Where Do I Go? (31 page)

Saturday, I had to admit, was a perfect spring day—low seventies, sunny. I stood a few steps back from our floor-to-ceiling wraparound windows, drinking in the sun sparkles on the lake.
I
might even like Chicago if there were more days like this.
But as tempting as it was to go out and play, I spent the weekend putting the finishing touches on the boys' bedrooms, making chocolate-chip cookies and freezing them, and shopping for groceries so we'd have their favorite foods on hand—boxes of macaroni and cheese, frozen hamburger patties, hot dogs, both kinds of buns (plain and poppy seed), and cans of spaghetti and meatballs. And frozen Pizza Bites.

At least they still preferred my homemade cookies.

When Philip went running Sunday morning, I got on the computer and searched online for Memorial Day activities in Chicago. We were bringing the boys home on Saturday, which meant we still had Sunday and the Monday holiday. I found lots of things going on—the Memorial Day parade, an Irish Fest, fire-works at Navy Pier . . .
whoa.
The Cubs were playing Atlanta at Wrigley Field next Sunday! Could I get tickets this late? Maybe Henry Fenchel could help me. Philip would be dazzled.

My spirit lifted. I was
not
going to let the fight with Philip over my job ruin the boys' homecoming. I'd work out something. After all, my job was part-time and the schedule flexible. I'd cut my hours if need be—which should be possible once I got a number of activities up and running. And if I did have to take some time off . . .

A tickle of an idea brought a smile to my face. Why not? I picked up the phone. What time was it in Alaska, anyway?

chapter 30

When I told Philip I'd managed to get four tickets to the Cubs game next Sunday—with Henry's help—he was elated. “No kid-ding! Good thinking, Mop Top.”

Building on this goodwill, I asked for the car to go to the Sunday Evening Praise at Manna House, promising I wouldn't come home without it. Then, in a burst of good intention, I asked if he'd like to go with me. “You could see where I work,” I said. “And we haven't been to church together since we came to Chicago.”

Philip snorted. “You call that church? When you're ready to go to
church
, Gabby, we can talk about going to church.”

My face burned. A quick retort rose to my lips. As if Sunday Evening Praise at Manna House was stopping us from going to church somewhere Sunday morning! But I decided to leave it alone. “Okay. Maybe when the boys come, we'll find a church.”

He didn't answer.

Park it, Gabby,
I told myself—and I didn't mean the Lexus, though I did find a parking space halfway down the block from the shelter, and I was able to leave two feet of room between me and the next car. It was still light at six o'clock, but might be dark when I came out. As I
beeped
the remote car locks, a couple came walking up the sidewalk, then stopped.

“Mrs. Fairbanks?”

They looked familiar—and I realized I'd met them once. “You're Josh's parents!”

The man laughed. “Gee, I thought when the kids moved out, we'd get our names back.” He held out his hand. “Denny Baxter. And this is my wife—I mean, Josh's mother.”

“Denny!” “Josh's mother” backhanded her husband with a smart left, then held out her right hand to me. “I'm Jodi—and don't mind him. You're Gabby, right? We talked on the phone.”

I smiled and shook both their hands. “Yes, of course! Thanks so much for the ESL materials. We'll put them to good use.” I wanted to laugh. Finally! “First name” people. I'd never seen a man with dimples as deep on both cheeks as this guy. They were both probably a few years older than I—early forties?—but both were pleasant looking. Denny had short-cropped hair, still brown but graying. Jodi wore her dark brunette hair shoulder-length, bangs swept to one side.

“I'm so glad we're getting a chance to meet you,” Jodi said. “Josh and Edesa talk about you all the time—oh, there's Avis and Peter. Hey, you two!”

Another couple came from the opposite direction as we con-verged on the Manna House steps. I recognized Avis Douglass as the woman who spoke at Sunday Evening Praise the first time I'd come, and her husband, Peter, was on the Manna House board. The two couples seemed very cozy with one another, which was interesting, since the Baxters were white and the Douglasses black. But I remembered that about SouledOut the last time the church had come to Manna House—the praise team and others from the church were a rather diverse crew. Not a “black church” like New Hope Missionary Baptist, or a “Spanish church” like the time Rev. Álvarez spoke, or Rev. Handley's white suburban church that came on Mother's Day last week, the Sunday I'd missed.

As we all stood in the foyer and chatted, my thoughts drifted. If only Philip had come with me, I wouldn't feel like a fifth wheel . . . and it'd be good for him to meet men like Peter Douglass, who owned his own software business, and Denny Baxter, who said he was athletic director at a Chicago public high school. Respected people in the Chicago community who sup-ported shelters like Manna House.

What was Philip's
problem?
The jerk.

“Gabby? Come sit with us.” Jodi Baxter took my arm. “If you don't have to rush off afterward, maybe we can talk about that typing class you asked about—though I teach third grade, and they're not typing yet!” She laughed and hustled us into the multi­purpose room, where the SouledOut instrumentalists and singers were starting on their first song.

My eyes blurred a little bit as the saxophonist pulled the words along.
“We bring a sacrifice of praise . . . into the house of the
Lord!”
But it wasn't the song. Not even the rather poignant image that this homeless shelter was “the house of the Lord.”

It was a longing deep inside I'd buried for a long time. I needed a friend. A
girlfriend.
Someone who wasn't a coworker, as friendly as all the volunteers and staff at the shelter were. Someone who wasn't half my age, as much as I adored Edesa. Someone married, with a husband near Philip's age, someone with the potential to have good times as a couple. Someone who called me Gabby and would like me just for myself.

Someone like Jodi Baxter.

On Monday morning, I asked Mabel Turner if I could take a week off the first full week of June, no pay, to take my sons to North Dakota to see their grandmother. With our trip to Virginia in a few days, and Memorial Day weekend coming up, that only left six working days in the next two weeks, but I promised I'd try to have a slate of activities up and running by then, which hope-fully could function for a week without my oversight.

“Jodi Baxter is willing to do a Saturday typing class starting next week. And once school is out, she'll consider doing another on a weekday. Peter Douglass said he'll look into getting us a couple more computers. Carolyn wants to start a book club, as soon as we can settle on which book . . . and I've got a couple other ideas I'm pursuing.”

I couldn't read Mabel's face. What if she didn't want to let me off ? I'd already left messages for both my sisters suggesting a family reunion in Minot that week. I'd just assumed I could work this out with the job! And the more I'd thought about it, the more I realized I had to do this—for my mother, for the boys, for my marriage . . .

“I'm sorry to ask for time off again so soon after our trip this week to pick up the boys, Mabel. But I really need to check in on my mom. And the boys don't begin their summer camp until the following week. This would take care of both, and I'd—”

Mabel held up a hand. “Gabby, stop. You don't have to convince me. If that's what you need to do, we'll swing by somehow here. What concerns me is . . . what's going on at home? You seem to be juggling some delicate plates in the air, acting as if you're afraid they'll fall and break into a thousand pieces.”

I wasn't prepared for that. But I couldn't answer either. I didn't want to paint Philip as some ogre before Mabel and others here had even met him. And Philip and I
were
going to work this out, weren't we?

“Sorry,” I said weakly. “We're still . . . adjusting to our move, new jobs, boys coming home—you know how it is. Thanks for understanding about taking the week off.” I fled downstairs to my office.

When I switched on the light, I realized someone had already been there. On my desk was the shelter's CD player and a plastic CD case. I picked up the plastic square. The soundtrack from
The
Preacher's Wife.
I glanced at the list of songs, and there it was: “I Go to the Rock.” But when I opened the CD case, it was empty. Already in the CD player.

I grinned.
Bless Josh Baxter.
I wondered where he'd found it. Clicking through the songs, I got to the number I wanted and pushed Play. The music pulsed and filled my cubbyhole . . .

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

I practically wore out that CD in the next few days. I even found one of the boys' old portable players with earphones and listened to it as I traveled to and from work on the El. The CD contained some other neat songs too, most of which I'd also never heard. How could I be so ignorant of really great gospel music? To tell the truth, my repertoire of “Christian music” consisted mostly of hymns and Sunday school songs I'd learned growing up, with a few contemporary songs and choruses that were popular with my youth group when I was a teenager. Twenty-plus years ago.

I had a lot of catching up to do.

I was soon caught up in the whirlwind of washing clothes Tuesday evening, packing, canceling Camila on Friday, trying to reach my sisters again and finally sending e-mails about meeting up in Minot in June, calling my mom and aunt ahead of time to let them know we were heading for Virginia . . . and finally Philip and I were on the plane Wednesday afternoon heading for Richmond.

Philip buried his attention in a copy of
BusinessWeek
, with the complimentary glass of wine provided in business class, leaving me to close my eyes and begin to relax. We were going to see the boys in a few hours . . . and then bring them home.
“Home”
. . . that wasn't a word I applied easily to the penthouse in Richmond Towers. But maybe with the boys there, we would begin to feel like a family again.

Oh Lord, please, make us a family again.

My thought-prayer bounced to my sisters, who still hadn't responded to either my phone messages or e-mails. What had happened to our family? The last time I'd seen either of my sisters was at my dad's funeral two years ago, and we rarely communicated.
Lord, can you make
us
a family again too?

On the other hand, for the next few days I was going to be wrapped once again in the tight-knit web of Philip's family—where I felt not so much included as caught.
Huh.
Could I pray the same prayer for the Fairbanks family?

We drove our rented luxury SUV directly from the airport to George Washington Preparatory Academy for the annual end-of-the- year award night, with plans to meet Mike and Marlene Fairbanks, who were getting a ride with another set of grand­parents so we four could return together. Philip was his charming self, joking with his parents and escorting me with a gentlemanly hand on my elbow. I warmed to his touch and started to relax, his self-assurance flowing to me. I suspected he felt good about returning home to Petersburg—and to his alma mater—on the upswing of a new business.

The stately auditorium with its dark wood wainscoting and pewlike seating was abuzz with proud parents, siblings, and grandparents as we found our seats, just before the academy's middle school students marched in, dressed in their maroon, navy, and royal blue school blazers, depending on the class.

“There's P.J.! Do you see Paul?”

The evening was long, but I felt like cheering when Philip Jr. received a second-place science award for his astronomy project on black holes, as well as a “team participation” trophy in soccer. But to my surprise and delight, Paul received a band award for original composition.

“Since when is Paul musical?” Philip stage-whispered.

“You knew he signed up to play trombone in the band.”

“Yeah, well, every boy goes through a stage when he wants to play the trumpet or trombone or something big and brassy. Usually doesn't last long.”

A lump settled in my throat. I hated that I hadn't known he'd composed a piece for the band. What else didn't I know about my youngest son?

Afterward, amid congratulations and hugs and excited babble, we went out to eat—along with scores of other family groups. I wasn't really hungry, just kept sneaking peeks at my sons as they chattered. P.J.'s dark hair and Romeo lashes preempted the few pimples that had erupted on his chin. Paul's childish flush still bloomed beneath his chestnut curls trying to grow back. I could have soaked up their faces all night, but we had to have the boys back to the academy by eleven. The school expected all its students to be present for the graduation ceremonies, so report cards and room clearances were deliberately scheduled for the following day.