Where Do I Go? (29 page)

“Not this week, Aida! Maybe—” I caught myself just before I said,
“Maybe next month.”
No way did I want to set up expectations I couldn't make good. “Maybe we can do it again sometime, though.”

Since I had my suitcase and it was still drizzling, I broke down and called a taxi for the ride home. And somewhere between Manna House and Richmond Towers, I came to some direction about my mother. First of all, I needed to call her more than once a week. Maybe even every day for a while, to keep an ear on her situation. And I really needed to be in contact with my sisters about our mother, if nothing else. Last but not least, I needed to plan a visit—maybe even a trip to North Dakota with the boys this summer. They'd only been to Minot twice—when they were about five and seven, and later to my dad's funeral two years ago. The outdoor community swimming pool had been a favorite, plus all the comic books they'd found in my parents' attic from when we were kids. Even better . . . what if Honor and Celeste came too, and we had a family reunion?

As the taxi drove into the frontage road and pulled up in front of Richmond Towers, I made another resolution. I was going to start praying about my mom. And trust God to work something out.

With a lilt in my step, I pushed through the revolving door, then managed to get my suitcase stuck outside and had to back up . . . but finally I wrestled it through the door and crossed the lobby, in a hurry to get upstairs and see what ingredients might magically be on hand to make a nice supper for Philip. But I dreaded what I might find. Philip wasn't good at “baching it.” An overindulgent mother and a live-in housekeeper had pretty much inoculated him from catching any domestic skills. But that was the way it was. So be it.

“Hello, Mr. Bentley!” I called out to the doorman. “Thanks for coming to our Fun Night at the shelter.” I simpered at him. “You were definitely the life of the party.”

Mr. Bentley gave me a little bow with a smile. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Fairbanks. I looked for you this morning but didn't see you. Did you”—he tipped his head at my suitcase—“go somewhere this weekend?”

I smiled big. “Yes. I flew back to Virginia to see my boys for Mother's Day. They'll be coming next week. Afraid your job may never be the same. They're lively.”

“Mm. Wonder who they get that from? . . . Oh, by the way.” Mr. Bentley glanced into space, his voice super casual. “The woman named Estelle . . . I think she's a volunteer at the shelter. Seemed like a mighty fine woman. I was, uh, wondering if you happen to have her phone number. She said something about doing elder care, and I thought maybe sometime I could talk to her about my, um, mother, in case she, you know, needed some in-home care. Just in case.”

I stared at him, listening to him stumble and blather, remembering how he and Estelle had cut the rug doing the Mashed Potato at the Fun Night—and ended up dancing or being partners for games the rest of the evening. And I burst out laughing. “Mr. Bentley! Elder care, my foot. I do believe you have a crush on Miss Estelle Williams!”

chapter 28

I chuckled all the way to the thirty-second floor. Mr. Bentley and Estelle . . . now, that would be a pair! I promised him I'd get her phone number—with her permission, of course—and somehow finagled his age out of him. (“I don't know, Mr. Bentley, she's just a young
chica
, and you—” “What do you mean? I'm still this side of sixty, got lots of miles left, and she's a mature woman, at least fifty.”)

He'd wanted to know more about her, but I had to admit I didn't know much—just that she lived in the Rogers Park neighborhood up north, attended SouledOut Community Church, was licensed to do elder care, and volunteered at the shelter. I didn't tell him she herself had been a Manna House resident at one time. I didn't know that story, didn't know how she became home-less, and I didn't want to speculate. She could tell him if he got brave enough to ask her out.

I unlocked the door to the penthouse, wondering if I'd have time to pick up the house, clean the kitchen,
and
cook supper before Philip got home—but to my surprise, the house was as tidy as when I left Saturday morning. Kitchen counters clear . . . bed made . . . no dirty clothes on the floor. In fact, the only evidence that my husband had even been there all weekend was a used towel in the bathroom, hanging over the shower door.

“What do you know?” I said to my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I dried my damp hair with the blow dryer. “Guess old dogs
can
learn new tricks.” I'd have to really thank him for the nice welcome-home surprise.

The answering machine light was blinking.
Eight messages?
That was a lot for a Monday . . . unless Philip hadn't bothered to answer them all weekend. I touched the Play button to listen as I opened the refrigerator to scout our meal possibilities. The first two were telemarketing recordings. I hit Delete twice and kept rummaging in the fridge.

The third was Henry Fenchel.
“Philip? You still there? Mona
says she wants to stay Sunday night too, okay with you? We can get
back to the office by midmorning Monday . . . Philip? Pick up if you're
there, buddy. Okay, guess I'll try your cell. Bring plenty of Horseshoe
money! And clean shorts. Ha-ha-ha.”

I stood stock-still with the refrigerator door wide open. Stay
where
Sunday night?! What did he mean, “Sunday
too
”? Had Philip been gone all weekend without telling me? Was he doing that to spite me? And where did they go? Henry said bring plenty of “Horseshoe money” . . . what did he mean by that? I'd seen billboards advertising a Horseshoe Casino but had never paid any attention where it was. Indiana maybe . . .

I pushed Play to listen to Henry's message again, a shaky mad building in my gut. Maybe Philip didn't agree with me going to Petersburg this past weekend, but at least I'd told him! After the third time through, I let the answering machine run through the other messages: a call from his mother . . . two more telemarketing reps . . . then my spinning mental wheels did a U-turn as I heard my name.

“Gabby dear? Please give me a call. This is Aunt Mercy. Your
mother had a fall this morning at home. Didn't break anything, thank
God. Good thing I was picking her up to go to church. I heard Dandy
barking, so I let myself in. I took her to the ER just to be sure she's all
right, then brought her to my house. Just wanted to let you girls know
where she is if you call her today.”

Now I was really upset. My mother had fallen yesterday? She hadn't said anything about that when I talked to her this morning!

The last message was from Aunt Mercy, too—6:10 last night.
“Gabby? I don't know if you got my other message, but I'm taking your
mother home now. I wish she'd stay overnight, but she wants to go home
to take care of the dog. I'll check in on her on Monday. Please call me.
We need to be able to get in touch with you in an emergency. Do you have
a cell phone? All right. Guess you're not there. Good-bye.”

I forgot all about making supper for Philip and used the caller ID to return my aunt's call. I apologized all over the place for the missed communication, told her I'd been out of town, gave her my cell number, told her to call me at any time day or night, told her I'd tried to call my mom on Sunday and finally got her this morning, but Mom hadn't said anything about a fall . . .

I held off crying until I hung up with Aunt Mercy, and then I had a good bawl on the living room couch, feeling like the proverbial no-good, rotten, terrible daughter. And that's how Philip found me when he came in the door at six thirty, surrounded by used tissues. And I yelled at him. “Where were
you
this weekend, Philip Fairbanks?! My mother had a fall, and, and Aunt Mercy called here, and if you'd been here, you could have let me know! Why didn't you
tell
me you were going to be away too?! What did Henry mean, bring Horseshoe money? Did you and those, those Fenchels go gambling at one of those casino hotels?” I pulled my knees up to my chin and sobbed some more.

Philip just stood there, tight-lipped. Then he said, “Is your mother all right?”

I nodded, hiccoughed, and blew my nose again.

“Good. Then let's talk about this when you get control of yourself.” He stalked out, then returned. “Did you make any-thing for dinner?”

I shook my head. “I . . . I was going to, but—”

“Never mind.” A moment later I heard him on the phone, ordering something to be delivered.

Philip had been unapologetic when we finally talked over Chinese takeout. “It came up at the last minute, Gabby. Henry tossed me the idea on Friday, and I said I'd think about it. But you didn't get home till late that night, remember? After I dropped you off at the airport the next morning, I realized it was going to be a long, lonely weekend until you got back on Monday, so, heck, why not? I called Henry; we drove to Indiana and had a great time. Snazzy hotel, great food, a good show . . . If you'd been here, they'd have invited you too.”

“But . . . gambling, Philip? It's a big racket! People lose money. And it can be terribly addictive, as bad as a . . . a drug addiction or alcohol.”

“Good grief, Gabby. What do you take me for? I didn't take any more than I could afford to lose—but the fact is . . . I won.” His boyish grin widened. “Seventeen hundred bucks. Not bad for a weekend's work.”

I'd been floored. What could I say?

The whole fiasco troubled me for days, but I tried to drown my worries at work. Josh Baxter showed up on Tuesday to drop off a packet of ESL materials from his mother and Avis Douglass. I wanted to ask him how Gracie's adoption process was going, but he seemed to be in a big hurry, so I let it go. I passed the ESL materials on to Tina and told her to look them over. “They're geared more toward kids than adults, but it'd be a start,” I told her. She nodded, came back to me the next day, and said she'd give it a shot. She seemed both nervous and excited. We set up an ESL class to start the next Tuesday at 5:00 p.m.

I talked Estelle into bringing as much leftover knitting yarn and extra needles as she could muster and encouraged her to teach knitting to women on Wednesday morning while they waited their turn to see the nurse. At least five women took a pair of needles and labored on and off for two hours learning how to “cast on” and do simple “knit and purl” stitches before and after their turn behind the nurse's room divider. Even Hannah the Bored picked up a pair of needles and tried a few rows—though it was a bit awkward with her long nails. Today they were deco-rated with flourishes and tiny rhinestones. Where did she get money to do
that
?

But I swear, when I told Estelle that Mr. Bentley had asked for her phone number, the woman deepened at least two shades to raspberry chocolate. But she gave it to me, muttering, “
Humph
. I need a business card.”

Lucy hadn't been at the shelter when I got back on Monday, but she showed up again Wednesday morning to see the nurse about her cough and to get something for her “rheumatiz” . . . and signed up for a bed when a thunderstorm cracked overhead, unleashing a torrent of spring rain. The woman was still a mystery to me, but she usually rebuffed my attempts to get her to talk. But I took my lunch tray on Thursday and pulled out a chair at her table. “Mind if I sit?”

“Free country.” She stabbed a forkful of kielbasa, potatoes, and cabbage.

I took a bite. “Mm. This is good.” I was surprised how tasty the stew was. “Wonder what's in it?”

Lucy gave me her “dumb question” look. “Whatever ya got on hand is what's in it, missy. Ain't your ma never made stuff like this? Cabbage, taters . . . some kinda meat if you're lucky.”

“Hm.” I swallowed my mouthful. “I don't think so. We kids didn't like cabbage.”

“
Humph
.” Lucy shoveled in another mouthful. “That didn't make no difference at our table. Head o' cabbage went a long ways. Sometimes that's all it was. Cabbage soup . . . cabbage stew . . . rice rolled up in cabbage leaves . . . Used to grow the things on our two-bit farm down in Arkansas 'fore the drought drove us out.”

My ears pricked up. Lucy grew up on a farm in Arkansas!

“Drove you out?” I tried to keep my question light, not prying.

Lucy eyed me up and down sideways for half a minute. “Huh. You too young to know anything 'bout the big migration. Where'd you grow up anyway? Chicago? . . . Nah, you just moved here.”

I could hardly contain my excitement. Lucy and I were having an actual conversation! “Yes, from Petersburg, Virginia. My husband's home. But I grew up my first twenty years in a small town in North Dakota.” I laughed. “Most of the farms around us were wheat and cattle ranches. But not my family. My dad owned a carpet store.”