I found Shawanda sprawled in a beanbag chair in the playroom on the main floor, idly leafing through a magazine and chewing gum while two-year-old Bam-Bam pulled toys off the shelves, scattering the pieces of Legos and puzzles, then moving on to the next shelf. Three-year-old Dessa was tugging on her mother’s leg, whining about something, and being ignored.
Gotta help me here, Lord. “Shawanda? Got a minute?”
The young black woman, her long legs encased in skinny jeans, hair gelled and coiled tight to her head, shrugged. “Sure. Whatchu want?”
I tested my weight on one of the small wooden tables and sat while I explained the concept of second-stage housing, then said we might have space in a shared apartment for her and her kids.
The magazine slipped to the floor and her face perked up. “For real? Ya mean me an’ the kids can get outta this dump into a real apartment? Who else be in the apartment?”
“Celia Jones and her granddau—”
“Well then, that’s cool. Celia’s all right. So when can we move in?”
“First of next month, if all goes well. You would need to fill out an application, because the House of Hope partners with the city, which would subsidize your rent. And you would still work with your case manager here at Manna House on finishing your GED and—”
“GED! That schoolin’ be such a joke. What I want is daycare for these babies so I can get me a job. How’m I s’posed ta find a job with these two hangin’ ’round my neck all day?” A wail erupted from across the room. “Bam-Bam! Quit hittin’ on your sister. Don’t make me come over there.” Shawanda balled her fist in a threatening gesture, then turned back to me and wiggled her shoulders in a little joy-dance. “Oh yeah. I’ll be glad to get out from under all the rules they got in this place. Gotta sign out ever’ time I leave, gotta be in by eight at night, gotta do those dumb chores. What a load of—”
“Shawanda!” My voice was sharper than I intended, so I took a deep breath, then continued. “You need to understand that the House of Hope is affiliated with Manna House and we also have rules. Here.” I handed her the sheet I’d typed up from our meeting last night. “Look that over. If you can sign this agreement to abide by these rules and expectations, then let’s talk. If not—well, there are others waiting in line for the House of Hope.”
I managed to get out the door without giving Shawanda a real piece of my mind. Who did the girl think she was? Frankly, I hoped she’d read the rules and flip off the opportunity. Good riddance.
But back in my office, Mabel’s compassionate words fought with my attitude. “Every woman has God-given potential within her, some just need more help than others to develop that potential. Including Shawanda.”
I groaned and put my head in my hands. Okay, Lord. I’m going to have to trust You with this one. If she signs the agreement—well, guess we’ll take her and hold her to it. But if Shawanda has some God-given potential You want developed at the House of Hope, You’re going to have to reveal it, because it sure isn’t obvious to me!
Opening my eyes, I saw the card on which I’d written the phrase from those gospel songs: “On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand!” I smiled ruefully. Guess we’d find out soon enough whether the House of Hope was being built on “sinking sand” or Solid Rock.
The drizzles stopped and the sun came out Thursday. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice weekend for my birthday,” I told the boys, who had the TV on when the weather guy popped up on the evening news. “Almost sixty degrees on Saturday! Hey, we haven’t ridden the bike trail along Lake Michigan yet. This might be our last chance before winter. Whaddya say?”
“Uh, Mom, hello. The cross country team has regional meets this Saturday. I told you.” P.J. rolled his eyes. “Besides, you left your bike in Virginia, remember?”
“Aren’t we staying with Dad Friday night and Saturday?” Paul added.
I made a face. “Details. I could probably borrow a bike from Edesa. She and Josh have bikes in the basement. What time will your regionals be over? If you’re done by, say, two o’clock, I’ll ask your dad if I can borrow you a couple hours early. Or we could go Sunday afternoon. Come on . . . let’s do it!”
P.J. shrugged. “I guess. If I’m not pooped after running all morning.”
Paul pulled a puppy-dog face. “It doesn’t seem right to leave you tomorrow night on your birthday, Mom. Maybe we should skip going to Dad’s this weekend.”
I tousled his chestnut head, which insisted on curling even though it was cut short. “Aw, that’s sweet of you, hon. But the actual day isn’t that important. How about if we declare the whole weekend ‘Mom’s birthday’? That way you have to be extra nice to me for three whole days!” I laughed as I headed back toward the kitchen. “Starting tomorrow morning—better yet, starting tonight. Which means you guys get to do the dishes.”
“Use paper plates, then!” P.J. yelled after me.
“Can’t!” I hollered back. “We’re having chili!”
But as cheerful as I tried to be about the boys going to their dad’s on Friday, I dreaded spending my birthday evening alone. If things hadn’t changed between Lee and me, he’d probably take me out to a fancy restaurant and we’d have a great time talking and laughing.
For that matter, I told myself as I drove to work the next morning, if things hadn’t changed between Philip and me in the first place, I’d be spending my birthday with my husband and kids, blowing out forty candles—and Philip would get all forty on the cake, I was sure of that. He used to be quite the romantic, getting me a dozen red roses every birthday, and another dozen for our anniversary . . .
I blinked back tears of self-pity as I parked the car near the shelter. No roses this year. Wasn’t even sure if anyone at Manna House knew it was my birthday.
But I did have a surprise waiting for me in my cubbyhole office. A sheet of paper had been shoved under the door. I flicked on the light and picked up the “Letter of Understanding” I’d given to Shawanda—with her signature scrawled across the bottom.
I spent the morning making plans for the first annual Manna House Fall Getaway, only a week away now. So far eleven residents had signed up, plus me, Angela Kwon, and Edesa Baxter, who would function as staff. We could take one more and still fit into Moby Van without needing extra transportation. But we still needed to plan meals and shop for food. This was a do-it-yourself retreat house, one reason we were able to get it for a reasonable price. Maybe Angela could help with food, and I was counting on Edesa to lead a prayer and devotion time on Saturday and Sunday mornings.
Which reminded me—could I sneak into Edesa’s Bible study in Shepherd’s Fold this morning? I wondered if she was still doing the Bad Girls of the Bible studies, which had gotten a better-than-usual turnout from the residents. But a quick glance at the clock told me it was almost over. Where had the time gone this morning? It was nearly time for lunch.
Whatever Estelle was making, it smelled wonderful. As soon as I heard the lunch bell, I joined the residents and staff lining up along the far wall of the dining room as Estelle and her lunch crew set out the final dishes on the open counter separating kitchen and eating space. “Gabby Fairbanks!” Estelle called out from the kitchen. “I don’t see Mabel yet. Would you bless the food so we can feed these folks?”
I still wasn’t comfortable praying out loud in front of people. On the other hand, it was easy to thank God for Estelle’s good cooking, so I did. “. . . And we also thank You, gracious God, for the beautiful day outside today, for sunshine and warmth and beautiful leaves on trees.” Once I started, my heart seemed to swell with gratefulness. “And for each precious sister You have brought here to live or work, and for the good plans You have for each one—”
“An’ hallelujah, thank You, Jesus, an’ all that, amen. Let’s eat!” interrupted a raspy voice, which was greeted by a whole lot of other “Amens” and snickers.
Lucy.
“Okay, okay.” I grinned as she joined me in the line. “What brings you here today? Let’s see, you already got dog food earlier this week. And last time I looked, it wasn’t raining—yes, yes, hello to you, too, Dandy.” I gave the Manna House mascot a scratch on the rump.
“I got reasons. Fer one thing, came to sign up fer that little trip ya got goin’ next weekend. Kinda liked that trip you an’ me took out west to bury your ma, but it was real long, ya know? A weekend sounds more ta my likin’. Be good to get off these streets a few days. Where ya goin’ again?”
“Really?” I hadn’t expected Lucy to sign up. But we did have one more seat on the van. “Well, that’s great. We’re going up to Devil’s Lake State Park in Wisconsin to see the fall colors. But this place we’re renting doesn’t allow pets. What about Dandy?”
“Been thinkin’ ’bout that. Thought maybe that boy of yours might want a four-legged visitor over the weekend. Whatcha think?”
Huh. Good question. Paul would be delighted. But the boys would be with their dad Friday night and Saturday. I’d even thought of asking Philip if they could stay the whole weekend since I’d be gone, but I was sure he wouldn’t want the dog in the penthouse— he’d made that clear enough. If the boys didn’t stay the whole weekend with Philip, I’d been planning to ask Josh Baxter to look after the boys till we got back Sunday evening. Josh wouldn’t mind the dog, but—
Snap, snap. Lucy snapped her fingers in front of my face. “You still in there, Fuzz Top? When ya done thinkin’, let me know. I’m gonna get somethin’ ta eat ’fore mold grows on it. C’mon, Dandy.” Lucy flounced off.
I followed in her wake, loaded my tray with a bowl of Estelle’s homemade beef-barley vegetable soup and crusty garlic bread— day-old but still good from a nearby bakery—and rejoined Lucy at one of the tables. “Sorry, Lucy. I’ll ask about Dandy, but there are a few wrinkles I’ve got to iron out.”
Shawanda Dixon plonked Bam-Bam and Dessa into a couple of booster seats across the table from us. “Didja get that paper I stuck under your door, Miss Gabby? An’ I signed up for that getaway weekend too. Miss Celia said she’d keep my kids if I wanted to go. Hey—can you watch these two while I get their food?” Without waiting for an answer, she was back at the counter loading up a tray of food for the three of them.
Lucy slurped away, totally ignoring the two wriggling toddlers grabbing for the salt and pepper and anything else within reach. As I tried to keep them in their seats, I had an unnerving vision of what life might be like at the House of Hope in a few weeks. I certainly hoped Celia Jones knew what she was getting into.
Shawanda finally returned and I had a chance to eat my own lukewarm soup while she busied herself trying to get more soup into the toddlers’ mouths than on their clothes and the table as they wriggled and banged spoons. Suddenly Dessa yelled, “Gotta pee, Mama!” Shawanda grabbed both kids and stalked off toward the bathroom.
Ah. Peace.
Lucy was well into her second bowl of soup. Half in jest, I resumed our interrupted conversation. “So, Lucy. You said the first reason you came today was to sign up for the Fall Getaway. What’s your other reason?”
The old lady snickered. “That.”
“That? What do you mean?”
“That.” She jerked her head over her shoulder.
I turned—and saw Estelle standing behind me holding a large sheet cake lined with flaming candles around the edges. Only then did I realize the room had hushed a few moments earlier, which I’d presumed was because Shawanda had taken her kids out, but now the residents and staff broke into laughter, clapping and hooting as Estelle set the cake in front of me. Someone began a raggedy version of “Happy birthday to youuuu . . .”
I’m sure I turned beet red—which always clashed with my hair. I even got teary, not realizing how much I’d been hoping somebody would remember it was my birthday.
“Blow out them forty candles!” Lucy cackled. “Betcha can’t.”
I did—though it took three tries. The cake boasted delicate yellow frosting with orange, red, and yellow marzipan leaves all around the edge. Scrawled across the cake in orange frosting, it said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GABBY!” and “OUR FAVORITE FUZZ TOP,” which I read aloud.
“I tol’ em to put that on there,” Lucy snickered.
Estelle handed me a knife. I eyed her suspiciously. “This better not be a foam-rubber cake like the one Harry had decorated for you.”
“Humph. He better watch out when he goes to cut our wedding cake.”
“Estelle! You wouldn’t!” I sputtered, laughing.
“Wouldn’t I?” She patted me on the shoulder. “But yours is safe, Gabby girl. Lucy tried to get me to make it banana-nut, swore it was your favorite. But I know you and chocolate—ha.”
“Oh, she did, did she? Don’t think I’ve ever had banana cake.” I cut into the moist, crumbly cake—fudge chocolate and definitely not foam rubber—and started handing out pieces left and right. I finally took a bite of my own piece. “Mmm. Yummy.” I nudged Lucy. “So why’d you tell Estelle banana was my favorite? Just a guess?”
She grinned, her mouth full of cake. “Nah. But it’s my favorite, so I figgered you might like it too. My ma used ta make it . . .” Her voice drifted, and for several moments her mind seemed to wander. She finally shrugged. “That was a long time ago. But that chocolate ain’t bad.” She held out her paper plate. “Gimme another piece there.”
Banana cake. Her mom used to make it. When? For her birthday when she was a kid? Which made me wonder—had Lucy had a birthday cake since she was a kid? Did any of us even know when her birthday was?
Mabel clapped her hands for attention. “And this is for you, Gabby. From all the residents.” She handed me a fat envelope.
I took it and peered inside. A whole lot of one-dollar bills. “Count it!” Lucy demanded. So I did. Exactly forty.
My eyes teared up again. For some of these women, giving up a dollar for my fortieth birthday was a real sacrifice. “Thank you, everybody. I’ll . . . I’ll do something really special with this.”
I went around the room, giving out hugs, but as the dining room finally cleared I took the last of the cake up to the counter. “Can I take this home for the boys? Don’t think they’re going to bake me a cake.”
“Sure, sure. Take it. But hold on a minute.” Estelle leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “Harry told me to tell you Fagan’s trial started yesterday. They’re gonna be callin’ Harry to testify, since he’s the one who blew the whistle on his crooked boss in the first place. For your man’s sake—and Harry’s too—we need to pray that thug in a uniform gets put away for a long time. I’m just sayin’.”