Mabel pulled Tanya’s file. “Hm. Stephanie’s her case manager.” Stephanie Cooper was a social worker who volunteered two mornings a week doing case management for Manna House. “Her housing sheet says . . . here it is. ‘Deborah’s Place, Wednesday, June 21, 9:00 a.m.’” The director looked up. “I’ll make a call, see if she showed up for her appointment this morning. We don’t normally go chasing after people, Gabby. If they’re a no-show by curfew, their bed goes to someone else. But leaving Sammy here is a different story . . .”
I nodded and backed out. Tanya better not be a no-show. I had too much on my own plate to take her kid under my wing too. Slipping past my mother and Sammy, who were both giggling at Curious George, I headed back to my office. I really needed to get some work done . . . Oh, good grief ! I’d just volunteered for dog duty too.
Except my office was empty. No Dandy. The door was shut . . . How did he get out?! I groaned. I did not have time to go looking for the dumb dog! And if he did his business somewhere in the shelter, that was it. I’d send him to the pound myself! I’d—
That’s when I noticed that Dandy’s leash was gone too.
I sank down into my desk chair. Lucy had probably taken him out. Or somebody. Right now, I didn’t care who. I was too close to losing it. I needed to get a grip.
Pray. That’s what Edesa and Mabel and Estelle always encouraged when the devil grabbed life by the tail. And I wasn’t the only one with heartaches. Look at Precious! And Edesa nearly lost the baby she and Josh were trying to adopt when Gracie’s ex-con daddy showed up. And Mabel’s nephew who lived with her—the kid couldn’t be more than fourteen years old—got so much ragging at school because of his small size and effeminate ways, he’d tried to commit suicide.
In every case, seemed like the first thing they did was get people together to “pray up a storm,” as Precious put it. And God seemed to answer their prayers.
Why not mine?
Wish I had someone to talk to. To help me pray.
Somehow I managed to get through the rest of the afternoon, checking on my mother and Sammy from time to time. Caught them playing checkers. The next time I checked, they were watching Jeopardy in the TV room. Well. That was one small blessing, anyway. Seemed to be doing as much good for my mom as for Sammy. Not to mention it gave me time to do some research online into museum fees and events going on in Chicago that summer that might make good outings for the residents. Two measly day trips a month. Was that too much to ask?
Printing out my proposed “day trip budget”—which included a fifteen-passenger van—I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. Virginia was an hour ahead . . .
I picked up the phone, using the calling card I’d bought yesterday, and dialed Philip’s parents in Petersburg.
“Fairbanks residence.”
My stomach tightened. Philip’s mother. Probably the last person I wanted to talk to right now. “Uh, hello, Marlene. This is Gabby. May I speak to P. J. and Paul, please?” Ugh! It galled me to even say please. The woman had never liked me, never thought I was good enough for her charming son. It wouldn’t surprise me if she and Philip had engineered the whole debacle of getting me out of the penthouse and spiriting away my kids.
“I’m sorry, Gabrielle—”
Yeah, I’ll bet.
“—The boys are out with their grandfather right now. I’ll tell them you called.” The phone went dead in my ear.
I held the receiver at arm’s length and gaped at it. The nerve of that woman! She hung up on me! She had to know the boys were at her house without my permission. If she didn’t, she would have been more gushy, more chatty, filling in the blanks with what a glorious time the boys were having.
My thoughts smoldered like old electrical wires on overload. Kidnapped. That’s what it was. Could I file kidnapping charges against my husband and his parents? Taking my kids across state lines without my knowledge or permission? But I had to wait two whole days before I could even talk to a lawyer! Maybe I should’ve just called the police last night. Could still call them. But . . . would they just think I’m crazy?
Oh, God. I buried my head in my arms. I don’t know what to do.
I feel so alone! But even as kidnapped and police and crazy settled like jagged glass shards into my spirit, I suddenly remembered the words Edesa had written in the note I’d found last night . . .
“I will not forget you.”
I lifted my head. Where was that note? I searched my desk, then remembered I’d left it under my pillow in the bunk room. Didn’t matter. I’d look it up . . . Isaiah, chapter 49. In fact, Edesa had said there was more I should read.
I reached for the Bible I’d found that morning when I sorted through all the stuff my husband had tossed out into the penthouse foyer. By the time I got done reading the chapter four or five times, I felt strangely comforted—and even vindicated.
If this chapter was meant for me, Philip should be worried. Very worried.
Lucy brought Dandy back just before supper, both of them soaked, caught in one of Chicago’s late-afternoon thunderstorms. They’d been gone more than three hours, and Dandy wriggled his rear end like a rag mop on amphetamines when he saw my mom, leaving wet splatters everywhere and sending Sammy into giggles. When I casually asked Lucy where they’d been, the old woman gave me a look. “Out. Don’t it look like it? Humph. Gotta get me some dry clothes. Here . . .” She tossed me a rag. “You can clean up the dog. An’ if I was you, I’d put him up in the bunk room ’fore Sarge shows up.”
Good point.
Supper came and went. I didn’t feel like talking, but I sat with my mom and Sammy to be polite, picking at the tuna casserole on my plate. Tanya still hadn’t shown up, and the shelter curfew was eight o’clock, unless a resident had prior permission. Sammy was getting very clingy with “Gramma Shep.” Poor kid. If worse came to worst, I’d tell him he could sleep in our bunk room tonight.
When I still hadn’t heard from P. J. and Paul by seven thirty, I slipped into my office and called again. This time P. J. answered.
“Oh, hi, honey. I’m glad I got you! Did Nana Marlene tell you I called earlier?”
“Uh, don’t think so. Maybe she told Paul.”
I doubted it. I tried to sound interested in what they’d done that day—trip to the pool, watching the baseball games at the local park—all the while trying to curb my jealousy that the Fairbanks had my sons.
P. J.’s voice got challenging. “So did you and Dad work out this ‘misunderstanding’ about where the heck we’re supposed to be this summer? It’s not fair, Mom! First we come to Chicago. Then Dad brings us back to Petersburg. Nana says we’re staying here, but you say it’s all a misunderstanding an’ you want us back in Chicago. Will you guys just . . . just make up your stupid minds?”
It was all I could do not to rip the phone out of its jack and throw it against the wall. Fighting back tears, I managed, “I don’t blame you for being upset, P. J. It is unfair. And it’s not your fault. I . . . Dad and I need a few days to work some things out. Please be patient.”
“Well, what about the summer lacrosse league? Can I sign up or not?”
A sense of foreboding came over me so strong, I could almost taste it. If P. J. signed up for that lacrosse team in Petersburg, my sons were as good as lost to me.
I finally pulled myself together and went back upstairs to the multipurpose room—where a tearful Tanya was arguing with the night manager.
“But I got here before curfew, Sarge! Look. It’s only 7:57!”
“So? This is not a babysitting service, Tanya. Capisce?” The night manager slapped the side of her head. “What were you thinking, leaving Sammy alone here all day while you were out? Rules are rules, no?”
“I know! I shouldn’t a’ done that. It—it was j-just . . .” The skinny young woman started to hiccough with fresh sobs. Sammy plastered his face against her side, his arms hanging on tightly. My mother was standing off to one side, wringing her hands.
“Uh, Sarge?” I’m not sure where the guts came from to speak up. “Why don’t we leave Tanya’s case till tomorrow when Mabel can decide what to do? If you want, they can move to our bunk room tonight. I’ll take responsibility for the decision.”
“Humph. Some people sure do feel free to bend the rules, if you ask me.” Sarge moved off, grumbling. “Like a certain dog that is not supposed to be here. No?”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. Mabel’s looking for a foster home for Dandy.”
Sarge headed for the foyer to check in the last few curfew-beaters—including Lucy, who was just coming in with Dandy after his evening walk around the block. “The dog better be gone by Sabato!” she tossed over her shoulder.
Tanya grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and blew her nose. “Thanks.”
I waited until the double doors had swung shut behind Sarge. “I’m not your case manager, Tanya, but I think you have some explaining to do.” The TV room was full of CSI fans, so I led her into the toddler playroom, empty at this time of night. Sammy wasn’t about to be separated from his mother, and my mother followed right on our heels. Well, so be it. We all deserved an explanation.
Tanya sat on a preschool chair, knees together, feet splayed out, tearing her used tissue into little shreds. “Well, I had a”— hic—“appointment at Deborah’s Place this mornin’, an’ . . . an’ I was so sure I was gonna get a place for me an’ Sammy this time. A studio, one-bedroom—I didn’t care. ’Long as it was just us. Miz Gabby, I been puttin’ my name on lists for six months! We was in two other shelters ’fore we came to Manna House—one place was jus’ one big room for about thirty wimmins plus they kids. Manna House been good to let me an’ Sammy stay here together, an’ the bunk room’s better’n nothin’. But I want my own place! You understand, don’tcha? What kinda mother has her kid livin’ in a shelter?” Tanya’s face went dark. “But this mornin’ they sayin’ I don’t qualify. Somethin’ about gotta be in they drug program. But I ain’t done no drugs!” The tears threatened again. “Man! I felt so bad, I wanted to hurt somebody! Or . . . or get drunk or somethin’! So I . . . I just walked around, and, yeah, I drank a few beers. But that’s all. Honest! I didn’t get high or nothin’. And I never meant to leave Sammy. Aw, come here, baby. Mama’s sorry.” The two wrapped their arms around each other and rocked.
I shut my eyes, her story too painful to process. Here I was, wallowing in my private pity party, and I’d been homeless for all of two days. I felt like the spoiled princess who complained because there was a pea under the mattress.
“Am I wrong, Miz Gabby?” Tanya’s voice broke into my stupor. “Sammy an’ me, we just need a place. But it’s like a dead-end road. Can’t get an apartment. Don’t wanna raise my kid in a shelter. Am I wrong for needing a little help to get on my feet?”
“No, no. You’re not wrong, Tanya.” I sighed. And you’re not the only one.