Who Do I Talk To? (3 page)

I glanced at the paper.
Intake Form for Manna House Bed List.
The questions were standard: “Are you currently using drugs? Alcohol? . . . Cause of homelessness? . . . Previous living situation? (Prison? Public housing? Non-housing/Street/Car?)” . . . I looked up at Mabel. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Not kidding. Sorry. Just do it, Gabby. Second . . .” She reached for a file folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and held it up facing toward me. I recognized the resignation letter I'd turned in yesterday. With a sly smile she tore it in half, crumpled the pieces, and tossed them into the wastebasket. “I'm giving you your job back. Also not kidding.” The smile rounded her smooth, nutmeg cheeks and crinkled the corners of her eyes.

My throat caught, and I had to clear it a couple of times. “Thanks,” I finally croaked. “And the third thing?”

She came around the desk and took my hands. “Let's pray, Gabby. All of this looks like a mighty big mountain, but the God I know is in the mountain-moving business.”

I slipped through the multipurpose room, grateful to see my mother dozing in an overstuffed chair near a group of shelter residents gossiping loudly about who was the hottest guy on
Survivor.
She was fine for the moment. I headed for the stairs to the lower floor, which housed the shelter's kitchen, dining room, recreation room, and my office—a former broom closet. Literally.

I needed to check on Dandy and then get out of there. Get that phone card. Call the boys. It was frustrating that I couldn't just pick up my office phone, but I understood why all the shelter phones were “local calls only.”

At the bottom of the stairs, I peeked around the corner, hoping Estelle Williams—the shelter's weekday lunch cook—hadn't come in yet. The fifty-something African-American woman had offered to stay overnight with my mom her first night, but when I showed up unannounced, offering the lame excuse that “Lucy and I found my mother's dog, so I thought I'd just stay the night,” she decided to go on home.

“No sense all of us smotherin' your mama,” she'd muttered. She didn't ask any questions but had given me a funny look. It was hard to hide anything from Estelle. The woman could read my face like an open book.

I heard pots banging. So much for Estelle coming in late. But her back was turned. Maybe I could just slip into the tiny office, get Dandy, and—

“If you're lookin' for a certain yellow dog, Gabby Fairbanks, Lucy already took him out.” Estelle's voice stopped me before I even had my hand on the doorknob. I turned. The big-boned woman was coming around the wide counter that separated kitchen and dining room, a puffy, white hairnet perched on her head and a white apron covering one of the loose, handmade caftans she usually wore. She made a beeline for me and without ceremony gathered me into her arms. “Oh, baby. You don't have to pretend with me. I know all about it.”

My eyes burned hot but stayed dry. “You know? How—?” My voice was muffled against her broad bosom.

“Mm-mm. I was still here when Harry showed up last night with his car crammed front to back with your suitcases and boxes. I helped him shoehorn all that stuff into this lame excuse for an office.”

Harry Bentley. Estelle's new love. “He—he told you?”

“Humph. Not Harry. But, honey, I already knew your man kicked out the
dog
. Already knew he gave your
mama
an ultimatum. Why else is Gramma Shep here? When Harry showed up with all your stuff . . . It ain't exactly rocket science, Gabby.” The woman held me at arm's length. “You want to talk about it, baby?”

I shook my head. “I will, though. I promise.” Estelle meant well, but I had to get out of there! “I've got to find my boys. Know the closest place to get a phone card?”

She gave me another funny look, as if adding up all the bits and pieces. Without a word, she moved to the counter, grabbed her oversize bag, rummaged in it, and pulled out her own cell phone. “Take it. Use it. No fussin' at me either. Girl, you don't have
time
to go lookin' for someplace 'round here that sells phone cards.”

Hunched over Estelle's cell phone on the front steps of the shelter, I punched in my in-laws' home phone number. I didn't know it by heart—we'd always had their number on speed dial—but I still had juice in my defunct cell phone, thank God, and was able to access my phone book
. I need to write down all the phone numbers before my battery's totally gone
, I told myself, as the phone rang in my ear.

One ring . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . and then the answering machine picked up.
“Y'all have reached Mike and Marlene Fairbanks—”
I flipped the cell phone shut. No way was I going to leave a whimpering message on their answering machine.

My spirit sagged. Were they out? Just not answering their phone?
Oh God! I need to talk to my boys!

An elevated train squealed and screeched over the trestle that crossed the street a block away. I sat on the wide front steps for several more minutes, trying to think what to do. It was a perfect Chicago day, temperatures in the seventies, sunny blue sky above . . . well, somewhere up there above the three-story apartment buildings and storefronts that rose all around me. I closed my eyes. A breeze off Chicago's lakefront somehow found its way into the narrow streets of this tiny neighborhood just north of Wrigley Field, home of the Cubs. As much as I'd disliked living up on the thirty-second floor of a luxury high-rise along Lake Shore Drive, I missed the sweeping view of Lake Michigan. Today the water would be sparkling blue.

Maybe I
should
call Philip's cell again . . . No. I'd call his office. If he was there, he
had
to answer his office phone. And if he wasn't, maybe Henry Fenchel would answer. Philip would've told his business partner where he was, wouldn't he?

I flipped open my cell phone to get my husband's office number. The battery was already getting low! I let myself into the front door of the shelter with my staff key. “Angela, quick. I need paper and pen.” I grabbed the pad and pencil the young Asian receptionist offered me and ran back outside—bumping straight into a woman coming in the door, wearing her baby in a sling on her hip.

“Edesa!” A sense of déjà vu swept over me. Edesa—a young black woman from Central America—and her husband, Josh Baxter, a white, still-in-college kid with gray eyes and a great grin, had been the first people I'd met on these very steps the first time I'd visited Manna House. It seemed years ago, but it had only been a little more than two months.

Edesa Baxter shifted the dark-haired baby on her hip, her wide, beautiful smile greeting me. “Gabby? I didn't expect to see you here today! I thought . . . I mean . . .”

I held up my hand. “Can't explain now. I'm sorry, Edesa.” Feeling terrible at brushing her off, I scurried down the steps and ran to the building next door, which housed a twenty-four-hour Laundromat on the corner. I dropped into one of the ugly, molded-plastic chairs, flipped open my fading cell phone, called up the phone book, and scribbled down as many numbers as I thought I'd need right away: Philip's office; Philip's cell; Philip's parents; Philip's partner, Henry Fenchel. My aunt Mercy in Minot, North Dakota; my mom's home phone back in Minot, even though nobody was there. The Manna House number, Mabel's cell, Estelle's cell . . .

I finally flipped the phone closed. Maybe I could borrow a charger from somebody who had a phone like mine and get the rest. But I still had to find my kids.

A bald-headed dude, wearing a dingy sleeveless undershirt that showed off the tattoos covering both arms from shoulders to wrists, pulled a huge wad of wet clothes from a front-loading washing machine and stuffed the whole caboodle—jeans, a sweater, a bunch of whites, plaid boxers—into one of the humongous dryers and set it on High.
Huh. Who cares if he fries his clothes.
I turned my back and punched the office number of Fairbanks and Fenchel into Estelle's phone.

Someone picked up on the first ring. “Fairbanks and Fenchel, Henry speaking.”

My mouth suddenly went dry, and my heart thudded so hard I could feel the pulse in my ears. “Uh, hi, Henry. It's Gabby. Is, uh, Philip there?”

“Philip?” Henry sounded surprised. “No. Aren't you—?” He seemed to catch himself. “Uh, Philip left a message for me yesterday that something came up, he had to take the boys somewhere and wouldn't be back till Wednesday. I just assumed you . . .” His voice drifted off.

I felt as if I couldn't breathe. Henry didn't know any more than I did. Less. He probably had no idea Philip had kicked me out.

I gulped some air and decided not to play around. “Henry, Philip left me. Locked me out, actually. And I have no idea where he is or where he's taken the boys. I
need
to find P. J. and Paul. If you know
anything
, or hear from Philip, please call me at . . . uh, my work number.” I rattled off the Manna House number.

There was a long moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “I'm real sorry, Gabrielle. I don't know what's going on. But, uh, I can't get involved in personal stuff between you and Philip.”

“No, no, of course not, but—”

“I mean, he's my business partner. We've got a lot invested in this venture.”

“I know. I'm sorry. It's just that . . . the boys—”

“I don't know anything about the boys, Gabrielle. Look, I need to go.” The phone went dead in my ear.

I flipped Estelle's phone closed and pressed it to my forehead, feeling like a fool. Why was I apologizing? Why was I
always
apologizing?

And what was
up
with Philip's partner, anyway?! Henry and his snobby wife, Mona, had acted like best buddies when we first arrived in Chicago, getting tickets to the Blue Man Group, going out to dinner, all of us spending a day sailing with one of their clients. Now, suddenly, he was all business. Even my given name.

Tattoo guy looked over at me with a leer. I turned my back.

What now?
I'd been assuming Philip had taken the boys back to their grandparents in Petersburg, Virginia. When Philip and I had moved to Chicago in April, leaving the boys in boarding school, P. J. and Paul had spent weekends with their grandparents until P. J.'s eighth-grade graduation. Both Philip and his parents talked as though the boys would go back to Virginia for their next school year—
“After all, Fairbanks boys have
always
gone to George Washington Prep”
—though I'd been contacting prep schools and magnet schools all over Chicago. And Philip had threatened to send the boys back when summer sailing camp fell through—which wasn't
my
fault, but Philip made it seem that way since I'd taken the job at the shelter and couldn't immediately pick up the slack.

But . . . what if he hadn't?

chapter 3

Panic flickered in my chest. My breath shortened. I was going to hyperventilate if I wasn't careful.
Breathe in slowly, Gabby . . . breathe out . . .

As my heart rate slowed, I could almost hear Mabel's firm voice in my head.
“Be realistic, Gabby. One step at a time. Do what you need to do today. And pray. You can't do this on your own.”

Pray
. Seemed like all my prayers were of the “Help!” variety lately. Before I came to Chicago, my prayers had gotten pretty rusty. But the staff at Manna House all seemed to be on a first-name basis with the Almighty, talking to God like He really cared about the mundane problems of homeless women. Mabel had even said
I
was an answer to their prayers for a program director and that God had a purpose for bringing me to Manna House after tripping over Lucy in the park that rainy day.

And the worship teams from different churches that came to the shelter each weekend to lead Sunday evening praise acted like worshipping God and studying the Bible were more exciting than . . . than watching the Cubs hit a homer.

The last two months had brought back a lot of what I'd been taught by my parents and our little community church growing up in North Dakota. A faith I'd pretty much tossed out when my starry-eyed marriage right out of high school hit the skids after only two years. In fact, meeting the charming Philip Fairbanks on a summer jaunt through Europe had all the earmarks of a “happily ever after” fairy tale, so why bother to pray?

That was before everything started to fall apart between Philip and me, and the only firm ground I had to stand on was my job at Manna House Women's Shelter, and the people there who made me feel that I
mattered
.

I stuck Estelle's cell phone in my shoulder bag, left the Laundromat—tattoo guy was still smirking at me—and started walking the few blocks toward the Sheridan El Station. “God,” I whispered, “it's me, Gabby. Thanks for . . .”
Good grief, what do I have to be thankful for?
Well, lots, come to think of it. “. . . for a roof over our heads last night for both Mom and me. That Lucy found Dandy after Philip let him run loose all night and he got lost. That Mabel gave me my job back, so I'll have some income.” I smiled to myself in spite of my predicament. Three whole sentences and I hadn't yelled “Help!” yet. But I was getting there. “But I really do need help, Lord. Please, please help me find out where P. J. and Paul are so I'll know they're okay.”