My head was spinning. I needed to think! Or . . . or talk to someone. But who? It was all so confusing!
I wandered the unfamiliar streets, looking for a café or coffee shop, trying to keep the closest El station within my frame of reference. All I could find was a tiny restaurant called Joe’s Eats, with “Breakfast Special—Grits, Ham or Bacon, 3 eggs, Toast, $4.99” painted in red right on the window. I sat in a booth with a Formica tabletop and ordered a cup of coffee. It came in a thick, white mug and looked so strong I added twice the amount of cream I normally used.
During the meeting, Lee Boyer had been very encouraging about my rights, everything from getting the boys returned to me, to hope that I wouldn’t be permanently destitute. And Philip! The jerk was in big trouble. The lawyer didn’t say what the consequences might be, but he did say what Philip had done was illegal. And that a judge wouldn’t take kindly to his disappearing act with our kids, which would give me an edge in any court case.
But the words “This might take awhile” cut off my hope at the knees. What did that mean? I wanted my sons back now!
Grabbing a paper napkin, I pressed it to my eyes, hoping to stem the tears threatening to well up and explode, right there in Joe’s Eats. Oh God, Oh God, what am I going to do?!
“Refill, miss?” A thick-waisted waitress with flabby arms hovered over my cup with a coffeepot. “Got some good lemon pie too.”
I shook my head, blew my nose in the napkin, and reached for my purse. “Just the bill.” I had to get out of there.
Standing outside Joe’s Eats a few minutes later, I realized I had no idea where to go or what to do. In the back of my mind, I’d imagined taking the El to the Aon Center after my meeting and showing up in the offices of Fairbanks and Fenchel, confronting Philip with my legal facts. But I knew Philip would just put another black mark on his ledger of my “sins” if I confronted him at his office, “ruining his business.”
Maybe Estelle was right. I should take someone with me, someone who could keep me from being mowed down by Philip’s spin on everything.
Still! It galled me to wait even one more day before confronting Philip face-to-face! The man had kicked me out and disappeared with my kids four days ago—and so far hadn’t heard a peep from me except the cryptic message I’d left on his phone. He was probably laughing into his Chardonnay, thinking, What a wimp.
Well. He had another thing coming.
Gripping my shoulder bag, I headed for the El station. I’d just go back to Richmond Towers and wait till he came home. Six o’clock . . . nine o’clock . . . midnight. Didn’t matter. He had to come home sometime. After all, I still had my security ID card that would get me in. Or I could just show up early tomorrow morning, when he’d be sure to be home . . . On second thought, bad idea. He could just refuse to let me in. No, I had to be in the penthouse foyer when he got off the elevator—“
Streetwise paper, lady? One dollar.” A Streetwise peddler waved a copy of the latest issue at me, a friendly smile showing off a couple of missing teeth. I started to pass by, but the man beamed happily. “Got my name in here, an’ a picture too! Streetwise Salesperson of the Month! I’ll autograph it for you.”
I had to smile. What was one measly dollar? If Mr. Lee Boyer was correct, I had a whole lot of money sitting in Philip’s bank account.
A few minutes later, standing on the northbound El platform with my “autographed” copy of Streetwise, I started having second thoughts about confronting Philip at the penthouse. No telling when he would get home on a Friday night. I could wait for hours. But more than that, when he got off that elevator, we’d be alone, and no matter what my resolve, in two seconds he’d twist anything I’d say to make it be my fault.
A northbound train squealed into the station. I stood rooted to the platform as passengers jostled past me, reason and rage wrestling in my gut. Maybe I should get on and just get off at the Sheridan station and go back to Manna House. Or ride farther north and take my chances at Richmond Towers. Wait till he showed up and let him have it, both barrels, come what may.
No. I was tired of waiting. Now or never.
The doors closed. The train pulled out. I watched as it rattled out of sight; then I headed back down the stairs and up to the southbound platform.
At least I had dressed up a bit for my appointment at Legal Aid—boot-cut black slacks with a belted jacket over a teal silk blouse and low, sling-back heels. A pit stop in the women’s restroom on the first level of the Aon Center to repair my makeup and tame my curly mane gave me confidence that I looked attractive. Sane.
I stuffed the voice whispering, “Should you be doing this, Gabby?” I didn’t care. I had to quit running. I had to face my demons—in this case, my husband. The office was the most likely place to find him. The most likely place to guarantee that neither one of us would make a scene. I was going to march in there and—
A young woman looked up from the reception desk when I opened the door marked Fairbanks and Fenchel—Commercial Development Corp. She looked to be in her twenties. Short brunette hair. Conservative lavender blouse. Small pearl earrings. Attractive, but no fashion model. She smiled. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like to speak to Philip Fairbanks.”
She reached for the phone. “Your name, please?”
“Gabrielle Fairbanks.” Her eyebrows went up. I helped her out. “His wife.”
She picked up the phone and turned slightly aside. A moment later, Philip’s office door opened, and Henry Fenchel stepped into view. The man was in his early forties, same as Philip, but a bit fleshy in the face, thinning hair. Tended to be a good ol’ boy. He stopped. “Gabby.” He sounded startled.
“Hello, Henry.” My voice was calm. I did not smile.
The receptionist hung up her phone. “Mr. Fairbanks will see you. Go on in.”
I pushed past Philip’s partner, stepped into Philip’s office, and closed the door behind me. My husband was standing at the wide window with his back to me, suit coat off, looking tall and slim in his pale green shirt sleeves. I said nothing, just waited. It was probably only five seconds, but it felt like five minutes. He finally turned, coffee cup in hand, expression mild, dark eyes and lashes framed by his beautiful tan.
I wanted to groan. Oh gosh. Did he have to look so gorgeous?
“Gabrielle.” He waved his coffee cup at the mahogany chair on my side of the desk. “Sit. Would you like coffee?”
Would I like—? “No.” I had no intention of acting as if we were just having a friendly little chat. But I did sit down, crossing my legs to keep them from shaking. Philip casually pulled out his executive chair and leaned back. Another five seconds went by. I got an inquisitive look, as if he wondered what I was there for.
Just do it, Gabby.
“I saw a lawyer today. What you’ve done, Philip, is illegal. You can’t just kick me out without a proper order of eviction. You can’t just take my children away from me and deposit them with your parents in another state.”
Philip’s eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth curved ever so slightly. I got the message loud and clear: “But I did, didn’t I?” The anger that I had so carefully repressed threatened to surge right out of my gut in a seismic eruption.
Don’t, Gabby, don’t!
I waited until I could speak without screaming and took a deep breath to steady my voice. “My lawyer is filing an unlawful eviction case and a custody case. There’s no question a judge will rule in my favor.”
“Your lawyer?” His shrug felt like a slap in the face. “Tell me something, Gabby. Exactly how do you plan to pay for a lawyer?”
I stared at him.
“Ah.” He smiled. “Legal Aid. Of course.”
A glass paperweight sat on his desk within arm’s reach of me. Oh, how I wanted to snatch it up and throw it at that smug smile. Or right through his picture-perfect window overlooking the city skyline. But even as I imagined glass shattering everywhere, I knew in my gut Philip was goading me. “Go ahead, Gabby. Do something crazy.”
A hysterical giggle nearly escaped the emotions churning under my skin. Right. With my luck, the falling glass would probably kill somebody on the street below and I’d get sued. Or dragged off to jail.
I’d lost my upper hand. “Philip . . . why?” I couldn’t help it. My voice shook. “Why tear our family apart this way?”
His eyebrows shot up and he threw his hands open. “Me! Me? I seem to recall you were the one who took this do-gooder job that started screwing everything up! The one who just showed up with her mother and her mutt, turning our household upside down. Without considering me at all in your decisions, I might add. Oh yes, the one whose idea of taking care of our sons was to drag them to a homeless shelter and expose them to all sorts of riffraff all day.”
“But . . . but, Philip. I was trying! I came home Monday to tell you I’d quit the job and that I’d even found a place for my mom.”
His eyes narrowed. “What place?”
“Why, Manna House. The shelter. They said they’d take her in, and she seemed happy with . . . What?”
My husband had started to laugh. He shook his head, shoulders shaking. “Listen to yourself, Gabby. The shelter! The shelter ! You’re like a broken record. If you weren’t so pathetic, this would be funny—”
His phone rang. Still chuckling, he picked up. “Oh, sure. Put him through.” He glanced at me, then swiveled his chair so that his back was to me. “Oh, hey, Bill! What’s up? . . . Saturday? What time? . . . Yeah, yeah, sure, I could make that . . . No, no, that’s good . . . Gotta dig out my clubs, though. We just moved, you know. I might be a little rusty . . .”
I stared at the back of his head. Hot tears stung my eyes. I was so close to a meltdown, I was afraid to move.
Afraid not to move. I had to get out of there or I’d go crazy!
Maybe I was already crazy.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God . . . have You forgotten all about me?
I stood up on wobbly legs and somehow made it to the door as Philip chatted on the phone. But as I put my hand on the doorknob, a Voice seemed to be whispering in my ear: Gabby. Gabby. Can a mother forget the baby at her breast? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! I recognized the verses Edesa had written in her note. And there was more. Something about God engraving my name on the palms of His hands . . . and sending sons hastening back.
I couldn’t remember it all word for word, but the turmoil surging through my veins suddenly lost steam, replaced with . . . what? A sudden stillness in my spirit. No hysterics. No hot anger. Just the return of a quiet confidence.
I lifted my head and waited at the door until Philip ended the call. He seemed surprised that I was till there. “My things,” I said. My voice was steady. “I want the rest of my things. Like my sewing machine. I need it for a class at the shelter. I need to know when I can come get it.”