Where Do I Go? (35 page)

Well, this was ironic, given that I was wishing someone would teach me how to pray earlier this week. But . . . the Lord's Prayer? I'd memorized that as a kid, and it was a regular part of the liturgy at Briarwood Lutheran. But repeating a rote prayer wasn't exactly what I had in mind.

I considered slipping out, but that seemed rude after just sit-ting down. So I stayed put—and then forgot about leaving as Edesa Baxter broke down the prayer into tiny parts. “First, Jesus encouraged His disciples to give God praise! ‘Hallowed be Thy name!'
Hallowed
means holy, sacred, blessed. When we come into the presence of the King of kings, this is the first thing we do. We worship Him!”

I listened in amazement as the young black woman from Honduras—who seemed too young to be so wise—went phrase by phrase through the Lord's Prayer, encouraging these women off the street to get familiar with the Bible, so they could pray
in
the will of God. “Because prayer is powerful,
mis amigas.
Prayer changes things. But that doesn't mean God's going to answer your prayer for security by sending you a smooth-talking pimp who's promised to take care of you if you'll just take care of his johns.” Nervous snickers and a few guffaws consumed the room.

The discussion got a bit dicey when she got to the part about confessing our sins and asking God to forgive us. “Jesus said we also need to forgive people who sin against us.”

“Man! I ain't forgivin' my daddy for what he done to me. He can burn in hell for all I care.”

“What if the scumbags don't confess
their
sins? Do we still have to forgive 'em?”

“Jesus did,” Edesa said simply. “While He was hanging on the cross, after being whipped and nailed through His hands and feet, He said, ‘Father, forgive them, because they don't know what they're doing.' But that doesn't mean it's easy. I know.” Her lip trembled. “I admit I'm very angry at the man who got Gracie's mother pregnant, probably got her hooked on drugs, too, and then abandoned her to die. And now he's trying to take Gracie away from us.”

Suddenly everyone wanted to talk about the crackheads and slicksters in their lives who didn't deserve to be forgiven. I slipped out of the room. This didn't seem to apply to me. Nothing in my life matched what these women had suffered—not even Edesa's fight for Gracie.

But I decided to take another look at the Lord's Prayer.
Starting with praise
. . . I was definitely weak on that one.
Asking
God to meet my needs
. . . Yeah. When I got desperate. But it talked about “daily bread.” Basic needs. Why not
before
I got desperate?
Confessing my sins
. . . Didn't do that too often.
Huh.
It was bad enough constantly having to apologize to Philip for all the ways I didn't measure up to his expectations.
Forgiving others—

I stopped with my hand on the doorknob to my office.

Could I forgive Philip for making me feel like I was nothing more
than sand in his shoes?

chapter 34

I phoned the boys at noon and talked to Paul. The natives were getting restless. “It's eighty degrees out there, Mom! I wanna go swimming.”

“I know, hon. Hang in there. Let me talk to Mrs. Sanchez.”

Camila said everything was fine, but she had to leave at two o'clock.

“That's fine, Camila. The boys can stay by themselves for a little while. I should be home by two thirty or so. I'll check in with them by phone.”

I made a point to catch Edesa at lunch and ask about the hearing, but she just shook her head. “It got postponed, Gabby. Nobody said why.” The anxiety in her large, dark eyes contradicted her wry smile. “Makes it hard to practice what I preach—you know, what I said this morning, about forgiveness. And patience!”

Frankly, it was good to know she was human. I gave her a sympathetic hug, told her to keep me posted, and went looking for Mabel. I hadn't seen the director at lunch, so I tapped on her office door, my list of current and proposed activities in hand.

“It's open!”

I peeked in. She and Stephanie Cooper, the case manager, had their heads together—beauty-shop-relaxed black coif and wash-and-wear light brown bangs—poring over a stack of manila file folders. “Oops, excuse me. I can come back later.”

Mabel looked up. “That's okay. Just doing progress reports. What's up?”

I waved my list. “I can just leave this with you. There are some life skills I'd like to add to the program—and Estelle Williams could do it all. Sewing. Cooking. But she's already making lunch five days a week, and she's teaching some of the women to knit when the nurse is here. I hate to ask her to do more as a volunteer.” I took a deep breath. “Have you thought about adding her to the program staff ? Even part-time?”

The director cast an amused glance at Stephanie. “How did you know we were talking about adding to our staff ? Stephanie needs another case manager too.”

Mabel invited me to write a memo to submit to the board meeting in two weeks, listing the need and Estelle's qualifications. “Personally, I like the idea. What else is on that list?”

By the time I got back to my office and typed up the memo, it was already after two. I grabbed the phone and dialed the pent-house. The phone rang seven times and went to voice mail. “P.J.? Paul? Pick up! This is Mom.” Nothing.

Oh, great. They probably have the TV on and can't hear the phone.
But I knew Camila had to be gone by now, and I didn't like not knowing if the boys were all right. Grabbing my purse and back-pack, I signed out and headed for the El. I tried again while I waited for the Red Line. Still only got voice mail.

An uneasy thought niggled at me as I paced on the platform. What if the boys got tired of waiting in the house and decided to go swimming on their own? Did the beaches have lifeguards yet? Chicago schools weren't out, but it was after Memorial Day . . .

By the time the train finally opened its doors at my stop, I was that jumbled bag of nerves familiar to parenthood—furious that the boys hadn't answered the phone, plotting dire punishments if they had disobeyed me, and scared spitless that something had happened to my kids. I practically ran the three blocks to Richmond Towers, pushed through the revolving doors, heart pounding . . . and stopped dead in my tracks.

A chunky white man I recognized as another resident in the building had the shirt collars of both my sons locked in his grip, one in each hand, and—neck veins bulging—was spouting off to Mr. Bentley. “Call the police right now!” he was yelling. “If you don't, I will!”

P.J. was writhing like a wild feline. “Let me go, you jerk! I'll tell my dad.”

The doorman patted the air with both hands as though trying to calm everyone down. “Now, no need to call the police. I know the parents. Just let me—”

Paul spotted me and burst into tears. “Mom! Make him let us go!”

Heart pounding, I finally found my voice. “Mr. Bentley! What's going on?”

Before Mr. Bentley had a chance to say anything, the red-faced man had let go of my sons and was shaking a finger in my face. “These your kids? You live here? What kind of parent are you, letting them run loose around the building, raising Cain?!”

“What—what did they do? . . . Mr. Bentley?”

But the man wasn't finished. “Snuck into the parking garage and ran around rocking cars, setting off a dozen car alarms.” He stabbed his finger at me again. “You better believe management is going to hear about this!” He stormed off, but he had one parting shot for Mr. Bentley. “If you can't keep hooligans like these brats from running amuck in our building, mister, I'll have your job!”

The man's words burned in my ears.
“Hooligans like these
brats . . . I'll have your job.”

But I tried to focus on the real issue with P.J. and Paul when we got up to the penthouse. “He shouldn't have said that, but he was angry. With good reason. You boys know better than to create a ruckus like that! What were you thinking?!”

P.J. flopped on the couch, arms folded, face molded in an angry pout. “But, Mom, we got so bored! There's nothin' to do here.”

“No excuses. I told you not to leave the house until I got home.”

“Yeah, but you didn't come, and the whole day was almost gone.”

That got me. It was so tempting to relent, pack a snack, grab our swimming suits, and let the sparkling waters of Lake Michigan wash this whole ugly incident into oblivion. But I braced myself to follow through. “I'm sorry I wasn't here when Mrs. Sanchez left. And I'm sorry you had to wait so long. But that's still no excuse for setting off car alarms, for heaven's sake! You have embarrassed your dad and me and . . . and you even put Mr. Bentley's job in jeopardy.”

P.J. shrugged sullenly. That did it. I realized neither boy had so much as said, “I'm sorry.”

“Both of you. To your rooms. You're grounded the rest of the day—and maybe longer. Depends on what Dad says when he gets home.”

Twin wails went up. “Aww, Mom!”

“Go!”

I pressed my fingertips to my scalp as bedroom doors slammed.
Oh God. Please don't let this get Mr. Bentley in trouble too.
Heating water for tea to calm my nerves, I realized I was less concerned about us getting kicked out. In fact, I almost hoped it would happen. Maybe we could look for a house—on the
ground
—or even buy one of those charming row townhouses in one of the “gentrified” urban neighborhoods.

Get a grip, Gabby. Philip would blow a gasket—

Philip. I groaned as I steeped my chamomile tea. I'd give anything if I didn't have to tell Philip. But I had no doubt we would hear from management about this, and it would be even worse if he found out that way.

By the time my husband got home, I had a pot roast in the oven—I figured a heavenly “welcome home” smell never hurt—and had steeled myself to tell him right away what had happened. Personally, my own mad at the boys was over, and I was going to lobby that not getting to go swimming today was punishment enough for a first offense . . . but I should have known better.

Philip was furious with
me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had hoped the boys and I could pack Friday evening and take off for North Dakota on Saturday. But Philip insisted on taking the boys to Navy Pier for the day—“Since you kept them holed up here like moles yesterday,” he'd hissed at me—to ride the enormous Ferris wheel, eat lunch at Bubba Gump's, and take a sail on one of the masted “tall ships” that gives rides by the hour to tourists.

My eyes burned with unshed tears as I washed and folded clothes, ordered a rental car for the trip—a minivan, no frills—and packed duffel bags for the boys. Nothing I'd done yesterday had been right according to Philip, from leaving the boys with Camila Sanchez in the first place, to not being there when she left, to not fulfilling my promise to take them swimming. Of
course
they got into trouble. What did I expect?

I'd said nothing. From his point of view, he made a good case. None of this would have happened if I'd been home with them instead of at work.

I argued my own case to the laundry basket. “Good grief ! P.J. is thirteen, old enough to stay home a few hours by himself—
and
look after his younger brother! . . . Many families have working parents . . . I was home for years when the boys were small . . . Philip is the one who sent the boys off to boarding school nine months out of the year! . . . A job for me at this time in our life makes sense. My job is a worthy one, and I'm good at it . . . Since I do have a job, there will be times we have to pull together as a family and adjust. I can't just work a few months and quit, then start up again . . . Good grief ! One day of boredom isn't going to kill the boys. And I
am
taking a week off to take them on a vacation trip . . .”

But it was no use. Philip's words continued to beat me over the head in the silent penthouse.
“Selfish” . . . “Pigheaded” . . . “My
mother is right about you” . . . “Might as well send the boys back to
Virginia right now” . . .

I buried my head in a still-warm-from-the-dryer T-shirt. Was I just selfish and pigheaded? Was I the crazy one here?

Frankly, I was glad to be leaving for a week. We both needed time to cool off. By the time I got back, the heat would be off, the boys would be in sailing camp for a month, and we could settle into a workable routine.

But the silence in the empty penthouse was starting to give me jitters. I called Manna House at noon to ask how the first Saturday typing class went. I waited for several minutes while someone went to see if Jodi Baxter was still there, then she picked up.

“Checking up on me, are you, Gabby?” Her voice was teasing. “Actually, I was surprised you weren't here to make sure I showed up.” Jodi laughed. “I'll have to tell you sometime about the first time I volunteered at Manna House. The place burned down.” She chuckled again. “But seriously, the class was good, I think. That Kim is a real go-getter. She's still in the schoolroom practicing. A couple other people dropped by and asked if they could learn to type, too, which would be fine with me, but you'll need several more computers.” She paused a mere nanosecond, as if shifting gears. “How are you doing, Gabby? Everything okay?”