Who Do I Talk To?

Who Do I Talk To? (Bk. #2, YY House of Hope) Neta Jackson

Prologue

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Who Do I Talk To? Neta Jackson SAMPLE CHAPTERS Prologue

Springs protested in the darkness as a lumpy body turned over on the bottom bunk. From another bunk—one of four lining the walls of the small bedroom—a pair of nearsighted eyes peered anxiously into the shadows, making out the dim outline of her roommate trying to get comfortable on the narrow mattress. “Lucy?” The voice was tremulous, a cracked whisper. “Are you awake?” “Mmph.” The springs groaned again. For several moments, all was quiet. Then— “Lucy?” A long sigh. “Whatchu want, Miz Martha? It’s late.” “Is Gabrielle asleep?” The anxious whisper poked the darkness. “Fuzz Top? Think so. Ain’t heard nothin’ from her bunk. But if you don’ stop talkin’, you gonna wake her up.” “But she was crying. I could tell. A mother knows.” “Well.” “Why was she crying?” A snort from the other bunk. “She got her reasons.”

Who Do I Talk To? (Bk. #2, YY House of Hope) Neta Jackson

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“But . . .” The unsteady whisper trailed off. The elderly woman reached a hand out from under the blankets provided by the homeless shelter until she touched thick doggy hair, newly washed and silky. A rough tongue licked her fingers. Now the voice choked up. “I was just so happy you and Gabrielle found Dandy, I didn’t ask why she’s sleeping at the shelter tonight with me. Shouldn’t she be home with her boys?” “Well.” The woman named Martha slipped her hand back under the covers, pulled them up under her chin, and closed her eyes. Her slight body made only a small ripple under the blankets. It was her first overnight at Manna House. She felt a little strange—but her daughter had come to stay with her a night or two, that’s what she said. Martha was glad, even though she didn’t know why Gabrielle was sad. And her new friend Lucy was “sleeping over” too, just like a slumber party. Martha giggled. A homeless shelter! Noble would roll over in his grave if he knew where she’d ended up. But she wasn’t lonely here, not like she’d been in the big old house in Minot. And Dandy was asleep on the little rug by her bed, just like always. He’d been lost all day . . . but she couldn’t remember exactly why. Had he run away? No, Dandy never ran away. Well, it didn’t matter. He was safe now, snoring gently beside the bunk bed. But . . . Her eyes flew open, staring at the bottom of the upper bunk overhead. Somebody had said, “What’s that dog doing here? Manna House don’t allow no dogs!” Oh dear. Would the shelter let her keep Dandy? Oh, she couldn’t stay another day if Dandy wasn’t welcome.

Who Do I Talk To? (Bk. #2, YY House of Hope) Neta Jackson

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She rose up on one elbow. “Lucy! You still awake? Do you think—?” “Miz Martha! If you don’ shut up and go to sleep, I’m gonna come over there and bop you one.” Martha’s roommate flopped over, turned her back, and the springs groaned once more. “Wonkers!” The gravelly voice settled into a mutter. “I get more sleep out on th’ street than I do in a room full of talky wimmin.”

Who Do I Talk To? (Bk. #2, YY House of Hope) Neta Jackson

Prologue

p. 4

Chapter 1

A lawn mower rumbled through my dream, shredding it beyond remembering. Semiconsciousness rose to the level of my eyelids, and they fluttered in the dim light. Unnh. Not a lawn mower. Snoring. Philip was snoring and popping like a car with no muffler. I reached out to roll him over onto his side— My hand hit a wall. No Philip in the bed. Something was wrong. What was it? A heavy grief sat on my chest, like someone had died. Had someone died? I struggled to come to full consciousness and half-opened my eyes. Above me, all I could make out in the dim light was a rough board. I stared, trying to make sense of it. Why was I lying underneath a wooden board? Was I the one who died? Was I inside a wooden coffin? Coffin?! A surge of panic sent me bolt upright. “Ow!” I cracked my head on the board and the snoring stopped. Rubbing the tender spot, I squinted into dimly lit space and made out three bunk beds, one against each wall of a small room. Mine was the fourth. No coffin.

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Blowing out my relief, I swung my feet over the side of the lower bunk, but was startled as a hairy face pushed its cold nose against my bare leg with a soft whine. I reached out and touched the familiar floppy ears. Dandy. My mother’s dog . . . And suddenly all the cracked pieces of my life came into focus. I’d just spent the night at Manna House, a homeless shelter for women, where, until yesterday, I’d been on staff as program director. The small lump in the bunk across from me was my mother. The bigger lump in the bunk next to her, producing the high-decibel racket, was Lucy, a veteran “bag lady” who for some odd reason had befriended my frail mother. Mom and I were “homeless” because yesterday my husband had kicked both of us and the dog out of our penthouse condo along Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, changed the locks, and skipped town . . . taking my two sons, P.J. and Paul, with him. As reality flooded my brain, I fell back onto the bunk, bracing for the tears I knew should follow. But the well was dry. I’d cried every drop the evening before and long into the night. Now raw grief had settled behind my eyes and into every cavity of my spirit.

***

I must have dozed off again, because the next thing I heard was a ringing handbell and several raps on the door. “Wake up, ladies! Six o’clock! Morning devotions at six-fortyfive sharp, breakfast at seven. People with jobs get first dibs on the showers.” The footsteps moved on to another door. “Wake up, ladies! . . .”

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I groaned and sat up, being careful not to hit my noggin again on the bottom of the top bunk. Should have gotten up when I first awoke and jumped in the shower then. No telling when they’d be free now. My mother was stirring on the bunk next to mine, but Lucy’s bunk was empty. “Mom, you okay? Do you need help getting to the bathroom?” I pulled on the same slacks I’d been wearing the night before. “I’m all right.” She gingerly got out of bed, attired in a pair of baggy, clean-butused flannel pajamas the shelter had provided, then carefully spread up the sheets and blankets. “But I don’t have my clothes. Where are my clothes? I have to take Dandy out.” Dandy! A quick glance confirmed that the dog was not in the room. But neither was Lucy. “Don’t worry, Mom. I think Lucy took him out. Wasn’t that nice? You can put on the slacks and top you wore yesterday. Mr. Bentley said he’d bring our things when he got off work last night.” The doorman at Richmond Towers had kindly offered to load his own car with the piles of bags and suitcases my husband had unceremoniously dumped outside our penthouse door, but Mr. Bentley didn’t get off until ten o’clock and still hadn’t arrived when we’d gone to bed. Who knew how long it had taken him to get all that stuff down the elevator from the thirty-second floor! But if there was one person in the world I could count on, it was Mr. Bentley. Our stuff would be downstairs . . . if we ever got there. Clutching the shelter-issued “Personal Pak”—toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, comb—my mother managed to navigate the crowded bathroom with me hovering right behind her. She even smiled as several of the young residents called out,

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“’Mornin’, Gramma Shep! How’d ya sleep?” and “Hey! Nice of Miz Gabby ta stay over with ya.” I wanted to die right there. If they only knew. Good thing I had no time to linger in front of the mirror after brushing my teeth. I looked a fright. My hazel eyes were red-rimmed and my frowzy reddish-brown curls a snarly mess, and would probably stay that way until I got a chance to wash my hair and use some conditioner. Back in the bunk room, I tried not to show my impatience as my mother slowly dressed. Is it too early to try calling the boys? I had to talk to them! It was already seventhirty in Virginia. I fumbled for my cell phone. Not in Service blinked at me. I groaned. Right. I forgot. Philip had canceled my cell. Okay, I’d use my office phone . . . wait, I needed to get a phone card first. Shelter phones had local call service only. “Mom, come on. You ready?” My mother looked at me reproachfully. “Always in a hurry. Hurry, hurry . . .” But she put up her chin and headed out the door. The night manager had told us last night we could use the service elevator—not available to most residents, but they made an exception for my seventy-two-year-old mother. But Mom had taken one look at the small cubicle and said she’d rather take the stairs, so this morning we went down, one step at a time, to the multipurpose room on the main floor where the residents were gathering somewhat reluctantly for morning devotions. I realized that even though I’d been working at the shelter for two months, I had no clue what the morning routine was like before 9 or 10 a.m. when I had usually arrived. “Guess I’m going to find out,” I murmured, pouring two ceramic cups of

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steaming coffee from the big carafes on a side table, added powdered cream, and settled down beside my mother in one of the overstuffed love seats. “Buongiorno, signores! Who will read our psalm this morning?” The same booming voice that had woken us up with a thick Italian accent, packaged in a sturdy body about five-foot-four, black hair pulled back into a knot, waved her Bible and “volunteered” the first person who made eye contact. I’d met the night manager briefly at our Fun Night several weeks ago and again last night, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember her real name. Everybody just referred to her as “Sarge.” I’d been told she was a God-fearing ex-marine sergeant, just the sort of tough love needed on night duty at a homeless shelter. She knew my mother had been put on the bed list, but Lucy’s and my arrival last night with a muddy mutt in tow had thrown her into a conniption. She and Lucy had gone nose-to-nose for a few minutes, but with my mother crying tears of joy over the return of her lost dog to the cheers of half the residents, Sarge had the presence of mind to call the Manna House director to ask what to do with the shelter’s former program director who’d just turned up with a muddy dog, distraught and needing shelter. I could only imagine what Mabel Turner thought. How many times had the director graciously made exceptions for me in the two months I’d been on staff? I’d lost count. But somehow Dandy had gotten a temporary reprieve, and we both got a bed. But . . . oh God? Now what? “‘. . . Better the little that the righteous have than the wealth of many wicked,’” one of the residents was reading. The psalm got my attention. “‘. . . for the power of the

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wicked will be broken, but the Lord upholds the righteous.’ Psalm 37, readin’ verse one through—” “Humph!” growled a gravelly voice coming up behind me. “Ain’t seen it happen yet.” “Ha. That’s ’cause ya gotta be righteous, Lucy,” the reader shot back. Snickers skipped around the circle. “Sit down, Lucy,” Sarge barked. “If you are going to be late, at least do not interrupt. All right, who has a prayer request for today? Any job interviews? Wanda, did you get your state ID yet? . . . Va bene, we will pray about that. Anything else?” Behind me, Lucy leaned over the back of the couch and whispered in my ear. “I put Dandy in your ol’ office downstairs after he did his bizness, thinkin’ it might be best ta keep him outta the way this mornin’. But there ain’t much room for him in that ol’ broom closet. It’s all full of your stuff that Mr. Bentley musta brought last night. Suitcases an’ boxes an’ stuff.” I gave her a grateful nod over my shoulder. “Good idea, Lucy,” I whispered back. “Thanks for taking him out this morning.” It was a good idea. The familiar smell of our belongings would probably keep the dog pacified for a while. “And thanks for giving him a bath last night. Sorry I didn’t say something earlier. I was a bit of a wreck last night.” “Humph. You still a wreck, missy. Didja look in a mirror this mornin’?” I rolled my eyes and didn’t care if she noticed. As if Lucy had a leg to stand on, in her mismatched layers of clothes, most of which could use a good wash. Better yet, tossed out for good. And her matted gray hair looked like she cut it herself . . .

Who Do I Talk To? (Bk. #2, YY House of Hope) Neta Jackson

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A hair stylist. That’s what we need at Manna House! I wonder if anyone knows a beautician who’d be willing to volunteer, come in a couple of times a month— I caught myself. What in the world was I doing, thinking like a program director? You quit yesterday, remember? I reminded myself. And I had bigger problems to deal with. Much bigger.

***

I was pacing back and forth in Mabel Turner’s office when the director arrived that morning. The attractive African-American woman, every hair of her straightened bob in place, opened the door and stopped, hand on the doorknob, her eyebrows arching at me like twin question marks. “Gabby Fairbanks.” “Um, Angela let me wait in your office.” I jerked a thumb across the foyer where the receptionist busied herself behind the glassed-in cubby. “I’m sorry, Mabel. I just couldn’t wait out there in the multipurpose room with people all around. I—” I flopped down on a folding chair and buried my face in my hands. Mabel shut the door, dropped her purse on the desk, and squatted down beside me. “Gabby. What in the world happened?” I thought the well had gone dry, but the concern in her rich brown eyes tapped another reservoir of tears and it took me half a box of tissues to get through the whole sorry mess. Locked out. Put out. Boys gone. No place to go but here.

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“I–I didn’t even g-get to tell Philip I quit my job here like h-he wanted me to, or —or that Mom was going to stay here at Manna House and be out of his hair . . .” I stopped and blew my nose for the fourth time. “B-but he was so mad, Mabel, ’cause I accidentally passed on a message from his business partner, you know, when he and the boys were out on a sailboat with one of his clients last weekend, and it caused him to lose that client. He blamed me, said I didn’t want his business to succeed—but that isn’t true, Mabel! He—” “I know, I know.” The shelter director patted my knee, stood up, and got her desk chair, pulling it around so she could sit next to me. “But he just locked you out? I mean, he can’t do that! Go talk to the building management. Today. If both your names are on the purchase contract, he can’t just change the locks and kick you out. That’s your home too! And he can’t just take the boys either. You have rights, Gabby. You—” I held up my hand to stop her, staring at her face. Both our names? I felt confused. Had I ever signed anything to purchase the penthouse? I tried to think. Philip had come to Chicago four months ago to finalize things with his new business partner and find a place for us to live . . . and then we just moved. “I . . . never signed anything,” I croaked. “But they require both spouses on a joint account to—” “We don’t have joint accounts.” I swallowed. “I never really questioned it. Philip was always generous. I had his credit cards and a household account in my name . . . It never seemed important.” Mabel looked at me for a long minute. “Do you have any money, Gabby?”

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I winced. “Probably a couple hundred in my household account. And I should have a week’s salary coming from Manna House still.” Which we both knew wasn’t much. The job had never been about the money. I jumped out of my chair and began to pace once more. “I don’t want to talk about money, Mabel. Or even the penthouse. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned. It’s the boys! I need to get my sons back!” My voice got fierce. “He . . . he just up and took them back to their grandparents in Virginia! I never even got to say good-bye.” I shook a finger in her face. “I’m their mother! You said it yourself—I’ve got rights!” Mabel grabbed my wrist. “Gabby . . . Gabby, stop a minute and listen to me. Sit.” I pulled my hand from her grasp and glared at her because I didn’t have anyone else to glare at. But I sat. She took a big breath . . . but her voice was gentle. “Gabby, you do have rights. But you need to understand something. No court is going to rule in your favor if you don’t even have a place to live.”