Where Do I Go? (8 page)

As I waited for my youngest to get on the phone, I started to bristle. What was wrong with this picture? Sure,
one
weekend with the grandparents now and then, doing special things, was great. But was this the way it was going to be for the next six weeks? The senior Fairbanks pulling out all the stops to entertain my sons, while I got a two-minute report on the phone, like a parent who'd lost custody?

“Hi, Mom.” My eleven-year-old's plaintive voice rattled my cool. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, kiddo.” It was all I could do to keep my voice from quivering. “Only six more weeks, right? We'll come to P.J.'s eighth-grade graduation and bring you back with us to Chicago.”

A short silence. “But what about my friends here?”

“I know, hon. It's . . . it's hard to move away. But you'll make good friends in Chicago too.”

Another silence. “Guess I gotta go. Granddad's calling us to get in the car.”

I wanted to hug him so badly. But I put on a bright voice. “Sure, honey. Have a good time at the aquarium. Happy Easter tomorrow! You going to church with Nana and Granddad?”

“I guess. They haven't said anything about it. I . . . I gotta go, Mom. Say hi to Dad for me, okay?”

The phone clicked in my ear.

Hitting the Off button on the handset, I sank back into the deep cushions of our wraparound couch. Philip was in the den, working on his laptop. I probably should have gotten him on the phone too. But right now I didn't want Philip's company. I just wanted to remember P.J.'s and Paul's voices in my mind . . . in my heart . . .

All too soon, their voices faded. I tried to get the sound back—P.J.'s confident prattle, Paul's pensiveness—but I couldn't. Hot tears squeezed out of my eyes, and I grabbed a tissue from the end table.
Oh God! I am so lonely . . .

After a few minutes, I blew my nose and went into the bath- room to repair my face. Seemed like I'd been talking to God a lot more since we moved here to Chicago. Huh. Not sure if He was listening, though. It'd been a long time since I'd done any praying, and the connection was probably pretty rusty.

I took a long, hard look at myself in the bathroom mirror. Dark reddish-brown hair—“chestnut” sounded better—a naturally curly mop, best worn short or it got out of hand. Oval face. Minimal makeup. Philip used to say my hazel eyes were my best feature—long lashes, dark eyebrows, nicely shaped. Even at thirty-nine, I knew I could turn a few heads. But for some reason I felt as if I were looking at a stranger. Who
was
this person? Did I know her? Who in the world was the real Gabrielle Shepherd Fairbanks?

I felt frozen in time, staring at the stranger in the mirror. Then, like a dog coming out of the water and shaking off every last drop, I mentally shook myself and got out of the bathroom.
Watch it, Gabby,
I told myself.
You could easily end up a basket case,
and what good would that do? Get busy. Do something.

Cookies. I'd make chocolate-chip cookies and send them to P.J. and Paul. Not exactly the same as coloring eggs and putting all sorts of goodies into their Easter baskets like I did when they were younger. I wished I'd thought of this sooner, so they'd have them for Easter, but . . .

I started pulling measuring cups and measuring spoons out of the drawer. Tomorrow was Easter. And I wanted to go to church. Might just go crazy perched up here on the thirty-second floor all weekend. But where in the world would I go?

Could always ask Mr. Bentley. Who else did we know? Camila, the maid? Well, I would, but I didn't have a phone number for her, only the cleaning service, and I was sure they wouldn't give out Camila's personal number.

Who, then? The Fenchels? I rolled my eyes. If Mona Fenchel were the last person on earth, I wouldn't ask her where to find a church.

So that left . . . the people at Manna House. Well, why not? They were familiar with the city. Someone would remember me from yesterday.

I peeked into the den. Philip was deep in thought, a spread-sheet on his computer screen. I picked up the bedroom extension, dialing the number Mr. Bentley had given me. A bright voice on the other end answered, “Manna House.”

“Hi. This is Gabby Fairbanks. I visited Manna House yesterday—”

“Oh, yes, I remember. This is Angela. The receptionist.”

“Yes, of course.” The Asian-something girl. At least now I knew her name. “Uh, this might sound like a strange request, but we're new to Chicago, and I'm wondering if you could recommend a church for us. Tomorrow's Easter, you know.”

“Well, uh . . .” There was a long pause. “I don't know where to begin, Mrs. Fairbanks. There are a lot of churches. Depends on what you want, you know, Methodist or Baptist or—”

“Where do you go, Angela?”

She giggled. “I go to a Korean-speaking church. I'm sure you'd be welcome, but I don't know how much you'd get out of it.”

Oh, for heaven's sake. This isn't going anywhere.
I tried not to sound exasperated. “What about Mabel Turner? Or that young couple, the Baxters. Do you know the name of their church?”

“Mm. Not sure about Ms. Turner. But Josh and Edesa . . . all I know is that some folks from their church are coming here tomorrow night to lead our Sunday Evening Praise. SouledOut something or other.”

“Coming there?” Well, that was a thought. “In the evening, you said. Well, thanks, Angela . . . oh, what time?”

“Six o'clock,” she said. I clicked the Off button. Not exactly Easter Sunday morning. But something inside me said,
Go.

Maybe it was time to get the rust off that God connection.

chapter 7

To my surprise, Philip got up early the next morning—well, early for a Sunday—and said he was going for a run. “Henry goes to the gym,” he grunted, tying his running shoes. “Might as well take advantage of the jogging path before those thunderheads get serious.” He winked at me. “Send out the hounds if I'm not back in an hour.” The door closed behind him.

I gave him two minutes to ride the elevator and cross the frontage road to the parkway; then I went to the wall of windows to watch his shiny blue warm-up jacket and matching shorts heading for the underpass. He reappeared moments later, a tiny blue dot, heading south along Foster Avenue Beach.

Maybe I should go for a walk too
. But I had second thoughts when I saw the large thunderclouds piling up over the lake. Breathtaking . . . but I'd had my fill of coming home soggy and chilled to the bone. Besides, it was Easter Sunday and I really should call my mom. She'd been alone two years now since Dad died. That was another thing that made me mad at God. Why a heart attack at seventy-two, for heaven's sake?! Noble Shepherd had kept working at the carpet store he'd owned for over forty years until “Mama Martha,” as the locals called her, put her foot down and said it was time for them to enjoy some retirement, buy a motor home, take the Alaska Highway, do something before they had to hang it up.

They never did buy that motor home.

I sighed and hunted for the cordless. At least my mom was young enough to manage on her own. I was the youngest of three, a “happy accident,” Daddy used to tease—though they hadn't been very happy with me when I dropped out of college, got engaged to a man I met in France (whom they met for the first time at a lavish Virginia wedding), and settled in that foreign country called The South.

I finally found the phone in the cushions of the wraparound couch where I'd talked to the boys the day before. At least we were Central time now, same as most of North Dakota. I dialed.

The phone picked up on the other end. “Hello?”

“Happy Easter, Mom.”

“Oh! Happy Easter to you too. I'm so glad you called, honey. I thought about calling you, but didn't know about the time difference in Alaska.”

“Mom! It's Gabby. I'm in Chicago, remember?”

My mother seemed flustered. “Oh, well, that's right. You'll be leaving for church soon, I suppose.”

Even though that's exactly what I'd been wanting to do, I felt a tug of irritation. “We just moved here, Mom. Haven't found a church yet.”

“Well, sure. But I bet there're some good Easter services on the TV. How are the boys?”

That did it. I started to blubber and ended up having a good cry. Nothing like talking to your mama when you're feeling homesick and missing your kids.

When I hung up twenty minutes later, I picked up the remote to the plasma TV embedded in the wall and clicked it on. Sure enough, a large choir in white and gold robes was joyously singing,
“Christ the Lord is risen today-ay, Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-le-eh-lu-u-jah!”
I got a fresh cup of coffee, tried two or three other channels, and finally settled on the Chicago Community Choir, taped earlier that week, singing Handel's
Messiah.
The choir looked like a ten-bean soup packet, all sorts of colors and shapes. The choir wore white blouses and shirts topping black skirts or pants—except for the occasional blue shirt or orange blouse of someone who for-got the dress code. I closed my eyes and just listened as the majestic music took over our living room.

Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows . . .

He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised
for our iniquities. The chastisement of our peace was upon
Him . . .

and with His stripes we are healed . . .

“Whooee. What a run!” Philip's voice broke into the choral music. “I'm starving. Is breakfast ready?” Flushed and sweaty, my husband stuck his head into the living room. “What's this?”

I held up my hand for quiet. I wasn't ready for Philip to return.

. . . All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every
one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity
of us all . . .

In the background, I could hear stuff being banged around in the kitchen, and minutes later the shower running in the master bath. Well, he could just wait for breakfast or get his own. Why did he expect me to jump up and take care of him? It was Easter Sunday, after all. And right now I was mesmerized by the familiar and yet strangely new words and music . . .

How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of
peace, and bring glad tidings of good things! . . .

Humph.
My own feet were tucked up under me, pretty much not caring if my husband got any breakfast or not.

“Bring glad tidings of good things?” Oh well, why not.
I reached for the remote, turned down the volume, and pushed myself off the couch. By the time Philip got out of the shower, shaved, and appeared dressed in khakis and a sport shirt, I had batter sizzling in the waffle iron, frozen strawberries thawing in the microwave, and a fresh pot of coffee dripping.

He grinned and pecked me on the back of the neck. “Smells great. Say, what do you want to do today? I know I've been busy all week. What say we take in the Art Museum? Or the Museum of Natural History? Something indoors anyway. Day's going to get nasty.”

That kiss on the back of my neck melted all my defenses. I perked up, practically purring. “Do you mind doing Natural History?” After all, I was a North Dakota girl, more at home with animals and geologic formations than great masterpieces. But this was perfect. Spend a quality day with Philip—and then tell him I wanted to attend the Sunday Evening Praise service at the Manna House Shelter for Homeless Women.

Getting out of the backseat of a taxi in heels and trying to get an umbrella up at the same time took more coordination than I was born with, but somehow I managed to get up the steps and into the door of Manna House just before a huge flash of lightning and a twin crack of thunder threatened to kill me on the spot.

Maybe Philip had been right, telling me I was stupid to go out in this storm. After that comment, my courage had faltered and I'd been rather vague about exactly where I was going.
“To this
church nearby that has an evening service.”
Well, the building
did
look churchy, didn't it?

“Mrs. Fairbanks!” Mabel Turner turned away from the group she'd been talking with in the foyer and extended a welcoming hand. “How delightful to see you. I didn't know you were coming tonight.”

“Gabby, please.” I returned her warm handshake. “Yes. I called Manna House wanting some suggestions of where to attend Easter services, and the receptionist—Angela?—kindly told me about the, uh, service here tonight.”

“Yes, yes, of course. We have a Sunday Evening Praise service here every week, hosted by different churches. Our residents really enjoy it, and of course guests are more than welcome. Avis! . . . Avis and Peter, I'd like you to meet someone. And bring C.J. with you.”

Mabel motioned to the attractive African-American couple she'd been talking to earlier, and they approached smiling, along with a sullen-faced black kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure if the youth was a boy or girl. Hair braided tight to the head all over in a unisex style, jeans, sport warm-up jacket, and a heartbreaker face.