Who Do I Talk To? (22 page)

My mind stewed on that one all the way to the shelter on the El. My mom had insisted on coming with me that morning. “It's Wednesday, isn't it, Celeste? Estelle needs me to help with the knitting club.”

“I'm Gabby, Mom,” I'd snapped. “Not Celeste.
Gabby
, remember?” I immediately felt bad about my snitty comeback. But good grief, why should I let her call me by the wrong name? I was tired of being at the wrong end of everything.

At least Estelle came with us that morning, since she not only had to put lunch together at the shelter but also supervise the knitting club during “nurse hours.” She graciously sat with my mother on the El, leaving me holding on to a pole, alone with my garbled thoughts.

I barely noticed as the train stopped and started, picking up its morning glut of commuters, as I tried to grasp the difference between what Denny Baxter had done—and even Jesus, for that matter—and my own knee-jerk contrition.
They
had freely taken on the burden of sin to lift it off someone else. Me, I allowed myself to swallow Philip's accusations and innuendos because . . .

Because why?

Because I was afraid.

But why was I afraid? Philip had never hit me. But somehow . . .

I stared at the backs of brick buildings flitting by, windows with shades pulled, and skinny back porches with the occasional hopeful flower box as my mind tried to make sense of my failed marriage.

Somehow . . . somehow Philip had managed to whittle away at my self-confidence, at my ideas and dreams, until I barely knew who I was . . . and I lived in fear of the real me vanishing altogether. For some reason, I had clung to Philip's version of who I was, even his negative depictions, because at least it was
something.

“Sheridan!” the intercom squawked as the train lurched around a sharp corner and slowed at our station. I shook off my disturbing thoughts and followed as Estelle helped my mother out the doors and onto the platform. When we came out on the sidewalk below the elevated station, I suddenly remembered the papers I was supposed to bring to the lawyer at eleven.

“Estelle, wait. Do you have a minute? Mom and I have to get these power of attorney papers notarized, and we need a witness. There's a bank just up the street . . .”

“Humph,” she grumbled. “If lunch is late today, I'm gonna send all the complaints to you.” But Estelle accompanied us to the bank, duly witnessed my mother's and my signatures on the various forms, and even murmured, “This is good. Real good,” as the notary handed the forms back to my mother.

She seemed lost in thought as we walked arm in arm with my mother the few blocks to Manna House. “Mm-mm, I wonder . . .”

“Wonder what?” I said.

“Oh. Just thinking about Harry's mom, wondering if he's taken care of this power of attorney business with her.”

“Mr. Bentley's mom? You know her?”

“Oh, sure, sure. He asked me to do an assessment for her when he found out I was licensed to do home care for seniors, an' I've dropped in on her from time to time, unofficial-like. Nice lady. Real nice lady. A bit odd, but . . . she likes me.” Estelle glanced sideways at me as if she'd said too much as we rounded the corner toward Manna House.

“Estelle Williams!” I whopped my friend on the arm with the back of my hand. “This is getting serious. I mean, now Mr. B's taking you home to Mama . . . oh, good grief. There's that reporter again. Don't say anything.”

We hustled up the steps as the female reporter called out, “Mrs. Fairbanks! Is Dandy back at the shelter yet? We hear the residents have made him their official watchdog. So why isn't he—?”

“No comment!” I sang out, and we disappeared inside.

Where in the world was that snoopy reporter getting her information? I was tempted to call the residents and staff together then and there and insist that nobody talk to any reporters, but I forgot my snit as a happy chorus greeted us when we walked into the multipurpose room. “Hiya, Gramma Shep!” . . . “Miz Martha! We been missing you!” . . . “Where's Dandy? Thought he was comin' back!” My mother's cheeks turned pink as everyone from Carolyn the Book Maven to eight-year-old Sammy gave her warm hugs.

“Dandy needs a few more days,” I said. “Don't worry, he'll be back.” So what if they thought I meant a few more days to heal—which was true. But my real motive for leaving Dandy at the Baxters' as long as possible was to hopefully starve any remaining media interest in Hero Dog.

“Gramma Shep!” Hannah hustled over. “Did Miss Gabby tell you I got me a job in a beauty salon? Ooo, can I do your nails, Gramma Shep? I need the practice!”

“But where's Lucy?” My mother's face fell as she looked around the room. “I told Lucy I'd be back in a few days. Maybe she's downstairs seeing the nurse.”

Carolyn caught my eye and gave a quick shake of her head.

“Come on, Mom,” I said, steering my mother to a comfortable armchair near an end table. “Let Hannah give you a manicure. You have some time before the knitting club starts.”

I was grateful for Hannah's offer, because I wanted to get some work done before heading out the door to make my eleven o'clock at Legal Aid. By the time I signed out and caught the southbound El for my appointment, I had a proposal on Mabel's desk to purchase a list of basic supplies to give manicures and pedicures to the residents of Manna House, using the words of Precious McGill: “Homeless women need to
feel
like women too.” It wouldn't be the spa treatment, but hey, we'd do what we could do.

I arrived at the Legal Aid office on Diversey, a storefront along a strip of stores and small businesses—a medical and dental clinic, a resale shop, a real estate office, a pizza joint—with two minutes to spare, but then had to wait fifteen minutes to be called. I smoothed the wrinkles out of my cream-colored slacks and picked some stray lint off my pale green cotton knit top with the crocheted scoop neck. Did I look all right? I should've repaired my makeup before I left the shelter. Maybe they had a restroom here—

A woman with pale bug-eyes and wispy hair dyed an odd burgundy stormed out of the doorway leading to the offices, throwing dagger glances at everyone in the waiting room as she passed. “Tell
me
I don't got a case,” she muttered. “They're gonna be sorry. Yessir, they're gonna be sorry. That woman
owes
me—”

She jerked the front door open and disappeared.

The African-American receptionist didn't even look up from her computer screen. “Fairbanks. You're next.”

Down the hall, Lee Boyer's door was half-open. “Sorry about that,” the lawyer said, running a hand through his brown, salty hair, then pulling off his wire rims and cleaning them with a man's handkerchief he pulled out of his desk drawer. “Please, sit down . . . May I call you Gabby?”

I sat. “Please. ‘Mrs. Fairbanks' sounds like my mother-in-law, and I'm not too happy with her at the moment.”

The man laughed. “Got it. Gabby it is.”

Was Lee Boyer this good-looking the last time I was here? Not Philip's kind of suave, Double-O Seven good looks that turned heads when he walked into a room. But pleasant. Open. Warm. I watched as he threw the handkerchief back into the drawer and hooked the wire rims behind his ears. “Okay, Gabby, let's get started. Let's see . . .” He studied an open folder. “Do you have the power of attorney forms?”

I pulled a business envelope out of my shoulder bag and pushed it across the desk. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

“Excellent.” He pulled out the forms and skimmed them. “We'll make copies for your files and keep these here.” He then handed me a set of papers he'd drawn up to file for unlawful eviction and to regain custody of my children, which needed my signature. My skin prickled as I read, “Plaintiff—Gabrielle Fairbanks . . . Defendant—Philip Fairbanks . . .”
Oh God, is this really happening?

But I signed.

Lee Boyer clipped the affidavits to the file folder and leaned back. “Now, anything I should know on your end? Besides you turning up on the TV news.” He grinned mischievously.

I told him about the phone call with my father-in-law and the difficult decision I'd made to leave the boys where they were until I found an apartment. I didn't tell him about my ill-fated visit to Philip's office. Did it matter? But I hated looking like a fool in front of this man.

“. . . know that was a hard decision,” he was saying. “But all the more reason to find an apartment so we can get the boys back here with you before school starts. Have you found anything yet?”

He said
we
. “Uh, apartment . . . no. I haven't had time to look. The break-in at the shelter kind of kicked dust in my eyes. We're staying with some, uh, friends till Saturday, and then we have to come back to the shelter. With taking care of Mom and her injured dog, it's been a bit hectic. But maybe this weekend . . .”

Lee Boyer leaned forward, hands clasped on his desk. “Gabby. I understand that things are tough on you right now. But I can't emphasize enough that you need to find an apartment so your sons can come live with you, or this case could very well be thrown out. No judge is going to take two young boys out of their grandparents' home and put them in a women's shelter.”

He said it kindly, but tears sprang to my eyes. I reached for a tissue from the box on his desk. “I know,” I croaked. “But how can I afford—”

“Don't worry about that. You find an apartment and let me know about it. Then we'll see about supplemental funding until all this gets straightened out.” The lawyer leaned back in his desk chair and chewed on the end of a pen, as if thinking about something. But all he said was, “What's the best way to get hold of you if I need to? Between meetings, I mean.”

“Oh.” I dug in my bag. “I have a cell phone now. A gift from my hosts.” I gave him the number.

“All right.” Lee Boyer consulted the calendar on his computer. “Next week? Same time good for you?” The man stood up and extended his hand. “I'll call you if anything comes up, Gabby. You do the same.”

I shook his hand. To my surprise, he covered it with his other hand and held it for a nanosecond longer. Startled, I looked into his eyes—those warm, brown eyes. “It's going to be all right, Gabby,” he said.

Somehow I made it out of there without blubbering. Lee Boyer wasn't anything I expected from a Legal Aid lawyer. He actually seemed to care about what had happened to me, cared about getting my boys back . . . Was that normal for a lawyer? Didn't lawyers just want their money?

Except this was Legal Aid. They didn't do it for profit.

Well, whatever. Philip could sneer all he wanted that I'd gone to Legal Aid. I was lucky to get this lawyer.

And for some reason, as I settled into a seat on the next northbound El, almost empty at this time of day, that little “we” floated into my thoughts.
“So we can get the boys back here . . .”
Well, sure, as my lawyer.

But I tucked that little “we” into an empty corner of my heart.

chapter 23

Our stay at the Baxter household buoyed me up better than a week at a spa resort, a gentle oasis of ordinary family rhythms in the middle of the train wreck that was my actual life. Well, maybe not
ordinary
family rhythms, since we had no kid noses or bottoms needing to be wiped, though Dandy's “functions” and my mother's growing dependence came in a close second. Peanut—the black-and-white kitty—must have decided I was a member of the family, because he jumped into my lap whenever I sat down.

Jodi and I even played Scrabble on Thursday night after supper, just like normal people. Leslie Stuart, Estelle's housemate, came downstairs and beat us both. “And you're a teacher, Jodi!” she crowed, tossing that long, corn-silk hair back with glee.

“Yeah, but I teach third graders,” Jodi protested. “My brain is stuck on third-grade spelling words, like
clean
and
could
and
cure
.”

“And I'm a social worker, but you didn't see me winning with words like
caseworker
and
caseload
and
colleague.
”

“No,” I jumped in, “but changing
cop
to
copacetic
on a triple word score?! Who even knew that was a word?”

Stu chuckled. “Harry Bentley, that's who—my erstwhile client, your friend, and Estelle's
boyfriend,
if she'd ever admit it. He's been mourning the loss of his
copacetic
life ever since his grandson moved in with him.” Which had left all three of us gasping with laughter.

But Saturday loomed when Mom and I would need to move back to the shelter. How Mabel had been able to hold beds for us, I wasn't sure. New faces appeared at the shelter every few days, and I knew our beds had been assigned temporarily to someone else Wednesday night when a major thunderstorm rolled through the city, drenching the normal haunts of the homeless. But when I checked my e-mail at work on Friday, I had two e-mails from Mabel—one an announcement to all staff and available volunteers regarding a staff meeting on Monday, the other to me saying she'd put our names back on the bed list, same room, same bunks, starting Saturday night. I stopped in at her office just before I left for the day to thank her.