Who Do I Talk To? Read Free Page A

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.”

chapter 2

    I wept and railed in Mabel’s office for a good hour. It took that long for the full weight of my overnight calamity to sink in. She was right. By now the boys were probably cozily ensconced at their grandparents’ home in Petersburg. Who in their right mind would ask them to come back to Chicago and sack out at a homeless shelter just to be with Mom?
    Fury at Philip fought with gut-wrenching loss. How could my own husband do this to me?!
    Mabel mostly listened. But once I was out of steam, my former boss gently but firmly insisted I needed to work on a plan. “Be realistic, Gabby. One step at a time. What do you need to do today ?”
    We made a list. Buy a phone card until I could get a pay-as-you-go cell phone. Call the boys to make sure they were all right. Go to the closest ATM and find out if my credit cards were still good. (Fat chance.) Use my debit card to assess exactly how much money I had in my personal checking account. Go back to Richmond Towers and talk to the manager. What were my legal rights concerning the penthouse?
    â€œAre you going to call Philip, Gabby? Maybe he got angry and just overreacted. He might be having second thoughts about what he did.”
    Oh yes. I’d love to call Philip and curse him to his face. But I shook my head. “Tried that already this morning from my office. He didn’t answer. And I can almost guarantee he’s not having second thoughts. The whole thing was too calculated. Deliberately losing the dog. Packing up all my stuff, and Mom’s too, and clearing us out. Canceling my cell phone. Changing the locks. Taking the boys on a trip—probably back to Virginia.”
    â€œThen find a lawyer, Gabby.”
    â€œOh yeah. And pay attorney fees with what money?” I stood up to go.
    â€œWait a moment. Two more things . . . no, three.” Mabel went behind her desk, pulled a form from a stacker, and handed it to me. “First, fill this out when you can.”
    I glanced at the paper. Intake Form for Manna House Bed List. The questions were standard: “Are you currently using drugs? Alcohol? . . . Cause of homelessness? . . . Previous living situation? (Prison? Public housing? Non-housing/Street/Car?)” . . . I looked up at Mabel. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    â€œNot kidding. Sorry. Just do it, Gabby. Second . . .” She reached for a file folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and held it up facing toward me. I recognized the resignation letter I’d turned in yesterday. With a sly smile she tore it in half, crumpled the pieces, and tossed them into the wastebasket. “I’m giving you your job back. Also not kidding.” The smile rounded her smooth, nutmeg cheeks and crinkled the corners of her eyes.
    My throat caught, and I had to clear it a couple of times. “Thanks,” I finally croaked. “And the third thing?”
    She came around the desk and took my hands. “Let’s pray, Gabby. All of this looks like a mighty big mountain, but the God I know is in the mountain-moving business.”
    I slipped through the multipurpose room, grateful to see my mother dozing in an overstuffed chair near a group of shelter residents gossiping loudly about who was the hottest guy on Survivor. She was fine for the moment. I headed for the stairs to the lower floor, which housed the shelter’s kitchen, dining room, recreation room, and my office—a former broom closet. Literally.
    I needed to check on Dandy and then get out of there. Get that phone card. Call the boys. It was frustrating that I couldn’t just pick up my office phone, but I understood why all the shelter phones