Who Is My Shelter? (36 page)

Oh God!
I slumped at my desk in the windowless basement office.
What does this mean? Philip's saying he's truly sorry for the way he treated me. But even he said he doesn't know if I can forgive him—or what it would mean even if I did! Me too, Jesus. Forgiveness is a big deal. I don't want to say it if I don't mean it. And forgiveness is one thing—but trust? Can I ever trust him again after what he's done? Oh God, I don't know what to do
.

Tears threatened to spill over, but I pressed my fingers to my eyes, trying to push the tears in again.
Oh God, I'm so tired of crying over Philip! So tired of feeling confused. What should I do? Forgive him but move on? Divorce as amicably as possible? Or forgive him and try to make a go of our marriage again?

I finally shook myself out of my funk and tried to focus on the work at hand. Mabel Turner was still out with the flu, but I did call her at home to tell her I was going to have another empty apartment at the House of Hope. And if she was feeling better by Wednesday, we'd like her to come to our weekly household meeting and go over the rules and expectations for everybody so we'd all be on the same page. Though “everybody” meant mostly Shawanda.

Mabel had a coughing fit, an ugly, raspy cough, and finally came back on the phone. “Uhnn . . . talk to you tomorrow, Gabby. Brain's not working right now.” She sounded terrible. I felt a little like Angela. Wasn't sure I wanted Mabel back until she was definitely over whatever nasty thing she had going on, even if it meant not having her at the House of Hope household meeting. We'd just have to wing it without her.

Carolyn poked her head into my office to say three new volunteers from the city colleges had shown up yesterday to help with the expanded afterschool program, along with five new students from the neighborhood whose parents had put them on our waiting list. “It was fantastic!” The former shelter resident had a spark in her eye I'd never seen before. “Always wanted to be a teacher but didn't think I had the personality for it—which is why I got my degree in library science.” The middle-aged white woman shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe just as well. Wouldn't have wanted to have my mental breakdown in a classroom full of students. But now—I feel as if God is giving me a second chance at life.”

I got up from my desk and gave the rather pudgy woman a big hug. “Carolyn, it's women like you who make this one of the best jobs in the world! But I wanted to ask . . . is it still okay if Paul does his homework with you all in the schoolroom? He does need help with his math—not my best subject.”

“Okay? Better than okay! Yesterday he was helping some of the younger ones with their reading and
their
math. It was like having another volunteer.” Carolyn flipped her stringy brown-and-gray ponytail over her shoulder and pulled open the door. “Well, gotta go. The board chairman's wife—you know, Mrs. Douglass, the principal up at Bethune Elementary—sent over two big boxes of used science curriculum I need to sort through. Looks like some good stuff.”

Ah yes. Avis Douglass. Between her and Jodi Baxter, who “just happened” to be a third-grade teacher at that school, they'd supplied a lot of the materials Carolyn was using to organize the Manna House afterschool program.

As Carolyn left, I heard a good deal of clattering going on in the kitchen. Poking my head out the door, I saw Estelle banging utensils and pots around in the kitchen like a one-woman band on a street corner. Not a good sign. Usually meant she was upset about something. A couple of women I didn't recognize—who'd probably come off the street yesterday or over the weekend, both of whom had bad teeth and ill-cut ratty hair—eyed Estelle warily as they dumped heaps of sugar and creamer into their coffee at the counter. Muttering to themselves, they took their cups to the far corner of the dining room where they slouched and guffawed over some private joke.

Picking up Philip's letter, I cautiously approached the pass-through counter between the kitchen and dining room. “Estelle? You okay?”

Bang!
went another pot onto the industrial-size stove, into which she dumped the contents of several zip-lock gallon bags. Looked like half-frozen vegetable soup to me.

“Estelle Williams, you need to
slow down
. Time for coffee.” I poured the last two cups from the Mr. Coffee pot, doctored mine with cream and hers with sugar, and carried them to the closest table in the dining room. “Estelle!” I ordered again. “Come sit!” To my surprise, she actually came out of the kitchen and lowered herself with a
whomph
into a folding chair. I reached out and touched her hand. “What's going on?” I kept my voice low so as not to be overheard by the duo in the far corner.

She wrapped her hands around the steaming coffee cup and heaved a big sigh. “Leroy, of course. Visited him at the nursing home Sunday afternoon—went by myself 'cause Harry and Denny had some ‘man thing' they were doin'—and the medical staff is plannin' on releasing him the end of next week.”

“But that's good, isn't it? Means he's getting better.”

“And then? Where's he goin' to go, Gabby? He still needs lookin' after. Even the docs there said he shouldn't live alone.” Estelle wagged her head slowly, and I could almost see her sorting through the options tumbling around in her head under the hairnet cap. “They sayin' Leroy needs some kind of residential care. Gave me a list of places to look into. But I've made up my mind, Gabby. I need to find an apartment where I can take care of my son. Maybe a house, once the insurance from the fire comes through. I left him on his own once—and look what happened. Ain't gonna do that again, no ma'am. Gonna do what a mama should do.” She drew herself up, lips pressed together, looking at me as if daring me to disagree. “So. It's done.”

“What? What's done, Estelle?” I suddenly had a horrible thought, and my eyes darted to her left hand. Her ring finger was bare. “Oh no, Estelle! You didn't!”

“I did.” For just a nanosecond, Estelle's lip trembled and she blinked back a puddle of moisture in her eyes. But her tone stayed resolute. “Harry don't understand right now, but he'll thank me. No way I can saddle him and that precious grandson of his with what it'd take to live with Leroy.”

chapter 34

I was speechless. This couldn't be right. Harry and Estelle were perfect for each other! Hadn't God brought them together in the first place? Harry often said God had given him a second chance at love—not to mention another chance to be the kind of father he should've been to his son. And DaShawn was more excited than anybody that his grandpa was getting married to “Miss Estelle.” And why shouldn't he be? The little boy was enjoying being a real kid with a real family for the first time in his life, instead of trying to hold life together for his drug-addled mama with his daddy in jail.

“You can close your mouth, Gabby.” Estelle dabbed at her eyes with a stray napkin. “I know everything you're thinkin', so you don't need to say it. It's just . . . sometimes a mother's gotta do what a mother's gotta do.” She started to rise—and then her glance went to the envelope I was holding. “What's that? You wanted to tell me somethin'?”

I shook my head and stood up. “That's okay. It can wait. You've got enough on your plate.”

“Now
you
siddown. What's goin' on?”

I gave her a half-hearted smile, relieved to see the “koffee-klatch duo” in the corner leaving for the main floor upstairs.
Where to start? Breathe, Gabby
. “Well, you know that ‘man thing' Denny and Harry were doing Sunday afternoon? I think they had a man-to-man talk with Philip—at least that's what Jodi said Denny planned to do, taking advantage of the fact that he's staying at their house this week. That's all I know, except yesterday Philip called and said he wanted to talk to me real bad, so we met over lunch—and he gave me this.” I handed her the envelope.

Estelle pulled out the letter. I watched her face as she read. Big frown between her eyes . . . replaced by a raised eyebrow . . . followed by several grunts and “Lord, Lord.” Finally she let out a low whistle and looked up. “Gabby girl, let me get this straight. Philip says he wants to talk with you, you get together for lunch, then he hands you a letter and wants you to read it while he's sittin' there, instead of tellin' you this himself ? Did you two
talk
about this?” She waggled the paper in the air.

I squirmed. “Well, he said he had more he wanted to say after I read the letter, but I was so taken aback after reading it, I said I couldn't respond right then. And I just left.”

Estelle's eyebrow went up again. “Mm-hm. You got up and walked on out of there after he'd just spilled his guts all over that paper?”

I squirmed. “Well, yeah.” Then added hastily, “I know I need to respond, Estelle, but I don't even know how I
feel
about what he's saying. I need some time.” I looked at her anxiously. “What do you think it means? How should I respond?”

Estelle pursed her lips and was quiet for several moments. “Don't know what it means down the road. That's somethin' you gotta figure out between you an' God an' your husband. But since you're askin'—whatever those two ‘unlikely brothers' said to him”—she chuckled at the thought—“I think God's got your man by the ear and he might actually be listenin'. An' somethin' else.” She nailed me with one of her Looks. “If Philip handed God this letter with ‘I'm sorry' all over it, what do you think God would say?”

My gaze fell and I studied my lap for a full minute. Oh yeah, I knew the “right” answer. But it wasn't that easy and I wasn't going to say it if I didn't mean it. I finally raised my head and met her eye to eye. “Okay, sure, God would probably say, ‘I forgive you.' But it's not that easy—and trust is something else, Estelle. I'm
not God
.”

Estelle's little self-righteous “test” made me mad. I knew she was right—in my head. But my feelings were so tied in knots, I wasn't sure I knew how to untangle them. Mostly I didn't know what forgiving Philip might mean—or even what
he'd
think I meant if I said, “I forgive you.” So I pushed the letter to the back of my mind and busied myself at work, making sure I talked to the new names on the bed list about the classes available to them—typing, cooking, sewing, English as a second language—and trying to assess how many could make use of GED preparation and money management, the next “life skills” classes I wanted to add to our roster of activities.

I still hadn't had the courage to pick up the phone and call Philip by the time I headed home from work that evening with Paul and Dandy in the car.
Please, God, I need some help here. I know Jesus told Peter we should forgive someone who wrongs us seventy times seven, or some horrendous number. But it's not that simple! I mean, how can I trust Philip after what he's done? If I forgive him, maybe he'll assume I want to get back together, and—
“Mom! Where're you going? You just passed our street!”

“Oh! Sorry, kiddo. Wasn't thinking.” I drove around the block, which meant parking on the opposite side of the street. Rolling his eyes at his absentminded mother, Paul took Dandy for a “dog duty” walk while it was still light, giving me a chance to say hi to P.J. and check the answering machine as I came into the apartment.

Nothing from Philip.
Hm
. Over twenty-four hours since he'd given me the letter and he still hadn't called. Well, that was good. No way did I want him bugging me. I still needed some time to think and pray about this.

Someone knocked at the front door as I was preparing supper, and P.J. yelled, “Mom! It's Josh! He wants to talk to you!”

“Tell him to come on back!” I needed to tell him about Maddox Campbell moving out of 3B. Another apartment to paint and renovate.

Moments later Josh Baxter sauntered into the kitchen, Gracie in his arms. The little girl held out her arms to me, nearly falling out of her daddy's grip. I caught her just in time and swung her around as she squealed. “Hey, wanna trade?” I teased Josh. “My two boys for your sweetie-pie here. We can trade back when she turns thirteen.”

Gracie grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and pulled, squealing again. “Ouch! On second thought, we can trade back now.”

Laughing, Josh untangled the toddler's fingers from my curly mop and sat down with her at the kitchen table. “Got any raisins? That'll keep her busy. We can't stay long anyway, just wanted to report on my talk with Will Nissan about his missing great-aunt.”

I'd almost forgotten I'd asked Josh to do some sleuthing for me. Plopping some raisins in a dish for Gracie, I sat down across from them. “So what'd you find out?”

“Will says he doesn't know all that much about his grandmother's sister. Her real name was Lucinda, but they called her Cindy. He couldn't remember her exact birth date, just November something. Said he has it written down at home somewhere, used it when they were doing some Internet searches. But I did find out his grandmother's name—Margaret Simple.”