Where Do I Go? (38 page)

I next tried the local Agency on Aging. The person on the phone explained their list of services, which included day care at the local senior center, transportation to medical appointments, home-delivered meals, and hot meals available at various sites around the city. “We'd be happy to set up a home visit to assess your mother's needs. How about next Wednesday at eleven?”

The piano in the living room tinkled a jazzy tune. Didn't sound like my mom. I stuck a finger in my ear so I could hear the phone. “Uh, I'm only in town this week. Could we do this today?”

“I'm sorry. The best we can do is a ten o'clock tomorrow here in the office.”

Tomorrow?!
I gritted my teeth. “Fine.” What was I going to do between now and then?

I poked my head into the living room. Paul was sitting at the piano, playing with both hands, while my mother sat nearby, beaming. I listened. Not bad. “Where did you learn that, kiddo?”

Paul shrugged. “Made it up myself. Can we go to the air museum now? Are you coming, Grandma?”

I hesitated. I really should make more calls! But my mother was already getting her hat. “Just so we're back in time for prayer meeting tonight,” she said.

Was she assuming we were all going to church? I opened my mouth to protest . . . and was surprised to realize I actually wanted to go. Maybe
needed
to go was more like it. I could sure use some help praying.

At the last minute, I tore out a page from the yellow pages and stuck my cell phone in my pocket. No way could I waste several hours wandering around a museum while there were still stones to be turned.

In spite of the change in weather, the boys had a great time at the air museum. The huge DC-3 World War II Troop Transport standing out in an open field, named
Gooney Bird
by its now-silent heroes, was the boys' favorite, while inside the museum a replica of the Wright Brothers' famous flyer and a two-winged, red-and-white aerobatic plane came a close second and third.

Mom tired fairly quickly, so I parked her on a bench while the boys ran their batteries down. Stepping away a few paces, I turned on my cell phone and dialed all the social service agencies I could find. But the answers all ended at the same place: zero. “We would need a doctor's referral” . . . “Why don't you call the Agency on Aging?” . . . “I'm sorry” . . . “Would you like to put her name on our waiting list?”

And then the battery died.
Drat!
Tomorrow's appointment was my last chance.

Trying not to be panicky, I picked up a pizza and a video for the boys on the way home, and let them stay home with Dandy and the TV remote while I drove Mom to church.

Only a smattering of people were at the prayer meeting at the little stone church, maybe fifteen max. I didn't know anyone there, for which I was glad. My parents had changed churches shortly after Damien dumped me nineteen years ago. The scandal of a divorce in a “no divorce—ever” church had been too much for them. A few people shook my hand and murmured, “That's nice,” when my mom introduced me as “my daughter from Virginia.” I didn't bother to correct her. Someone started a song a cappella, and I was surprised how quickly the words came back to me . . .

What a friend we have in Jesus,

All our sins and griefs to bear

What a privilege to carry

Everything to God in prayer . . .

A stack of prayer request cards were passed out. I got two—someone's sister who had breast cancer, and another for a husband who drank too much. I was surprised when everyone got down on their knees along the wooden pews, and I heard murmurings all around me as people prayed aloud. But I got down on my knees, too, wishing I'd worn slacks instead of a skirt, and dutifully prayed silently for the cards in my hand.

But Jesus' words kept rolling around in my mind.
Ask and you
will receive. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will open.
I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter.
Okay, Jesus, I'm asking. What
should I do about my mom?!

I stayed on my knees, head buried in my hands, listening to the rise and fall of the murmured prayers all around me. I kept thinking about my mom living alone, thinking about having to get the boys back by Sunday night so they could start sailing camp, realizing there wasn't enough time to do everything I needed to do to get my mom set up here and keep her safe . . .

“Come to Me.”

The words were so clear, they seemed to echo in my head. Where did that come from? Was that supposed to be God's answer? What kind of answer was that? That's what I was doing, wasn't it—coming here to prayer meeting to pray?

But I couldn't get the words out of my head.
“Come to Me.”
Not even the next morning—the last day of our visit before heading back to Chicago—while I read another three chapters from Matthew.
“Come to Me.”
I shook them off. What I needed to do was get up, get dressed, and get Mom and me over to the agency to see what my options were.

That was before my mom backed into Dandy, who was standing underfoot in the kitchen as we made breakfast, and tumbled backward over the dog and thumped her head on the floor.

Mom!
Mom! Are you okay?” I tried to get to her, but the dog “ still stood in the way, looking confused. “Dandy, get out of here, you stupid mutt.” I grabbed the dog by the collar, pulled him across the kitchen floor, and shoved him outside.
Oh God, no . . .
what if Mom broke her hip . . . I should call 9-1-1 . . .

My mom sat up, rubbing her head. “Oh, it's nothing. Just a bump.” She looked at me reproachfully. “Go say you're sorry to Dandy, Gabby. It's not his fault.”

I blew out a relieved breath. “Okay, I will. Later.” I helped my mother up from the floor. “Are you sure you're okay? Come on, I want you to lie down on the couch with an ice pack.” After I checked her pupils to make sure she didn't have a concussion, she let me lead her into the living room, prop her feet up with some pillows, and make an ice pack for the back of her head. I told the boys to get their own breakfast, then went back into the living room to sit with my mom. Concussion or not, I decided I had my answer.

Mom was going back to Chicago with me.

I made my peace with Dandy, who wagged his forgiveness and promptly curled up on the couch with my mom. But the dog was a problem. I called Aunt Mercy at the library, told her I was taking my mom back to Chicago, and could she please keep Dandy?

“Oh, Gabby. I'm sorry. My apartment complex doesn't allow pets. But I've got a key to the house. I'll be glad to check on things and water her plants. You better have her mail held—on second thought, she has a slot in the door, so I'll just collect it and for-ward anything that's important. How's that?”

It would have to do.

I took the boys upstairs and told them Grandma was coming back with us. P.J.'s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where's she going to sleep?”

I'd steeled myself for that question. “In your room for now. Paul's still got a bunk bed. You can sleep there—”

“That's not fair!” P.J. yelled. “I'm the oldest. Let Grandma sleep in Paul's room.”

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “And don't give me that look, young man. You and Paul share a room at your Nana Marlene's house. It's not going to kill you for a few weeks.” Who was I kidding? A few months was more like it. “Grandma just can't stay by herself right now.”

P.J. flopped on one of the twin beds, his back to me. “Still not fair. You and Dad didn't ask
us
if we wanted to move to Chicago. Didn't want to come on this dumb trip, either.” He buried his face in the pillow.

I almost snapped,
“Dad didn't ask me if I wanted to move
either!”
—but P.J. suddenly rolled back over and faced me, his eyes challenging.

“How come Dad didn't come with us to Grandma's?”

“Well, uh . . . he had to work. You know, just starting the new business and all.”

P.J. glared at me a long moment, then rolled back over. “Just go away. Leave me alone.”

My eyes blurred. I pushed Paul out of the bedroom and started down the stairs. This trip wasn't turning out like I had hoped. I'd wanted to spend some special time with my sons, get-ting to know them again, just having fun together. But P.J. seemed so distant, hard to reach. The move had been tough on me . . . what else should I have expected from him? But now I felt so consumed trying to figure out how to care for my mom that—

Paul was tugging on my arm. “Can Dandy come too?”

“What?” I stopped on the staircase.

“You know, back to Chicago.”

I hesitated.

“Mom, please! Grandma would cry without Dandy. I'll help take care of him. I can run him in the park. I'll even pick up his poops.”

I pulled my youngest into a bear hug and rumpled his curly head. If only it were that simple. But what other choice did I have? My mom would never agree to leave her dog locked up in a kennel for a couple of weeks, much less three months. She'd fuss about the cost, anyway.

I canceled the appointment with the Agency on Aging and spent the rest of the day washing clothes, packing a suitcase for my mom, cleaning the house, and even packing a duffel bag for the dog: leash, brush, food and water bowls, sleeping rug, bag of dog food, plastic bags. “Guess that makes you official,” I muttered to Dandy, who seemed quite anxious about the suitcase on my mom's bed.

The weather was still coolish, with occasional drizzles, so the boys didn't even beg to go to the pool. They discovered an ancient Monopoly game with most of its parts, which helped kill the afternoon and kept my mom company in the living room while I made a quick trip to the Miracle Mart for trip food.

But I knew I was stalling.

I had to call Philip.

Tonight.

chapter 37

The car was a little crowded with four of us plus a dog in the minivan, but Dandy turned out to be a good traveler, curling up on the floor under Paul's feet, only getting up from time to time to check on Mom in the front passenger seat. Paul was true to his word, snapping on the leash and taking the dog for runs at rest stops, a plastic bag in his back pocket in case the dog did his business.

My mom still had a lump on her head, but otherwise she seemed fine, sitting quietly in the front passenger seat, taking in the scenery, a little smile on her face. Casting an occasional glance her way, I realized she probably hadn't been anywhere since my father had died two years ago.

“Did you tell Dad that Dandy is coming too?” Paul asked. “What he'd say?”

I glanced at my youngest in the rearview mirror. Did he have a sixth sense that his father was not going to be happy with this whole plan? “Ah . . . I had to leave a message.” Which was true. The house phone rang seven times last night, and then voice mail picked up. At first I thought God must be smiling on me, because I was able to leave a matter-of-fact message, saying my mom and Dandy were coming for a visit, even adding that my mom really couldn't stay alone any longer. But then I realized it just put off the inevitable: Philip's reaction.

Still, when he hadn't called back by the time I locked the house Saturday morning and got everybody into the car, I began to relax. My cell phone was dead. I had a whole day before I had to try calling again from the hotel tonight. I started to hum. Might as well enjoy the trip.

Funny thing, though. When I tried to call the penthouse that evening from our hotel room, I only got voice mail again. I sucked up my courage and tried Philip's cell. Same thing.

Odd.

We were a wilted bunch when we piled out of the minivan in front of Richmond Towers Sunday evening. I sent Paul over to the park with Dandy on a leash and asked P.J. to get a luggage cart from the weekend doorman while I helped my mother out of the car. P.J. was back in five minutes, holding the nonrevolving door open for Mr. Bentley, pushing a luggage cart.

“Mr. Bentley!” I was so happy to see him, I threw decorum to the wind and gave him a big hug. “What are you doing working on Sunday? I thought the door-dude—”

Mr. Bentley burst out laughing. “The ‘door-dude,' as you so aptly call him, got himself fired. I have to fill in until they hire his replacement. And who is this lovely lady?” He tipped his head in a little bow toward my mother, who stood beside the car trying to juggle her sweater, pocketbook, a plastic bag of car trash, and a magazine.

“Oh . . . This is my mother, Martha Shepherd, from North Dakota. Mom, this is Mr. Bentley. He's the doorman here at Richmond Towers, and also a good friend.”

Mr. Bentley doffed his cap. “I'm very pleased to meet you, ma'am—”

A happy bark, followed by a breathless Paul, announced the rest of our crew. “And, uh, this is Dandy, my mom's doggy companion,” I finished. The little yellow mutt danced and turned circles in front of my mother until he got his rump scratched and a pat on the head, then Dandy bounced over to Mr. Bentley and sniffed his shoes.