Who Do I Talk To? (31 page)

But something felt different. Different good. Like it was my birthday or something—which it wasn't.

And then I remembered . . .

I had an apartment. Or would, as soon as I delivered the deposit.

“Hallelujah!” I shouted—earning me a dirty look from Lucy, who covered her ears as she lumbered out the door with her toothbrush.

An apartment changed everything! I vaulted out of bed, my mind spinning. If the painting and repairs to the apartment moved along, I might be able to move in by the fifteenth. That gave me a week and a half to figure out how to furnish the place—and I was going to start with Philip. He had to know that a divorce settlement would give me
at least
fifty-fifty rights to our “community property,” as Lee called it—maybe more, if I got custody of the kids. Why not just divvy it up now without a big fight? Why make it difficult?

Because he can.

I shook off the little voice in my head. No! I wasn't going to go there. I would present my case in a rational way and presume we could work this out like two adults. If not . . . well, I'd cross that bridge later if I had to. In the meantime, I had a lot of work to do
besides
my Manna House workload. Filling out all those school applications for the boys, for one thing.

My mother was sitting on the edge of her bunk. “How're you doing, Mom? Come on. Let's go use the bathroom before you get dressed, okay? . . . You okay?”

My mother nodded, but she didn't really seem like herself this morning.
Rats.
The nurse had been here yesterday morning, but we were off getting Dandy's stitches out and looking at the new apartment. I really should've had Delores Enriques take a look at my mom. Next week was too far away.

I'd told myself I was going to keep up with my own Bible reading in the gospel of Matthew, but we barely got downstairs in time for group devotions at six forty-five. Susan McCall, the young night assistant, was reading short passages this week from the book of Proverbs—all those warnings about avoiding loose women and fools. Wasn't sure it really spoke to the women at Manna House, some of whom
were
loose women and fools. But, oh well. Then Sarge read the chore list at breakfast . . .
groan.
Diane and I got assigned to clean the bathrooms and showers on the top floor. That always took more time, even with two of us. And Diane usually spent more time whining about ruining her nails than actually working.

But even scrubbing toilets couldn't dampen my spirits today. It felt like a new day. I'd turned a corner. I still had the pieces of my broken marriage to contend with. Was still separated from my children by a thousand miles. But it felt like the logjam had broken. Things could move forward.

“Thank You, Jesus,” I murmured as I poured pine cleaner into the last toilet bowl. “I'm trusting You. Don't let me down now.” I even started to whistle.

“What's that tune?” Diane called into the stall where I was working. “Didn't our girl Whitney sing that?”

“Yeah. It's called, ‘I Go to the Rock.' I lost my CD . . . have you seen the soundtrack to
The Preacher's Wife
around anywhere?”

“Maybe. Whole buncha loose CDs kickin' around down in the multipurpose room without they covers . . . say, we got any more spray stuff for the mirrors? Then I gotta quit. Gotta meet with my case manager at ten.”

Oh rats.
That's right. It was Thursday again already. Last week Stephanie Cooper had said she wanted to meet with me again on Thursday, just to keep current on my goals. Well, we could make it short today. I'd found an apartment, and I planned to be off the bed list in less than two weeks.

On the way downstairs to my office, I checked on my mom, ho was sitting in the multipurpose room with an
Essence
magazine open on her lap, but not reading it. “Hi, Mom. Where's Dandy?”

She smiled up at me. “Dandy? Out in the yard, I think. Will you let him in?”

Oh dear. This wasn't good. “You mean Lucy took him for a walk?”

She nodded and smiled. “Yes, that's right.”

“You okay? Or would you like to come down and sit in my office with me while I work?”

“No, no. You go on. I've got plenty to do.” She patted the magazine in her lap.

I gave her a kiss, then remembered what Diane had said about “loose CDs.” Sure enough, the boom box in the corner, sitting on top of the game cabinet, was surrounded with piles of CDs, half of which were out of their cases. I shuffled through them . . . and struck gold.
Aha.
My CD. Looking a little worse for wear, but maybe it would still play.

My CD player was sitting on top of the file cabinet in my office. I plugged it in, popped in the CD, booted up my computer, and started work updating the Manna House program calendar for July while the gospel songs filled the tiny room. Finally “my” song hit its groove.
“Where do I go . . . when there's no one else to turn to? . . . Who do I talk to . . . when nobody wants to listen? . . .”

I stopped what I was doing. That was for sure. I still felt upset by my sister's phone call. She'd barely heard my story before she started jumping all over me! If we had more time to really talk or just be together, maybe she'd understand. But how
that
was supposed to happen between her log home in the middle of Denali National Forest and my broom-closet office in the basement of a homeless shelter in Chicago, I had no idea.

The song had launched into the chorus . . .
“I go to the Rock of my salvation, go to the Stone that the builders rejected . . .”
Huh. Had I heard that line before? The one about the Stone being rejected? It was talking about Jesus. Well, yeah, the Son of God had been rejected big-time. But I hadn't read that part of the gospel story since I quit church back in college. Maybe I should keep reading in Matthew until I came to the part where people turned on Jesus and killed Him. And maybe that's why I should be talking to Jesus, because He knew what it was like to be rejected . . . just like me.

I eyed my Bible and then my watch. Could I—?

No, I should get this calendar done and printed; then I had to see Stephanie. But lunchtime was coming up. I'd take a half hour then to read my Bible. And pray.

The next few days settled into an odd but not unpleasant routine. From 6 a.m. until 9, I was a Manna House resident. From 9 until 5, I was a Manna House employee. At 5, I turned into a resident again. But at least my world wasn't spinning.

Except . . . what about Philip? He was still my husband. But he had become a stranger. Was there any hope for our marriage? Didn't seem like it. Not when we weren't even talking. Maybe I should file for divorce—before he did.

Divorce.
The word made me shudder. Ending up twice divorced and living single was
not
one of my life goals. And Philip and I had kids! Two beautiful boys. We were supposed to be a
family.
If we divorced, P. J. and Paul would have to choose between living with Mom or Dad. Or be split two ways during their teen years.

I shoved the question into the back of my mind. Couldn't think about that now or I might crawl back into my black hole. I had to keep moving forward. Get moved. Get the boys. Get my mother to a doctor . . .

Now, that was something I could do now. I called Delores Enriques at work on the pediatrics floor at Stroger Hospital, and she agreed it'd be good to get my mother checked out by a physician. “You could always bring her to the clinic here at County, Gabby,” she said on the phone. With her Spanish accent, my name always came out
Gab-bee.
“But why don't you ask Mabel or some of the other staff who their doctor is? It's not easy to get an appointment on short notice, but if you explain that your mother's elderly, from out of town, has these symptoms, and needs to see a doctor, sometimes . . .”

Mabel agreed to call her primary doctor over at Thorek Professional Building on Mom's behalf. He was booked solid for three months, the secretary told us, but his associate, Dr. Palma, happened to have a cancellation on Friday afternoon.

I couldn't believe it! God must be listening to my prayers after all! Except, had I even prayed about getting an appointment? Well, if I did or didn't, I decided to thank God anyway. Wasn't there some verse in the Bible that said, “Before they call, I will answer”? I'd have to look it up.

Mom had another one of her headaches Friday, but she insisted on sitting in on Edesa Baxter's Bible study that morning. When Edesa heard I was borrowing Mabel's car to take Mom to the doctor after lunch, she offered to go along for moral support. “If you don't mind
la nena
too. The shelter keeps a couple of car seats for kid emergencies.”

I was grateful for the company. It always helped to have another pair of ears to hear what the doctor had to say. Lucy wanted to go, too, but frankly, I was glad I could tell her we didn't have room. As devoted as she seemed to be to my mother and Dandy, she'd been getting downright bossy when it came to either of them, and it'd been getting on my nerves.

We found the Thorek Memorial Professional Building on Irving Park Road without too much trouble, though filling out my mother's medical history for the nurse was problematic. My mother seemed confused by the questions and gave conflicting answers. And half the stuff I didn't know either. But I promised to call Mom's doctor in Minot and try to have her records sent on Monday. Hopefully Aunt Mercy could help me out.

Dr. Palma was Filipino, a pleasant young man with no trace of accent. He only had a half hour between patients, so he couldn't do a complete workup on my mother, but he seemed kind and conscientious. He listened to her heart and breathing, took a urine and blood sample, and asked gentle questions. After I helped her get dressed, I asked Edesa to take my mother into the waiting room while I talked with the doctor.

“Your mother seems reasonably healthy for her age, which is . . . what? Seventy-four? Her heart is steady—no history of heart disease?—and her lungs clear. We'll see if the urine or blood tests turn up anything unusual, but it's hard to say. She does have some early stages of dementia, but you say she's still fairly functional, though unable to live alone. As for the headaches . . .” Dr. Palma looked over the history we'd filled out. “It says here she's had several falls. Tell me about them.”

I told him about Mom tripping over the dog and hitting her head. “But my aunt Mercy—she lives in the same town—said she's had a couple other falls when no one was around.”

Dr. Palma frowned. “Falls are not uncommon in the elderly. I don't know if there's any relation between the falls and the headaches. But to be on the safe side, I'd like to schedule a CAT scan—the sooner the better. Hopefully early next week.”

I gulped. A CAT scan? Those had to be expensive. Would Medicare cover it?

Dr. Palma shook my hand as he left the exam room. “I'll call you Monday to set up the CAT scan at Thorek Memorial—it's just next door. In the meantime, I'll give you a couple of sample bottles of a stronger headache medicine. Should give your mom some relief.”

We left the office and drove back to the shelter with no real answers. In the back seat, Mom and Gracie seemed to be sharing giggles. “Well, one thing I know,” I murmured to Edesa in the front seat, “staying at the shelter is better for Mom than living alone in that house of hers. She really thrives on being around people. And kids.” I grinned. “Listen to those two.”

My mom was doing her own version of “Creep Mousie,” walking her fingers across the seat, up the side of Gracie's car seat, and tickling the eleven-month-old's neck or ear or nose. Gracie, it seemed, never got tired of it, though by the time we parked Mabel's car, I'd had enough “Creep Mousie” to last the rest of the year.

“What's that?” I said, as we came around the corner by the Laundromat. A long, white passenger van sat in front of Manna House.

Edesa giggled. “It's the van you ordered! Josh and Señor Douglass have been looking all week—and this is what they found! What do you think,
mi amiga
?”

chapter 32

Josh Baxter dangled a set of car keys as he came down the steps of the shelter. “So, Mrs. Fairbanks, what do you think of Manna House's new vehicle?” Edesa's husband kicked a tire. “All new tires, about seventy-five thousand miles on the engine, but it runs smooth enough, shocks are good, brakes ditto . . .” He slid open the side door. I peeked in. The flooring and seats were a bit worn, but all the seat belts seemed functional, and it was clean. I trusted Josh when he said everything checked out under the hood.

Josh held out the keys. “Here. Take it for a spin around the block. I'll see that Mrs. Shepherd gets safely inside.” He took my mother's arm, and the little Baxter family escorted her inside as I climbed into the driver's seat. Once around the block . . . okay. But I had to admit, a fifteen-passenger van felt like driving a Mack truck as I lurched around corners, trying not to sideswipe any parked cars. Five minutes later, I pulled up to the curb in front of Manna House. So far, so good. But what if I had to parallel park the thing? I'd better practice before driving the monster on an actual outing.