Where Do I Go? (28 page)

The red brick home was lovely, almost like a large bungalow, with a low front porch along the main part of the house and three dormer windows jutting from the roof on the second floor. An addition had been built at some point to accommodate a large family room with a loft, a stone fireplace, and an attached garage. The house nestled among two acres of trees and lawns . . . a wonderful play space for grandkids. No wonder my boys loved coming here.

The front door opened, and eleven-year-old Paul came running toward the car. “I knew it was you!” he yelled, jumping up and down as I got out of the car and enveloped him in a mama bear hug. Then Philip Jr. appeared, a bit more subdued, but I still got a hug. I held both boys at arm's length, drinking in the sight of them: Paul, still scrawny and short, his school buzz cut starting to grow out into the chestnut curls he'd inherited from me. And P.J., dark haired like his father, starting to add inches. He'd soon be looking me in the eye.

Marlene Fairbanks appeared, smiling benevolently. “Well, come in, Gabrielle. You can have dinner, can't you, before you have to go to your hotel? Mike will want to see you. He had to go into the office today.”

Like father, like son.
“Dinner would be lovely. Thank you, Marlene. And then . . .” I knuckled both boys on their noggins. “I wondered if the boys would like to come to the Holiday Inn with me for the night. My room has two queen beds. They have an indoor swimming pool and a game room—”

“Yes!” Paul pumped his arm. “Can we, Nana?”

His question grated on me. But Marlene, ever the Southern gentlewoman, said, “Well, of course, if that's what your mother wants, though I'd thought . . . well, never mind. Shall we go in?”

Our supper was pleasant enough, served by the live-in house-keeper, and delicious as always: country ham, smothered potatoes, cornbread, green beans, and peach cobbler. Mike Fairbanks welcomed me with a warm squeeze but kept saying, “So why didn't Philip come with you? Too busy to come see his family?”

I found myself defending my husband, saying our plan had been to come for several days the following week, when P.J. graduated from eighth grade, and this trip was “a little extra gift from Philip to me for Mother's Day.” That seemed to pacify the senior Mr. Fairbanks, and I even wanted to believe it . . . until I saw Marlene's face, and knew she'd undoubtedly heard a different story from Philip.

Marlene called the Holiday Inn that evening and asked if we wanted them to pick us up for church. “Always something special on Mother's Day Sunday,” she purred.

But the boys and I had already talked about picking up the boys' bikes—the reason I'd rented the SUV—and riding along the paths of the Petersburg National Battlefield Park. “And if I could borrow one of the other bikes Mike keeps around . . .”

“Oh dear.” I could practically see my mother-in-law pout over the telephone. “Mike will be so disappointed. He just lives to see those boys on the weekend.”

I pressed my lips together so hard, I practically bit them.
Who
hadn't seen them for the past
five
weekends? Good grief. Couldn't the Fairbanks give me just one day without whining about it?! I was sure the good Lord would understand if we didn't show up for church tomorrow.

But in the end we compromised. The boys and I would spend the day together at the Battlefield, and then we'd come back to the house in late afternoon for a barbecue if the weather held. And I had to admit later, I was glad we had a place to go by three that afternoon, because the boys were tired of riding their bikes, tired of seeing the monuments they'd seen half a dozen times before, and I was tired of their bickering and complaining. Besides, the fog that had started the day held a chill that began to seep beneath our windbreakers, and we were all glad to get back to the Fairbanks' home, where Grandad Mike had built a fire in the stone fireplace . . . though I soon found myself warming my toes alone as the boys scrambled to play their video games.

Only when I finally got back to my room at the Holiday Inn around nine o'clock did I realize Mother's Day was almost over, and I hadn't called my own mother. Terrible-daughter guilt threatened to undo my joy at spending the past twenty-four hours with my own sons. It was only eight o'clock in North Dakota
. . . Still time.
But the phone rang and rang. No answer. I tried at nine thirty, then ten. Still no answer.

Anxiety put my nerves on alert. Was something wrong? Wouldn't one of my sisters have called me? I tried the number I had for Celeste in Alaska, and all I got was a recording that said the number was not in service. I tried Honor in California—thank goodness, it was ringing!—but her answering machine kicked in.
“Not here. Leave a message. Peace.”

I finally crawled under the thick comforter of the Holiday Inn bed, worried sick. Had my mother heard from any of us?
How
could I let this happen?
As I lay in the dark, kicking myself for my selfishness, I had an inkling of how some of the mothers at the shelter must feel, crawling into their bunks on Mother's Day and not hearing from a single child.

chapter 27

A phone rang
. . .
kept ringing
. . .

I woke with a start and grabbed the bedside phone. The boys? Philip? But it was only the hotel's automated wake-up call. I fell back into the bed, feeling disoriented. I was here in Petersburg . . . had spent the weekend with the boys . . . the visit with Philip's parents had gone better than expected . . .

So why did I feel sad, like it had all gone wrong?

My mother.
I still hadn't talked to my mother!

Opening the room-darkening drapes and gulping water to clear my voice, I found my cell phone and pushed the speed dial for Mom. One ring . . . two . . . three . . . and then to my relief, the phone picked up. A wobbly voice. “Hello?”

“Mom?! Oh, thank goodness! I tried to call you several times last night and got no answer. I was so worried!”

A pause. “Who is this?”

What—?
“It's Gabby! I should have called you yesterday morning, but—”

“Oh. Gabby. You girls all sound alike, you know.”

Sound alike?
My mother had never said that before. “Mom, I'm so sorry I didn't call you first thing yesterday. I'm in Petersburg, visiting P.J. and Paul for Mother's Day. And we were running around all day—”

“Petersburg? Didn't you move to Chicago?”

“Yes, yes. But the boys are still in school here in Petersburg . . . Mom, are you okay? You don't sound so good.”

“Oh, yes. I'm fine. Just tired is all. Didn't feel too well last night, so your dad told me to go to bed early . . . no, no, that's not right. I think I was at Aunt Mercy's house for dinner, and she brought me home because I didn't feel good . . .”

Now I was really worried. That was the first time my mother had slipped up, talking as if Dad was still alive. Aunt Mercy was my dad's sister, our only other relative in Minot. Maybe that's why Mom got confused. I tried to keep it light. “Oh, well, that explains why you didn't answer the phone. You must be a sound sleeper, Mom. But . . . are you sure you're okay?”

“I don't know, Celeste. This house is too big. I can't keep up. Do you have to live so far away in Alaska? Maybe you and Tom could come live in the house and I could go to the nursing home. After all, it's just me and Dandy now . . .”

My eyes blurred. I didn't bother to remind my mother again that I was Gabby, not Celeste. Dandy was my parents' dog, also aging, a sweet mutt somewhere between a sheltie and a cocker spaniel, with a lot of hair. But in spite of the dog, she sounded lonely. Shouldn't be a surprise after forty-eight years of marriage, now a widow living alone—but her confusion was what worried me.

The phone call with my mother unsettled me long after I checked out of the Holiday Inn . . . after taking the boys to Aunt Sarah's Pancake House for breakfast . . . after reluctantly saying my good-byes and heading the rental car north to Richmond International. Should I have gone home to see my mother this weekend instead of insisting on seeing the boys? Maybe Philip was right; it was silly to make this trip when we'd be flying down there in another ten days for P.J.'s graduation!

I buckled myself into the aisle seat of the American Airlines plane, due to arrive in Chicago shortly after noon. Usually I loved to chat up my seatmate when flying alone, but my inner tussle took up all my attention.

That verse in Proverbs Edesa showed me . . . what does it mean to
trust God with all my heart and He will direct my paths? Am I trusting
God? Did I make the wrong choice this weekend? Surely there isn't any-thing
wrong with wanting to see my boys after a whole month, is there?
But . . . should I have given up what I wanted and done what was best
for my mom? Who needed me more?

“Uh . . . coffee. Cream, no sugar. Thanks,” I said the flight attendant, who'd had to ask me twice if I wanted something to drink. But the possibility that my decision to go see the boys had more to do with standing up to Philip than choosing “who needed me more” made me squirm. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about my mom, hadn't even called her until Sunday night . . .

As the plane squealed to a wet landing at O'Hare Inter­national—Good grief, was it still raining in Chicago?—I blew out a long breath. What was the point of second-guessing myself ? I did go to Petersburg, and I was glad I got to see P.J. and Paul. The question now was what to do about my mom. I probably needed to see her too—and soon.

I called Philip's cell from the taxi and got his voice mail. “Hi, Philip! I'm back; my flight was on time in spite of the rain. Since it's still early, I'm going to Manna House to put in a few hours this afternoon. The boys send their love and can't wait to see you next week. See you tonight. I'll make dinner. Bye!”

I flipped the phone closed, once again wrapped in my thoughts as the taxi driver—foreign, dark, maybe Indian?—darted into traffic on I-90 heading into the city.
Has it really come to this?
Philip hadn't called me once while I was gone. I hadn't called him either. And just now I didn't say “I missed you” or “Love you”— those little endearments that marked our early years. I missed those little whispers in my ears. And yet . . . was I at fault? Was I the one pulling away?

“Oh, God, I need help here . . .”

Only when the driver glanced into his rearview mirror at me did I realize I'd spoken out loud. Then he grinned, teeth stark white against his dark skin in the mirror, and he made curlicue motions with his fingers around his head.
My hair.
It always went bonkers in the rain.

I rolled my eyes and laughed back. “Where are you from?”

“Pakistan, two years! English I like to practice.” He seemed eager to talk, and I was glad for the distraction as the car crawled through heavy traffic.

When the taxi finally pulled up at Manna House, I rushed in and tapped on Mabel Turner's door and opened it. She looked up from her paperwork. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Virginia!”

“I was. But my plane got in at twelve thirty, so thought I'd come in for a few hours. Thanks for giving me the time off.”

She gave me a sly look. “Didn't give you time off. We have ways of filling up your time card.”

“In that case, I already did it.” I smirked back at her. “I was here until eleven cleaning up after the Fun Night!”

The director laughed and waved me off. But Carolyn accosted me as I pulled my suitcase across the multipurpose room. “Hey, Gabby. What about the books you promised? I found a bookcase in the alley, not too bad. We could put it right over there in that corner, or maybe in the TV room, make it a library instead. And we need a new chess set too. The one we got is missing two pawns, have to use checkers.” Then she looked at my suitcase. “You movin' in or somethin'?”

“Not today.” I laughed. “But you never know. Thanks for the reminder about the books. I'll work on it.” That and a zillion other things. Donations. I needed donations of books. And a resource list sent out to supporters and volunteers . . .

The rest of the afternoon I worked on a
Manna House Needs
Donations
sheet for board members, staff, and volunteers to hand out to their churches, friends, and coworkers. And mailing list. I needed access to the shelter's mailing list of supporters.

By the time I left Manna House at five o'clock, the “shelter kids”—about five of them school age—were ricocheting around the rec room, letting off steam. A crew of people I didn't recognize—volunteers?—were banging around the kitchen, making supper. On the main floor, a couple of toddlers and their mothers were making use of the playroom, while the TV room bleated some kind of sitcom laugh track. Aida Menéndez yelled at me from across the multipurpose room, “The Fun Night was awe-some, Miss Gabby! Can we do it again this Friday?”