a great day for a sail!” Philip shouted to Lester, and the “captain” grinned back at him.

But when we heeled up so far the opposite railing brushed the water, I had to fight a rising panic. My knuckles were white clutching the railing behind me. My ankles and thighs ached from pressing against the opposite bench. And finally my stomach rebelled, and I turned, retching over the side.

Mona recoiled. “Ohhh,
gross
. If I'd known you were going to be so much fun on the water, Gabrielle, I would've stayed home.”

Sandy simply handed me a roll of paper towels.

I didn't dare look at Philip.

That sail was the longest, most miserable two hours of my entire life.

When we got back to the harbor, I excused myself, climbed onto the dock, and walked on wobbly legs back to the clubhouse, where I locked myself into a toilet stall, stuffed a few paper towels into my mouth, and had a good silent cry. What a wimp I was! I should have known. If I got queasy from heights, it was a straight jump across a checkerboard to being seasick-prone.

I finally pulled myself together, repaired my face, and went back to the
Rolling Stone
, where the others were passing around plastic tumblers of wine, the cheese and crackers, and sliced apples. Sandy made coffee and brought out a tin of rich, dark brownies. The men talked business, Mona and Sandy chatted about people and parties in Chicago, and I smiled and nodded, wishing I'd spent the afternoon with my feet on the ground, watching the Cinco de Mayo parade.

Once back in the car, Phillip and I rode in silence back down to the city, passing the occasional car with Mexican flags attached to the windows on either side. Finally I said, “That was really nice of Lester to invite us out on his boat.”

Philip flipped on his turn blinker and moved into a faster lane.

“Sorry I got seasick. That was my first time sailing. I didn't know what to expect!”

Philip grunted and just kept driving.

I watched his profile—sculptured, handsome, smooth—but couldn't read his eyes behind the sunglasses. I decided this wasn't the time to bring up Mother's Day weekend.

But once we got back to Richmond Towers, showered and changed, and settled at the kitchen counter with hot roast beef sandwiches, I said casually, “You know what I was thinking, Philip. Next Sunday is Mother's Day, and the boys have a three-day weekend. Why don't we fly them here to Chicago, introduce them to their new home, and do something special all together as a family next Sunday? We haven't been to any of the museums yet. Best Mother's Day gift I can think of !”

Philip looked at me as if I'd just suggested climbing the Swiss Alps. “Gabby, that's silly! Philip Jr. graduates from eighth grade in a couple of weeks, and they'll be coming here for the summer. It doesn't make sense to spend the money to bring them now.”

Unbidden, my eyes watered and I had to grab a napkin. “But I really miss them, Philip.”

“Aw, Gabby, don't go crying. I miss the boys too. But it's only a couple more weeks! We'll fly down for his graduation, stay a few days with my parents, and bring them home with us then.”

I stared at him. I'd just rearranged my whole weekend for him and humiliated myself getting seasick in the process. That should earn me
some
brownie points. “Is that a no?”

Philip rolled his eyes and got up from the kitchen stool. “Be reasonable, Gabby. You can wait another couple of weeks.” He headed for the front room, and I heard the TV come on.

I sat at the kitchen counter for a long time, my thoughts and feelings so convoluted I hardly knew how to untangle them. I had to get out of this house! Go somewhere, do something . . . before I said—or did—something I'd regret later.

chapter 25

My ears pricked up as the grandfather clock in the front room bonged five thirty. Sunday Evening Praise at Manna House was at six . . . Mabel had said Pastor Stevens's church would be there, and he was the one board member I hadn't met yet. As for the shelter residents, I might as well face the music tonight and get it over with. Aida Menéndez and the rest deserved a personal apology from me, if nothing else. Never could tell who'd be around tomorrow.

Suddenly determined, I pulled on a sweater, grabbed my purse and the carry-all bag with my Bible, and headed for the front door. “I'm going to church!” I yelled into the living room, loud enough to be heard over the TV but not waiting for an answer.
Like I'm really dressed for church,
I thought wryly on my way down in the elevator, looking at my jeans and loafers. But I didn't care. And I knew the “church” at Manna House wouldn't care either.

Lively gospel music could already be heard clear out on the street by the time I'd waited thirty minutes for an elevated train on its weekend schedule and walked to the shelter. Using my staff key to let myself in, I snuck into the multipurpose room and found a chair in the back. The room was surprisingly full, with quite a few unfamiliar faces, many clapping and shouting, “Glory!” or “Praise You, Jesus!” as the song came to an end. Many of the unfamiliar folks were wearing dresses and heels, even a few hats. Must be members of New Hope Missionary Baptist. I wished I'd taken time to at least put on a pair of slacks and a nice sweater.

A young African-American man with a few too many pounds for his age—this couldn't be Pastor Stevens, could it? He seemed too young!—bounced back and forth at the front of the room as an electronic keyboard and set of bongo drums filled in the lull. “C'mon now, church, c'mon,” the young worship leader said, “let the redeemed of the Lord
say
so!”

More shouts, clapping, hallelujahs, and lifted hands. Couldn't say I was used to all this raucous enthusiasm during a worship service—so unlike the formal liturgy of Briarwood Lutheran back in Virginia, or even the more informal but still sedate services at Minot Evangelical Church growing up. But it was impossible to just sit there. I clapped with the others. Clapping for God—well, why not?

“Okay, now, you all heard our girl Whitney sing Dottie Rambo's song ‘I Go to the Rock' on
The Preacher's Wife
sound-track—c'mon now, don't pretend you didn't see that movie.” Laughter. “But even if you didn't, you'll pick it up mighty fast. On your feet, everybody! One-two, one-two—”

Right on the beat the keyboard player and drummer, both young black men barely out of their teens, struck up the lively gospel tune and the Missionary Baptist folks helped carry the words . . .

Where do I go . . . when there's no one else to turn to?

Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen?

Who do I lean on . . . when there's no foundation stable? . . .

I'd seen the movie, though couldn't say I remembered the song, but now it echoed in my head as if putting words to all the aches, confusion, loneliness, and anger sitting like crud in my spirit.
No
one to turn to . . . nobody wants to listen . . . who do I lean on . . .

Suddenly the tension in my spirit uncoiled like a live wire, unleashing a torrent of tears. I couldn't stop. Shoulders shaking, eyes and nose running, fishing for a pack of tissues, I sank back into my chair as the shelter “congregation” all around me kept singing . . .

I go to the Rock I know that's able,

I go to the Rock! . . .

A light hand touched my shoulder, then two thin arms went around me, and Aida Menéndez was whispering in my ear. “It is okay, Miss Gabby. We're not mad at you. Miss Mabel said you couldn't help it. Next time, maybe.
Sí?
”

I nodded, still mopping my face, and hugged her back. “Thanks, Aida. I am so sorry I had to cancel our plans to go to the parade.”

As the song finally wound to a close and a middle-aged black man in a suit and tie got up to speak—this must be Pastor Stevens—Aida, the young girl who'd been kicked out of the foster-care system at eighteen, who'd probably been disappointed by people like me all her life, slipped back to her seat. Aida had presumed my tears were guilty ones—and maybe some of them were—but she had no idea how deep and dry the well was from which they'd sprung.

I liked Pastor Stevens. He made a point to introduce himself after the service. “You must be Mrs. Fairbanks,” he said, shaking my hand and smiling, a slight tease in his deep brown eyes. “They said you had curly hair. Mm-mm. They weren't kidding.” He laughed.

I only hoped my nose wasn't bright red after the crying spell during the service. We chatted, he apologized for missing our lunch date a week ago, and I assured him I understood. He said he appreciated the questionnaire I'd sent to the board and was sure several members of his congregation would be glad to sign up as volunteers. He didn't seem to know about the Cinco de Mayo fiasco, didn't mention it anyway, so I left it to Mabel to inform the board if she felt it necessary. But I was grateful it didn't come up in my first meeting with Pastor Stevens.

The pastor also introduced me to his wife, a sweet-faced woman who looked at least six months pregnant, and several members of his congregation who, Mabel explained later, enthusiastically showed up whenever their pastor had to speak somewhere else.

That kind of loyalty must be nice, I thought.

As soon as I was able to slip away, I went downstairs to my office, closed the door behind me, and booted up my computer. Then I called up the Internet, typed in the travel site we often used, and filled out the necessary information:

I didn't say anything to Philip when I got home later that evening, but the next morning as he was leaving for work, I handed him his travel mug of fresh coffee and a folded piece of paper.

“What's this?”

“My flight info. I'm going to Petersburg this weekend to see the boys. Wanted to let you know a week ahead of time so it doesn't interfere with any last-minute plans.” I kept my voice light, matter-of-fact.

“What? Gabby, we should have talked about this!”

“I tried. Don't worry. I'm working now, so I can pay for the ticket. Have a good day.” I smiled and walked out of the gallery back to the kitchen.

Behind me I heard, “Of all the—” and then the front door slammed.

My smile grew even wider.

There was something else I had to do before I could leave for work. I picked up the phone and called Philip's parents in Virginia.

“Hello, Marlene? This is Gabby . . . No, nothing's wrong. Philip's fine. I'm calling to let you know that I'm coming to Petersburg this weekend to see the boys—Mother's Day, you know . . . Yes, I
know
Philip didn't call to let you know. I thought I should call you myself . . . No, just me. We'll both be coming in a couple of weeks for P.J.'s graduation, but I thought—”

I repressed a sigh and listened while Philip's mother fussed for a full minute about having to change plans now and I should have let them know sooner. “Yes, I'm sorry about that, it was kind of a last-minute decision. I'd like to spend some time with just the boys since I haven't seen them for a whole month, but of course I'd love to see you and Dad Fairbanks too . . . No, don't worry about picking me up, I can rent a car . . . Of course, I understand. I'll get a room at the Holiday Inn Express . . . Yes, two nights, Saturday and Sunday. I'll fly to Chicago Monday after the boys go back to school . . .”

I was so exhausted after navigating the phone call with Philip's mother that I felt like crawling back into bed. But I drank a second cup of coffee, gathered up my stuff, and headed for the elevator. Hopefully Mabel would have had time to look at my program proposal and we could get started lining up volunteers and resources.
ESL materials—they shouldn't be too hard to find . . .
and typing—Kim's idea is probably the most practical of all . . . the
shelter already has two computers in the schoolroom . . . there are prob-ably
self-help programs available, but a teacher would be nice . . .
probably more available on the weekends anyway—