Who Is My Shelter?
who is my shelter?
Other Novels by Neta Jackson
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Series
The Yada Yada Prayer Group
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Down
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Real
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Rolling
The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Decked Out
The Yada Yada House of Hope Series
Where Do I Go?
Who Do I Talk To?
Who Do I Lean On?
who is my
shelter?
BOOK 4
A
yada yada
HOUSE
of
HOPE
Novel
NETA JACKSON
© 2011 by Neta Jackson
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansâelectronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any otherâexcept for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from the following: HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
®
, NIV
®
. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.⢠Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com
.
Holy Bible
, New Living Translation. © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
THE NEW KING JAMES VERSION. © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
REVISED STANDARD VERSION of the Bible. © 1946, 1952, 1971, 1973 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the U.S.A. Used by permission.
“I Go to the Rock,” words and music by Dottie Rambo. © 1977 New Spring, Inc. (ASCAP). Administered by Brentwood-Benson Music Publishing, Inc. Used by permission.
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, businesses, organizations, and locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jackson, Neta.
  Who is my shelter? / Neta Jackson.
      p. cm. -- (A yada yada house of hope novel ; bk. 4)
  ISBN 978-1-59554-863-4 (pbk.)
  1. Christian women--Fiction. 2. Shelters for the homeless--Fiction. 3. Chicago (Ill.)--
Fiction. I. Title.
  PS3560.A2415W49 2011
  813'.54--dc22
2010046481
Printed in the United States of America
11 12 13 14 15 16 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Rachel Joy
My daughter
My friend
Contents
The face in the mirror was barely recognizable. Philip Fairbanks winced at the black-and-blue mask that spread like a handprint over his broken nose and encompassed both eyes like tattooed sunglasses. Most of the swelling had gone downâit'd been almost a week since those thugs had attacked himâbut he still looked like the poster boy for a horror flick. The forty stitches that started on his forehead and ran in a jagged path along the right side of his head didn't help, especially since they'd shaved his entire scalp to avoid leaving him with a bald spot on only one side.
“Don't you worry, honey
,” the plump nurse's aideâthey called them “Patient Care Technicians” nowâhad chirped cheerfully as she'd shaved away his fifty-dollar haircut.
“Hair always grows back. And bald heads are rad now, verrry sexy
.”
Yeah, right
.
“I can't go to the office looking like this!” he growled to his reflection. He was on enough shaky ground with his business partner at Fairbanks and Fenchel without also freaking out their clients. What in the world was he going to do?
He had to do something. Before Henry made good on his threat to sue him for the money missing from their account.
Tentatively opening his mouthâ
Uhnn
, that hurtâPhilip inserted the hospital-issue toothbrush and carefully waggled it around his teeth. If he was going to be discharged today, he had to clean up. But brushing hurt. Chewing hurt. Talking hurt. Blowing his nose hurt. And that was only his head! His broken right arm and the three broken ribs where he'd been kicked repeatedly meant that almost every movement hurt, even breathing. Especially breathing. The sharp pains in his gut still made him grit his teeth when he took the required daily walks around the nursing floor, even though none of the x-rays or blood tests had turned up any definitive internal injuries.
Probably just bruising on his organs, the internist had said. But they'd kept doing tests since he still had pain. Seemed like something would've shown up by now.
Coming out of the bathroom of the private hospital room, Philip saw that his breakfast tray had been taken away, and someoneâ probably one of those “senior volunteers” who roamed the placeâhad laid today's
Tribune
on his bed. He was tempted to settle into the recliner and read the paper until housekeeping had changed the bed and cleaned the bathroom, but it was such an ordeal to get comfortable and then struggle to get up again, he might as well get the morning walk out of the way since he was already upright. At least they'd unhooked him from the IV pole and let him eat real foodâif you could call Jell-O and Cream of Wheat and lukewarm chicken broth “real food.”
Reaching for the brown terry bathrobe Gabby had brought him, he pulled it over his shoulders with his one good hand and started for the hall. He couldn't remember who'd loaned it to him, maybe that tall Baxter kid, the young one who'd moved into Gabby's building to be the property manager or something. He didn't like wearing someone else's robe, but at least it covered the yawning gaps in the back of the faded hospital gown.
Walking was tedious. Past the room with the old man who always seemed to be asleep with his mouth hanging open . . . past the room that always had at least three or more visitors yakking it up . . . past the room full of flowers and balloons, and the room that had none . . . thirty-seven steps to the nurses' station, situated so the staff could keep an eye on the comings and goings of visitors and patients and the call lights outside each room. Philip stopped. “Excuse me, nurse? When is Dr. Yin coming around? He said I might be discharged today, and I'd like to get out of here sooner rather thanâ”
“He'll be here, Mr. Fairbanks.” The closest nurse didn't even look up from the computer where she was typing in notes. “Just be patient. Glad to see you walking . . . that's good. You got somebody to pick you up?”
Philip didn't answer. No, he didn't have anybody coming to pick him upâthough he supposed Gabby would if he called her and let her know what time he was getting released. Today was Saturdayâshe'd said something about P.J.'s cross country meet in the morning and a dedication thing at that shelter where she worked, then she'd bring the boys to see him.
The boys
. Philip grimaced as he turned into the next hall. He wished she wouldn't bring P.J. and Paul. He hated having his sons see him like this. They were both good sports butâ
wait
. He sniffed. Smelled like fresh coffee. Oh! What he wouldn't give for a good cup of hot coffee.
But where . . . ?
