Who Do I Lean On? (8 page)

The parking lot at Lane Tech was virtually empty by the time I pulled in at 10:59. P.J. was waiting at the same spot where I'd let him out, except his T-shirt was wet around the neck and armpits, and his dark hair lay damp on his forehead. “Sorry, kiddo,” I said as he jumped into the front seat. “Did you have to wait long?”

He shrugged.

“Put on your seat belt . . . How did it go? Looks like the coach worked you hard.”

“Yeah.” He turned his head toward the window, but not before I caught the hint of a grin playing the corner of his mouth.

I hooted. “You rascal. Did you run? I bet you came in first the very first day.”

He shook his head. “Not really.” But the grin widened. “But I kept up with the front group. Coach called me out, said, ‘Good job, Fairbanks.'”

I reached over and rumpled his damp hair. “Well, I second that,
Fairbanks
. Good job! Why don't you call your dad?” I handed P.J. my cell phone. “He'd like to hear how your first day of practice went, I'm sure.” A self-righteous amicability smothered the angst I'd been feeling just fifteen minutes ago. Yeah, I could be the mature single-again mom, generously keeping the jerk father in the picture, refusing to make my sons choose between their parents.

But he shrugged and handed the phone back. “Maybe later.”

I dropped P.J. off at the apartment, telling him I'd be off work at two and to stay put. The rest of the afternoon, we'd do whatever he wanted. When I got back to the shelter, the dog walkers had returned and Paul was triumphantly purchasing another tiny plastic house with Monopoly money to put on Park Place. Still feeling magnanimous, I decided to wait until we were alone to talk with him about leaving the premises. I knocked on Mabel's office door instead.

“Sorry I had to leave staff meeting early. What'd I miss?”

Mabel turned from her computer. “I was just typing up the minutes. But sit down, Gabby. Let's talk about this transitional housing idea of yours. If you want to bring it to the board on Saturday, we need a proposal—description of the property, how it's going to be financed, how to partner with city resources . . .”

I sat, nodding my head as the director listed things the board would want to know. When she finished, I drew in a big breath and then blew it out again. “Um, write up a proposal. You're right. Definitely right. Except . . . I don't
know
how it could work! That's why I need help, brainstorming with people who do know this kind of stuff. I mean, what if I gave Manna House two hundred thousand for a down payment? A donation, you know, earmarked for purchase of the building. Could Manna House pay the monthly mortgage?”

Mabel just looked at me for a long moment or two, tapping the eraser end of a pencil on her desk. Then her eyebrows—those perfectly plucked arches—went up, and her dark eyes widened just a fraction. “A donation. That's a pretty hefty donation for someone who was penniless a few weeks ago. Is that wise? Would you have anything left to live on? Besides your
huge
salary for part-time work here at Manna House, of course.” Her full lips parted in a teasing smile.

“I don't know. I mean, yeah, I'd have something left. Not a whole lot, but something.” Something like fifty grand. Which I was counting on to help meet expenses for the boys, and I'd need a hunk of it pretty soon to get a car.

Mabel tapped the pencil eraser a few more times and then put it down. “Have you talked to your lawyer? You're still working with Lee Boyer at Legal Aid, aren't you?”

I nodded. “Yes. I mean, he's the one filing the custody petition for me. But no, I haven't had time to really discuss this idea with him.” Not for lack of Lee's persistence. He'd called me several times the past few weeks, but I was feeling confused about Lee Boyer. Was he my lawyer? My friend? Both? Or . . . more? I'd cancelled my last two appointments to give myself some space. “Just until I get the boys settled,” I'd told him.

“Well, talk to your lawyer, Gabby. You need to get your own finances squared away and make some decisions about your situation. You and Philip have only been separated . . . what? Less than two months? And you just lost your mother. That's a lot of change and a lot of stress. Might not be the best time to make a major decision like this.”

I blinked back sudden tears. “But I really think this is God's idea, Mabel.” My voice croaked. “Jodi Baxter thinks so too. I don't know how it all fits together, but—”

How could I explain what the shelter meant to me? It was here I'd met God again, discovered He'd been whispering my name and calling me to “come” all those years I'd left Him behind. But I couldn't hear Him until I'd lost everything. Now I wanted to give something back. I didn't want to forget what it felt like to be in Precious's and Tanya's shoes, with no home for my children.

I felt Mabel's hand on mine. “Gabby.” Her voice was gentle. “If this is God's idea, then it's going to happen. God's timing is perfect. You don't have to rush it.”

“I know.” I fished for a tissue and blotted my eyes. Probably raccoon eyes by now.

Mabel's hand left mine and she sat back. “But tell you what. Talk to Boyer, get his legal advice, and maybe he can recommend a financial adviser. And write down your vision for this House of Hope idea, wild as it may sound. Plus as many facts as you can—cost of the building, purchase requirements, repairs needed, whatever you can pull together. Put it down on paper. Meanwhile, I'll do some fact-finding on current city and federal resources for rent subsidies—something I've been wanting to do anyway. We'll put it on the agenda for Saturday . . . but we can always take it off, Gabby, if you decide not to pursue it right now, or just need more time.”

“Thanks, Mabel. I really appreciate this.”

“And one more thing.”

A grin tickled my mouth. With Mabel, there was always “one more thing.”

“Pray about it. The psalmist said, ‘Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.' That would definitely apply to
this
house. Do you have a prayer partner?”

“Uh . . . not exactly.”

“Find one. Estelle, Edesa, Jodi Baxter . . . someone. Pray about it together. I'll be praying about it too.”

“I'd like that.” I stood up to go. “Thanks again, Mabel.”

“Oh—and one more thing.”

Now I laughed aloud.

“Okay, okay, never mind.” She waved me off and turned to her computer, pretending to work.

“Mabel! What?”

She whirled her desk chair to face me. “Your Paul seems to get along well with the kids here. The last few weeks before school starts are likely to be nuts around here, since city summer camps are over and we don't really have any activities for the kids going on. Do you think he'd want to volunteer a few days a week? During the time you're here? Just play with the kids, be a big brother. We could give him a volunteer T-shirt.”

My feet wanted to dance. “
Yes!
I mean, I'll have to ask him. No, better yet,
you
ask him. Make it official. Give me ten minutes to disappear, though. Don't want him to think it was my idea.” I darted out the door—and two seconds later poked my head back in. “Oh, one more thing,” I snickered. “He already has a T-shirt. You gave one to both boys the first time they visited.”

Still grinning, I slipped through the multipurpose room and down the stairs without Paul noticing me. I'd been worried about finding something for the boys to do until school started, even with my shortened hours. But look at God! He'd answered my prayer before I'd even prayed about it.

“Yeah,” I overhead Paul telling P.J. in the backseat as we headed for Foster Avenue Beach later that afternoon. “Ms. Turner asked if I'd be a volunteer at the shelter, helping out with the little kids. She gave me another T-shirt since I've worn that other one a lot. I'm supposed to wear it so the kids know I'm the boss.”

“Ha!” P.J. snorted. “Did you tell her you used the first one to clean your bicycle after you greased the wheels?”

I stifled a laugh and stayed out of it. Younger brothers always lived in their older siblings' shadows. But Mabel's volunteer job offer had definitely raised Paul's status. His big brother couldn't tease him for “playing with the little kids” if it was a
job
.

Foster Avenue Beach was within sight of Richmond Towers, but the boys had already been there a few times earlier in the summer, and this is where they'd swim when they were with their dad, so familiarity and consistency had points in their favor. I spread my beach towel so my back was to the row of luxury high-rises in the distance. P.J. and Paul were both good swimmers and the beach had several lifeguards on duty, so I let my mind and body relax, watching the boys dash for the shoreline.

It didn't get much better than this . . . except for the hole in my heart. But I stuffed Philip's rejection underneath the pleasure of the moment, smothering the nagging pain with the warmth of the sun on my skin, the breeze running gentle fingers through my tangled curls, and the sheer joy of watching P.J. and Paul cavort in the water.

And the long envelope from Putnam, Fields, and Pederson that was in the mailbox when Paul and I got home from the shelter the next day definitely buoyed my spirits. A check for two hundred thousand dollars, my share of my mother's term life insurance policy.

I turned right around and drove to the little branch bank near Manna House where I'd opened a new account and put it all in my checking account. For now. And then I walked a few yards to the Emerald City Coffee Shop underneath the Sheridan El Station, ordered the Kona Mocha—maxi-size—and two of their to-die-for buttery pumpkin cookies, settled back on one of their cushiony couches near the front window . . . and started to cry with sheer thankfulness.

“Mom!” Paul accosted me just as I was heading out the door of the shelter at ten thirty on Wednesday to pick up P.J. from his third day of cross-country practice. After taking him home, I needed to go straight to Legal Aid for my eleven o'clock appointment with Lee Boyer. “Mom! Why don't we take Sammy and Keisha swimming with us at Foster Beach this afternoon? They never get to go swimming!”

Keisha and Sammy? No way would that be relaxing! I doubted if either of them knew how to swim, and I'd have to keep an eagle eye on them. I opened my mouth to say no, and then hesitated. Here I was taking time off for a personal appointment from my already shortened day, and even though Mabel was generous with flexible hours for doctor's appointments and the like, I still felt I should make up the time somehow. Taking Keisha and Sammy swimming with my boys this afternoon would certainly fall under my job description of program director for the shelter.

“Good idea, buddy. But it has to be after my appointment at Legal Aid, and they need to ask their moms. You work it out, okay? I'll be back to pick you up after lunch—and if they don't have swimsuits, tell them to bring an extra pair of shorts and a T-shirt!”

I smiled as Paul ran off in his orange-and-black T-shirt that said “Manna House Volunteer” across the front, with “I'm part of God's miracle” in small letters beneath. The week was settling into a workable routine. P.J. seemed just as glad to chill out at the apartment after his sweaty workout with the Lane Tech cross-country team, and by two o'clock when I got off work, we were all ready to do something together. The beach. Grocery shopping. Maybe the bike trail along the lake one day—though I had to get a bicycle first. And Mr. Bentley was picking us up to go to the zoo on Thursday.

After all the pain and uncertainty of the first part of the summer, these few weeks felt like being rocked in God's lap.
Thank You, Jesus. Thank You .
. .

I was still basking in the blessings of God when I walked into Lee Boyer's office at eleven. “Hey, Gabby!” he said, jumping up from his desk and giving me a quick hug and big smile. A professional hug, I told myself. “Glad you didn't cancel another appointment. I've got good news! We've got a court date to hear your petitions on”—he glanced at some papers—“September eighth. That's three weeks from Friday. I figured you'd want time to get P.J. and Paul settled in school.” He looked up and grinned again. “I'm eager to hear how it's going since your boys got back.”

Lee Boyer. Dressed in his usual jeans, Birkenstock sandals, open-necked short-sleeved dress shirt, brown hair with gold flecks brushed neatly to one side, and friendly light brown eyes behind retro wire-rims. He was such a down-home guy. I'd liked him from the first time I'd made an appointment at Legal Aid, and he'd certainly gone out of his way to help me find a place to live so I could get custody of my sons. He seemed to like me too . . . which got a little confusing at times.

Like now. I hadn't come for a personal chat. “I . . . the boys are fine . . . but I really need some legal advice about money.”