Where Do I Go? (19 page)

Wrapping my cold hands around a Styrofoam cup fifteen minutes later wasn't exactly down-home comfort, but at least the coffee was hot. The pungent smell seemed to draw people out of the woodwork, including Mabel and a woman I hadn't seen before, carrying a clipboard. White, medium height, a few extra pounds. Straight, light-brown hair hung just below her shoulders, bangs brushed to the side. Jeans, clogs, and a blue sweater. Not scary at all.

“Oh, good, you're here, Gabby.” Mabel took the Styrofoam cup I handed to her. “I want you to meet Stephanie Cooper, our case manager. Stephanie, this is Gabby Fairbanks, who is applying for our new position of program director.”

I shook Stephanie's hand. A nice grip. “You're also on the Manna House board, I've been told.”

Stephanie laughed. “Yes, Estelle's housemate shanghaied me. Stu and I both work at DCFS. I'm glad to meet you, Gabby. We need some new blood around here. You're from Virginia, I hear?”

“Not if you asked my mother-in-law. I grew up in North Dakota, which cancels out the last fifteen years, I think.”

Stephanie laughed again. “Now, that's an interesting vita. Wild West meets Old South.”

I grinned. “Oil and water.” I liked this woman.

“Sorry I can't talk more. I've got an appointment in a few minutes with a new guest who came in yesterday.” She consulted her clipboard. “Naomi Jackson.”

I nodded. “We've met.”

“Really?” Stephanie looked at Mabel and then at me. “Say, would you like to sit in? It'd be good orientation. I'll have to ask her, of course.”

Which is how I found myself in the TV room a few minutes later with Stephanie and the young woman who was still wearing her baseball cap, but not tapping. “Sure, fine. Whatever,” she said, when Stephanie asked if she minded me sitting in. I parked myself in a corner and tried to be invisible as Stephanie got down to business. Fast.

“Naomi, we're here to help you any way we can. But to do that we need some help from you. Do you have a picture ID?”

A shake of the head. Stephanie wrote something down.

“When was your last TB test?”

“Can't remember . . . last year maybe?”

“Hm. All right. The nurse comes in tomorrow. You need to see her and get the test. No ifs, ands, or buts. Understood? ”

Naomi nodded sullenly.

Stephanie handed her a couple of sheets stapled together. “These are the house rules. Read over them, and if there's any-thing you don't understand or have a question about, just ask. But let's go over some of the highlights, okay?”

Whew.
As I listened, I realized I needed to know the rules too.
If you are assigned a bed, you must be here by 8 p.m
.
. . . all
guests must have a physical and a mental health assessment within
one week of being assigned a bed . . . must meet weekly with your case
manager . . . must be actively working on goals as determined by your
case manager . . . must take a shower daily . . . laundry is available on a
sign-up basis . . . no profanity, no violence, no drugs, no smoking inside
the building . . . personal belongings may be searched at any time . . .
staff may conduct random drug tests . . .

Stephanie set aside her copy of the rules. “What are your goals, Naomi? I don't mean way off in the future. I'm talking about this week. This month.”

Naomi scrunched up her face. “Get a job so I can have my own money. And stay here till I can get my own place.”

Stephanie leaned forward. “Naomi, we don't have time to play games here. Staff says you showed up here yesterday high on something. Amphetamines? The first question is: are you at a place where you want to stop?”

“Guess so.”

I thought that answer would shoot the whole interview. Who was this Naomi person fooling? Even I could tell she wasn't ready to give up whatever her addiction was. But to my surprise, Stephanie's voice softened. “Naomi, I'm not here to judge you. But I'm not here to enable you either. If you can set some realistic goals for the next few weeks, and you make progress toward those goals, I'm willing to be here for you 24/7. You can call me any time you want—here's my cell number.” She handed the young woman a card. “But first you need a plan. What are you going to do later today when you get a craving for those pills?”

The bill of the cap hid her eyes. “Try not to use.”

“Wrong answer.”

I half expected Naomi to walk out. But she seemed to reach deep somewhere, as if facing her own reality. A few seconds passed. She sighed. “Get into detox. Right away.”

“That's right. I can help you with that. We'll try outpatient first, and you can stay here. If you can't handle that, then it'll have to be inpatient. You good with that?”

Naomi nodded.

“If you stay clean for two weeks, then we can work on getting you a job. But you'll need a picture ID. So . . . what's the plan?”

Naomi's mouth tipped into an almost-smile. “Get into detox. Get an ID.”

“Good plan.” Stephanie smiled. “I'm starting to hold you accountable as of right now. You and me, okay?”

The interview was over in thirty minutes. After Naomi left the room, Stephanie sat back and turned to me. “We'll see what happens in the next twenty-four hours. If she's still here by cur-few tonight, we'll have a good chance of taking a few steps forward. But”—she shrugged—“it's up to her.”

The days passed so fast, I almost felt dizzy by the end of the week. I dressed for the chilly weather on Wednesday, but by late afternoon the temp was back in the sixties and stayed there the next several days. Mr. Bentley teased me almost every morning on my way out. “Got your bathing suit? Umbrella? Snow boots? Might need 'em all before evening.” At the shelter, I had the sneaking suspicion that Mabel was making sure I got a good feel for the place, because I ended up doing a bit of everything, from cleaning toilets to supervising the rec room after school—and somewhere in there, getting a chance to talk to some of the women in residence.

Like Carolyn. Gray cells popping beneath that brownish-gray ponytail. “Know what this place needs?” She had just whipped me at chess in thirty minutes, and I used to think I was pretty good. “Books. I like to read, but all they got here are a bunch of old magazines. And the Bible, of course. Heck, I cut my teeth on Dostoevsky.”

Dostoevsky!
She must have seen the shock on my face, because she grinned. “My ma fell for a door-to-door salesman selling Great Books. One gullible woman. Kicked him out but kept the books, which was fine by me.”

I laughed and made a note.
Start a library. Maybe a book club?

And Tina. The woman was big boned and carried her weight well, and she had a classic Latina face with golden skin. She'd taken the teenage Aida under her wing, and I saw her going over the house rules with the teenager, helping her with the English words.

“Tina, would you be interested in teaching an ESL class? English as a second language?”

“Who, me? A teacher?” But her eyes lit up.

I added another note.
Get basic ESL materials.

Even Precious, who was a volunteer, not a resident, had hid-den talents. She showed up three afternoons a week to supervise homework in the minimal after-school program, but I heard rhythmic music coming from the rec room and went to investigate. Precious had all five of the Manna House kids, ages six to eleven, on their feet, dancing in perfect rows and steps—stepping forward, back, to the side, half turn, do it again . . .

I clapped in the doorway.

“All right, back to the books!” Precious yelled, turning off the CD player. “We're busted!” The kids giggled and scurried back to their chairs around the single table. “Gets the blood goin' to their pea-brains—ain't that right?” She laughed and high-fived the eleven-year-old.

“That looked like a lot of fun. Why don't you teach it to everybody? You and the kids? For a Fun Night or something.”

“For real?”

Another note.
Plan a Fun Night, with dancing and games.

Thursday was another case management day for Stephanie Cooper, who showed up again in jeans—and I realized I hadn't seen Naomi Jackson since her meeting on Tuesday. I sidled up to Stephanie in the lunch line. “What's happening with Naomi? Did she go to detox?”

Stephanie shook her head. “Walked out of here Tuesday, haven't seen her since.”

“Oh no!” I'd felt a connection to Naomi, since I'd been the first one to meet her at the door, and I'd been hoping for the best.

“Just pray for her,” Stephanie said. “She knows we're here. One of these days she'll be back. And she'll be ready to do business. But . . . it might get ugly between now and then. A lot of these young women are turning tricks for their drugs. She's going to need our prayers.”

Pray for her.
Funny. As soon as Stephanie said she'd skipped out, I assumed there was nothing Manna House could do until she came back. But these people actually prayed for the women who came to the door—whether they stayed at the shelter or not.

Another note.
Start a prayer list.
This one just for me.

On my way out the front door later that afternoon, Mabel called me back. “Oh, Gabby. Two of our board members you haven't met yet are going to drop in about lunchtime tomorrow. They'd like to meet you. Clyde Stevens is pastor of New Hope Missionary Baptist, and Liz Handley was—”

“Former director of Manna House. I know.” I smiled. “I promise I'll be on my best behavior. What's for lunch?”

Mabel laughed. “Who knows? But Pastor Clyde has a weakness for macaroni and cheese and fried catfish, and Estelle knows it.”

I walked toward the El smiling to myself. My first week at Manna House had almost come to an end. After tomorrow, hope-fully I'd hear that I had the job. I was excited to get started, to sort through the ideas I'd been collecting and see which ones were viable.

Friday. Wasn't that the day Edesa Baxter led a Bible study in the morning? I smiled even broader. Tomorrow was going to be a good day . . .

The “William Tell Overture” erupted in my bag. I fished for the cell phone, flipped it open, and glanced at the caller ID.
Fairbanks, Philip.
I had a sudden ominous feeling. He'd been tight-lipped and silent most of the week, working late at the office or at home in the den, not wanting to be bothered. I'd given him a wide berth, not wanting the cloud over his head to rain on my parade. I almost let the call go to voice mail, but caught it on the fourth ring.

“Hello? Philip?”

“Gabby? Where are you?”

His voice was upbeat. My spirit inched upward a notch. “On my way home from work. Where are you?”

“Still at the office. But I've got great news. We sign the Robinson deal tomorrow morning, eleven o'clock!”

I squealed. “You got the contract! Oh, Philip, I'm so happy for you.”

“You better believe it, Mop Top. That's why I'm calling. The Fenchels and Fairbanks are going to celebrate! How about that neat little bistro you took me to last week? Can you make a reservation for the four of us for lunch tomorrow?”

chapter 18

I stopped dead on the sidewalk.
Lunch
?!
Tomorrow
?
This can't
be happening!
No way did I want to call Mabel and tell her I couldn't show up to meet the last two board members on Friday. My mind did a quick spin. “Ah . . . sounds great, Philip. But, uh, why not make it tomorrow night for dinner, make a real night of it?”

“What are you talking about?” Philip sounded irritated. “The signing is at eleven, Mona is bringing a bottle of champagne to the office to celebrate, and then what . . . we diddle our thumbs till six? Besides, the Fenchels have tickets to something or other tomorrow night. Just do it, Gabby. Make it one o'clock. Gotta go.”

I flipped the phone closed and felt like throwing it.
Unbelievable!
I stalked into the Emerald City Coffee Shop near the El station and ordered coffee to calm my nerves. Thoughts collided like pinballs behind my eyes. Should I go back and talk to Mabel? What would it look like if she had to call the board members and tell them, sorry, our prospective program director can't make it? On the other hand, if I told Philip about my dilemma, he'd just use it as ammunition as to why this job at the shelter wasn't going to work out. All he needed was an excuse to be down on it.

“You want another, miss?” the owner called from behind the counter. I shook my head absently.

Weren't things supposed to fall into place when God was on board? Mabel seemed to think God had sent me to Manna House—and I was glad to accept her view of it, since the job seemed perfect for me, though I had to admit her take sounded a bit
hocus-pocus
. But if I missed showing up at the shelter tomorrow, my dependability rating might skydive before it'd even gotten off the ground.