Who Do I Talk To? (5 page)

“Mr. Martin—” I hesitated. How much should I say? Should I just leave? But something inside me rebelled against rolling over and playing dead. “Mr. Martin, my husband left me yesterday and took our children. Not only that, but I can't get any of the ID you need because he changed the locks, so I can't get into my own home. I came here because I need to know what my rights are respective to—”

“Changed the locks? Did you say Mr. Fairbanks—?”

I nodded. “Yes, and—”

“But he can't do that! Not on leased property. Management needs to have a key to leased units in case of emergency.”

I didn't know whether to laugh hysterically or scream bloody murder. I tried to keep my voice steady, but the sarcasm leaked anyway. “Maybe he
can't
. But he
did
. And this
is
an emergency, Mr. Martin.
My
emergency. I came here to ask what you can do about it.”

Mr. Martin slumped back against his executive chair. He ran a hand over his military-short haircut, avoiding eye contact. Finally he picked up the file folder and busied himself putting it back. “I'm sorry, Mrs., uh, Fairbanks. My hands are tied. It is against Richmond Towers policy to get involved in domestic affairs. If you had some ID proving you have a spousal right to enter the penthouse . . .” He shrugged. “I'm sorry.”

Again I had to fight the urge to get hysterical. Wordlessly, I retrieved my driver's license, put it back in my wallet, and stood up. I didn't trust myself to say anything, so I simply turned and left.

“Should sic Mr. Bentley on him,” I muttered to myself, yanking open the glass door at the end of the corridor. “He'd vouch for me, tell Mr. Martin what he saw with his own eyes last night.” But when I came out into the foyer, Mr. Bentley had the desk phone cradled in his ear, scribbling a message.
Forget it, Gabby. Don't drag Mr. Bentley into your mess. This is his job, remember?

I was pretty sure he didn't see me as I slipped out the revolving door.

Barely noticing the squeals, rattles, and bumps of the El heading back to the Wrigleyville North neighborhood, I pressed my forehead against the cool window.
A lawyer. That's what I need.
Obviously I wasn't going to get anywhere trying to navigate the land mines of my situation by myself. I wasn't even sure I cared about getting back into the penthouse. Did I want to be someplace where I wasn't wanted? Not if my boys weren't there. I didn't even care that much about the furniture and stuff that filled the place, though there were personal things I did care about—photo albums, the boys' baby books, household items that had been wedding gifts from my parents . . .

But even those things seemed unimportant right now. Not until I talked to my sons and knew they were all right. And then . . .

“I'll get my boys back. Whatever it takes, Philip Fairbanks! You wait and see,” I muttered, leaving steam on the window. In the window reflection, I saw the woman next to me give me a strange look. She got up and moved across the aisle as the train slowed.

So what?
Let her think I was nuts. This was my stop.

I strode briskly the few blocks to Manna House. More focused now, I tried the number for Philip's parents again before I went inside the shelter. Still no answer. But this time I left a message. “Mike and Marlene, this is Gabrielle. If P. J. and Paul are there, tell them I need to speak with them as soon as possible.
Today
, not tomorrow. My cell phone is not working. They can call this number or . . .” and I rattled off the number for Manna House.

I felt proud of myself for not screaming or blubbering at my in-laws. I was firm. Clear. Concise. Surely they'd see I was a reasonable person and let the boys call.

Unless . . .

My stomach felt weak. What if Philip hadn't taken them back to Virginia?

I had to call Philip. No way around it. What was I afraid of ? What more could he do to me that he hadn't already done?

Leaning against one of the double oak doors of Manna House, shaped to resemble the doors of the old church that had once housed the shelter before it was rebuilt, I dialed my husband's cell number on Estelle's phone. It went right to voice mail. “Fairbanks. I'm not available right now. Please leave a message . . .
Beep.
”

Just hearing his voice sucked the confidence out of me. But I tried. “Philip, it's Gabby. I need to know where you've taken the boys. I need to talk to them. Please.” My voice started to crack. “Please. That's all. Just let me talk to my kids.” I repeated the Manna House number and hung up.

I bent over, hands on my knees. “Oh God, please . . .”

The door beside me opened. “Sister Gabby? Oh,
mi amiga,
I am so glad you are back. Your mother is worried about you.”

I recognized Edesa Baxter's voice but didn't look up. I remained bent over, just shaking my head. The next moment I felt the young woman's arms go around me. “I heard what happened,
mi amiga.
Mabel told me,” she whispered in my ear. “God knows. He will help you be strong. We will all help you.”

I was picking at the chicken stir-fry and rice that volunteers from a local church had brought for the evening meal, trying to shut out the constant fussing of two-year-old Bam Bam, whose mother had just signed up for the bed list, when Wanda motioned to me, waving the kitchen extension. She pointed to my office. “Better take it in dere!” she yelled over the general hubbub.

My chair tipped over in my haste to get to my broom-closet office. I set it upright so fast, it wobbled and almost toppled the other direction, but I didn't wait to see if it fell again. I tried to open the office door, but my mother's dog was standing in the way, trying to get out of his prison. “Dandy!” I hissed. “Back, back!” Finally closing the door behind me, I snatched up my office extension. “Hello? Gabby speaking!”

Silence. At first I thought the call was lost. Then I heard a small voice. “Mom?”

The room seemed to spin. I squeezed my eyes shut and sank into the desk chair. “Paul! Yes, yes, it's me. Are you okay, honey? Where are you?”

“I'm . . . we're at Nana and Grandad's house. Didn't Daddy tell you?”

“Well . . . sure, sure, I knew you'd be there.” My brain scrambled, searching for the right words. How much did the kids know? What should I tell them? “Just asked 'cause I called earlier and you weren't there, thought maybe you were still out.”

“Oh. Nana took us shopping for some shorts and stuff. But . . . Mom?”

The jealous monster squeezing my heart nearly cut off my breath.
I
should be taking my boys shopping for shorts and T-shirts, not Marlene Fairbanks! I took a deep breath. “What, honey?”

“What's wrong with Grandma? How come you hafta stay with her instead of us?”

I fought for control. “Is that what Daddy said?”

“Yeah. He said Grandma needed you real bad and you couldn't take care of us right now, so we had to go back to Virginia right away. He told us you and Grandma were movin' out, and we had to pack your stuff. But . . .” I heard Paul start to cry. “Why didn't you come say good-bye to us? I tried to call your cell, but you didn't even answer!”

chapter 5

I HATE you, Philip Fairbanks!

My emotions seethed as I tossed in my bunk that night, unable to sleep, listening to Lucy's heavy breathing across the room. How could the man I'd just spent fifteen-plus years of my life with let my kids think
I
was the one who wanted to move out so fast, I didn't even have time to tell them good-bye? Let them think I just wasn't answering my cell phone? Had them actually help pack up my things because Mom and Grandma were moving out?

You pig!
I slugged the pillow I'd been clutching, wishing it was his face.
You slimy snake
! I threw in a few other dirty names, punching the pillow with each one.

I finally fell back, blowing out the dregs of tension. At least . . . at least Philip had said their grandma needed me “real bad” right now—not that I didn't love them anymore, or something equally devastating.

Still!

Lucy's heavy breathing hiked up a couple of notches into a rumbling snore. I flopped over on the skinny bunk and smashed the pillow over my ears. In the dark cocoon I created, the phone call with my sons played over and over again in my head . . .

Philip Jr.'s voice had been guarded. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hey there, kiddo.” It was
so
tempting to blurt out that their father had
stolen
them from me, and I was going to bring them back the very next day! But . . . back to what? I needed time!— time to figure out my options, to make a plan.

“Is Paul still there? Listen, both of you. I want to tell you something. Your dad and I . . . there's been a misunderstanding. I found a place for Grandma to stay, but your dad didn't know that. But I want
you
to know that I
never, ever
meant for you to go back to Virginia so suddenly, especially without saying good-bye. I—I want to be with you so bad.” My voice caught, and I had to stop.

Paul jumped in. “Why can't Grandma and Dandy just live with us, Mom? I don't mind sleeping in P. J.'s room.”

“Says you,” his brother shot back. “I want my room back. I'm almost fourteen, you turkey.”

“So? We have to share a room here at Nana's. Why not—”

“Boys!” I had interrupted. “It's . . . it's not possible for Grandma and Dandy to live with us right now.”
Because your dad's a selfish pig,
I'd wanted to add, but bit it off. “But I want to get you back home with me as soon as possible.”

“Gee, wish you guys would make up your mind!” P. J. had stormed. “Granddad just said he could sign me up for a summer lacrosse league! I'd be sure to make the spring team when I go back to GW if I could play this summer.” GW . . . George Washington Prep, “where all the Fairbanks boys” had gone to school.

“So? Go ahead and stay here. I'll go back with Dad, and we'll
both
have our own rooms!”

“Stupid. Dad just left for the airport.”

That news had hit me like cold water in the face. So Philip was on his way back to Chicago. Well, Henry Fenchel had said he'd be back in the office on Wednesday.
Tomorrow . . .

I rolled out of the bunk. Rehearsing the phone call with my kids would never let me sleep. Usually when I couldn't sleep, I'd get up, make some chamomile tea, and read something for a while. What did one do in a homeless shelter?

Dandy popped up from his rug beside my mother's bunk and tried to follow me. “Stay, boy,” I whispered. “Lie down. Stay.” I squeezed out the door, shut it behind me, and padded quietly down the stairs. Or so I thought.

Sarge met me at the bottom step on the main floor. “
Mi scusi!
Back upstairs now—oh. It is you, Mrs. Fairbanks.” The night manager folded her arms across her chest. “So, you do not abide by resident rules, no? And I know you still have that dog upstairs. Against
all
kind of rules, if you ask me.”

I thought fast. “Uh, I need to go to my office for a minute. Sorry I disturbed you.” I hustled down the next flight of stairs to the lower level, made my way by the dim EXIT-sign glow to my office, and flipped on its light.
Maybe I should do some work, give me something else to think about. Mabel rehired me, after all. Better start earning my keep—
That's when I noticed the envelope propped against the computer, my name on the outside. Easing myself into the desk chair, I pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. Edesa's handwriting . . .

Dear Sister Gabby,

My heart breaks for you, mi amiga, to have your children taken away so fast. But you are not forgotten! My Yada Yada sisters gave me this precious word from the Lord when it looked as if we might lose our Gracie:

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me. Your sons hasten back, and those who laid you waste depart from you.” (From Isaiah 49. There's more. You might want to look it up!)

Dear Gabrielle, your parents gave you the right name! Live it!

¡Te amo!

Edesa Reyes Baxter

My heart beat faster as I read the note. I read the Bible verse again, and then again.
“. . . Your sons hasten back . . .”
Was this a promise for me? But it was from the Old Testament! Written thousands of years ago. How could it . . . ?

I pressed the note to my chest, turned out the light, and schlepped up the two flights of stairs to the bunk rooms, strangely comforted.
“Your sons hasten back . . .”

Lucy was still snoring when I opened the door to the room we shared. Tiptoeing to her bunk, I felt for the old woman's body, put both hands under her side, and rolled. With a grunt and a groan, the “bag lady” heaved over onto her side, smacking her lips in her sleep. I waited, holding my breath.