Who Do I Talk To? (18 page)
“You mean she didn't?” I teased. The words were out of my mouth, complete with wide eyes and fake surprise, before I even realized what I was doing.
Yo-Yo snickered. “Ooo, Gabby, you all right.”
Their laughter pulled me in, and I realized the friendly banter had found a chink in my armor. Like I could be the real Gabby again, just hanging out with my girlfriends, laughing and teasing and making jokes.
But a nasty little whisper in my head pulled me up short. Philip's voice, back in his office.
“Listen to yourself, Gabby . . . If you weren't so pathetic, this would be funny.”
I tried to shake Philip's voice out of my head. Why did I let stuff he said get to me? I tried to focus on the conversation going on around me as several of the “Yada Yada sisters” shared stuff they needed prayer for. Florida, our hostess, asked prayer for Cedric, her middle boy, who had started dressing like the gangbangersâbaggy pants, crotch hanging to his knees, no shoelaces in his big, clunky gym shoes. “I know why he's doin' it, 'cause he's got that learnin' disability an' the other kids rag on him. He wants to fit in. But now, what kind of man he gonna be, all hobbled up in clothes like that. Help me, Jesus!”
Yo-Yo wagged her head. “I read ya. Pete use to dress like one o' them outlaw bikers, till he joined the army. Now they're sending him to Iraq, and gotta say, I feel guilty, all the fussin' I did over his stupid clothes.” Whoever Pete was. Yo-Yo seemed way too young to have a kid old enough to join the army. “Guess I need y'all to pray for him,” she went on, “'cause my kid brother still don't have much use for Jesus.”
Well, that answered that.
More prayer requests. Chanda was looking for someplace to invest her lottery money. “Someting dat would help a lotta folksâan' get mi relatives off mi back!”. . . Adele said her nail girl quit and would they pray she'd find someone who didn't gossip and snap gum all day? . . . Avis read an e-mail from someone named Nony in South Africa, and from the way the others got all excited, the writer must have been one of the Yada Yadas at one time . . . And Delores, the nurse, said her husband, Ricardo, had lost his job again. “He gets so discouraged. I think he may be drinking again. He needs a miracle, sisters!”
A miracle.
That would be nice. A miracle to sort out the mess that was my life. I was half-hoping these women would pray for me and half-hoping they'd forget I was there. But Estelle wasn't about to forget. “Most of you probably heard about what happened at Manna House this weekend,” she started.
“What mi want to know is,” Chanda jumped in, “why dat dog at de shelter in de first place! Poor t'ing.”
Estelle glared. “Zip your lip, would ya, Chanda? I'm tryin' to say somethin'. An' like Avis is always sayin', anything we say at Yada Yada stays at Yada Yada. No blabbin' to the kids or the neighbors.”
“Humph. What you t'ink I got, loose lips?”
A chorus of “Uh-huhs” was accompanied by nodding heads.
Chanda folded her arms over the tight blouse stretched across her ample bosom. “Humph. Jus' wanting ta know 'bout dat poor dog.”
Estelle sighed. “As I was sayin', Gabby could sure use some sister-prayer because, well . . .” She looked at me. “Maybe you should say, Gabby. That way I won't be talkin' out of school.”
Jodi leaned toward me. “You don't have to go into a lot of detail, Gabby. Just enough so Yada Yada has some idea how we can pray.”
I nodded, feeling my armpits start to sweat. “Well . . . like Estelle said, I'd appreciate your confidentiality, because, as you've probably seen, the media is fixated on my mother's dog chasing off that intruder the other night. Jodi was nice enough to give us a place to hide out this weekend, so hopefullyâ”
“Butâ” Chanda started, then clamped her hand over her mouth.
I couldn't think what to say next, and my lip started to tremble. “Um . . .”
“Take your time, take your time,” Estelle soothed.
I swallowed a couple of times. “Um, well, things aren't too good with my marriage. My mom and I are actually staying at the shelter right now, and to be honest, my, uh, husband is pretty angry at the media attention, afraid our personal stuff will end up splashed all over the TV, ruining his business chances here in Chicago . . .”
“Ooo, girl. You do need some mountain-movin' prayer!”
Florida wagged her head. “You have kids?”
I nodded. “Two boys . . . in Virginia . . .” But now the tears were dangerously close to the surface.
“That's all right, Gabby,” Avis said. “We don't need all the details. Why don't we pray.”
“Avis? Before we pray, can I say something?” Jodi waved her hand like a timid kid in school who was embarrassed to ask for a hall pass. “Gabby, do you mind if I share what Mabel said when you first took the job at the shelter as program director?”
I shrugged, not sure where she was going with it. “I guess.”
“Well, most of you have met Mabel Turner, the director at
Manna House. She's no slouch. Doesn't mince words. Also a real woman of God. And she told Gabby that from the first time they met, she had the sense that it was God who brought her to Chicago because He has a purpose for her at Manna House.”
Murmurs of “All right!” and “Mm-hm, Jesus!” popped around the room. “See?” Estelle murmured.
“Now, don't laugh,” Jodi said, “'cause you all know I tend to be a little skeptical about âprophetic words' and stuff like that . . .”
Yo-Yo snickered anyway.
“. . . but I've been thinking about it all day today, and I think Mabel's words to Gabby really are prophetic, and that all this stuff that's been happening, as painful as it is, isn't by accident. I think God really did bring Gabby to the shelter, and He has a purpose for her, and He's going to use it all somehow . . .”
“All right, now. Preach it, girl!” Florida said.
Edesa was nearly jumping out of her chair. “Oh,
sÃ
! And I told Gabby her parents gave her the right name . . . Gabrielle.” She grinned at me impishly. “It means âstrong woman of God.'”
“See?” Estelle said again.
I wanted to protest, to tell them they had it all wrong, that I was a wimp, that I'd lost my children and ruined my marriage, my own mother was in a homeless shelter, and I didn't have a clue why I was at Manna House . . . but suddenly I found myself surrounded as several of the women got out of their chairs and knelt beside me, taking hold of my shaking hands, while others laid gentle hands on my shoulders. “Oh God!” someone started to pray. “Thank You for telling us in Your Word that when we are weak, that's when You are strong!” . . . “And You promised in Your Word that
all
things work together for the good of those who love You!” . . .
The prayers poured over me, pulling the stopper from the tears I'd been holding back. Someone handed me a box of tissues.
“Give our sister Gabby strength to face tomorrow!” . . .
“Open her eyes to see Your purpose in her life!” . . . “Give her wisdom to meet the challenges she's facing right now!” . . .
“Protect her children, Jesus, when she can't be with them!” . . .
I don't know when it happened. But somewhere in the middle of those prayers going up to God and pouring down on my head, like a river flowing two ways at the same time, a peculiar calmness settled over my body from the inside out. My hands stopped shaking. The tears dried up. My muscles relaxed, and yet . . . I felt invigorated, as if blood was surging through my body, like the time I'd treated myself to a spa treatment after Paul was born.
Even the slump in my spirit seemed to straighten. It was the strangest feeling.
And that night, stretched out in my borrowed bed at the Baxters' house, I slept a dreamless sleep.
Denny Baxter offered to drive the three of us back to Manna House the next morning if that's what we wanted to do. “But really, Gabby,” Jodi said, “Dandy could use a few more days of rest. I'm home most of the day now that school's out. I'd be happy to stay with your mom and Dandy while you go to work . . . the rest of the week, too, if that'd be helpful. Amanda doesn't come back till next Saturday.”
It was a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. “Mom? You okay about staying here with Dandy and Jodi today? I'll be back after work. But if you want to come to the shelter with me, that's okay too,” I added, feeling a bit guilty at leaving my mother in the care of strangers.
My mother scooped some kibbles into Dandy's bowl next to his bed on the back porch. The dog nosed the food and took a polite bite, then laid his head down again on the borrowed dog bed. “Dandy says he doesn't feel too good. I better stay here with him. You don't mind, do you, Celeste?”
Noticing Jodi's odd look, I whispered, “My sister. She gets confused sometimesâoh. Can I use your phone? I've got a calling card.”
Hoping that P. J. hadn't left for sports camp already, I dialed the Fairbanks' number . . . and got Philip's mother. I steeled myself. “Marlene, this is Gabby. May I speak to P. J. please?”
“Where are you? I didn't recognize the caller ID.”
The nerve!
What business was it of hers where I was? “Please, just put P. J. on the phone.”
Fortunately, Marlene Fairbanks was too much of a Southern gentlewoman to be outright nasty. I had a short but happy talk with my oldest, who promised to tell me all about the first day of lacrosse when I called that evening.
The commute on the El took twice as long from the Rogers Park neighborhood as it had from Richmond Towers, but I didn't mind. It gave me time to think about what happened at the Yada Yada prayer meeting last night.
But . . . what exactly had happened? Those women took Mabel's words seriously, even took the meaning of my name seriously, as if it all meant something. And they'd prayed for purpose, wisdom, and courage . . . not exactly the prayers I'd been praying, which mostly consisted of “Help, God! Fix it! Do something!”
Frankly, all I knew was that this morning I almost felt like a normal person. Going to work. Not scared out of my mind. Thinking about what I needed to do today. Grateful that my mom and Dandy were safe and cared for. Wishing I'd brought my umbrella because it looked like rain.
Nothing had changed. I was still homeless. Still broke. My marriage was still in the toilet. My sons were still in another state, and I missed them terribly. And yet . . .
something
had changed. As if God had stood up inside me and whispered, “I've got your back.”
I laughed and got funny looks from the mute bodies standing around me in the crowded aisle of the El. Oh well. Let them think I was one of those weirdos who talked to themselves. These days it was hard to tell the weirdos from the hands-free cell phone users.
I hustled off the El at the Sheridan station and stopped in at the Emerald City Coffee Shop to pick up a coffee-with-cream-togo from the young barista behind the counter, who wore two little rings in the side of her nose. “Hey. Aren't you the lady with the dog we saw on TV? Is he okay?”
“He's fine. Thanks.” I tossed two dollars on the counter and hurried out, kicking myself for the splurge. That's what I got for pretending my life was back to normal.
At least no reporters were lurking about the shelter as I buzzed the front door, signed in at the reception desk, and sailed into the multipurpose room. Each person I met on the way to my office said practically the same thing. “Hey, Miz Gabby! Where's Gramma Shep? How's Dandy? How come you didn't bring 'em back?”
Everyone, that is, except Lucy. So far I hadn't seen the older woman on the main floor or the lower level. I double-backed to the reception cubby in the foyer. “Angela, have you seen Lucy today?”
Angela shook her black tresses. “She didn't sign out since I've been here . . . wait.” The young receptionist turned the book around and flipped a couple of pages. “Don't see her on the sign-outs over the weekend either. Did you try her bunk room?”
Might as well. I ran up the stairs to the bunk room we'd been sharing. My bed and my mother's bed were still made up, and it looked like we'd added another roommate besides Tanya and Sammy.
But Lucy's bunk had been stripped, and her cart was missing.