by Neta Jackson
I bought time picking up his clothes and putting them into the laundry hamper. “No-o. But it’s only four days. I thought I’d take them to work with me one day and show them around, then maybe do one of the museums for a half day. If you took them to work with you one day, why, that’s three days already—”
“Take the boys to work with me?” Philip looked at me as if I’d suggested hanging the boys by their thumbs.
“Well . . . sure. I thought you’d want the boys to see your new office, meet your partner, and, you know, get a feel for what their dad does.”
“Sure. But that would take, what, one hour? Why don’t you bring them to the office one day, on your way to the museum or something. And let me know exactly when you’re coming. I’ve got a busy week.”
I kept back the tears until I was in the bathroom by myself, door locked, water running in the sink as I washed my face. Oh God, why is this so hard? I looked at my face in the mirror—snarly curls askew, cheeks sunburned from our afternoon at Wrigley Field, mascara smudged from tears. Was I being stubborn? Should I have taken the job at Manna House? It had seemed like such a God thing. Mabel even said as much. But maybe I should quit—
No. That made no sense. We only had four days to cover for the boys! A week to visit my mom . . . then they’d be gone all day to sailing camp for a whole month. It was a good plan. Philip was the one being unreasonable. If he’d just meet me halfway, we could work this out.
Burying my face in a towel, I wished I had someone to talk to. Or pray with. It seemed so much easier when Mabel or Edesa talked to God. But right now it was just me. Jesus, I started—but instead of a prayer, the gospel song on the CD Josh gave me filled my head. “Where do I go . . . when there’s no one else to turn to? Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen? . . .”
I groaned into the towel. Good question.
chapter 33
Taking the boys to Manna House the next day went better than I expected. Of course, before we left the house, I threatened to take P.J.’s iPod away for the rest of his natural life if he showed the slightest disrespect to any living soul that day.
“O-kay, Mom, I get it. But what are we supposed to do all day while you’re working? It’s going to be so boring.”
“So? Nobody ever died from being bored. But tell you what. If you’re so bored you can’t stand it at two o’clock, I’ll knock off and take you home—but you’ll have to cook supper tonight so I can get some work done at home. However, if you hang with me until four, I’ll cook supper and even do your dishes tonight. Deal?”
The boys brightened considerably. I knew they liked to mess around in the kitchen—mile-high hamburgers and doctoring frozen pizzas were their specialties—so the whole deal probably felt like win-win to them. They even seemed to get a kick out of riding the Red Line again, choosing to hang on to the poles rather than sit as the train jerked and swayed around corners.
I’d called Mabel to ask if it was okay to bring the boys along, but I was surprised when she met us in the foyer when we arrived at nine thirty and presented the boys with orange and black “Manna House Volunteer” T-shirts, which said in small lettering beneath, “I’m part of God’s miracle.”
“Is that black lady the boss?” Paul whispered to me.
“Top dog.” I grinned. This was going to be a good education for my sons. George Washington Prep had its small share of minority students, but except for the maintenance and grounds crew, the entire administration and teaching staff were white.
I was hoping we’d run into Lucy, but Mabel said she hadn’t been in for about a week and a half—which meant my conversation with Lucy about growing up in Arkansas had been the last time anyone had seen her. But I did see several new faces in the multipurpose room, including a busty young woman still in her teens who was falling all out of her half-buttoned blouse. I hustled the boys to the lower level on the pretext of showing them my office. P.J. was unimpressed. “Gosh, Mom. Our bathroom at home is bigger than this.”
I laughed. “Of course it is. This used to be a broom closet.”
Just then Estelle Williams hollered at us from the kitchen. She’d whipped up a batch of chocolate-chip cookies in the boys’ honor and gave P.J. and Paul the task of passing out the hot-from-the- oven cookies to everyone on the lower and main floors, which made them immediately popular with the current crop of residents. “Top floor is off-limits though,” Estelle warned.
“What’s up there?” Paul’s eyes widened, as if he suspected hidden corpses.
Estelle chuckled deep in her chest. “Sleeping rooms. This is a women’s shelter, son. No men allowed.”
Between delivering cookies and playing Ping-Pong in the rec room, the boys managed to entertain themselves while I caught up on responses to my recent e-blast requesting donated supplies. Two boxes of books had come in from Rev. Handley to start the Manna House library, and Carolyn had already appointed herself Head Book Honcho and invented an honor-based “checkout” system. An e-mail from Josh Baxter’s mom, Jodi, confirmed that she was all set to teach typing in the schoolroom this coming Saturday at eleven, and three people had signed up, including Kim, even though we only had two computers. And Tina left me a note saying she would try teaching the first ESL lesson tonight—Tuesday—from five to six, just before supper.
So far, so good.
When the bell rang for lunch, I went through the line with the boys and got them settled at a table, then caught Estelle by herself when I went back to the counter for napkins. “Did Mr. Bentley call you?” I whispered.
“Mm.” Estelle didn’t miss a beat refilling the bowl of butter pats.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Estelle!”
“Well nothin’. We talked about care options for his mother.”
“And . . . ?”
“And none of your business, Gabby Fairbanks.” She flounced over to the heavy-duty refrigerator to replace the plastic container of butter pats.
Chuckling, I returned to our table, only to find Miss Bulging Blouse sitting across from the boys, talking loudly with someone at another table. But there was no mistaking the way the older teenager cut her eyes at P.J. or her sultry smile. P.J., on the other hand, wasn’t looking at her smile . . .
With a start, I realized P.J. was going into high school in a few months, looking for all the world like a junior version of the dreamboat I fell in love with in France on that fateful day sixteen years ago in the Place de la Comédie.
I gulped. I wasn’t ready for this!
Making a quick getaway after lunch, I let the boys watch a Spiderman movie in the TV room on the main floor, while I made up an activity calendar of weekly events so far: ESL on Tuesday late afternoon . . . Typing on Saturday morning . . . Knitting on Wednesday while the nurse was here . . . plus the Friday Bible study . . .
I still had a few more “life skills” ideas I wanted to get off the ground—basic cooking classes (Estelle?), basic sewing (Estelle again?), maybe a dance exercise class (Precious?). And Josh had suggested a sports clinic for the shelter kids on the weekend. Was he volunteering? His dad was athletic director for a high school in Rogers Park . . . Hmm, that might be a good resource.
Somehow I also managed to squeeze in a few calls to Chicago-area private schools, but the answers were all the same. “I’m sorry, registration is closed” or “We can put you on a waiting list.” My heart was starting to sink. Oh God, please help me find a good school for the boys . . .
I sighed. Seemed like most of my prayers were still the “Oh God, help!” variety. How did Edesa and Mabel and that Avis woman learn how to pray? Seemed like the prayers of all those women were full of praise and thanksgiving, no matter what disaster was pending. I need someone to teach me how to pray. Funny thought, given that I’d grown up going to church until I gave it up in college. Correction: until Damien left me. But how could I go to church all that time and still not get it when it came to prayer?
I glanced at t
he clock. Almost four. We’d been here almost all day! The boys’ movie should have been over an hour ago . . . what were they up to? Gathering my bags, I hustled up the stairs to the multipurpose room. Carolyn’s ponytailed head was bent over a game board in the far corner, matching wits with P.J. and Paul in a game of Stratego.
“Time to go, guys,” I called out. “Thanks, Carolyn.”
“Aw, Mom, do we have to?” P.J. fussed. “We’re right in the middle of a game!”
A smile started somewhere inside and popped out on my face. P.J. didn’t want to go home yet? God, You really do have a sense of humor.
Somehow we made it through Wednesday and Thursday too. On both days I put in three or four hours of work, then took the boys to see the beluga whales at the Shedd Aquarium on Wednesday, and on Thursday we took the El downtown to the Aon Building so the boys could see the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel—yes, there it was, a large nameplate beside the door—and have a late lunch with their father. My eyes nearly bugged out when I saw the professional décor: sandstone and fawn on the walls, tan leather couches with deep brown and ochre-red throw pillows, a rug that picked up the rich brown and sandstone colors, desert prints on the walls, and large, leafy plants.
My kind of room, exactly.
Uh-oh. Did Mona Fenchel think I pushed for my idea instead of hers? I was amazed she was still speaking to me. Or was she? Come to think of it, we’d been on Lester Stone’s sailboat together all one Sunday afternoon, and I couldn’t remember more than three sentences she’d said to me that day.
But on Friday the boys balked. “Can’t we just stay here and play video games?”
“I wanna go to the beach,” Paul whined. “Can’t we go to the beach?”
Frankly, I’d run out of ideas. Just one more day. One more day to juggle—
The intercom chimed. That would be Camila. I buzzed the security door so she could come up and briefed the boys. The three of us were waiting in the gallery when she got to the door. “Camila, these are my sons, P.J. and Paul. Boys, this is Señora . . .” My glance pleaded with the woman to please provide a last name.
Blushing, she seemed to understand. “Sanchez. Camila Sanchez. I am very happy to meet your fine sons, Señora Fairbanks.”
To their credit, both boys gravely shook hands before disappearing into their rooms. I ran a hand through my hair, which seemed to be getting frizzier as the June humidity hiked up. “I—I hope we won’t be in your way, Camila. I had planned to go to work, but the boys want to stay home today, so I’m not sure what I’m going to—”
“Oh, you go. You go.” Camila Sanchez flicked a hand at me, as though shooing a fly. “Your fine boys can stay with me. I am here until two o’clock. I will watch them. Just give me a phone number where I can call you. It is no problem. Go, go.”
I gaped at her. “Oh, Camila—and please, call me Gabby—are you sure? I’d be happy to pay you extra.” I couldn’t believe how this answer had dropped from above right into the gallery, almost like that Bible story where a bunch of friends lowered their sick buddy right through the roof to get to Jesus. I grinned at the analogy. Camila Sanchez’s generous offer felt like a little miracle.
The boys seemed okay with the arrangement, and agreed to stay out of Mrs. Sanchez’s way in whatever room she was cleaning. I made them promise not to leave the premises until I got back, and if they behaved, we’d go to the beach as soon as I got home that afternoon.
I had to admit I felt relieved going to work without having to worry about entertaining the boys. Couldn’t blame them, either, for not wanting to tag along with me every day. Had Philip given any thought to his kids when he bought the penthouse at Richmond Towers? Even if I wasn’t working, what were they supposed to do every day? It’d be different if we lived in a neighborhood where they could ride their bikes or run outside to play with their friends any time they wanted . . .
One thing at a time, Gabby. Right. At least the boys would have a great time romping with their cousins for a week in my old hometown—which reminded me. Celeste and Honor still hadn’t confirmed that they were coming home next week! The three-hour time difference in Alaska made finding a convenient time to call my oldest sister difficult. And Honor tended to view time on a sliding scale. “I’ll call you tomorrow” might be tomorrow—or a week later.
Well, I’d try when I got to work. Celeste ought to be up by then.
But my first phone call after I dumped my bags on my desk was to the penthouse. “Camila? How are the boys? . . . Good. Good. Yes, I know it’s only been an hour . . . But you’ll call if there’s any problem, all right?”
Well, that was silly. Of course they’re all right. Those two could play video games for hours. I’d wait until noon to make the next call, and maybe just before I left at two.
Next I tried Celeste. She should be up by now, even with the time difference. But I immediately got a recorded voice saying, “That number is being checked for trouble.” Rats. That usually meant a dump of snow had hit Denali National Park, disrupting their landline. And the geography made cell phone access spotty at best. I dialed her cell anyway and left a message.
At ten thirty I went upstairs to catch Edesa before the Friday Bible study, hoping to find out what had happened at the adoption hearing while we were in Virginia last week, but they’d already started. I tried to slip in quietly, but Edesa stopped mid-sentence and said, “Hola! Gabby’s back!” She flashed her familiar megawatt smile as I sat down. “We missed you last week, Gabby. I was just telling the ladies that today we’re going to ask the same question the disciples asked Jesus: ‘Lord, teach us to pray.’ Has everyone found the book of Matthew, chapter six?”
Well, this was ironic, given that I was wishing someone would teach me how to pray earlier this week. But . . . the Lord’s Prayer? I’d memorized that as a kid, and it was a regular part of the liturgy at Briarwood Lutheran. But repeating a rote prayer wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
I considered slipping out, but that seemed rude after just sit-ting down. So I stayed put—and then forgot about leaving as Edesa Baxter broke down the prayer into tiny parts. “First, Jesus encouraged His disciples to give God praise! ‘Hallowed be Thy name!’ Hallowed means holy, sacred, blessed. When we come into the presence of the King of kings, this is the first thing we do. We worship Him!”
I listened in amazement as the young black woman from Honduras—who seemed too young to be so wise—went phrase by phrase through the Lord’s Prayer, encouraging these women off the street to get familiar with the Bible, so they could pray in the will of God. “Because prayer is powerful, mis amigas. Prayer changes things. But that doesn’t mean God’s going to answer your prayer for security by sending you a smooth-talking pimp who’s promised to take care of you if you’ll just take care of his johns.” Nervous snickers and a few guffaws consumed the room.
The discussion got a bit dicey when she got to the part about confessing our sins and asking God to forgive us. “Jesus said we also need to forgive people who sin against us.”
“Man! I ain’t forgivin’ my daddy for what he done to me. He can burn in hell for all I care.”
“What if the scumbags don’t confess their sins? Do we still have to forgive ’em?”
“Jesus did,” Edesa said simply. “While He was hanging on the cross, after being whipped and nailed through His hands and feet, He said, ‘Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they’re doing.’ But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. I know.” Her lip trembled. “I admit I’m very angry at the man who got Gracie’s mother pregnant, probably got her hooked on drugs, too, and then abandoned her to die. And now he’s trying to take Gracie away from us.”
Suddenly everyone wanted to talk about the crackheads and slicksters in their lives who didn’t deserve to be forgiven. I slipped out of the room. This didn’t seem to apply to me. Nothing in my life matched what these women had suffered—not even Edesa’s fight for Gracie.
But I decided to take another look at the
Lord’s Prayer. Starting with praise . . . I was definitely weak on that one. Asking God to meet my needs . . . Yeah. When I got desperate. But it talked about “daily bread.” Basic needs. Why not before I got desperate? Confessing my sins . . . Didn’t do that too often. Huh. It was bad enough constantly having to apologize to Philip for all the ways I didn’t measure up to his expectations. Forgiving others—
I stopped with my hand on the doorknob to my office.
Could I forgive Philip for making me feel like I was nothing more than sand in his shoes?
chapter 34
I phoned the boys at noon and talked to Paul. The natives were getting restless. “It’s eighty degrees out there, Mom! I wanna go swimming.”
“I know, hon. Hang in there. Let me talk to Mrs. Sanchez.”
Camila said everything was fine, but she had to leave at two o’clock.
“That’s fine, Camila. The boys can stay by themselves for a little while. I should be home by two thirty or so. I’ll check in with them by phone.”
I made a point to catch Edesa at lunch and ask about the hearing, but she just shook her head. “It got postponed, Gabby. Nobody said why.” The anxiety in her large, dark eyes contradicted her wry smile. “Makes it hard to practice what I preach—you know, what I said this morning, about forgiveness. And patience!”
Frankly, it was good to know she was human. I gave her a sympathetic hug, told her to keep me posted, and went looking for Mabel. I hadn’t seen the director at lunch, so I tapped on her office door, my list of current and proposed activities in hand.
“It’s open!”
I peeked in. She and Stephanie Cooper, the case manager, had their heads together—beauty-shop-relaxed black coif and wash-and-wear light brown bangs—poring over a stack of manila file folders. “Oops, excuse me. I can come back later.”
Mabel looked up. “That’s okay. Just doing progress reports. What’s up?”