Who Do I Talk To? Read Free

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.”
    â€œUm, 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.
    â€œI-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—”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI . . . never signed anything,” I croaked.
    â€œBut they require both spouses on a joint account to—”
    â€œWe 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?”
    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