Who Do I Talk To? (32 page)

At supper, which was provided by the Silver Sneakers from a Jewish senior center, I announced a contest: “Name the Van.” Entries should be written on a piece of paper, I said, and given to me by supper tomorrow night, at which time we'd vote. I grinned. “Can't let our new baby go a whole weekend without a name.”

Carolyn waved her hand. “I'm moving out tomorrow, so I won't be here to vote. But I have a name.”

“That's great, Carolyn. Why don't you—”

“Moby Van. After Moby Dick, the big white whale in Herman Melville's novel.”

“Oh,
yeah
,” Diane sputtered. “That thing sure do look like a big white whale!”—which got snickers and guffaws even from women who'd probably never heard of Herman Melville.

Hannah waved her manicured hand. “No, no! Name it some-thin' pretty, like Pearl or Frosty.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Lucy grunted. “Carolyn leavin'. Let 'er name the van.”

Hannah stuck out her lip. “But Miss Gabby said we could vote.”

“So? Let's vote on Carolyn's name,” Lucy cut in. “Ever'body good with Moby Van?” A resounding chorus of yeahs bounced off the walls. “Nos?” Hannah just rolled her eyes.

And that was that. We even used “Moby Van” to help move Carolyn the next morning over to the apartment building sponsored by Deborah's Place on the west side. We picked up several boxes she'd stored at a friend's—dishes, a few pots and pans, a couple scatter rugs, several towels, sheets and blankets—plus two boxes of books and her clothes from the shelter. I was a bit taken aback at the tiny “studio” apartment—just one room with a refrigerator and hot plate in one corner, a single bed and dresser in another, a small table and chair by the window, and a door that led to a small bathroom with a shower stall, shared with the studio next door.

Carolyn flopped down on the narrow bed and stretched out. “Isn't this
great?
I love it! My own place!”

I was speechless, thinking about the three-bedroom apartment I'd just signed for. Could I be happy here? “Uh, well, guess it's a step up from a bunk room with roommates who snore.”

“Ha!” Carolyn threw back her head and laughed. “And
that
was a step up from getting locked in my room at night up at the psychiatric facility.” She rolled up to sit on the side of the bed. “I remember one of Edesa's Bible studies; she said Paul the apostle had learned to be grateful whether he had a lot of stuff or just a little. Guess I'm learning that too. The hard way.”

A lot or a little . . . I qualified on that score. But had I reached grateful yet?
Huh.
I sure had a lot to learn about this business of being a Christian. Never thought my current role models would be people at a homeless shelter, though.

With a promise to come back to Manna House next week to talk about starting a book club, Carolyn gave me a hug and I headed back toward Manna House. I felt a little teary as I eased Moby Van onto the Eisenhower Expressway heading back into the Loop. People came and went from Manna House all the time. Why did Carolyn's leaving feel like such a loss?

Maybe because her story wasn't all that different from mine. Minus the husband, but still. Middle-class woman, educated, good job, whose life had suddenly spun out of control, nowhere to go. Except to God and God's people. Now she was taking her life back, one step at a time. But even Carolyn had admitted she was scared.

Me too.

As I drove through the Loop and turned onto Lake Shore Drive, I could see the huge Aon Center, which housed my husband's office, its white granite facade standing out from all the steel and glass buildings surrounding it. My last visit to Philip's office tasted like bile in my mouth. But . . . it was time to walk through my fear and get to the other side. I had a sudden urge to pull off the Drive, head for the Aon Center, and ride the elevator to the sixty-second floor. Philip and I needed to talk!

It's Saturday, nitwit.
I kept driving.

As I approached the Irving Park exit, which would have taken me to Manna House within a few minutes, I drove past and took the next exit, turning right onto Montrose Harbor Drive. I parked and got out of the big van. A lot of sailboats, a few small yachts in the protected harbor. Rock wall out by the lake. Not much sand. But just being near the water felt good. Traffic noise along the Drive faded into the background as seagulls screeched overhead.

Mmm.
If I missed anything about living in the penthouse at Richmond Towers, it was being able to walk through the pedestrian tunnel under Lake Shore Drive and magically be at the beach.

The penthouse . . .
Why not call Philip right now and make arrangements to get some of our stuff for my apartment? I'd be able to fit quite a bit into Moby Van. Maybe I wouldn't even need to rent a truck. I sat on the rock wall, pulled my cell phone out of my shoulder bag, and punched in our “home” number.

Heard my chipper voice on the answering machine.
“Hi! You've reached the Fairbanks. Sorry we missed your call. Leave a message . . .”
Like a ghost out of my past, haunting my present.
The Fairbanks . . . we . . .
I flipped the phone closed, losing my nerve. I didn't want to leave a message on the home phone. Philip would just ignore it anyway.

Get a grip, Gabby.
It was time to quit hiding from Philip. If he backed me into a corner on the phone, I could just hang up and wouldn't answer the next time. But we needed to start talking, the sooner the better. Taking a deep breath, I tried his cell. Got
his
voice mail. This time I left my new cell number and asked him to call.

But by Sunday evening I still hadn't heard back from Philip.

It had been a busy weekend. When I got back to Manna House with Moby Van after moving Carolyn, Angela was standing at the window of her cubicle, clipboard in her hand, talking testily with two women who looked vaguely familiar. “Do you want to be put on the wait list or not? As I said, the bed list is full right now.”

“What about them other two, come in just 'fore us? Betcha put
them
on the bed list.” The darker-skinned of the two women stabbed a finger in the direction of the multipurpose room as I tried to creep past.

“That's right.” Angela was obviously trying to keep her cool. “We had two empty beds, but they came in first.”

The lighter-brown-skinned woman, black hair pulled tight into a stubby ponytail, got in Angela's face. “Those beds 'sposed to be ours! Chris an' me was stayin' here just a few days ago. We left our stuff to hold our place!” The woman glowered at me. “Ain't that right?
You
'member—we went to the Taste!”

I caught Angela's eye.
Uh-oh.
Chris and Alisha. The two who did a disappearing act at the Taste of Chicago.

“It doesn't work like that.” Angela was losing patience. “You didn't come back, so we had to put your stuff in storage. I'll be
happy
to get it now.” Angela came out of the cubicle and headed resolutely for the double swinging doors. “Gabby,” she hissed at me, “stay with the phone.”

“Yeah!” Alisha yelled after her. “You better get our stuff, Chingy Chong, an' nothin' better be missin' or I'll—” The street woman muttered a string of profanity as the doors swung closed behind Angela.

I sweated out the next five minutes, but finally the two women were gone with their “stuff ” . . . without filling out the forms for the wait list. Angela blew out a breath as she took back the reception cubicle. “That was close. Look who got the last two beds.” She jerked a thumb in the direction of the multipurpose room. “Thank God!”

Precious was getting herself a cup of coffee and loading it with powdered cream and sugar, surrounded by a couple of overstuffed backpacks and a bulging black plastic bag.

“Precious! What happened? Did you get evicted?” I cried.

Precious shook her head. “Ain't gonna wait to get evicted. Uh-uh. Them sheriff 's officers just dump your stuff in the street, rain or shine. I packed it up, storing some stuff at a friend's. Good timin', though. I think we got the last two beds.” Precious pulled me aside. “Sabrina, though, she real upset. Don't wanna have her baby at a shelter. She threatenin' to run off again, live with the dawg who knocked her up.” Precious practically spit. “Humph. Over my dead body. She do that? Somebody's gonna die.”

I followed her eyes to the black teenage girl across the room, slumped in one of the overstuffed chairs, arms folded over her voluptuous chest, her pretty features tight. How far along was Sabrina . . . three months? Four months? And now she and her mom were homeless again? She was right—a shelter was no place to have a baby! Huh. Maybe we should have taken advantage of all the media attention Dandy's “hero act” had created to raise money for another building, some second-stage apartments for homeless moms like Precious . . .

“Precious—” I wanted to say I'd do everything in my power to help them find a place to live before Sabrina's baby was born, but just then Lucy Tucker came into the multipurpose room with my mother's dog on a leash. Under the purple knit hat, the old woman's crafty eyes took in Precious, then swung across the room to Sabrina. With a shrug, she lumbered over to Sabrina's chair, unsnapped Dandy's leash, and ordered, “Sit. Stay.” Dandy sat, his eyes following Lucy as she shuffled out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen-dining area.

The whole time I was talking to Precious, Lucy didn't come back. Dandy sighed and lay down, right where he'd been put, head lying on top of Sabrina's feet. I took a step in their direction, afraid the sulking Sabrina might kick him away. But Precious grabbed my arm and turned us away, as if we weren't watching. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sabrina lean down and tentatively stroke Dandy's silky gold head.

“That crafty old airbag,” Precious murmured. “She did that on purpose!”

Even though I felt badly for Precious and Sabrina, for some reason my spirit lifted having Precious around. Next to Edesa and Josh Baxter—and Gracie, of course—Precious was one of the first people I'd met here at Manna House. She'd given me the official tour, with a lot of unofficial “facts” thrown in. The woman seemed to know everybody's story—and wasn't at all shy about sharing her own! “Girl,” she'd told me, “somebody gonna write a book about me someday. Be a best seller! Oh Lord, what I been through.”

Mom had another headache Saturday afternoon, but the new medicine Dr. Palma had given her seemed to help. After a short nap she wanted to play Scrabble and somehow talked Tina and Aida into playing with her after supper. “A good way to learn English,” she scolded when Aida resisted. I wasn't so sure about that. The last time I'd played with Mom, she'd spelled several of her words backward.

But after getting the Scrabble board set up for them, I excused myself to call Aunt Mercy and bring her up to date. She totally agreed about getting the CAT scan and said she'd call Mom's doctor first thing Monday morning about getting her records sent to Dr. Palma. “But about the apartment you found, Gabrielle. Celeste called me . . .”

I knew what was coming. Now they were both going to get on my case to forget the apartment, bring Mom back to Minot, and stay with her at the house. “Aunt Mercy, look, it's more complicated than that. I'm trying to get my boys back with me, and I have to stay here in Chicago right now. But keep praying, okay?

God's going to work it out somehow.”

Somehow
was right. I just wished He'd give me more than one clue at a time.

chapter 33

Mom insisted on going to church the next morning. “Don't want to spoil my perfect attendance,” I heard her tell Precious. I decided I didn't need to remind her we'd both missed last week.

The SouledOut church service started at ten. Normally I'd allow an hour to take the Red Line up to Howard Street—especially with Mom—but at breakfast I had an inspiration. “Anybody want to go to Estelle's church this morning?” I announced. “Same church that comes here on third Sundays. If we get at least eight people, I'll drive Moby Van.” Getting residents to church surely qualified as a program.

To my surprise, it wasn't hard. Precious was the first to shoot a hand up, and with Sabrina that made four. Tanya and Sammy made six. And after playing Scrabble with my mother last night, Tina and Aida had a hard time resisting when Mom sweetly asked them to go with her too. She even got a noncommittal grunt out of Lucy.

Tina, however, seemed anxious. “Señora Gabby,” she hissed. “Any Puerto Ricans at that church? Some people think we're Mexican or assume we're all
ilegal
. I get nasty comments sometimes. Don't usually go to places that are just black or white.”

Big-boned Tina didn't seem the type to be intimidated, and her comment took me aback. SouledOut had seemed very multicultural to me—but come to think of it, I hadn't noticed any Latinos, though I wasn't sure. “It'll be all right, Tina. I promise.” If one could promise something like that.