Who Do I Talk To? (11 page)

“Yes. I'd like to speak to Philip Fairbanks.”

She reached for the phone. “Your name, please?”

“Gabrielle Fairbanks.” Her eyebrows went up. I helped her out. “His wife.”

She picked up the phone and turned slightly aside. A moment later, Philip's office door opened, and Henry Fenchel stepped into view. The man was in his early forties, same as Philip, but a bit fleshy in the face, thinning hair. Tended to be a good ol' boy. He stopped. “Gabby.” He sounded startled.

“Hello, Henry.” My voice was calm. I did not smile.

The receptionist hung up her phone. “Mr. Fairbanks will see you. Go on in.”

I pushed past Philip's partner, stepped into Philip's office, and closed the door behind me. My husband was standing at the wide window with his back to me, suit coat off, looking tall and slim in his pale green shirt sleeves. I said nothing, just waited. It was probably only five seconds, but it felt like five minutes. He finally turned, coffee cup in hand, expression mild, dark eyes and lashes framed by his beautiful tan.

I wanted to groan.
Oh gosh.
Did he have to look so gorgeous?

“Gabrielle.” He waved his coffee cup at the mahogany chair on my side of the desk. “Sit. Would you like coffee?”

Would I like—?
“No.” I had no intention of acting as if we were just having a friendly little chat. But I did sit down, crossing my legs to keep them from shaking. Philip casually pulled out his executive chair and leaned back. Another five seconds went by. I got an inquisitive look, as if he wondered what I was there for.

Just do it, Gabby.

“I saw a lawyer today. What you've done, Philip, is
illegal.
You can't just kick me out without a proper order of eviction. You can't just take my children away from me and deposit them with your parents in another state.”

Philip's eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly. I got the message loud and clear:
“But I did, didn't I?”
The anger that I had so carefully repressed threatened to surge right out of my gut in a seismic eruption.

Don't, Gabby, don't!

I waited until I could speak without screaming and took a deep breath to steady my voice. “My lawyer is filing an unlawful eviction case
and
a custody case. There's no question a judge will rule in my favor.”

“Your lawyer?” His shrug felt like a slap in the face. “Tell me something, Gabby. Exactly how do you plan to
pay
for a lawyer?”

I stared at him.

“Ah.” He smiled. “Legal Aid. Of course.”

A glass paperweight sat on his desk within arm's reach of me. Oh, how I wanted to snatch it up and throw it at that smug smile. Or right through his picture-perfect window overlooking the city skyline. But even as I imagined glass shattering everywhere, I knew in my gut Philip was goading me.
“Go ahead, Gabby. Do something crazy.”

A hysterical giggle nearly escaped the emotions churning under my skin. Right. With my luck, the falling glass would probably kill somebody on the street below and I'd get sued. Or dragged off to jail.

I'd lost my upper hand. “Philip . . . why?” I couldn't help it. My voice shook. “Why tear our family apart this way?”

His eyebrows shot up and he threw his hands open. “Me!
Me?
I seem to recall
you
were the one who took this do-gooder job that started screwing everything up! The one who just showed up with her mother and her mutt, turning our household upside down. Without considering me at all in your decisions, I might add. Oh yes, the one whose idea of taking care of our sons was to drag them to a homeless shelter and expose them to all sorts of riffraff all day.”

“But . . . but, Philip. I was trying! I came home Monday to tell you I'd quit the job and that I'd even found a place for my mom.”

His eyes narrowed. “What place?”

“Why, Manna House. The shelter. They said they'd take her in, and she seemed happy with . . . What?”

My husband had started to laugh. He shook his head, shoulders shaking. “Listen to yourself, Gabby. The shelter! The
shelter
! You're like a broken record. If you weren't so pathetic, this would be funny—”

His phone rang. Still chuckling, he picked up. “Oh, sure. Put him through.” He glanced at me, then swiveled his chair so that his back was to me. “Oh, hey, Bill! What's up? . . . Saturday? What time? . . . Yeah, yeah, sure, I could make that . . . No, no, that's good . . . Gotta dig out my clubs, though. We just moved, you know. I might be a little rusty . . .”

I stared at the back of his head. Hot tears stung my eyes. I was so close to a meltdown, I was afraid to move.

Afraid not to move. I had to get out of there or I'd go crazy!

Maybe I was already crazy.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God . . . have You forgotten all about me?

I stood up on wobbly legs and somehow made it to the door as Philip chatted on the phone. But as I put my hand on the doorknob, a Voice seemed to be whispering in my ear:
Gabby. Gabby. Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? Though she may forget, I will not forget you!
I recognized the verses Edesa had written in her note. And there was more. Something about God engraving my name on the palms of His hands . . . and sending sons hastening back.

I couldn't remember it all word for word, but the turmoil surging through my veins suddenly lost steam, replaced with . . . what? A sudden stillness in my spirit. No hysterics. No hot anger. Just the return of a quiet confidence.

I lifted my head and waited at the door until Philip ended the call. He seemed surprised that I was till there. “My things,” I said. My voice was steady. “I want the rest of my things. Like my sewing machine. I need it for a class at the shelter. I need to know when I can come get it.”

chapter 11

Mabel had already gone home by the time I signed in at Manna House at five forty.
Rats.
Was she gone for the whole weekend already? I had to talk to somebody before next Monday! Mabel was the one who'd steered me to the lawyer at Legal Aid. I wanted to debrief what Lee Boyer had told me and figure out what my next step should be.

Didn't immediately see my mom, so I headed upstairs to change out of my pantsuit. Actually, what I really needed to do was think through what had happened at Philip's office. Already I was kicking myself for barging ahead. What had I accomplished? Nothing—except a flippant promise to let me pick up my sewing machine sometime next week. We didn't talk about the boys, about what he'd told them when they left, or how they felt about being jerked back to Virginia so suddenly. Didn't talk about when P. J. and Paul were coming back, or what was best for them in the middle of our mess. The hundred and one important questions.

I wiggled out of my pantsuit.
Ugh!
I didn't even get the satisfaction of making Philip squirm. Evidently, my husband was missing the squirm gene. Probably incompatible with the Fairbanks DNA, always right, always top dog—
Dog.
Oh good grief. Dandy! Had Mabel found a foster home for Dandy? . . . No, of course not, or I'd have heard about it by now.

Quickly pulling on a pair of jeans, I scurried downstairs. What in the world was I going to do? Sarge usually showed up at seven, and she would no doubt ask when I'd have Dandy out of there. This weekend . . . I'd just have to work on that this weekend.

Several women in orange-and-black Manna House volunteer T-shirts—some church group, no doubt—were bustling around the kitchen, setting big pans of covered hot food into the steam table section of the kitchen counter. I found my mother and Carolyn sitting at one of the tables, sorting clean flatware from a dishwasher rack into their appropriate buckets—forks, knives, spoons. It was a good thing Carolyn was working with my mother, or she'd be there till midnight at the rate she was going. I peeked into my office . . . no Dandy.

“He's out with Lucy, if you're wondering,” Carolyn called out. “Been gone most of the afternoon. Speaking of gone . . . I'm here filling in for you. You're supposed to be on setup with your mama here.”

“Oh, Carolyn. I'm sorry. I had an appointment right after lunch and didn't even look at the chore list.”

The book lady smirked. “Works for me. I just traded with you. You got my spot on supper dishes.”

Oh great.
That's when I usually tried to call P. J. and Paul. Maybe I should try during supper.

After making sure my mother was settled at a table with a plate of food, all the proper utensils, and Aida Menéndez nearby to look after “Gramma Shep,” I took my own plate of sliced ham, scalloped potatoes, and chopped salad into my office. Using my phone card, I dialed the Virginia number for Philip's parents.

“Fairbanks residence.” Male voice. Philip's father.

“Hello, Mike. It's Gabby.”

“Oh. Hi there, Gabrielle.” He sounded uncomfortable. Maybe at least one Fairbanks male had the squirm gene. “Guess you want to speak to the boys. They're outside riding their bikes right now. Can you call back, maybe an hour?”

I fought with my disappointment. “All right. Sure. But . . . Mike? Can I talk to you a minute?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Mike, you know Philip brought the boys there without my knowledge and without my permission, right?”

His silence definitely squirmed. Then, “Yeah, yeah. I pretty much figured. But Philip told his mother you two are having some marriage problems. Maybe it's better if the boys are here right now, instead of, you know, in the middle.”

The bald truth of it hit me square between the eyes. I shook off his words. “But that's kidnapping, Mike. Across state lines, no less.” Not exactly true, but I wasn't ready to give up ground yet. “I don't want to press charges if I can get my sons back.”

Now the silence at the other end stretched long and deep. Finally a heavy sigh. “Gabrielle, I don't want to get in the middle of stuff with you and Philip. You know I didn't approve of him moving up there to Chicago in the first place. As far as I'm concerned, the boys are Virginia born and bred and belong here. But I'm not their parent. What do you want? You want me to put the boys on a plane back to Chicago? You feel okay with them traveling by themselves? Just say the word and I'll do it.”

Now it was my turn to be speechless. Did I hear right? I could have my sons back, just like that? Mike Fairbanks would go around his son on my say-so?

“Mike, I . . . I appreciate that. But I don't have any money for plane tickets right now. Long story.”

“Don't worry about that. I'll pay for it, and you can pay me back whenever.”

My heart was beating so fast, I felt as if I'd just sprinted the quarter-mile. This weekend?! I could have the boys back with me by this weekend?

And then what, Gabby?

I finally found words. “Mike . . . thank you. But you're right. It's not simple. Can I call you back? I need to think it through.”

“All right. But call me tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning. If you decide to leave them here, P. J.'s chomping at the bit to sign up for lacrosse summer camp the four weeks of July. Tomorrow's the last day to get his name on the list.”

My hand was shaking as I hung up the phone.
“If you decide to leave them here . . .”
The decision was in my lap.

I joined the cleanup crew after supper in a daze. The church group volunteers put away leftovers and took the trash bags out the side utility door that accessed the gangway between buildings, and then they were gone—scuttling back to their own homes and families somewhere in the 'burbs. Hannah the Bored—my private name for the gum-chewing girl who was forever doing her nails—elected to wipe tables and sweep the floor, the easiest after-meal cleanup. That put me on dishes with two of the new residents, which meant I had to show them how to run the monster industrial dishwasher, leaving me no time to
think.

I finally escaped into a sink full of large serving pans that needed scrubbing. A one-woman job. My mind spun around Mike Fairbanks's offer with every swirl of the scrub brush. On one hand, a no-brainer! Of course! Send the boys back! I'd take the Blue Line out to O'Hare Airport and meet them myself.

And then what, Gabby? Bring them here to Manna House?
That was the rub. Even if the boys were willing to stay here—big
if
—it wasn't even possible. The shelter only allowed mothers with boys up to age eleven, and P. J. was almost fourteen.
Well, what about someone else taking them until I find an apartment—but who? The only people I know here in Chicago I met here at the shelter . . . Wait.
An idea danced in my brain as I sloshed suds in the sink. Josh's parents—Jodi and Denny Baxter—had taken Lucy for a few days when she had that cough. Josh said they had extra bedrooms now that he and his sister were out of the house. Would they—?