Who Do I Lean On? (27 page)

I had just sent Paul outside with the garbage and taken the hamburger-filled pastries out of the oven when I heard banging out in the front hallway and a muffled voice yelling, “Let me in!” What in the world—was there something wrong with the buzzer?

I ran down the hall and opened the door a crack. P.J.! “Thank You, Jesus!” I breathed and flung the door wider.

That's when I saw two figures out in the foyer. P.J.
and
Philip.

Oh no, P.J.! You didn't .
. .

I crossed the hall and pulled open the glass-paneled door. “Hey! What's with the banging? Did you try the buzzer?”

“Been punchin' it for five minutes. Why didn't you answer it?”

“But it didn't—” Before I had a chance to finish, P.J. brushed past me and stomped into the apartment, followed by the slamming of his bedroom door.

Philip—suit coat off, tie loosened—frowned at me. “What's the meaning of this, Gabrielle? P.J. called me at the office, said you left him standing in the parking lot and he didn't have a ride home from school. Called
me
wanting me to pick him up!”

I stepped into the foyer, letting the door close behind me. I folded my arms and lifted my chin. “Guess he forgot to tell you I was there waiting for him, and he refused to get in the car.”

“He said he was just talking to his friends and you drove off!”

“No, he was talking to his friends so he wouldn't have to get in the car. Because he didn't want to be seen with another kid I was taking home.”

Philip snorted. “Who? That wuss you invited to the boys' birthday party?”

It was all I could do not to haul off and slap him. “
Wuss
? Where do you get off insulting Jermaine that way! He's Mabel's nephew, and we agreed to share rides taking the boys to and from school. P.J. was very rude to Mabel and Jermaine when she drove them this morning. I wasn't going to let him get away with it again!”

“Good grief. Give the kid a break, Gabby. It was the first day of school. He's the new kid, trying to make a good impression.”

“All the freshmen are new. Besides, that doesn't excuse being rude.”

It was like Philip hadn't heard me. “He said he didn't have any lunch either.”

I snorted. “He forgot it.”

“And why did he have to pound on the door? Can't get into his own house?”

“He
has
a key. Must've forgotten that too.” I rolled my eyes. “Just . . . leave, Philip.”

Philip ran his hand through his hair in that boyish way I used to find endearing. But I was angry—angry that P.J. had called his dad and dragged him into this. So much for the “tough love” lesson I was trying to teach the kid.

“Fine.” Philip pointed a finger at me. “But a judge may have second thoughts about giving you
custody
when he hears you left your own kid high and dry on the first day of school.”

A long finger of ice down my spine froze me to the spot as Philip pulled open the outer door and hustled down the steps to his car. He was threatening me?

Shaken, I turned the door handle and pushed on the inside foyer door. It had clicked shut. I fished in the pocket of my jeans for the key . . . no key.
Dang!
I kicked the door—and winced, realizing I only had sandals on. I eyed the buzzer—was it working or not? I pressed the button under the mailbox that said “Fairbanks” and heard . . . nothing.

Paul finally heard me banging on the foyer door and let me in. “Why didn't you ring the buzzer?” he griped, following me back to the kitchen. “I'm hungry. Is supper ready?”

I didn't trust myself to speak, just flopped hamburger roll-ups on three plates and sent him to get P.J. for supper. I decided to say nothing to P.J. about his behavior until we'd both cooled off a little and got some food under our belts.

But my “talk” with P.J. later that evening didn't go too well. I made it clear that his rude behavior about riding with Jermaine was unacceptable, though I got a halfhearted shrug when I asked if he understood. Finally I told him that if he conducted himself decently with our current plan for the rest of the week,
then
we'd talk about him taking the city bus.

It wasn't just P.J.'s sullen demeanor during our talk; the kid was fourteen, after all. Not even the fact that he'd referred to Jermaine as a “wuss” at the picnic—though I told him he'd be grounded for a week if I ever heard him use insulting labels like that to refer to
anybody
, and I didn't
care
if his father had said it first.

What really rattled me were his parting words as I left his bedroom. “Why can't I live with Dad?
He
wouldn't make me ride with some loser like Jermaine. Don't know why you brought us to Chicago anyway. If you and Dad aren't gonna get it together, Paul and I oughta at least get some say about where we're going to live!”

chapter 26

I woke early the next morning . . . with P.J.'s last words ringing loudly in my ears. I burrowed my face into the pillow, fighting back tears.
Oh, God, I really don't know what to do. I'm trying to trust You with my kids, but I'm so scared I'll lose them again
. . .

I was still feeling rattled when I got to work. It was Wednesday—Nurse Day—and I had to thread my way through a dozen or more residents in the dining room waiting to see Delores Enriquez, the county hospital nurse who donated her time one morning a week to take care of basic medical problems. Locking myself into my broom-closet office, I tried to shut out the noisy chatter outside and get to work. But my talk with P.J. ate away at me, like a big slug of Drano corroding my insides.

I stared at the cursor blinking from the computer screen as P.J.'s words mocked me.
Why can't I live with Dad? If you and Dad aren't gonna get it together .
. .

“Oh, God,” I moaned, leaning my elbows on the desk and pressing my fingers against my skull. “I can't do this. I don't want to lose my kids!” Had P.J. told his dad he wanted to live with him? Philip hadn't said anything last night . . . except that threat about telling the judge I'd “abandoned” my kid in the parking lot on his first day of high school.

Stupid, stupid, stupid .
. .

Lee Boyer had assured me my custody petition was a slam dunk. But what if it wasn't? What if Philip challenged it? What if the judge gave the boys a choice where they wanted to live? What if . . . what if P.J. said he wanted to go back to Virginia and live with Nana and Grandad, so he could continue going to George Washington Prep with all his old friends? Would the judge let him?

Nausea swept over me and I pulled the wastebasket within upchuck distance. The feeling passed, but now all my nerves felt as if they were going to jump out of my skin. I paced back and forth in the tiny office—five steps this way, five steps back—running a hand through my snarly curls.
I should've just ignored P.J.'s snit and made the best of it, waited it out. Standing up for Jermaine isn't worth starting a landslide that might take my kids away from me
.

I immediately winced at my selfish thought and sank back into my desk chair. “Oh, God,” I moaned again. “I need some help here. I feel like I'm going crazy!”

Come to Me .
. .

I made myself sit still. Those were the words that kept coming to me when I'd started reading the gospel of Matthew, even before Philip kicked me out. That's what Jesus said.
“Come to Me . . . and I will give you rest
.”

I sat quietly for a few minutes. What did it mean to “come to God and find rest” when I was on the verge of being a nervous wreck? I needed someone to pray with me. That's what a prayer partner was for, wasn't it? I picked up the phone and dialed Jodi Baxter's number—and got her voice mail. Of course. School had started and she was teaching a room full of squirrelly third graders at Bethune Elementary.

Well, I could pray with Estelle. I opened my office door and peeked outside. Estelle usually came in early on Wednesday to help Delores with sign-ups and teach her knitting group. But . . . no Estelle. Only Precious and Diane-of-the-Big-Afro behind the kitchen counter, banging a few pots and pans. I slipped up to the counter. “Where's Estelle?”

Precious pulled a plastic container from the refrigerator and plopped it on the counter. “What do I know? Mabel just said Estelle had an emergency doctor's appointment—eye doc or something—and could I throw some food together for the lunch crew. Huh. How come I always end up coverin' lunch when Estelle don't show up? Don't nobody blame me if it's Leftover Surprise today.”

Emergency doctor's appointment? Eye doctor? For herself or Harry?

Well, okay. Guess I needed to “get my own prayers on,” as Precious would say—when she was in a better mood anyway. But I had to get out of my office. Felt as if the walls were closing in on me. And I had an idea how to stop my mind from spinning like a Tilt-A-Whirl and get focused.

Five minutes later I was sitting in my red Subaru, parked— hallelujah—under a leafy locust tree along the side street around the corner from Manna House, windows open to a slight breeze, listening to the gospel CD Josh Baxter had given me:

. . . The earth all around me is sinking sand On Christ the Solid Rock I stand When I need a shelter, when I need a friend I go to the Rock . .
.

Listening to the CD and spending some time praying helped calm my spirit enough that I was able to get through the day. I even worked up the courage to step into Mabel's office at one point and ask, “How'd it go this morning?”

The director gave me a little smile. “Okay. Good, actually. P.J. got in the car and said, ‘Hi, Miss Turner. Hi, Jermaine.' Didn't say anything the rest of the way, but we'll take what we can get, right? Oh—he also said, ‘Thanks' when he got out.”

My spirit hiked up a notch. That was more than I expected out of P.J., given our bum talk the night before. And he did get into the car when I drove into the school parking lot at five that afternoon, sliding into the front seat and turning on the radio full blast. We waited five minutes for Jermaine, who climbed wordlessly into the back. The radio filled the car, negating the need for any conversation and I let it alone.

But I did call Jodi that evening and asked her to pray with me about the whole Jermaine-P.J.-ride-to-school-live-with-me-or-Philip-custody-hearing-coming-up stew mushing around in my spirit. “Sheesh,” she said. “I'm the same way, Gabby. I let the what-ifs get me all in a panic, when nothing has happened yet. Remember that verse we talked about? ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart—'”

“Yeah, I've got it taped on the kitchen cupboard. It's that part about ‘lean not on your own understanding' I need to work on.”

She sighed. “Me too.” But she prayed over the phone, thanking God “that Gabby can trust You to make her paths straight like the verses in Proverbs promise.”

“Thanks, Jodi,” I said when she'd finished. “By the way, Estelle didn't come to work today. Do you know anything about an emergency eye doctor's appointment?” I figured Jodi might know since Estelle and her housemate, Stu, lived on the second floor of the Baxter's two-flat.

“Really? No, but come to think of it, I haven't seen her this evening. I'll run upstairs and ask Stu what's up and call you back.”

Jodi called back in ten minutes. “Stu doesn't know much either—but it's not Estelle. It's Harry. Stu says he called Estelle this morning before she was even out of bed, like six or something, and the next thing she knew, Estelle was throwing her clothes on and muttering, ‘I told that man to get himself to the eye specialist, but did he go? No, the stubborn old goat'—or something like that.”

I couldn't help but laugh. I could just see Estelle stomping around, telling Harry a thing or two even if he wasn't there. But my laugh quickly died. “Sounds like it might be serious. She still isn't back? I wonder if we should call her, find out what's wrong.”

“Good idea. But let's pray for her and Harry first, okay?”

I called Estelle's cell phone two times that night and left a message both times, but didn't get a call back. Both boys already had homework—and I hadn't been able to convince Paul to use the afterschool time to get his done and earn a free evening—so I spent most of the evening making sure they were doing their work and not getting distracted by their iPods or the TV. Couldn't believe it, though, when the house phone rang and it was for P.J.—from a girl. Good grief, school had just started two days ago and girls were calling him already?

“Can you believe it?” I told Angela when I signed in at the reception desk the next morning. “P.J. got a call from a
girl
last night. He's only been at school two days. And since when do the girls call the boys?”

Angela laughed and handed me a couple of messages. “Oh, Gabby. You're showing your age. Girls call guys all the time these days, even make the first move. Equal opportunity, you know! And besides, that P.J. is pretty cute. Give him a few years and he'll be breaking hearts right and left.” She winked and answered the incessant phone. “Manna House. Can I help you?”