Who Do I Talk To?, page 12
A moment later a page came up. Feminine Names and Their Meanings, it said. Jodi read it aloud: “‘Gabrielle. Meaning: Strong woman of God.’”
She turned away from the computer and, to my surprise, took my face in her hands. “‘Strong woman of God’ . . . Yes, that’s it, Gabby. Live your name.”
A male voice sailed down the hall from the living room. “Jodi! When’s supper?”
“When you fire up the grill so we can throw on some chicken!” Jodi yelled back. She looked at me sideways and snorted. “Men!”
I was glad for the interruption. Strong woman of God? Maybe somebody else. How was I supposed to “live my name” when right now I felt about as courageous as an overcooked noodle?
We had a pleasant evening, just hanging out on the Baxters’ back porch. Denny donned a big apron and wielded a mean pair of tongs over the hot charcoal grill set a few feet from the porch.
Stu and Estelle invited themselves for supper, thumping down the back outside stairs with a fresh fruit salad to go with the corn on the cob. My mom looked bright eyed, her cheeks pink after her nap, though she had a hard time keeping up with all the banter.
While we were eating, Dandy whined and struggled to get up, so Denny managed to get him into the yard, and the dog actually peed a little. Everyone on the porch clapped. “You go, Dandy!” Estelle yelled—and we all laughed at the pun.
And then I slept, curled up like a baby with one of Amanda Baxter’s old teddy bears hugged against my chest . . . the first night I’d slept without nightmares or waking in panic since Philip locked me out of his life.
We went to church the next morning with Jodi and Denny. Estelle and Stu pulled out right behind us in the candy-apple-red Hyundai. As Denny drove into the parking lot of the shopping center that housed SouledOut Community Church, I felt as if I’d entered a time warp. Had it only been a week since Mom and I had come to church here while Philip took the boys on a sailing weekend with one of his clients? Only a week since he brought the boys home early, accusing me of losing that client over some dumb phone message I’d tried to deliver, and told me it was the last straw?
The longest week of my life.
I shook off the troubling thoughts. Didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to lose the sense of peace that had surrounded me ever since Mom and I had walked through the Baxters’ back door yesterday.
“Oh look, Gabby.” Mom pointed shamelessly as we came into the “sanctuary” that had been created out of a large storefront. “That nice Mr. Bentley is here too. And he has his son with him. About Paul’s age, isn’t he?”
“Grandson, Mom. And he looks a little younger than Paul.” Just the mention of my youngest wrapped coils of regret around my heart, but we smiled and waved at Mr. B, who was proudly introducing DeShawn to everyone who came within reach.
The music team started playing right then, and a young white man invited everyone to find a seat—“But don’t sit down yet!”— and join in singing the first song.
“I thought Peter Douglass’s wife was your worship leader,” I whispered to Jodi.
“Avis? She’s one of them. People take turns.”
The young man did all right, I guess, but I’d kind of looked forward to the dignity and passion the middle-aged black woman had brought to the service the previous week. I had to smile as the keyboard, guitars, drums, and saxophone filled the room with music, inviting shoppers to peek in the glass windows along the large storefront. I’d been in Chicago for two and a half months, and in that time I’d gone to church more than I had in two and a half years—if I counted the Sunday Evening Praise at the shelter—and still hadn’t stepped inside an actual church building.
Josh and Edesa Baxter came in late with Gracie in a back carrier as if they’d walked to church, and Edesa slipped me a hug before they found seats in the back.
The children up through middle school left for Sunday school classes before the sermon, but the African-American pastor—Pastor Cobbs, Jodi reminded me—asked Peter Douglass to come up and pray for the youth from the church who were in Mississippi with Habitat for Humanity, building houses for poor people.
Then Pastor Cobbs announced that his copastor, Pastor Clark—an older white man, I remembered, tall and skinny—had been taken to the hospital last night, suffering from chest pains. Shock seemed to run through the congregation, and four or five different people prayed about that.
And then other people started to go up to the mike and mention things that needed prayer. Personal stuff. That surprised me. A nephew who’d been in a car accident. A daughter who had a miscarriage. A brother who was going to drink himself to death “if the Lord don’t get hold of him.” Pastor Cobbs reminded the congregation that Scripture says, “If two or three agree, we can ask anything in the name of Jesus, and He will answer!” A lot of people shouted “Amen!” After that somebody started praying, and then another. And another.
The pastor never did preach his sermon. And nobody seemed to mind.
But the impromptu prayer meeting made me squirm. Good grief, if anyone in that room needed prayer, it was me. But go up to that mike and ask for prayer? Admit that this college-educated mother of two had gone from luxury penthouse to a homeless shelter in one measly day? Admit that my life was screwed up big-time—and I didn’t have a clue what to do about it?
Couldn’t imagine it. It’d be like walking naked down Lake Shore Drive.
chapter 17
Never did open my mouth, but seemed like a lot of people at SouledOut must have seen the news clips about Hero Dog chasing off an intruder at the Manna House shelter. At least seven people came up to me and asked how Dandy was doing, and started in on the questions I was trying to avoid, like, “How did the dog happen to be at the shelter, anyway?”
Jodi had gone off to the ladies’ room with my mother, leaving me standing by the coffeepot, holding on to my Styrofoam cup with a grip that threatened to splatter hot coffee in all directions. I was trying to decide what I could say—just enough to not be rude but not anything that might make its way into the media by accident—when Estelle swooped down on me like a brood hen, her dress of choice this morning being a billowy yellow number with black swirls. She wrapped me up like a chick under her yellow-and-black wing and hustled me off. “No questions! No questions!” she tossed back over her shoulder.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry with relief. “How do they even know it’s me?” I complained when we were safely out of the crowd around the coffeepot.
“The hair, honey. The hair.” Estelle patted my head full of frowsy corkscrew curls, which had sprung up like perky weeds after my fifteen-minute shower that morning. “Just don’t commit no crimes, honey. You’ll be caught within twenty-four hours—Hey! Florida! C’mon over here.” Estelle waved her arm at one of the women I’d met last week. I remembered the interesting Zulu knots all over her head, looking like little tortellini noodles.
“How ya feel, Estelle? And this is Gabby, right? Girl, you all over the news—”
“Put a lid on it, Florida. Gabby’s staying at the Baxters’ for a little R & R this weekend—an’ maybe till Mandy gets back. I’m just checkin’ about Yada Yada tonight—we’re s’posed to meet at your house, right? Gabby’s got a mountain needs to be moved, and I’m thinkin’ Yada Yada got some mountain-movin’ experience.”
I was totally bewildered. Mountains? What in the world was Estelle talking about!
“Estelle Williams!” Florida put a hand on one hip. “You know good an’ well it ain’t us that moves mountains. That’s God’s business. We just do our part ’bout gettin’ two or three together an’ agreein’ in the name of Jesus, an’ He’ll do the rest in His own way an’ His own time—Oh yeah! Glory! Mm!” And Florida danced a little jig right there in front of us.
“Humph. I’m just sayin’. Are we meeting at your house or not?”
Florida stopped her little dance long enough to say, “Uh-huh. An’ thanks for the reminder. Works better if I kick Carl and the kids out during the meetin’, so I better go give him a heads-up. Where he at, anyway?” The thin, brown woman craned her neck this way and that, scanning the room, then startled me by giving me a quick hug. “Lookin’ forward to seein’ you tonight, girl. If you got a mountain needs movin’, Yada Yada’s a good place to start.” And she flounced off.
Estelle raised her eyebrows. “Like I said.”
Which is how I found myself in the backseat of Leslie Stuart’s candy-apple-red Hyundai with Jodi Baxter late that afternoon. Estelle sat in the front passenger seat, fussing about the big tin of chocolate-and-caramel turtles that Stu had insisted on bringing.
“Whatchu bringing that for? Sister who’s hosting always provides the snacks—and if that was you, we wouldn’t be drivin’ now, would we?”
“Well . . . just in case she doesn’t have something. I thought it might help.”
“Now, why wouldn’t she have somethin’? You show up with this fancy-smancy stuff, an’ it’s like you sayin’ her food ain’t good enough.”
“Estelle! That’s not fair. I just wanted to help out.”
“That’s the trouble with you, Leslie Stuart. You helpin’ out people even when they don’t need no help, didn’t ask for no help, don’t want no help.”
“Is that so? Maybe you didn’t need any help when the shelter burned down. Guess I should’ve kept my mouth shut about sharing the apartment since you didn’t ask for my help.”
“Humph. That’s different.”
“Hey, you two,” Jodi piped up from the backseat. “Quit arguing. What’s Gabby going to think? It’s her first visit to Yada Yada.”
“Arguing? We’re not arguing, are we, Stu?”
“Who us? Nope.” And they both laughed.
Jodi rolled her eyes at me. “Some people,” she muttered, but couldn’t help laughing too.
I started to relax. It felt good to be with people who could argue and then laugh about it.
My mother had elected to stay at the Baxters’ with Dandy, who was more alert today. He’d eaten some food and was drinking more water, though he definitely needed help up and down the Baxters’ back porch stairs to the yard. After making sure Jodi’s husband would be there that evening, I agreed to go to this Yada Yada whatever with Jodi and the two single women upstairs.
They were definitely the Odd Couple. Stu was in her thirties, tall and slender, and still wore her dark-blonde hair long and tucked behind one ear, which boasted a long row of small, glittery earrings. Estelle, on the other hand, was as brown as Stu was white, fifty-something, big-boned and solid, her hair worn natural and streaked with gray, and caught up into a bun on top of her head. Every time I’d seen Stu, she was wearing pants, tall boots, and a jacket over a tank top. Estelle in pants? Couldn’t imagine it. She made her clothes: big, loose-fitting caftans . . .
Which reminded me. Sometime this week I needed to get my sewing machine from the penthouse before Philip moved all our stuff to who-knew-where.
Stu found a parking spot on a street that boasted the occasional “Chicago bungalow”—little brick houses, mostly one story, or one and a half—scrunched in between three-story apartment buildings. We had to walk a block to Florida’s brick bungalow, which actually had a front porch with two white wicker chairs. “A housewarming gift from one of our Yada Yada sisters,” Jodiwhispered to me. “Chanda won the lottery and rained gifts down on all of us until we told her to stop it.”
Whoever Chanda was. I guessed I’d find out soon enough. The door opened just as Stu was about to punch the doorbell, and two kids came running out—a girl about twelve and a boy in his midteens—followed by Carl Hickman, whom I’d met once before when he came to the shelter to help with security at our Fun Night. Okay, so far I’d met three couples: Florida and Carl Hickman, Avis and Peter Douglass, Jodi and Denny Baxter. Hopefully this Yada Yada group wasn’t just a bunch of happily married women. Wasn’t sure I could take it—
“Oops, ’scuse me, ladies.” Josh Baxter came hustling out the front door, little Gracie in a back carrier. “Hey, Carl, wait up!” he yelled and hustled out to the sidewalk.
Oh right. Edesa and Josh Baxter too. Young. In love.
Like I’d been. Once.
Wishing I’d stayed home, I meekly followed Jodi, Stu, and Estelle inside. The small living room area was already populated with women talking and laughing. To the left, Edesa was just coming down the stairs. I made a beeline for Josh’s wife. “Ah, a familiar face!” I gave her a big hug.
“Gabby! Hola! I’m so glad you came to Yada Yada tonight.
Josh told me his mom invited you and your mother to come for the weekend. We were late getting to SouledOut this morning.
Gracie had one of those nights.”
I peeked up the narrow stairs. “So this is where you guys live?”
She laughed. Even her dark eyes danced. “Sí. Only slightly bigger than your office at the shelter. Want to see?”
We slipped up the stairs, past two bedroom doors—“The
Hickman kids,” she explained—then through a door that cut the hallway in half. She was right about the tiny apartment. One room served as kitchen and living space, plus a small bedroom and bathroom. But the bedroom held only a crib, three dressers, and a freestanding clothes rack.
“Where—?”
“—do we sleep?” Edesa pointed to the couch in the living area. “It folds out.”
“Oh, Edesa.” I gave her a sympathetic hug. “You do need a bigger apartment. No wonder you study down at the shelter!”
“You think?” She laughed. “We better get downstairs. They’re starting to sing.”
Oh great. Now I was going to walk in late.
But no one seemed to notice as we settled into a couple of folding chairs. They were singing a capella, many with their eyes closed, several with hands raised.
Lord, prepare me . . . to be a sanctuary . . . pure and holy . . . tried “and true . . . ”
I glanced around the room, seeing a few I’d met before, and several I hadn’t, all different shades of skin color. As the song drew to a close, Avis—who seemed to be leading the meeting—moved right into a prayer, asking the Holy Spirit to be present, thanking God for the privilege of coming together in the name of His Son, Jesus. “And thank You for our sister Gabby, who is visiting us tonight . . . Sisters, this is Gabrielle Fairbanks, the program director down at Manna House. We’ve prayed for her before—now here she is!”
I wasn’t sure when Avis had stopped praying and just started talking—as if God was just another person in the room. But everyone turned to me with welcoming smiles.
“Hey there, Gabby!” said a twenty-something white girl with short, spiky hair, wearing baggy overall-shorts over a T shirt. “I’m Yo-Yo. And that’s Adele”—she pointed to a large black woman with a short black natural and large hoop earrings—“who does hair an’ stuff like that. An’ that’s Ruth”—pointing to a fiftyish white woman with rather frowsy brown hair—“who comes to Yada Yada because it’s the only time she’s not chasing her two-year- old twins . . .”
“Enough already, Yo-Yo,” fussed the woman named Ruth. “A mouth we all have; we can introduce ourselves. I’m Ruth and my twins are adorable. One’s going to be a lawyer and the other a doctor. Remember I told you so.”
Everyone laughed, but then they did go around the room and introduce themselves.
Chanda, the lottery lady—she didn’t say that, but I remembered the name—had a Jamaican accent like Wanda at the shelter. A lovely young Asian woman, tall and slender, spoke so softly I didn’t catch her name—Moshee or Hershey or something. But the big surprise was a Hispanic woman who waggled her fingers at me and said, “Hola, Gabby! We’ve met. Delores Enriques . . . I’m the volunteer nurse who comes to the shelter on Wednesday.”
“Oh, of course! I’m sorry, Delores. I’m used to seeing you in your hospital garb.” I’m sure my ears were beet red, but I stumbled on. “Thank you all for letting me come tonight. Edesa has mentioned her prayer group. I didn’t realize I’d already met so many of you at Manna House.”
“It’s all Josh and Edesa’s fault,” Jodi Baxter moaned. “They got involved first and kept bugging the rest of us to volunteer until we said yes. I tried to get out of it by burning the place down the first time I volunteered, but—”
This was met with more hoots of laughter. “Oh stop, Jodi,” the beauty shop lady said. “Gabby’s going to think you meant it.”
“You mean she didn’t?” I teased. The words were out of my mouth, complete with wide eyes and fake surprise, before I even realized what I was doing.
Yo-Yo snickered. “Ooo, Gabby, you all right.”
Their laughter pulled me in, and I realized the friendly banter had found a chink in my armor. Like I could be the real Gabby again, just hanging out with my girlfriends, laughing and teasing and making jokes.
But a nasty little whisper in my head pulled me up short. Philip’s voice, back in his office. “Listen to yourself, Gabby . . . If you weren’t so pathetic, this would be funny.”
chapter 18
I tried to shake Philip’s voice out of my head. Why did I let stuff he said get to me? I tried to focus on the conversation going on around me as several of the “Yada Yada sisters” shared stuff they needed prayer for. Florida, our hostess, asked prayer for Cedric, her middle boy, who had started dressing like the gangbangers—baggy pants, crotch hanging to his knees, no shoelaces in his big, clunky gym shoes. “I know why he’s doin’ it, ’cause he’s got that learnin’ disability an’ the other kids rag on him. He wants to fit in. But now, what kind of man he gonna be, all hobbled up in clothes like that. Help me, Jesus!”
Yo-Yo wagged her head. “I read ya. Pete use to dress like one o’ them outlaw bikers, till he joined the army. Now they’re sending him to Iraq, and gotta say, I feel guilty, all the fussin’ I did over his stupid clothes.” Whoever Pete was. Yo-Yo seemed way too young to have a kid old enough to join the army. “Guess I need y’all to pray for him,” she went on, “’cause my kid brother still don’t have much use for Jesus.”
