Panic flickered in my chest. My breath shortened. I was going to hyperventilate if I wasn’t careful. Breathe in slowly, Gabby . . . breathe out . . .
As my heart rate slowed, I could almost hear Mabel’s firm voice in my head. “Be realistic, Gabby. One step at a time. Do what you need to do today. And pray. You can’t do this on your own.”
Pray. Seemed like all my prayers were of the “Help!” variety lately. Before I came to Chicago, my prayers had gotten pretty rusty. But the staff at Manna House all seemed to be on a first-name basis with the Almighty, talking to God like He really cared about the mundane problems of homeless women. Mabel had even said I was an answer to their prayers for a program director and that God had a purpose for bringing me to Manna House after tripping over Lucy in the park that rainy day.
And the worship teams from different churches that came to the shelter each weekend to lead Sunday evening praise acted like worshipping God and studying the Bible were more exciting than . . . than watching the Cubs hit a homer.
The last two months had brought back a lot of what I’d been taught by my parents and our little community church growing up in North Dakota. A faith I’d pretty much tossed out when my starry-eyed marriage right out of high school hit the skids after only two years. In fact, meeting the charming Philip Fairbanks on a summer jaunt through Europe had all the earmarks of a “happily ever after” fairy tale, so why bother to pray?
That was before everything started to fall apart between Philip and me, and the only firm ground I had to stand on was my job at Manna House Women’s Shelter, and the people there who made me feel that I mattered.
I stuck Estelle’s cell phone in my shoulder bag, left the Laundromat—tattoo guy was still smirking at me—and started walking the few blocks toward the Sheridan El Station. “God,” I whispered, “it’s me, Gabby. Thanks for . . .” Good grief, what do I have to be thankful for? Well, lots, come to think of it. “. . . for a roof over our heads last night for both Mom and me. That Lucy found Dandy after Philip let him run loose all night and he got lost. That Mabel gave me my job back, so I’ll have some income.” I smiled to myself in spite of my predicament. Three whole sentences and I hadn’t yelled “Help!” yet. But I was getting there. “But I really do need help, Lord. Please, please help me find out where P. J. and Paul are so I’ll know they’re okay.”
Realizing I’d left the shelter without checking out or telling anyone, even my mother, where I was going—against shelter rules—I fished out Estelle’s phone again and called. “Angela? It’s Gabby. I forgot to sign out. I have some errands to do. Could you tell my mother I’ll be back soon? . . . I don’t know, maybe a couple of hours . . . Thanks. Oh! If you see Lucy, would you ask her if she can take care of Dandy? I’ll make it up to her, promise.”
The El tracks loomed overhead where the Red Line stopped at Sheridan Road. I crossed the street and pushed open the door of the convenience store that sat next to the station. Did they have phone cards? What about an ATM machine? The clerk, who looked Indian or Pakistani under a cap of straight, black hair, pointed to a circular rack of prepaid phone cards, then jerked a thumb out the door. “Bank! You have to go bank for ATM machine.”
I quickly bought a twenty-dollar phone card with my debit card, knowing I had at least that much in my household account, and scurried out the door, looking up the street beyond the El station. Bank? I hadn’t realized there was a bank close by, probably because I’d always walked straight from the El station to the shelter, going the other direction. But sure enough, a small bank sat on the corner half a block north—probably a branch of some big bank I’d never heard of.
An old man was using the ATM inside, and I fidgeted while he fumbled with his card and the push buttons. But finally he stuffed his money, card, and receipt in his pants pocket and shuffled out the door, tipping his hat at me on the way out. I was in such a hurry to find out the bad news, I had stuck my Visa card into the machine before his polite gesture even registered on my scrambled brain. And I hadn’t acknowledged it.
Guilt joined the puddle of self-pity I was wallowing in. Would life ever be normal again? Would I ever wake up again with my children safely under the same roof, my husband in my bed—huh! Not that I wanted him there right now, maybe never—looking forward to an ordinary day, happily greeting the people who came across my path? After fifteen years of not having to think about money, was I now destined to live from paycheck to paycheck, counting every dime?
Get a grip, Gabby. I shook off the maudlin thoughts, tapped my PIN number on the pad, and tried to make a “credit loan” of a hundred dollars. The card came spitting out at me. The readout said, Card Rejected.
I tried my American Express. Card rejected. The only other credit cards I had were for Bloomingdale’s and Lord & Taylor, and I was pretty sure what would happen if I walked into one of those stores and tried to use them.
The slimeball! Philip had canceled them all—which, frankly, was what I’d expected, though I’d hoped . . .
I had one last card, the debit card to my household account. I stuck it into the slot, tapped in my PIN number, and withdrew twenty dollars. A moment later, a twenty-dollar bill, my debit card, and the receipt whirred out of their slots. I focused on the receipt. How much was left?
The faded blue ink at the bottom said, Balance: $187.23.
Someone else came into the foyer and stood behind me, wanting to use the ATM. I stuffed the twenty, the debit card, and the receipt into my shoulder bag and stumbled out the door of the bank. That was it? That was all the money I had in this world?
The rich aroma of fresh coffee lured me into the Emerald City Coffee Shop under the El tracks. I flopped down in a chair at one of the small tables near the front window. A cup of coffee, that’s what I needed to steady my nerves . . .
Wait. Could I afford a cup of coffee? My hands shaking, I grabbed a napkin and pulled a pen from my purse. Thirty dollars in my wallet—no, make that twenty after I paid for the cab last night that brought Lucy, me, and a bedraggled Dandy to the shelter. Add twenty that I just took out of my account, that’s forty. One-eighty-seven still in the account, plus forty cash . . .
I had roughly $220 to my name. Plus a twenty-dollar phone card.
That was it.
So much for a mocha latte at three dollars a pop.
Wait . . . My last two-week paycheck from Manna House should come by Friday. I suddenly felt like laughing. I was rich! Well, maybe not rich. Not enough to live on, not enough to rent an apartment yet. But at least I could afford one cup of coffee.
I was relishing each sip of a medium regular coffee with cream when I heard a cell phone ringing close by. Didn’t recognize the ring, so I ignored it—until I realized the ringing was coming from my shoulder bag. Estelle’s phone! Was she calling me? Or was someone else calling her? Should I answer it?
I grabbed the phone, flipped it open, and looked at the caller ID. Harry Bentley. Eagerly I pushed the Talk button. “Mr. Bentley? It’s me, Gabby!”
“Uh . . . Mrs. Fairbanks? Uh, I thought . . .”
“Oh, Mr. Bentley, I’m sorry. You were calling Estelle. She loaned me her cell phone.” I felt guilty, as if I’d intercepted a note between two lovers. Shouldn’t have answered the phone. “But she’s still at Manna House. You could call the main number.”
“Mm. That’s all right. I’ll catch her later. But . . . just a minute. Can you hold?” Without waiting for an answer, I heard Mr. Bentley turn from the phone and say something to someone in his polite doorman voice. “All right, all right. You have a nice day,
Mrs. Pearson, you hear?” His voice came back on, though speaking low as if not wanting others to hear. “Mrs. Fairbanks, are you still there?”
“I’m here, Mr. Bentley.”
“Just wanting to know . . . are you all right?”
The kindness in the older man’s voice nearly turned on the faucet again. I fished for a tissue. “Um, still in shock, I guess. Trying to sort things out . . . you know.”
“Did you get hold of your boys? Don’t mean to pry, but . . .”
“That’s all right, Mr. Bentley.” I had to swallow hard a couple of times. “I appreciate your concern. Haven’t talked to them yet. No one answers at my in-laws’.”
I heard the doorman mutter something on the other end that I didn’t catch. But then he said, “Well, don’t worry, Mrs. Fairbanks. I know you’re upset—you’ve got a right to be—but I’m sure your boys are all right. Bad as it is, they’re with their dad.”
My reply came out in a choked whisper. “I know. Thanks.”
“Well, now. Don’t know if you plan on comin’ back to Richmond Towers today or not, but thought I’d let you know I haven’t seen Mr. Fairbanks, and I’ve been on duty since six this mornin’. Don’t think he’s come back. The manager is in the office, though. You might want to come up here and, well, you know, see what can be done about getting you back into your penthouse.”
I sat up. That’s right. That was still on my list of things I needed to do today. “Thanks, Mr. Bentley. I’m coming now. See you in thirty minutes.”
I grabbed the napkin with the total of all my worldly finances scribbled on it and headed out the door of the coffee shop for the turnstile in the El station. That’s when I remembered one other asset that was going to come in handy. I had a transit card in my wallet I’d bought just last week with twenty-five dollars in fares on it.
Should last me awhile—especially since the “commute” to my job from bedroom to office was now just down the stairs.