Where Do I Go? (22 page)

I slammed the phone into the charger, pulled my hoodie and a windbreaker out of the closet, and headed for the elevator. Rain or no rain, I had to get out of here!

Lake Michigan was calm in spite of the gloomy day. I walked along the jogging path, hands jammed in the pockets of my windbreaker, letting built-up tears mix with the light rain on my face. “Oh, God . . .”

My moan escaped out loud. Well, so what? I pretty much had the path to myself, save for the occasional die-hard biker zipping around puddles at breakneck speed. “God, what am I going to do? I really let Philip down! I tried to tell him I'm sorry, but . . . I don't know how to fix it! I can't live with his mad forever. Help me, please.”

I'd reached a stretch of large boulders creating a retaining wall between lake and park. Carefully climbing up the slick rocks, I stood huddled inside my hoodie and windbreaker, listening as the sprawling lake licked gently at the craggy rocks.

“When I am afraid, I will trust in God . . . I trust in God, why do
I need to be afraid?”

Where did
that
thought come from? Oh, yeah. Edesa's Bible study at the shelter Friday morning. And she had bigger troubles than I did. If she could trust God under the threat of losing little Gracie, could
I
trust God to take care of this mess with Philip?

I snorted. Looked like it was my only option.

“. . . why do I need to be afraid?”

Exactly! If Philip wanted to sulk, well, let him. I blew it. I said I was sorry—really sorry. What more could I do?

Let God handle it. If He could.

Philip took himself off to work early Monday morning, much to my relief. The weekend from hell was over—I hoped. The TV weather guy said it was still drizzly, but temperatures were sup-posed to climb back into the seventies this week.

Perfect for the month of May. For some reason, turning the kitchen calendar to a new month made me feel positively giddy. Today I would know if I had the job or not . . . the sun was bound to come out . . . and in three and a half weeks we'd drive to Virginia to pick up P.J. and Paul. “And if I have anything to say about it,” I growled at the mirror in the gallery as I headed for the front door, “they aren't going back either!”

The African-American doorman was back at his post as I came through the main lobby. “You can relax, Mr. Bentley,” I sang out, patting the large tote bag over my shoulder. “I've got an umbrella.”

“
Humph
.” The bald-headed gentleman kept turning pages of the
Sun-Times
. “One of those itty-bitty collapsible things? How's that supposed to keep you dry if a thunderstorm rolls through?”

I laughed. “That's what I like about you, Mr. Bentley. You care what happens to me even if nobody else does.”

He looked up sharply. My face reddened, and I quickened my step. “Have a good day,” I called back, disappearing through the revolving doors that spit me out on the Sheridan Road side.
I'll be
answering questions about
that
if I'm not careful.

The commute by El was beginning to feel familiar. I even recognized faces on the El platform. Businessmen and smart-suited women of assorted hues carried briefcases, newspapers, and cell phones. A tall young woman with Caribbean good looks could, I decided, be a model. A short, round—okay, fat—woman with a babushka always lugged three or four plastic bags, puffing up the stairs to the platform one step at a time. I nodded and said hello to anyone standing nearby and usually got a nod or hello in return—except for the under-thirty-year-olds, who all had iPod buds in their ears.

Today I sat next to the babushka—well, she sat down next to
me
with a
whoomph.
I gave her a smile. She pulled a transit schedule out of her bag and fanned her face. “In ze old country,” she said with a heavy accent, maybe Russian, “ze trains stay on ze ground. I tell you,
dyevushka
, those stairs will be killing me one day.”

I didn't have time to find out where she was going at this time each day, because by the time she arranged her bags, accompanied by several
oomphs
and wheezes, the train was rolling into the Sheridan El Station.

“Hi, Mrs. Fairbanks—I mean, Gabby!” In the receptionist's cubby, Angela tossed her black, silky mane off her face and pointed at Mabel Turner's door. “Mabel said to come on in when you got here.”

Uh-oh.
I'd meant to call Mabel on Friday and tell her where I'd disappeared to! And here it was Monday, and she had no idea where I had gone in such a hurry.

Might as well face the music.
I knocked, opened the door, and peeked in. Mabel had the phone to her ear, but she motioned me in and held up a finger. I sat in the chair across the desk from her, feeling as if I'd been called to the principal's office. A moment later, the finger came down, and the phone returned to its cradle. She looked at me, puzzled. “What happened on Friday, Gabby? Liz Handley said you went running out to a taxi after a quick change to a fancy purple outfit. And you'd call to explain.”

Once again my face heated, and the tops of my ears burned. “Oh, Mabel, I am so sorry I didn't call. Philip and I had a major meltdown—well, I guess more like a deep freeze. And I was so busy navigating the icebergs, I totally forgot to call.” I suddenly teared up. “Seems like all I've done the past few days is apologize.”

Mabel handed me a tissue . . . so I blew my nose and started at the beginning with Philip's phone call Thursday, just after I'd left Manna House. “Guess I handled the whole thing badly. I should have called you right away to explain my dilemma, not try to juggle things on my own.” I wagged my head. “I let everybody down, didn't I? My husband, you, Reverend Handley . . .”

“Gabby Fairbanks, next time you get yourself in a pickle and need somebody to talk to,
call me.
Here's my card with my cell phone.” She pushed a business card across the desk. “Day or night. I'm serious.”

I looked at the card stupidly. “Does that mean . . . you haven't given up on me yet?”

A tiny grin tipped the corners of her mouth. “Honey, if we gave up on people that easily, we'd be in the wrong business. Besides, Liz Handley took a liking to you. And she may be the
former
director, but around here, what Liz says carries a lot of weight. And she told me, ‘Hire that woman, Mabel. Don't let her get away.' ”

Mabel held out her hand to shake mine. “So congratulations, Mrs. Fairbanks. Welcome to the Manna House staff.” Then she waved me out. “Now, go find the office Josh Baxter set up for you off the dining room downstairs.”

chapter 21

In a daze, I walked downstairs to the lower level. A couple of the shelter residents were still in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. I recognized Diane—her big Afro was hard to miss—and waved hello. Carolyn, hairnet askew, ponytail sticking out the back, was wiping down tables. I stood uncertainly in the dining area.
Office? What office?

“Hear you're movin' in.” Carolyn grinned at me. “They put you in the broom closet.” She snickered and pointed toward a door standing slightly ajar near the stairway, then squirted disinfectant on yet another table.

A sheet of orange construction paper was taped to the door. In childish bubble letters, it said Ms. Gabby's Office. I pushed the door open wider. The room was dark, no window. I pawed around for a light switch and clicked it on . . . and caught my breath. On my left, a lush bouquet of spring flowers—irises, tulips, and daffodils—sat on an ancient wooden desk in the tiny room. (Had it really been a broom closet? Big broom closet. Small office!) Next to the bouquet, a computer monitor blinked at me, hiding a simple laser jet printer. Keyboard and mouse pad were in place, as was a padded office chair pushed into the chair well. A phone (my own phone!), a legal pad, and several pens had been arranged neatly to one side. There was just enough room beside the desk for another chair and . . . that was it.

“Look behind the door!” Carolyn yelled behind me. “I didn't help lug that thing in here for nuthin'!”

I peeked around the door. A beat-up file cabinet with four file drawers stood against the other wall, along with a wastebasket. On top of the file cabinet sat two boxes, one marked “Hanging Files” and the other “File Folders.”

A lump caught in my throat. Josh Baxter had set up this office for me over the weekend? Not just Josh, either, if he rounded up Carolyn—and probably others—to help him move the stuff in. And the computer . . . I sat down at the desk and manipulated the mouse. Instantly a background of the Chicago skyline at night filled the screen, along with program icons—Microsoft Word, Internet, e-mail, dictionary, streets and maps, even a Bible search icon.

“Go on, try it out.” Carolyn had leaned into the doorway. “Mr. Josh was here all day Saturday programmin' that thing. Signed you up for e-mail an' everything.”

It was true. When I clicked on e-mail, my name came up, and several e-mails popped into the in-box. My eyes blurred as I read Mabel Turner's welcome
(“We praise God for sending you!”)
, Josh Baxter's helpful advice
(“Don't forget to store our e-mail addys in your
address list so you can contact us”)
, and Edesa's encouragement
(“Check out Proverbs 3:5–6”).

Oh, great. She's making sure I dig out my Bible.

I had to laugh at Liz Handley's e-mail.
“Welcome to the broom
closet, Gabby Fairbanks! My office was in a broom closet, too, before the
place burned down. Hopefully nothing that drastic has to happen before
you get a window. ‘Beauty for ashes,' you know. On behalf of the Manna
House board, welcome!”

I sat at the desk a long time, staring at the delicate bouquet of flowers and sorting through my jumbled feelings. The Manna House staff, and even some of the residents, had been fixing up this office and getting me “operational” this weekend, while I'd been sitting up in my luxury penthouse surrounded by silence, being punished for all my sins. Even though I hadn't called Mabel to work out my dilemma . . . even though I'd run out on Rev. Handley with no explanation . . . even though I hadn't called Mabel afterward to explain, like I'd said I would . . . what did they do?

They gave me flowers.

It took me close to an hour to get past being blubbery and able to start thinking critically about my new job. I pulled the legal pad close and began to scribble notes. Recreational needs for homeless women were certainly different than for the residents of the retirement center where I'd worked back in Virginia. The elderly needed fun and stimulation to keep their minds and bodies active. But homeless women needed life skills, an expanded vision of what life could be beyond the streets, as well as stimulat-ing activities to fill listless hours.

I feverishly jotted down every idea that came to me—
budgeting,
etiquette, cooking, dressing for success, word games, ESL (Tina?),
Fun Nights/dancing (Precious?), book club (Carolyn?), making jewelry
(other crafts?) . . .
I paused, then wrote:
literacy? GED classes?

Finally I put down my pen. Maybe I was getting out of my depth. I was a recreational therapist, not an educator. Still, my title was “Program Director,” not “Recreation.” And a variety of educational classes certainly seemed needed. But . . . I should back up. What did
Mabel and the board
expect of me? So far, they'd left me on my own to just “get acquainted.” But I needed to set goals, construct a balanced program, find resources . . . Good grief, did I even have a budget?

I flipped to a new page on the legal pad and wrote:
(1) Meet
with Mabel! Job description? Responsibilities? Accountability? Bud­get?
. . .

A knock on the door made me jump. A brown face, damp with perspiration beneath a puffy hairnet, peeked in. “Door ain't locked, you know. You can come out and eat lunch now. We don't do room service.” Estelle smirked at me and disappeared.

Sure enough, I heard the clatter of aluminum pans and plastic glasses, and the chatter of women moving through the serving line. I'd been oblivious to time passing. As I came out, Mabel was already sitting at a table with a few of the “day residents” who didn't have jobs or job prospects. But she stood up and started clapping, urging everyone around her to do the same. “Cheers to our new program director, Gabby Fairbanks!”

Several of the women clapped or waved. Back in the kitchen, Estelle banged on the bottom of a pot with a metal spoon. My face surely turned beet red, because I could feel my ears burning. “So if you've got ideas for activities we need here at Manna House,” Mabel added, “see Gabby.”

From a corner of the room, a familiar voice growled, “Already told her we didn't need no shuffleboard or bingo 'round here—hey, Estelle! You got any more of that ‘noodle surprise' over there?”