Who Is My Shelter? (2 page)

Philip glanced down the hallway. It was deserted except for a young man, maybe college age, leaning against the wall outside one of the patient rooms holding two tall Starbucks cups with molded plastic lids, sipping from one of them. Drawn by the fragrant aroma, he approached the young man who was wearing faded jeans, gym shoes, and a thin jacket over a white T-shirt. He had longish, sandy hair escaping from beneath a baseball cap and a backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Uh, say, sorry to bother you, but where'd you get the Starbucks? Do they have a café here in the hospital?” Philip winced, hearing his words mushing together.

The kid looked up, his eyebrows shooting skyward as he took in Philip's arm cast and battered face. “Whoa, dude! What's the other guy look like?”

Great. A smart aleck
. “Never mind.” Philip started to walk away.

“Hey, wait! Didn't mean to be rude—you just took me by surprise. Uh, yeah, sure, there's a nice place on the first floor. They sell Starbucks. You want somethin'?”

Philip hesitated. “Well, yeah. Could use a cup of good coffee. But . . .” He held out both hands as far as his sling would allow to indicate his stocking feet and hospital gown. “Not exactly dressed for public viewing.”

The kid chuckled. “No problem. I'll get it for you. What d'ya want? Oh, hey. Why don't you just take this?” He thrust out the second cup of coffee he was holding. “Brought it up for my nana”—he tipped his head to indicate the patient room behind him—“but she zonked out. Snoring happily. It'll be cold by the time she wakes up. Go ahead, take it.” He held it out farther. “Just black, nothin' in it—but I got some creamers and sugar packets in my pocket somewhere.”

“Black's fine. You sure? I'll pay you for it. Wallet's in my room.”

A shrug. “Whatever. I'll carry it back for you. Where's your room? Looks like you could use another hand anyway.”

Philip had meant he'd go back and get his wallet, but the kid was already starting to walk alongside as he headed back the way he'd come. It meant cutting his walk short, but . . . so what? The coffee wouldn't stay hot indefinitely.

Back in his room, Philip opened the narrow closet storing the jogging clothes he'd been wearing when he'd been attacked and rummaged in the duffel bag Gabrielle had brought him that held a clean set of clothes, his keys, and wallet. Fishing a few bucks out with his good hand, he turned around to see that his benefactor had moved the rolling table next to the recliner, set the second paper cup on it, and settled into the other visitor chair.

Looked like he had company, whether he wanted it or not.

Philip handed the dollar bills to his visitor, then lowered himself gingerly into the recliner. Reaching for the coffee, he sipped carefully.
Mmm. Still hot. Perfect
. “Thanks. Appreciate the coffee.” He studied the young man slouched in the other chair, nursing his own cup. “I'm Philip Fairbanks. You are . . . ?”

“Oh yeah.” The kid laughed. “Forgot my manners. Nana would box my ears. I'm Will Nissan—yeah, like the car. What happened to you? Car accident?”

The kid sure was nosy! But for some reason, Philip found Will's straightforward friendliness refreshing. Somebody who wasn't ticked at him like his father was for messing up his life. Somebody who wasn't being nice to him—like his wife—in spite of how he'd treated her, making him feel like a snake in the grass. Somebody who wasn't out to get him, like those thugs, trying to squeeze him for the money he owed their boss.

Philip shrugged. “Actually, I got mugged.”

Will Nissan's eyes widened with ill-concealed delight. “You gotta be kidding!”

“Nope. Truth.” But that's all he was going to say. Philip didn't want to think about those thugs who'd worked him over. Or the fact that they were still out there and knew where he lived. “What about your grandmother . . . she going to be all right?”

Will shrugged. “Probably. Nothing seems to keep her down long, though she gets this bronchitis stuff easily and her doc's worried about pneumonia. But, nah, Nana ain't gonna die until she finishes her mission in life.”

“Her . . . what?”

“Her mission in life!” Will chuckled and leaned forward. “See, Nana's big sister ran away from home when she was sixteen—oh, it's gotta be sixty-plus years ago now. Nana's seventy-seven at last count and Cindy was a couple of years older. Anyway, last they heard from her, big sister was working in Chicago, but nobody's seen her since. My Nana got married, raised a family in Detroit—I was born and raised there too—but she never gave up looking for her sister. When Gramps died a few years back, she moved here so she could keep looking for her.”

Philip shook his head. “It's been over sixty years? She could be anywhere! People move all the time. Or she might be dead. Sixty years is a long time.”

“Try telling that to Nana! ‘I know she's alive!' she says. ‘Can feel it in my bones.' ” Will shrugged and leaned back in the chair. “My folks think Nana's crazy, but I don't mind. I'm staying with her now while I'm going to UIC, and I've been helping her do all these Internet searches. Kind of like detective work.”

“Any luck?”

“Nah, not really. We did find somebody with a similar name who worked as a hotel maid way back when, but that was decades ago. Not much since then—oh.” Will jumped up as the door opened and a thirty-something Asian man strolled in wearing a tan corduroy sport coat and black slacks, an ID tag and a stethoscope sticking out of one coat pocket identifying him as medical personnel.

Philip nodded. “Dr. Yin.”

“Good morning.” The doctor glanced at Will, a pleasant smile creasing his smooth face. “I see you have company. Your son taking you home?”

“Nah. We just met actually.” Will grabbed his backpack. “Gotta go see if Nana's awake.” He held out his hand to Philip. “Good luck, Mr. Fairbanks. Better stay away from the prize ring, though. Don't think boxing's your thing.” The young man's hazel eyes crinkled merrily as they shook hands.

Philip smiled at the joke, sorry to see him go. “What's the name of your missing relative? Never know who I might run into.”

Will grinned. “Yeah, you never know. Lucinda. ‘Great-Aunt Cindy,' we always called her. The myth, the legend! We kids always imagined she became some famous movie star. If so, she's probably sipping daiquiris in a swanky nursing home in Hollywood.” The young man sidled toward the door. “But, hey, if you do need a ride home, just let me know. I've got Nana's car, I'd be happy to drop you off.”

With a cheerful wave Will Nissan was gone.

Dr. Yin pulled out his stethoscope. “So, Mr. Fairbanks. They tell me you want to go home.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Might let you do that. But I wouldn't go back to work yet if I were you. A few more days rest—even a week—would be smart. You've still got some healing to do. Tell them ‘Doctor's orders.' ” He stuck the earpieces in his ears and placed the stethoscope on Philip's back. “Deep breath now . . .”

chapter 1

The Good Shepherd painted on the wall of the Manna House Women's Shelter seemed to hover over the crowd in the multipurpose room, as if the babble of street talk, Jamaican
patois
, and bits of Spanish swirling around me was an extension of the motley herd of sheep in the mural itself.

Standing in front of the mural holding a plastic cup of red, watery punch, I savored the unusual painting once more. The pictures of the biblical Good Shepherd I'd seen as a kid always had a flock of clean, white, woolly sheep looking up at the shepherd adoringly. But the sheep on the wall were all different shades of white, black, brown, and tan, some with scraggly, dirty wool, some scrawny and hungry looking, others with bloody or bandaged wounds. But the thing about the mural that never failed to grab me was the Shepherd's face as He coaxed the bedraggled sheep into the pen where they would be safe and warm.

A look of sheer love.

I dabbed at my eyes with a wadded-up tissue. How I wished my mother—Martha Shepherd—could see this beautiful mural and be here for the dedication of the room that had been named after her: Shepherd's Fold.

“Gabby Fairbanks! You blubbering again, girl? Here.” Precious McGill, on-again, off-again resident of Manna House, took the plastic cup out of my hand and replaced it with a mug of steaming coffee. “You need somethin' stronger than Hawaiian Punch to prop you up today. I know, I know, we all feelin' sad that Gramma Shep be gone. But it's all good. It's all good.”

I took a swallow of the hot liquid. “Mmm. Good coffee. And just enough cream. Thanks.”

The thirty-year-old single mom—soon to become a grandmother herself—craned her neck, checking out the crowd. “So where's this famous artist we s'posed to meet today? Ain't he gonna show up for the dedication? I thought that's what today was all about.”

I took the arm of my friend and turned away from the mural. “I'm sure he'll be here. And he's not famous
yet
—he's still an art student at Columbia College. I don't see his parents or the Baxters yet, so I imagine they're all still on the way.” Now it was my turn to case the room. “But I don't see Lucy either.
She
better show up. This whole dedication thing was her idea.”

Precious snorted. “Yeah, but you know Lucy. Never can tell when she gonna show up—or not. Uh-oh, gotta go. Estelle's givin' me the Evil Eye 'cause I abandoned my post. Ya gonna take your boys to the Lock-In tonight up at SouledOut? Sabrina wants to go—which I think is crazy, her bein' six months pregnant an' all.” Without waiting for an answer, Precious scooted through the crowd and a moment later I saw her head full of wiry twists pop up behind the snack table where Estelle Williams, the shelter's cook, was busy setting out hot wings and fresh veggies.

I groaned to myself. Why did the church schedule a youth group Lock-In the same day as the dedication here at Manna House? Josh Baxter was involved in both—a volunteer here at the shelter as well as one of the youth leaders at SouledOut Community Church. So what if he was only twenty-something. He should know better.

Guess I'm showing my age
. All-nighters of
any
variety were definitely a thing of my past.

But the Lock-In had put a crunch on other things as well. I still needed to take my boys to see their dad in the hospital this afternoon— but there wouldn't be a lot of time after the Shepherd's Fold dedication if P.J. and Paul had to be at the church by six o'clock. And, darn it, I'd been hoping to have a potluck or something this weekend to celebrate our first week at the House of Hope, our experiment in “second-stage housing” for homeless single moms—moms like Precious McGill and her daughter, Sabrina, who'd moved in a week ago across the hall from me.

But that was a wash now. Not with the Lock-In tonight, which took out my boys
and
Sabrina. Not to mention Josh and his wife, Edesa, too. The young couple had moved into the House of Hope last week after Josh had agreed to be the property manager for the six-flat. Josh and Edesa definitely needed to be at any “festivity” we had to celebrate this new beginning.

A commotion at the double doors leading into the large multipurpose room shook me out of my thoughts.
Oh, Gabby, quit complaining
, I told myself, seeing Josh's parents and their friends, the Hickmans, arriving with a young man I presumed was our guest of honor. As usual when I got an idea—like this potluck, which I was already envisioning as a once-a-month get together for the residents and staff of the new House of Hope—I wanted it to happen
now
. But who said the potluck had to happen on the first weekend of the month? Having another week to plan wouldn't hurt either.

Huh
. God seemed to think patience was a virtue I still needed to practice. On a daily basis, no less.

Making my way to the knot of people greeting each other by the double doors, I hesitated, suddenly feeling shy. What in the world was I going to say to the young man who'd painted the awesome Good Shepherd mural? I didn't have words.

I recognized his mother, Florida Hickman, one of the Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters, and I'd seen her husband, Carl, a couple of times. The story was, their son Chris had been a teenage “tagger,” illegally decorating garage doors and El underpasses with his cans of spray paint. Until somebody recognized that the kid had real talent—

“Gabby Fairbanks!” hissed a familiar voice in my ear. “Where've you been? I want you to meet Chris!” Jodi Baxter—Josh's mother and one of my best friends—grabbed my arm and dragged me right into the middle of the group of people clustered around the young artist. “Chris, this is Mrs. Fairbanks, the program director here at Manna House. She's—”

“I know. Gramma Shep was her mama.” The young black man's soft voice surprised me, and I was completely dazzled by his beautiful grin. He shook my hand, a nice, firm grip. “My pleasure, Miz Fairbanks. Saw you across the room and knew who you were.” He pointed to my hair and grinned even wider. “The Orphan Annie hair, like the movie, know what I'm sayin'?”