Where Do I Go?

by Neta Jackson

  Marlene called the Holiday Inn that evening and asked if we wanted them to pick us up for church. “Always something special on Mother’s Day Sunday,” she purred.

  But the boys and I had already talked about picking up the boys’ bikes—the reason I’d rented the SUV—and riding along the paths of the Petersburg National Battlefield Park. “And if I could borrow one of the other bikes Mike keeps around . . .”

  “Oh dear.” I could practically see my mother-in-law pout over the telephone. “Mike will be so disappointed. He just lives to see those boys on the weekend.”

  I pressed my lips together so hard, I practically bit them. Who hadn’t seen them for the past five weekends? Good grief. Couldn’t the Fairbanks give me just one day without whining about it?! I was sure the good Lord would understand if we didn’t show up for church tomorrow.

  But in the end we compromised. The boys and I would spend the day together at the Battlefield, and then we’d come back to the house in late afternoon for a barbecue if the weather held. And I had to admit later, I was glad we had a place to go by three that afternoon, because the boys were tired of riding their bikes, tired of seeing the monuments they’d seen half a dozen times before, and I was tired of their bickering and complaining. Besides, the fog that had started the day held a chill that began to seep beneath our windbreakers, and we were all glad to get back to the Fairbanks’ home, where Grandad Mike had built a fire in the stone fireplace . . . though I soon found myself warming my toes alone as the boys scrambled to play their video games.

  Only when I finally got back to my room at the Holiday Inn around nine o’clock did I realize Mother’s Day was almost over, and I hadn’t called my own mother. Terrible-daughter guilt threatened to undo my joy at spending the past twenty-four hours with my own sons. It was only eight o’clock in North Dakota . . . Still time. But the phone rang and rang. No answer. I tried at nine thirty, then ten. Still no answer.

  Anxiety put my nerves on alert. Was something wrong? Wouldn’t one of my sisters have called me? I tried the number I had for Celeste in Alaska, and all I got was a recording that said the number was not in service. I tried Honor in California—thank goodness, it was ringing!—but her answering machine kicked in. “Not here. Leave a message. Peace.”

  I finally crawled under the thick comforter of the Holiday Inn bed, worried sick. Had my mother heard from any of us? How could I let this happen? As I lay in the dark, kicking myself for my selfishness, I had an inkling of how some of the mothers at the shelter must feel, crawling into their bunks on Mother’s Day and not hearing from a single child.

  chapter 27

  A phone rang . . . kept ringing . . .

  I woke with a start and grabbed the bedside phone. The boys? Philip? But it was only the hotel’s automated wake-up call. I fell back into the bed, feeling disoriented. I was here in Petersburg . . . had spent the weekend with the boys . . . the visit with Philip’s parents had gone better than expected . . .

  So why did I feel sad, like it had all gone wrong?

  My mother. I still hadn’t talked to my mother!

  Opening the room-darkening drapes and gulping water to clear my voice, I found my cell phone and pushed the speed dial for Mom. One ring . . . two . . . three . . . and then to my relief, the phone picked up. A wobbly voice. “Hello?”

  “Mom?! Oh, thank goodness! I tried to call you several times last night and got no answer. I was so worried!”

  A pause. “Who is this?”

  What—? “It’s Gabby! I should have called you yesterday morning, but—”

  “Oh. Gabby. You girls all sound alike, you know.”

  Sound alike? My mother had never said that before. “Mom, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you first thing yesterday. I’m in Petersburg, visiting P.J. and Paul for Mother’s Day. And we were running around all day—”

  “Petersburg? Didn’t you move to Chicago?”

  “Yes, yes. But the boys are still in school here in Petersburg . . . Mom, are you okay? You don’t sound so good.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m fine. Just tired is all. Didn’t feel too well last night, so your dad told me to go to bed early . . . no, no, that’s not right. I think I was at Aunt Mercy’s house for dinner, and she brought me home because I didn’t feel good . . .”

  Now I was really worried. That was the first time my mother had slipped up, talking as if Dad was still alive. Aunt Mercy was my dad’s sister, our only other relative in Minot. Maybe that’s why Mom got confused. I tried to keep it light. “Oh, well, that explains why you didn’t answer the phone. You must be a sound sleeper, Mom. But . . . are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I don’t know, Celeste. This house is too big. I can’t keep up. Do you have to live so far away in Alaska? Maybe you and Tom could come live in the house and I could go to the nursing home. After all, it’s just me and Dandy now . . .”

  My eyes blurred. I didn’t bother to remind my mother again that I was Gabby, not Celeste. Dandy was my parents’ dog, also aging, a sweet mutt somewhere between a sheltie and a cocker spaniel, with a lot of hair. But in spite of the dog, she sounded lonely. Shouldn’t be a surprise after forty-eight years of marriage, now a widow living alone—but her confusion was what worried me.

  The phone call with my mother unsettled me long after I checked out of the Holiday Inn . . . after taking the boys to Aunt Sarah’s Pancake House for breakfast . . . after reluctantly saying my good-byes and heading the rental car north to Richmond International. Should I have gone home to see my mother this weekend instead of insisting on seeing the boys? Maybe Philip was right; it was silly to make this trip when we’d be flying down there in another ten days for P.J.’s graduation!

  I buckled myself into the aisle seat of the American Airlines plane, due to arrive in Chicago shortly after noon. Usually I loved to chat up my seatmate when flying alone, but my inner tussle took up all my attention.

  That verse in Proverbs Edesa showed me . . . what does it mean to trust God with all my heart and He will direct my paths? Am I trusting God? Did I make the wrong choice this weekend? Surely there isn’t any-thing wrong with wanting to see my boys after a whole month, is there? But . . . should I have given up what I wanted and done what was best for my mom? Who needed me more?

  “Uh . . . coffee. Cream, no sugar. Thanks,” I said the flight attendant, who’d had to ask me twice if I wanted something to drink. But the possibility that my decision to go see the boys had more to do with standing up to Philip than choosing “who needed me more” made me squirm. To be honest, I hadn’t even thought about my mom, hadn’t even called her until Sunday night . . .

  As the plane squealed to a wet landing at O’Hare Inter­national—Good grief, was it still raining in Chicago?—I blew out a long breath. What was the point of second-guessing myself ? I did go to Petersburg, and I was glad I got to see P.J. and Paul. The question now was what to do about my mom. I probably needed to see her too—and soon.

  I called Philip’s cell from the taxi and got his voice mail. “Hi, Philip! I’m back; my flight was on time in spite of the rain. Since it’s still early, I’m going to Manna House to put in a few hours this afternoon. The boys send their love and can’t wait to see you next week. See you tonight. I’ll make dinner. Bye!”

  I flipped the phone closed, once again wrapped in my thoughts as the taxi driver—foreign, dark, maybe Indian?—darted into traffic on I-90 heading into the city. Has it really come to this? Philip hadn’t called me once while I was gone. I hadn’t called him either. And just now I didn’t say “I missed you” or “Love you”— those little endearments that marked our early years. I missed those little whispers in my ears. And yet . . . was I at fault? Was I the one pulling away?

  “Oh, God, I need help here . . .”

  Only when the driver glanced into his rearview mirror at me did I realize I’d spoken out loud. Then he grinned, teeth stark white against his dark skin in the mirror, and he made curlicue motions with his fingers around his head. My ha
ir. It always went bonkers in the rain.

  I rolled my eyes and laughed back. “Where are you from?”

  “Pakistan, two years! English I like to practice.” He seemed eager to talk, and I was glad for the distraction as the car crawled through heavy traffic.

  When the taxi finally pulled up at Manna House, I rushed in and tapped on Mabel Turner’s door and opened it. She looked up from her paperwork. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Virginia!”

  “I was. But my plane got in at twelve thirty, so thought I’d come in for a few hours. Thanks for giving me the time off.”

  She gave me a sly look. “Didn’t give you time off. We have ways of filling up your time card.”

  “In that case, I already did it.” I smirked back at her. “I was here until eleven cleaning up after the Fun Night!”

  The director laughed and waved me off. But Carolyn accosted me as I pulled my suitcase across the multipurpose room. “Hey, Gabby. What about the books you promised? I found a bookcase in the alley, not too bad. We could put it right over there in that corner, or maybe in the TV room, make it a library instead. And we need a new chess set too. The one we got is missing two pawns, have to use checkers.” Then she looked at my suitcase. “You movin’ in or somethin’?”

  “Not today.” I laughed. “But you never know. Thanks for the reminder about the books. I’ll work on it.” That and a zillion other things. Donations. I needed donations of books. And a resource list sent out to supporters and volunteers . . .

  The rest of the afternoon I worked on a Manna House Needs Donations sheet for board members, staff, and volunteers to hand out to their churches, friends, and coworkers. And mailing list. I needed access to the shelter’s mailing list of supporters.

  By the time I left Manna House at five o’clock, the “shelter kids”—about five of them school age—were ricocheting around the rec room, letting off steam. A crew of people I didn’t recognize—volunteers?—were banging around the kitchen, making supper. On the main floor, a couple of toddlers and their mothers were making use of the playroom, while the TV room bleated some kind of sitcom laugh track. Aida Menéndez yelled at me from across the multipurpose room, “The Fun Night was awe-some, Miss Gabby! Can we do it again this Friday?”

  “Not this week, Aida! Maybe—” I caught myself just before I said, “Maybe next month.” No way did I want to set up expectations I couldn’t make good. “Maybe we can do it again sometime, though.”

  Since I had my suitcase and it was still drizzling, I broke down and called a taxi for the ride home. And somewhere between Manna House and Richmond Towers, I came to some direction about my mother. First of all, I needed to call her more than once a week. Maybe even every day for a while, to keep an ear on her situation. And I really needed to be in contact with my sisters about our mother, if nothing else. Last but not least, I needed to plan a visit—maybe even a trip to North Dakota with the boys this summer. They’d only been to Minot twice—when they were about five and seven, and later to my dad’s funeral two years ago. The outdoor community swimming pool had been a favorite, plus all the comic books they’d found in my parents’ attic from when we were kids. Even better . . . what if Honor and Celeste came too, and we had a family reunion?

  As the taxi drove into the frontage road and pulled up in front of Richmond Towers, I made another resolution. I was going to start praying about my mom. And trust God to work something out.

  With a lilt in my step, I pushed through the revolving door, then managed to get my suitcase stuck outside and had to back up . . . but finally I wrestled it through the door and crossed the lobby, in a hurry to get upstairs and see what ingredients might magically be on hand to make a nice supper for Philip. But I dreaded what I might find. Philip wasn’t good at “baching it.” An overindulgent mother and a live-in housekeeper had pretty much inoculated him from catching any domestic skills. But that was the way it was. So be it.

  “Hello, Mr. Bentley!” I called out to the doorman. “Thanks for coming to our Fun Night at the shelter.” I simpered at him. “You were definitely the life of the party.”

  Mr. Bentley gave me a little bow with a smile. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Fairbanks. I looked for you this morning but didn’t see you. Did you”—he tipped his head at my suitcase—“go somewhere this weekend?”

  I smiled big. “Yes. I flew back to Virginia to see my boys for Mother’s Day. They’ll be coming next week. Afraid your job may never be the same. They’re lively.”

  “Mm. Wonder who they get that from? . . . Oh, by the way.” Mr. Bentley glanced into space, his voice super casual. “The woman named Estelle . . . I think she’s a volunteer at the shelter. Seemed like a mighty fine woman. I was, uh, wondering if you happen to have her phone number. She said something about doing elder care, and I thought maybe sometime I could talk to her about my, um, mother, in case she, you know, needed some in-home care. Just in case.”

  I stared at him, listening to him stumble and blather, remembering how he and Estelle had cut the rug doing the Mashed Potato at the Fun Night—and ended up dancing or being partners for games the rest of the evening. And I burst out laughing. “Mr. Bentley! Elder care, my foot. I do believe you have a crush on Miss Estelle Williams!”

  chapter 28

  I chuckled all the way to the thirty-second floor. Mr. Bentley and Estelle . . . now, that would be a pair! I promised him I’d get her phone number—with her permission, of course—and somehow finagled his age out of him. (“I don’t know, Mr. Bentley, she’s just a young chica, and you—” “What do you mean? I’m still this side of sixty, got lots of miles left, and she’s a mature woman, at least fifty.”)

  He’d wanted to know more about her, but I had to admit I didn’t know much—just that she lived in the Rogers Park neighborhood up north, attended SouledOut Community Church, was licensed to do elder care, and volunteered at the shelter. I didn’t tell him she herself had been a Manna House resident at one time. I didn’t know that story, didn’t know how she became home-less, and I didn’t want to speculate. She could tell him if he got brave enough to ask her out.

  I unlocked the door to the penthouse, wondering if I’d have time to pick up the house, clean the kitchen, and cook supper before Philip got home—but to my surprise, the house was as tidy as when I left Saturday morning. Kitchen counters clear . . . bed made . . . no dirty clothes on the floor. In fact, the only evidence that my husband had even been there all weekend was a used towel in the bathroom, hanging over the shower door.

  “What do you know?” I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I dried my damp hair with the blow dryer. “Guess old dogs can learn new tricks.” I’d have to really thank him for the nice welcome-home surprise.

  The answering machine light was blinking. Eight messages? That was a lot for a Monday . . . unless Philip hadn’t bothered to answer them all weekend. I touched the Play button to listen as I opened the refrigerator to scout our meal possibilities. The first two were telemarketing recordings. I hit Delete twice and kept rummaging in the fridge.

  The third was Henry Fenchel. “Philip? You still there? Mona says she wants to stay Sunday night too, okay with you? We can get back to the office by midmorning Monday . . . Philip? Pick up if you’re there, buddy. Okay, guess I’ll try your cell. Bring plenty of Horseshoe money! And clean shorts. Ha-ha-ha.”

  I stood stock-still with the refrigerator door wide open. Stay where Sunday night?! What did he mean, “Sunday too”? Had Philip been gone all weekend without telling me? Was he doing that to spite me? And where did they go? Henry said bring plenty of “Horseshoe money” . . . what did he mean by that? I’d seen billboards advertising a Horseshoe Casino but had never paid any attention where it was. Indiana maybe . . .

  I pushed Play to listen to Henry’s message again, a shaky mad building in my gut. Maybe Philip didn’t agree with me going to Petersburg this past weekend, but at least I’d told him! After the third time through, I let the answering mac
hine run through the other messages: a call from his mother . . . two more telemarketing reps . . . then my spinning mental wheels did a U-turn as I heard my name.

  “Gabby dear? Please give me a call. This is Aunt Mercy. Your mother had a fall this morning at home. Didn’t break anything, thank God. Good thing I was picking her up to go to church. I heard Dandy barking, so I let myself in. I took her to the ER just to be sure she’s all right, then brought her to my house. Just wanted to let you girls know where she is if you call her today.”

  Now I was really upset. My mother had fallen yesterday? She hadn’t said anything about that when I talked to her this morning!

  The last message was from Aunt Mercy, too—6:10 last night. “Gabby? I don’t know if you got my other message, but I’m taking your mother home now. I wish she’d stay overnight, but she wants to go home to take care of the dog. I’ll check in on her on Monday. Please call me. We need to be able to get in touch with you in an emergency. Do you have a cell phone? All right. Guess you’re not there. Good-bye.”

  I forgot all about making supper for Philip and used the caller ID to return my aunt’s call. I apologized all over the place for the missed communication, told her I’d been out of town, gave her my cell number, told her to call me at any time day or night, told her I’d tried to call my mom on Sunday and finally got her this morning, but Mom hadn’t said anything about a fall . . .

  I held off crying until I hung up with Aunt Mercy, and then I had a good bawl on the living room couch, feeling like the proverbial no-good, rotten, terrible daughter. And that’s how Philip found me when he came in the door at six thirty, surrounded by used tissues. And I yelled at him. “Where were you this weekend, Philip Fairbanks?! My mother had a fall, and, and Aunt Mercy called here, and if you’d been here, you could have let me know! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be away too?! What did Henry mean, bring Horseshoe money? Did you and those, those Fenchels go gambling at one of those casino hotels?” I pulled my knees up to my chin and sobbed some more.