Who Do I Talk To? (33 page)

Lucy, however, managed to disappear with Dandy when it was time to leave. My mother wanted to wait, but I knew those two could stay out for hours. “Maybe next time, Mom. We need to go.”

Driving Moby Van up to the Howard Street shopping center was easier than I'd thought—a straight shot up Sheridan Road. It was fun unloading my crew in front of SouledOut. Josh and Edesa Baxter came outside to greet us and laughed when I told them what Carolyn had named the van. “But so far I've been lucky,” I confessed. “I haven't had to parallel park the Big White Whale.”

A lot of people already seemed to know Precious and Sabrina, and they warmly welcomed the others. Jodi Baxter's face lit up when she saw us. “Gabby! I'm so glad you came! I want our daughter to meet you and your mom. I've told her so much about you both . . . Amanda! José! Come here a minute.” In a sly undertone she murmured, “José is Delores Enriques's son . . . might be mine, too, one of these days.”

Amanda Baxter had butterscotch-blonde hair caught back in a knot with an elastic hair band in that just-got-out-of-bed look of the young, and her daddy's easy smile. José's dark eyes drifted often to Amanda's face. Their fingers lightly intertwined.
Uh-huh.
I could see what Jodi meant, though neither one looked even twenty yet. “Oh, Mrs. Shepherd, I heard what happened to your dog,” Amanda squealed, giving my mother a hug. “I wish I could meet Dandy. Is he all right now? Tell us about him . . .”

Across the room, I saw Mr. Bentley hovering near Estelle, so I left my mother with the young people and headed in their direction. I so badly wanted to ask my Richmond Towers doorman friend if he'd seen my husband at all that weekend, until I remembered Harry Bentley didn't usually work weekends.

“Mm-hm, what did I tell you, Harry? They just couldn't stay away from my cookin'!” Estelle lifted an eyebrow at me as I joined them. “You
are
staying for the potluck today, aren't you, Gabby girl?”

Potluck? Sure enough, right after the two-hour service, chairs were pushed back, tables set up, and food set out for a potluck meal. I felt a little anxious about staying, since we hadn't brought anything but appetites . . . but the rest of the Manna House crew obviously had no qualms, filling their plates and going back for seconds. Even Sabrina seemed to be having a good time, hanging out with Amanda, while José Enriques kept Tina and Aida laughing with his rapid Spanish.

By the time we finally climbed in the van and headed back down Sheridan Road, it was going on three o'clock, and I, for one, was peopled out.

I skipped Sunday Evening Praise that night. I saw Rev. Liz Handley come in—hers was some kind of liturgical church group, if I remembered right. But Mom seemed extra tired, barely touching her supper, so I took her upstairs early and helped her get ready for bed. Even Dandy seemed glad for an early night after staying out nearly all day with Lucy. He curled up in his borrowed dog bed and let out a long doggy sigh.

“You're a good girl, Celeste,” my mom murmured, patting my hand as I tucked her into her lower bunk. “Isn't she, Dandy?” Dandy declined comment, probably thinking,
Who's Celeste?

I kissed her cheek and gently brushed back her soft, gray hair as she fell asleep, thinking it was time for another trip to the beauty salon for a cut and set. I'd be so glad to get my mom into that apartment, to do right by her . . . maybe she wouldn't even need to go to assisted living.

One step at a time, Gabby.

By the time I turned out the light and went downstairs, the Sunday Evening Praise service was half-over. I slipped into the empty prayer chapel instead. I needed some time alone to think. And pray.

Even after the multipurpose room had cleared out and Sarge had locked the front door, I realized Philip still hadn't returned my call. I let myself out onto the front steps, making sure I had my key. The night was muggy and warm, and an almost full moon scuttled in and out of patchy clouds tinged orange from the city lights. Taking a deep breath, I tried calling the penthouse again.

Still no answer. Again I left a brief message. “Philip. This is Gabby. Please call this number. We need to talk.” I bit my tongue before I said anything more. But I wanted to say,
“Are you all right? I'm worried about you.”

My cell phone rang at nine thirty the next morning . . . but the caller ID said
Palma, MD.
“Mrs. Fairbanks, can you get your mother to Thorek Memorial on Tuesday at two? Just bring her Medicare card. I've got her registered for the CAT scan.”

I wrote it down. Maybe I could borrow Mabel's car again.

But still no call back from Philip. Mabel wanted to have regular staff meetings Monday mornings at ten . . . did I have enough time? I sucked up my courage and called his office. The sure place to get him. “Fairbanks and Fenchel,” came the bright voice of the new secretary. “How may I direct your call?”

“Philip Fairbanks, please.” I tried to sound businesslike. I didn't need to be afraid; I could live into my name, “Strong woman of God,” as Jodi and Edesa had encouraged—

“I'm sorry. Mr. Fairbanks isn't in. Would you like to speak to Mr. Fenchel?”

Philip wasn't in?
What in the world—?
I hesitated. The last time I'd talked to Henry Fenchel, he'd backed off. Way off. But I heard myself say, “Yes.”

A moment later a line picked up. “Fenchel speaking.”

“Henry? It's Gabby.”

“Gabby! Hey, are you all right? Mona and I have been worried about you.”

I stifled a snort. Mona Fenchel worried about me? I doubted it. “I'm fine, Henry.” Let him figure out what
fine
meant. “But I need to talk to Philip. I thought I could catch him at the office this morning, but—”

“Philip.” Henry's voice got tight. “He's
supposed
to be here this morning. We've got a meeting with a key account at eleven, but I haven't seen him. He hasn't called either. If Prince Charming blows this off, I'll—”

“You mean you don't know where he is?”
Oh God, has something happened?
He hadn't gone to Virginia. At least the boys hadn't said anything about their dad when I called them on Sunday. So where—

“Humph. Didn't say I don't know where he is—or was. We did the Horseshoe Saturday night, but Mona got her, you know, female thing, and didn't feel too hot, so we came on home. But Philip decided he was on a roll, told me not to worry, he'd be here for the meeting Monday morning.”

“Philip stayed at the casino by himself ? Didn't you guys drive down together? He wouldn't still be there this morning, would he?”

“Huh. Meet the new Philip Fairbanks,” Henry snapped. “Dashing casino man. Thinks he's got a lucky pinkie . . .” He stopped.

There was an awkward pause on the other end.

“Henry?”

I heard a sigh. “Look, Gabby. Forget what I said. Buses run back and forth from Chicago to the casino all the time. He'll probably show up fresh as a daisy for the meeting, and he'd be livid if he knew I'd said anything about . . . you know.”

“That's priceless, Henry. You and Mona were the ones who first took him to the Horseshoe when I was gone Mother's Day weekend, remember?”

“Yeah. Don't remind me. Didn't think he'd get so obsessed . . .

But, hey, I gotta go. You sure you're okay, Gabby?”

I softened. Henry was basically a good egg, even if his wife and I had gotten along like two Brillo pads. “Yeah, Henry, I'm okay. Real good, in fact . . .” Someone was knocking at my door.

“Look, Henry, I've got to go too. I'll try Philip later.”

Carolyn stuck her head in and grinned. “Got time to talk about starting that book club?”

I glanced at my watch. “Uh-uh. Got a staff meeting from ten to eleven.” But I grinned back at her. “It's good to see you, Carolyn. Let's talk at eleven, okay?”

Carolyn and Precious were both going through the donated books that comprised the start of our so-called library when I joined them in the multipurpose room after the staff meeting. Dandy was back from his morning walk with Lucy, bestowing wet kisses on my mom, who was supervising the activities from her usual overstuffed throne. Across the room Lucy poured out the dregs of that morning's coffee from the carafes, loading up her cup with big tablespoons of powdered cream and sugar.

“Who put all these dumb romances in here?” Carolyn frowned, waving a handful of paperbacks with similar bare-chested hunks clutching fainting damsels on the covers.

“Let me see dose!” Wanda appeared out of nowhere and snatched the paperbacks.

Precious snickered and waved her off. “At least the girl's readin'.”

“Okay, ladies. Book club. Got any suggestions, Carolyn?” I sat down across from my mother, while Dandy wiggled his rump against my legs, begging for a scratch.

“Something classic—good literature. Hey, what about
Moby Dick
? You know, since we named the van and all.”

I groaned. I'd barely made it through
Moby Dick
myself in school. “Might be a bit hefty to start with. What do we have already? Whatever we choose, we're going to have to get more copies.” Did I have “books for book club” in my program budget?

My mother struggled up out of her chair and started rummaging through the books on the bookshelf with Precious.

“Man, what a mishmash,” Precious murmured. “
Augustine's Confessions . . .
what is that? True confessions? Le's see . . .
The One Year Book of Hymns
. . . huh. Never heard of some of these. Oh, what's this?
The Idiot's Guide to Grandparenting
an'
What Shall We Name the Baby?
” She pulled out the last two books and waved them in the air with a big grin. “Hey, maybe I can use these when Sabrina's baby gets here.”

“This one,” my mother said, pulling out a slim book. She turned and held it out to Carolyn. “I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Carolyn tried to take the book. “Thanks, Miss Martha. Uh, I've got it; you can let go.”

My mother stared at her, gripping the book. Her knuckles were turning white.

I started up off my chair. “Mom? You okay?” It was like my mother had gone into a trance. “Mom? . . . Mom!”

Dandy started barking. “Grab her before she falls!” Carolyn commanded. I leaped to her side, and the two of us lowered my mom into her chair. The dog was going nuts, barking and whining, trying to climb into the chair with my mother. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lucy heading this way like a runaway train.

“I think she's having a stroke!” Carolyn cried. “We need help!” She ran for the foyer.

A stroke! . . . A stroke . . .
I'd learned ways to tell if it was happening. I crouched beside her, my heart racing. “Mom! Can you smile at me?” My mother just stared, still gripping the book. “Raise your arms! . . . What day is today?” No response, just my mother's wide eyes.

Lucy pushed her way in between us, grabbed my mother's shoulders, and shook her. “Miz Martha! Wake up, honey!” The frumpy old woman turned to me, her own eyes wide and frightened. “Do somethin', girl!”

The double doors to the multipurpose room swung open, and I saw Mabel, Angela, and Carolyn running toward us. I didn't wait. Snatching my cell phone out of my pants pocket, I flipped it open and punched 9-1-1.

chapter 34

The ambulance ride, siren wailing . . . my mother strapped to the gurney with an oxygen mask covering her face . . . the rush into the emergency room of Thorek Memorial . . . filling out forms about my mother's insurance . . . watching as they sent her frail form into the doughnut-shaped machine to do a CAT scan of her brain . . .

The last few hours blurred as I sat in the waiting room, riding a roller coaster of jumbled thoughts and emotions.
Oh God, Oh God, I don't want to lose her . . . not Mom . . . not now . . . Did I wait too long to check out those headaches? . . . I need to get hold of my sisters! . . . Should I call Aunt Mercy? . . . No, wait until I hear what the doctor has to say . . . Oh God, please don't take her . . . What if she's paralyzed? Strokes can do that . . . but didn't Dr. Palma say mom was basically healthy for her age? . . .

Mabel, Carolyn, Precious, and Lucy had all shown up in the emergency room and waited for the doctor to come talk to me. Mabel sat beside me, her warm-brown face calm and concerned. Carolyn paced, her pale hands nervously patting pockets, as if looking for a cigarette. Precious sat in a corner of the room, eyes closed, mouth moving, murmuring a constant stream of prayers. From time to time I heard “Jesus!” or “My Lord!” like little puffs shot into the air. Gray-haired Lucy sat slumped in the opposite corner, looking like she'd just been Dumpster diving in her sloppy pair of cropped pants, loose button-up flowered cotton shirt, purple hat jammed on her head, and ratty gym shoes, laces undone, no socks.