Where Do I Go? Page 8

  The pacing woman was making me nervous. They needed some activities going on while people waited. Something to entertain the kids . . . a “learn to knit” group . . . a nail salon . . . a book club . . .

  A woman wearing typical blue hospital scrubs came out from behind the screen, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Who is next, Estelle?” The nurse had dark, wavy hair and a round, pleasant face. A motherly look about her.

  The knitting lady peered at the clipboard. “Aida Menéndez . . . Aida? You here?”

  A young girl—she looked eighteen at the most—got up and let herself be trundled behind the screen by the nurse. The two began talking a rapid stream of Spanish.

  “Hey! Miz Delores! You said I was next!” The loner in the corner waved her nail file.

  “Pipe down, Hannah. She said no such thing.” The woman named Estelle thumped the clipboard with a knitting needle. “I got your form right here . . . three more ahead of you.”

  The bored young woman shrugged and went back to doing her nails.

  “Ya gotta fill out a form if you wanna see the nurse,” a growly voice said in my ear. I jumped and turned. Rheumy blue eyes met mine.

  “Lucy!” I couldn’t help grinning. “Where’d you come from?”

  “Question is”—the old woman squinted at me suspiciously—“where’d you come from? Seems like you poppin’ up all over the place.” She turned her head, hacking a few jagged coughs into a faded red bandanna.

  I decided to make light of it. “Came to ask if you wanted to go out for coffee. Couldn’t find you under the bush in the park, so I decided to try the next best place.”

  She darted a look sideways at me, bandanna still over her mouth, and a sudden pang clamped my mouth shut. What if she thought I was making fun of her? But before I could say anything, Estelle called out, “Lucy Tucker? Lucy! Get over here, darlin’.”

  Lucy shuffled off, muttering into her bandanna.

  “Be sure to use the cream on that rash,” the nurse was saying to the young girl as she left the makeshift examining room. Then her attention turned to Lucy. “About time you got yourself in here, Lucy. Still got that cough, don’t you?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes behind Lucy’s back. “Obstinada.”

  They disappeared behind the screen—but Lucy was anything but quiet. “All right, all right, don’t rush me! . . . Get that thing outta my mouth, I’m gonna choke . . . whatchu mean, hold my breath? A person’s gotta breathe, don’t ya know . . .”

  Estelle hollered over her shoulder, “Don’t make me come in there, Lucy! You want lunch or don’tcha?” Several of the women waiting for a turn snickered.

  After a while, Delores Enriquez came out alone, bent down, and talked in a low undertone to Estelle. Estelle frowned and scanned the room. “Anyone know where Miz Mabel is?”

  “She’s out,” someone said. “Saw her leave a while ago.”

  I made my way over to the table. “Is something wrong? Can I help?” And just how do you think you can help, Gabby Fairbanks?

  The nurse straightened up. “And you are . . . ?”

  I held out my hand. “Gabrielle Fairbanks. I’m, uh, a friend of Lucy’s.”

  “No she ain’t!” a raspy voice hollered from behind the screen.

  Estelle looked at me with a smile of recognition. “Oh, that’s right! Precious told me about you.” She turned to Delores. “This is the lady who found Lucy out in the rain, sent her here last week.”

  “She cut her foot an’ I was helpin’ her!” Lucy hollered.

  “Actually, that’s right,” I admitted.

  Delores raised her eyebrows hopefully. “Do you have a car?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry. I walked.”

  The eyebrows fell. “Lucy needs to go to the clinic at Stroger Hospital. She’s running a fever, could be pneumonia or bronchi-tis. And she needs someone to go with her.” She lowered her voice. “To make sure she goes.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll take her. We’ll get a cab or something.”

  I had no idea what I was doing. But it couldn’t be that hard, could it? Just give the cabbie the name of the hospital, no sweat.

  chapter 10

  The clock on the clinic wall of the county hospital inched its way toward four thirty and Lucy’s name still hadn’t been called. I couldn’t believe this! The waiting room still looked as full as when we came, though maybe half of those were family members of people waiting to see a doctor. A huge percentage of the people in the waiting room were Latino, if the swirl of Spanish going on around me was any indication.

  “G’wan, Gabby,” Lucy growled. “Get outta here. I don’t need no babysitter.”

  It was tempting. If I left now and took a cab, I could get home before Philip . . . but I’d promised. And the fever must be sapping Lucy’s strength. She’d been quiet for a long time—though this was the fourth time she’d told me to leave.

  “Nope. I’m fine. They’ve got to call you soon—”

  “Lucy Tucker!” a nurse barked from the doorway.

  “See? What did I tell you?”

  “Yeah. Whatever.” Lucy hauled herself out of the molded plastic chair and took her sweet time following the nurse. The door closed behind them.

  I waited. The clock passed four thirty. Sighing, I realized I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. Fishing for my cell phone, I walked out into the hall for some quiet and called Philip.

  His voice mail gave me a beep. “Hi, Philip. It’s me. Just wanted to let you know I might not be home when you get there and don’t want you to worry. I’m at Stroger Hospital, just brought someone to the clinic down here. I can explain later. Sorry about supper. But maybe you could get some takeout or something, okay?”

  I flipped the phone closed. Whew. Philip was not going to be a happy camper.

  Well, so what. He left me alone all day to my own devices. He could manage a few hours by himself in the evening.

  A few more people were called in, then a nurse came out and said, “I’m sorry. The clinic is closed. The rest of you, go on home and come back tomorrow.” Her announcement met with groans and protests. “If you can’t wait until tomorrow, go to the ER. That’s it, folks. Go on home, now.” I felt badly for the families who had been waiting several hours already. Some all afternoon. At least Lucy got in to see the doctor.

  It was nearly five thirty when Lucy finally came out, clutching a sheaf of papers. “Bronchitis,” the nurse said. “Make sure she follows those instructions.”

  “Any prescriptions?” Anything to make her well instantly?

  The nurse shook her head. “No antihistamines, decongestants, or cough suppressants, either. She just needs an expectorant to get that mucus up. A vaporizer and hot showers will help. And drink plenty of water, Ms. Tucker. You can take Tylenol for the fever.”

  But as we walked the long halls toward the main entrance, the nurse’s words to the other patients rang in my ears: “Go on home, now.” Trouble was, Lucy didn’t have a home. Hot showers? A vaporizer? Drink lots of water? That meant you had to pee a lot. Where was a sick homeless woman supposed to do that?

  I thought of the two extra bedrooms in our penthouse, waiting for the boys, the unused bathroom . . . and quickly dismissed the idea. Philip would never stand for it. And he’d probably be right. You didn’t just take homeless people off the street into your home. The police, the mayor—and surely Mr. Bentley!—would all say it wasn’t wise. What did I know about this woman, anyway?

  It had started raining while we’d been in the clinic. “You’d think we moved to Seattle,” I muttered, holding my umbrella for Lucy as the taxi finally pulled up. I gave the driver the address of Manna House. I didn’t know if they could put up someone who was sick. Lucy really needed a private room. But where else were we going to go?

  The swish-squeak, swish-squeak of the windshield wipers and Lucy’s sporadic coughs were the only sounds inside the cab for the next ten minutes, lulling me into a kind of stupor, so I was startled when Lucy poked
me with her elbow. “How come you ain’t praying for me ’bout this bronchitis? Ain’t that what the Bible says to do when someone’s sick?”

  “Uh, sure, Lucy. I’ve been praying for you.” That was a lie, but maybe I could send up a prayer now and make it retroactive.

  Lucy turned her head toward the other window. “Huh. Ain’t what I meant.”

  Good grief, what did she want me to do, pray out loud right here in the cab? The driver would think we were nuts!

  Silence reigned until the taxi pulled up in front of Manna House. I asked the cabbie to wait and tried to hustle Lucy into the doors of the shelter, though Lucy wasn’t hustling. To my relief, Mabel Turner’s office door was open, and she was talking to Estelle, the knitting woman. Estelle’s hairnet was gone, revealing loose, kinky hair with streaks of silver, caught into a knot on the top of her head.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’re back.” Mabel came quickly into the foyer. “Delores Enriquez said you’d taken Lucy to the clinic, but she didn’t get your cell number, so we couldn’t call.” She turned to Lucy. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m hungry, that’s what,” Lucy snapped, but the coughs took over.

  “Come on.” Estelle took her arm. “They’re serving supper downstairs. Meat loaf and baked potatoes tonight. How’s that sound, Your Highness? You hungry too, Mrs.—? Sorry, I forgot the name.”

  “Just Gabby is fine. Thanks anyway, but I need to get home and the cab is waiting.”

  Estelle shrugged and followed Lucy, who was heading for the lower floor. “Hey, Aida. How ya doin’?” Estelle called out to the young Latino girl curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs. I’d seen her earlier in the shelter’s makeshift clinic. The girl glanced at Estelle with dull eyes, but said nothing.

  I wanted to ask about her—she seemed way too young to be out on the street, or even here in the shelter—but Mabel was looking at me expectantly. “So . . . ?”

  “Nurse said bronchitis. No medication, but she’s supposed to drink plenty of water. They said hot showers and a vaporizer would help.”

  Mabel frowned. “She needs a separate room. Hm. Can’t do that here right now. But maybe . . .” She turned back into her office, got on the phone, talked a little while, then came back out into the foyer, smiling. “The Baxters will take her for a few days. He’s driving down to get her and Estelle.”

  I was confused. “Josh and Edesa Baxter? He said they lived in a tiny studio. How do they have room for—”

  “No, no, not Josh.” Mabel laughed. “His parents, Denny and Jodi Baxter. They were here Sunday night. You met them, I think. Josh told me on the sly to call them if I ever needed temporary space. With Josh married and his sister at college, they have a couple of empty bedrooms right now.”

  “Wow. That’s generous.”

  Mabel laughed. “Well, Josh said his mom might not officially volunteer to take in somebody but would probably say yes if asked. And Estelle lives upstairs in the same two-flat. So she can look in on Lucy during the day.”

  I was glad . . . but at the same time felt a strange sense of loss, like something had died. The Gabby I used to know would’ve volunteered to take Lucy. At age seven, that Gabby had brought home a cardboard box with a litter of abandoned kittens. The mama cat had been run over in the road. My mom let me keep them out on the back porch if I promised to feed them six times a day. I was all over those kittens, feeding them with an eye­dropper, watching them get fat and spill out of the box until they were old enough to take to the pet shop. And then there was the dog with only three legs, and the box turtle with the cracked shell . . .

  What had happened to that Gabrielle? Weren’t people more important than kittens and box turtles?

  I tried to refocus. “So Estelle is not a resident here?”

  “She was, once upon a time. Ask her about it sometime.” I noticed how Mabel’s ready smile highlighted how attractive she was—smooth brown skin, straightened hair cut short but full and brushed off her forehead in a wave, simple gold loops in her ear-lobes, full lips colored with a creamy tangerine that matched her sweater. “Now she’s licensed to do elder care, but between jobs she hangs out here and helps however she can.” Mabel extended her hand. “Thank you so much, Gabby. I’m afraid I don’t have the budget to reimburse you for the cab fare you spent today, but I want you to know how much we appreciate it.”

  I took her hand, afraid that if I spoke I might cry. Something was churning up inside me, and I didn’t even know what it was. I just nodded and turned to go, then suddenly turned back. “Mabel.” The words pushed out in a rush. “The other day you mentioned you were looking for a program director. I . . . well, I’m a CTRS—Certified Therapeutic Recreational Specialist—and I directed pro­­grams for seniors back in Virginia. I’m wondering . . . I think I’d like to apply for the job.”

  Mabel stared at me. “Well, well. If the Lord doesn’t work in mysterious ways.” She went into her office, consulted an appointment book, and then looked up. “Could you come back tomorrow, Gabby? We can talk about it then, and I’ll have an application for you to fill out. Eleven?”

  I nodded without speaking and dashed out to the waiting cab.

  Oh Lord, Oh Lord . . . I didn’t exactly know how to pray in the moment, but I knew I was going to need some supernatural help. I’d really like this job. In fact, I need it. And if You help me get it, and pacify Philip, I promise I’ll go to church more often. And read my Bible. If I could find it. Packed somewhere. And P.S., please be with Lucy and help her to get well. There. That ought to cover my butt with Lucy.

  But first I had to explain to Philip where I’d been all day.

  “I just don’t get it, Gabrielle.” Philip was pacing. A bad sign. “What in the world were you doing at that homeless shelter in the first place? Then you volunteer—volunteer!—to take a perfect stranger who has pneumonia, or bronchitis, or whatever, something contagious anyway, to the county hospital, of all places, which is probably full of who-knows-what diseases flying around in the air. Sitting in a roomful of sick people all after-noon!” He stopped pacing right in front of me and shook a finger in my face. “You don’t think, that’s what wrong with you, Gabrielle. You . . . you just up and do things, willy-nilly, whatever comes to your mind. Did you think about how this would affect me? Affect us, affect getting this new business off the ground if you got sick? Not to mention that it’s seven thirty, and we haven’t had supper . . .” He spiked the air with an expletive, rolled his eyes, and flopped down on the plush sofa.

  “I’m sorry, Philip. I didn’t realize it would take so long. I thought we’d be in and out in an hour or two. I tried to let you know, left a message on your cell phone.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it. What was I to think? Maybe you’d been in an accident or something. All you said was you were at Stroger Hospital. Henry said it’s the county hospital, over on the west side, not a good neighborhood.”

  “That’s not true. I told you I brought someone to the clinic. Didn’t you listen to the whole message?”

  “Whatever.” He pushed himself off the couch. “That’s not the point. You still haven’t explained what you were doing at this . . . this homeless shelter in the first place. Yeah, yeah, you ran into an old bag lady last week, you did the right thing and sent her to a shelter. Period. You don’t need to go running over there to check up on her. Let them take care of the homeless. That’s what shelters are for!”

  I pressed my lips together. This was pointless. Telling him right now that I intended to apply for a job at this shelter would be like volunteering to be the human sacrifice in an ancient Aztec ritual.

  chapter 11

  The weather forecast still said rain, but today I didn’t care. It was April, after all! The air was warm and moist, the kind of weather that sprung all the buds on the trees and sprinkled green kisses on the grass in the parks along Lake Shore Drive.

  I allowed myself an hour to get to Manna House, but it was hard to wait until ten o’clock to leave. In
spite of Philip’s upset at me the night before, I woke up excited, my mind already spinning with ideas for activities and programs at Manna House. Job skills . . . word processing . . . parenting classes . . . cooking . . . maybe even field trips to the museums. Had Lucy ever been to a Chicago museum?

  Well, probably. Surely she hasn’t been homeless all her life.

  I stood in the middle of our walk-in closet. It was a job interview . . . should I wear a suit and heels? But this was a homeless shelter; maybe that would be too spiffy. I finally decided to go with “business casual”—tan slacks, jade-colored blouse, black blazer, flats for walking, a bag roomy enough for a small umbrella. And I’d take the El. If I was going to be working at Manna House, I’d need an inexpensive way to get back and forth. Might as well learn how to do it on my own now as later.

  I was actually whistling as I bounced through the lobby of Richmond Towers and headed for the west-side doors spilling out onto Sheridan Road.

  “Where are you off to, Mrs. Fairbanks, all twinkletoes today?” Mr. Bentley’s bald dome and grizzled chin beard made him look as if his head was on upside down.

  I laughed. “I’m interviewing for a job, Mr. Bentley. Wish me luck!”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “What are you up to now, might I ask?”

  I paused at the semicircular desk, eager to let the excitement within me bubble out. “That shelter you told me about needs a program director—and I’m it!” I giggled at my self-confidence. “Seriously, Mr. Bentley, I’m a qualified CTRS, and this job seems just right for me.”

  He peered at me over his reading glasses. “Oh, it does, does it?” He pursed his lips. “What do you know about homeless people, Mrs. Fairbanks?—no disrespect intended.”