by Neta Jackson
I looked at the envelope for several long moments before putting out a tentative finger and drawing it toward me. But I didn’t pick it up. Probably a divorce notice. Or a legal separation. What else would he put in an envelope? I shook my head, my heart thumping, loose curls sticking to my damp forehead. “I . . . I’ll take it with me and read it later.” I picked it up and stuffed it into my purse, once again gathering my things.
Philip reached out his hand again. “Gabby, please. Read it now, because there are some things I need to say after you read it.” He glanced around. “We’re pretty much alone now.”
Breathe, Gabby, breathe. Reluctantly I took the envelope out of my purse, lifted the flap, and slid out the single sheet of folded paper.
“More coffee?” The waitress stood over us with a full pot. She must have sensed the unfinished conversation hanging in the air. “Don’t worry, take your time.”
I licked my dry lips. “Yes, coffee, please.” I waited until my cup was full, opened two more of the individual creamers and poured them in, then took a long sip of the hot liquid before unfolding the sheet of paper.
Dear Gabby,
I hardly know how to begin, there’s so much I need to say. But the first thing is . . . I’m sorry. Sorry for the pain I’ve caused you. Sorry for kicking you out of the house. Sorry for everything. I thought I had good reasons, thought you needed a wake-up call—but I’m just now beginning to see that it was all about me. What I wanted. What I thought I needed. We were going in different directions and needed help to get our marriage back on track. But I took matters into my own hands.
I was wrong.
The paper in my hand shook, and my other hand gripped the edge of the table with white-knuckled fingers. I took a deep breath to steady myself and kept reading.
I don’t know if you can forgive me. I’ve hurt you deeply, I know that. I hope you can—but even then I don’t know what that would mean. You’ve picked yourself up, you’ve moved on, you’ve made a new life for yourself. I don’t know if there’s any room in your new life for “us.”
If not, I have no one to blame but myself.
Where do we go from here? I don’t know. I’m only now getting a grip on how I got into such a mess—thanks to the shakedown I got yesterday from two unlikely “brothers.” Still hard to admit I’m a gambling “addict.” Hard to admit I ruined my own dream of making it big here in Chicago. Harder still to admit I’m the reason our marriage failed.
But it’s all true. I know I need help—just not sure where to get it.
There’s a lot more I need to say. Want to say. But the one thing I desperately want you to know is . . . I’m sorry.
The letter was just signed “Philip.”
Tears stung my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I hastily brushed them away and used a napkin to blow my nose, staring at the letter. Oh, how I’d wanted Philip to admit he was wrong! To say he was sorry for all the pain he’d caused in my life! To beg for my forgiveness!
But now that he had—in writing, no less, in black and white, in his own handwriting, with his own signature—I had no idea what to feel. Or say.
“Gabby?”
I could hear the question in his voice. But he’d had time to think about what he wanted to say. I needed time too.
Refolding the letter, I slid it back into the envelope, put it in my purse, and took a deep breath to steady my ragged breathing. “I . . . can’t respond right now, Philip. I’m sorry.”
Gathering my things, I slid out of the booth and started to leave. Then I hesitated—and for the first time since he’d given me the letter, I lifted my eyes and met his troubled gaze. Then I walked out of the restaurant.
chapter 33
By the time I stumbled through the rain to my car, I was a blubbery mess and wanted to sit for a while and have a good cry. But I knew Philip would come out of the restaurant any minute and see my car still sitting there, so I pulled myself together long enough to turn on the wipers and head back to the Wrigleyville North neighborhood.
There was no way I could go back to work. I’d have people in my face asking, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?” and I didn’t want to talk to anybody right then.
Taking advantage of a long red light, I called Manna House on my cell and told Angela I wasn’t feeling well—I wasn’t! I was a wreck!—and was going to head home. “Tell Paul when he arrives after school to go ahead and do his homework in the schoolroom with Carolyn, and I’ll pick him up at five. Oh yeah, and Dandy.”
“Not you too!” Angela wailed. “I hope I didn’t catch anything from you this morning! Jin and I are—”
“Uh, gotta go, Angela—green light.” I clicked the phone off and waved apologetically to the car behind me as I headed through the rain-soaked intersection. Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of the House of Hope, eager to disappear inside, make myself some hot tea, and reread Philip’s letter. I had at least an hour before P.J. got home, two before I had to pick up Paul. Blessed peace and quiet.
But even before I got out my house keys, I could see several moms and kids hanging out in the hallway through the glass-paneled door of the foyer. I groaned. I’d temporarily forgotten that none of the House of Hope residents had day jobs—not counting my leftover tenants in 2B and 3B—and we had three preschoolers in the building, two of whom were hanging on Shawanda right now and hollering for attention.
Shawanda pulled the door open. “Didn’t know you got home this early, Miss Gabby! Tanya an’ me was just talkin’ about this cute kitty Dessa found under the back porch this mornin’. It was all wet and shivery, poor thing.”
“My kitty!” Dessa yelled, peeking around her mother’s skinny jeans.
“We didn’t talk about pets, yet, did we, Miss Gabby,” Tanya said, frowning. “I’m kind of allergic—”
“But Miss Gabby’s got Lucy’s dog here, ain’t that right?” Shawanda shot back.
A stabbing headache started at the base of my skull. “Sorry, girls,” I mumbled, “I’m not feeling very well, that’s why I came home. Maybe we can talk about this later.” I fumbled for my house key, let myself in my apartment, and shut the door quickly behind me. Rats. Now Tanya would tell Precious and Precious would tell Edesa, and pretty soon I’d hear a well-meaning knock at my door, asking if I’m okay and can they do anything for me?
This community-living, everybody-knows-everybody’s-business definitely had its downside.
I decided to be proactive. Pulling open the door again, I said, “I need some quiet right now, might take a nap. Headache, you know. If you girls don’t mind?” They took the hint and faded into Tanya’s apartment, and I was able to make a pot of hot tea and sink into my mom’s wingback rocker undisturbed.
Now . . . now I could digest Philip’s letter. At first I’d been annoyed that he’d given me a letter to read—of all things!—instead of just talking to me. But maybe I should be grateful he’d written it down rather than trying to remember what he’d said.
I pulled the envelope out of my purse and read the letter again. “. . . the one thing I desperately want you to know is—I’m sorry.” Had to admit he sounded truly remorseful. But was it enough? A general “I’m sorry” that covered everything?
A protest rose up inside me, wanting a detailed list of every offense he’d committed against me! “I’m sorry for making you feel like your job was just a hobby, nothing important. I’m sorry for not making your mother feel welcome when you brought her here from North Dakota. I’m sorry for stealing our sons and taking them to my parents without your permission. I’m sorry for this . . . and this . . . and this . . .” Tears and groveling wouldn’t hurt either.
I scanned the letter again, pausing at the place where he owned the fact that I’d not only survived the breakup, but I’d moved on and made a new life for myself. That felt good. As for himself, he actually admitted his gambling was an addiction, that he’d ruined his chances to make a success of his business, and even admitted he was the reason
our marriage had failed. He also confessed it was hard to admit these things, but he did say they were true.
Strange, he didn’t directly ask me to forgive him, didn’t ask if I had room in my new life for him. Rather, it was as if he’d spilled his doubts and fears onto the page. “I don’t know if you can forgive me . . . I don’t know if there’s any room in your new life for ‘us’ . . . I don’t know where we go from here . . . I know I need help, I just don’t know where to get it . . .”
And there were a few other things I never thought I’d hear from Philip Fairbanks. He said he’d hurt me deeply. Said he was wrong. Said he had no one to blame but himself that our marriage had failed.
Never before in our entire life together had Philip been that vulnerable! Did it have something to do with the “shakedown” he’d mentioned from “two unlikely brothers”? What in the world had Denny and Harry said to him?
I sat in the wingback rocker a long time, staring at the letter. My tea got cold. At one point my cell phone rang—P.J., saying he was hanging out at the school gym with some friends watching girls’ basketball intramurals, but he’d be home by supper. I said, “Fine,” and hung up, my mind elsewhere.
Something bothered me about the letter. Something missing.
And then I realized what it was. Philip didn’t say he loved me. Didn’t even sign it, “Love, Philip.”
I did get a knock at the door later that evening, but it was Maddox Campbell from 3B. “Speak to yuh, Missy?”
“Of course, Mr. Campbell.” I opened the door wider and left it open, moving back a step or two so the Jamaican tenant could come in out of the hallway. The tall dark-skinned man was wearing a jean jacket and a different green-gold-and-black knitted “Rasta” tam than I’d seen before, dreadlocks hanging down his back, as if he’d just come in—or was leaving.
He pulled off the knitted tam, as if his mother had taught him to remove his hat indoors or in the presence of women, and played with it nervously. “Mi tink mi found an apartment for de t’ree of us. Mi a-go see it nex’ day. But, mi wanting to be sure, no penalty if we move early? Don’t want me wife an’ mada getting demselves all excited if it not be workin’ out.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Campbell. I put that in the letter I gave you. You may leave before the end of your lease without any penalty. When would you move?”
Now the tam seemed to spin around his nervous hands. “Well . . . if me wife an’ mada like de place, maybe dis weekend—”
“This weekend!” That meant two Saturdays in a row with movers going up and down the back stairs all day—or front stairs if it was raining. And another apartment for Josh Baxter to renovate after just finishing the last one.
“—if dat be no problem.”
“No, no, it’s fine, whatever works out best for you.” It did feel sudden, but I was the one who’d told him I wasn’t renewing his lease in January, and he’d need to find another apartment. “Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Campbell. I hope the new apartment works out for you and your family. Tell me if you need a reference, okay?”
Nodding and smiling, he backed out of the doorway, smashed the knitted tam back on his head, and headed up the stairs two at a time. I slowly shut the door and leaned against it. A tsunami of emotions twisted my gut. It’s too much . . . I can’t do this. Philip . . . Lee . . . dealing with petty problems in the building. Now an empty apartment— and Mabel and I haven’t even talked about who’s next on the list for the House of Hope. And I can’t afford an empty apartment for long.
I took Philip’s letter with me to work the next day but didn’t call him to talk about it, and he didn’t call me—unless he called the house and left a message on the machine. Had to admit I felt bad not responding in some way. I hadn’t even stayed to hear what else he’d wanted to say. But at least he was respecting my need to take some time before getting back to him.
Still, I should find out when he was going to Virginia. Definitely needed to respond to his letter before then. One way or the other, I’d need to call him.
Oh God! I slumped at my desk in the windowless basement office. What does this mean? Philip’s saying he’s truly sorry for the way he treated me. But even he said he doesn’t know if I can forgive him—or what it would mean even if I did! Me too, Jesus. Forgiveness is a big deal. I don’t want to say it if I don’t mean it. And forgiveness is one thing—but trust? Can I ever trust him again after what he’s done? Oh God, I don’t know what to do.
Tears threatened to spill over, but I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to push the tears in again. Oh God, I’m so tired of crying over Philip! So tired of feeling confused. What should I do? Forgive him but move on? Divorce as amicably as possible? Or forgive him and try to make a go of our marriage again?
I finally shook myself out of my funk and tried to focus on the work at hand. Mabel Turner was still out with the flu, but I did call her at home to tell her I was going to have another empty apartment at the House of Hope. And if she was feeling better by Wednesday, we’d like her to come to our weekly household meeting and go over the rules and expectations for everybody so we’d all be on the same page. Though “everybody” meant mostly Shawanda.
Mabel had a coughing fit, an ugly, raspy cough, and finally came back on the phone. “Uhnn . . . talk to you tomorrow, Gabby. Brain’s not working right now.” She sounded terrible. I felt a little like Angela. Wasn’t sure I wanted Mabel back until she was definitely over whatever nasty thing she had going on, even if it meant not having her at the House of Hope household meeting. We’d just have to wing it without her.
Carolyn poked her head into my office to say three new volunteers from the city colleges had shown up yesterday to help with the expanded afterschool program, along with five new students from the neighborhood whose parents had put them on our waiting list. “It was fantastic!” The former shelter resident had a spark in her eye I’d never seen before. “Always wanted to be a teacher but didn’t think I had the personality for it—which is why I got my degree in library science.” The middle-aged white woman shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe just as well. Wouldn’t have wanted to have my mental breakdown in a classroom full of students. But now—I feel as if God is giving me a second chance at life.”
I got up from my desk and gave the rather pudgy woman a big hug. “Carolyn, it’s women like you who make this one of the best jobs in the world! But I wanted to ask . . . is it still okay if Paul does his homework with you all in the schoolroom? He does need help with his math—not my best subject.”
“Okay? Better than okay! Yesterday he was helping some of the younger ones with their reading and their math. It was like having another volunteer.” Carolyn flipped her stringy brown-and-gray ponytail over her shoulder and pulled open the door. “Well, gotta go. The board chairman’s wife—you know, Mrs. Douglass, the principal up at Bethune Elementary—sent over two big boxes of used science curriculum I need to sort through. Looks like some good stuff.”
Ah yes. Avis Douglass. Between her and Jodi Baxter, who “just happened” to be a third-grade teacher at that school, they’d supplied a lot of the materials Carolyn was using to organize the Manna House afterschool program.
As Carolyn left, I heard a good deal of clattering going on in the kitchen. Poking my head out the door, I saw Estelle banging utensils and pots around in the kitchen like a one-woman band on a street corner. Not a good sign. Usually meant she was upset about something. A couple of women I didn’t recognize—who’d probably come off the street yesterday or over the weekend, both of whom had bad teeth and ill-cut ratty hair—eyed Estelle warily as they dumped heaps of sugar and creamer into their coffee at the counter. Muttering to themselves, they took their cups to the far corner of the dining room where they slouched and guffawed over some private joke.
Picking up Philip’s letter, I cautiously approached the pass-through counter between the kitchen and dining room. “Estelle? You okay?”
Bang! went another pot onto the industrial-size stove, int
o which she dumped the contents of several zip-lock gallon bags. Looked like half-frozen vegetable soup to me.
“Estelle Williams, you need to slow down. Time for coffee.” I poured the last two cups from the Mr. Coffee pot, doctored mine with cream and hers with sugar, and carried them to the closest table in the dining room. “Estelle!” I ordered again. “Come sit!” To my surprise, she actually came out of the kitchen and lowered herself with a whomph into a folding chair. I reached out and touched her hand. “What’s going on?” I kept my voice low so as not to be overheard by the duo in the far corner.
She wrapped her hands around the steaming coffee cup and heaved a big sigh. “Leroy, of course. Visited him at the nursing home Sunday afternoon—went by myself ’cause Harry and Denny had some ‘man thing’ they were doin’—and the medical staff is plannin’ on releasing him the end of next week.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it? Means he’s getting better.”
“And then? Where’s he goin’ to go, Gabby? He still needs lookin’ after. Even the docs there said he shouldn’t live alone.” Estelle wagged her head slowly, and I could almost see her sorting through the options tumbling around in her head under the hairnet cap. “They sayin’ Leroy needs some kind of residential care. Gave me a list of places to look into. But I’ve made up my mind, Gabby. I need to find an apartment where I can take care of my son. Maybe a house, once the insurance from the fire comes through. I left him on his own once—and look what happened. Ain’t gonna do that again, no ma’am. Gonna do what a mama should do.” She drew herself up, lips pressed together, looking at me as if daring me to disagree. “So. It’s done.”