Who Do I Lean On? (13 page)

Philip said he wanted to talk about “us.” What did he mean by that? I hadn't filed for divorce yet—even though Lee said it would be a slam dunk—but I
had
filed for unlawful eviction and custody of the boys. Wouldn't he have said something if he'd gotten those papers in the mail? Lee said we had a court date now.

So what did Philip want to talk about? Getting a divorce? Or . . .

My heart constricted. Was he having second thoughts about our separation?

Taking a deep breath to loosen my chest, I gathered up the empty taco salad bowl, bag of corn chips, and dirty dishes, and stole out of the room while the boys were cheering for the two old brothers running off the conniving scoundrels who only wanted their money. Dumping the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I tried Jodi's number again. Still no answer.
Rats
. I'd have to wait until tomorrow at church.

Which I did. I pulled the Subaru into the big parking lot of the shopping center on Howard Street the next morning, which marked the city limit between Chicago and Evanston, its first suburban neighbor to the north. The large storefront hosting SouledOut Community Church would be hard to miss, the name painted in bold red script across the wide windows. The large open room, painted in bright blue and coral colors that reminded me of a Mexican restaurant, was rapidly filling up as P.J., Paul, and I came through the double-glass doors.

The boys had grumbled as usual about going to church on Sunday morning, but I held fast to Estelle's no-nonsense approach.
“Just tell 'em that's the way it is
.” And I suspected they found the lively service a lot more interesting than they let on.

I looked around for familiar faces, but didn't see Estelle or Mr. B that morning. However, the Baxter's Dodge Caravan pulled up outside, and Jodi came in, followed by Edesa and Josh carrying little Gracie while Denny drove off to park the car. Jodi immediately came over to me. “Oh, Gabby. I saw that you called a couple of times last night. I'm so sorry, but we didn't get home until close to midnight. We decided to go out for dinner after getting Amanda settled in the dorm, and . . .” Jodi got all puppy-dog faced. “For some reason, it feels harder letting her go this year than the first time.”

“Uh-oh. You mean it doesn't get any easier? Don't worry about not calling. I just wanted to—”

“Oh, look! Pastor Clark is back!” Jodi interrupted. “Let's talk later, okay, Gabby? I promise!” And she scurried off to join others welcoming the tall, thin white man who was one of SouledOut's pastors. I vaguely remembered the church praying for Pastor Clark about two months ago when he'd gone to the hospital with chest pains, but that was the Sunday before
my
life ended up in the “critically ill” ward, and I had to admit I hadn't given poor Pastor Clark a single thought since then.

I was glad to see Avis Douglass leading worship this morning— she was my favorite worship leader on the team—and she called the church to worship this morning with a call-and-response based on Psalm 103, basically giving thanks to God for restoring Pastor Clark to the congregation after his heart attack. The poor man still looked frail to me, but I noticed happy tears trickling down his face, seeming glad just to be there as the congregation worshipped with song after song.

When the kids and teens had been dismissed to their Sunday school classes, Pastor Cobbs, the other pastor—a short, African-American man with energy to spare—was all over the low platform that morning, preaching on a verse from 2 Corinthians, chapter 12, saying that “God's grace is sufficient, brothers and sisters,
sufficient
all by itself—”

“Say it, pastor!” a woman called. Sounded like Florida, one of the Yada Yada Prayer Group sisters.

“—because His ‘power is made
perfect
' . . . Do you hear that, brothers and sisters? Made
perfect
in our weakness.”

“Well,” someone else said.

“And I want you all to know that this brother here”—Pastor Cobbs stepped off the platform, walked over to Pastor Clark, and laid his hand on the tall man's bony shoulder—“This brother here has been
weak
, laid up in a hospital room, poked full of tubes, hooked up to all kinds of fancy machines. And yet the power of God was so evident on this man, all kinds of hospital staff kept coming into his room just to be in the Presence. And you may be thinkin' that Pastor Clark was takin' a sabbatical from ministry these past many weeks, but I don't think there was a doctor, a nurse, a PT or PA or food service person who came into that hospital room that this man didn't pray for. Not quietly either. He asked, ‘How can I pray for you, son? How can I pray for you, daughter?' And they'd tell him. And he'd hold their hands and pray. Pastor Clark here had his own congregation goin' on up there on that hospital floor!”

By this time, everyone was clapping and shouting and saying, “Hallelujah!” Which of course led into some more praise singing and prayer that each of us, when we're feeling weak, would remember this man's example and realize that God's power working in us isn't dependent on us feeling strong and confident and all that. “In fact,” Pastor Cobbs ended, “sometimes God needs to take us down so He can remind us of the Power Source who changes lives. Amen?”

“Amen!” people shouted back, and the word seemed to still resound in the air even when the service ended and everyone gathered around the coffee table, consuming sweet rolls and coffee and lemonade.

“I don't see Estelle or Mr. Bentley or DaShawn today,” I mused aloud to Jodi as I slipped cream into my coffee. “Mr. B helped me buy a car yesterday, but he didn't say anything about not coming to church. Do you know where they are?”

Jodi shook her head, picking out a sweet roll. “Not for sure. Estelle and Stu were leaving just as we were coming out to get in the car, and Stu said she was taking Estelle to check on her son— something like that.”

“Her son?”

“That's what she said.” Jodi grimaced. “To tell the truth, I didn't know she had a son.”

“Huh. That makes two of us.” At least I wasn't the only one in the dark. “And Mr. B?”

“I don't know. Maybe he went with them.” Jodi balanced her sweet roll on top of her cup of coffee. “But, hey, what's this about a new car? And I still want to hear more about what the board said about your proposal! Do you have time now?”

P.J. and Paul were hanging out with some of the other SouledOut teens, so I followed her to a couple of chairs in a corner. “But that's not all I need to talk to you about. It's . . . Philip.”

chapter 11

Jodi's eyebrows shot up when I told her about Philip wanting to talk. “You're kidding.”

I snorted. “Would I kid about something like that?”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing! Just . . . I'd call him later. Actually can't remember exactly what I said. It was like he'd thrown marbles under my feet and I couldn't get my balance! I mean, he barely returns my calls when we have to make a decision about the boys—and now he wants to talk? Doesn't that just rot your socks?”

Jodi giggled. “Now you sound like Lucy.” Then she sobered up. “He actually said he wanted to talk about you two? Not the boys?”

I made a face. “Huh. Even talking about the boys would have been a big deal. We haven't had an actual conversation since—” I felt color rise into my face. Not since the disastrous day I'd ignored everybody's advice and confronted Philip in his office about kicking me out of the penthouse. But he'd whittled me down good, made me feel like he'd done me a favor kicking me out and putting me on the street where I belonged. “Anyway,” I finished lamely, “he said not just the boys, but about us.”

“Whew.” Jodi blew out a long breath, staring into her Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Wonder what he'll say when you talk to him.”

If
I talk to him.” “

Her head jerked up. “Gabby! What do you mean,
if
? What if your husband wants to—”

“
Ex
-husband.” My voice was as cold as the coffee. I tossed the remains of my cup into the closest potted plant.

A long silence sat between us. I studied my nails. Badly in need of a manicure. I should go back to Adele's Hair and Nails and give Hannah the nail girl some business. Especially if I was going to talk to Philip for longer than two minutes. He'd notice if I had ragged nails.

Finally Jodi spoke, her voice soft. “Gabby. I know you've been through a lot . . . no, I take that back. I
don't
know what you've been through, but it sounds awful from what you've told me. But what if Philip wants to talk about getting back together? Maybe he's willing to work on the relationship. Isn't that what you want?”

“I don't know,” I mumbled. “Don't know what I want. I guess, in one way, yeah. I'd like us to be a family again, especially for the boys' sake. But . . .” I didn't want to say it, but Jodi—whose own husband adored her—couldn't possibly understand the stress I felt just being around Philip, who knew all the right buttons to push to reduce me to pulp. Talk? Did we even know how? I shrugged. “He probably just wants to talk about getting a divorce. Probably wants to talk me into a ‘no-fault' or something, no alimony or child support. Might as well just let our lawyers talk.”

“Oh, Gabby.” Jodi laid a hand gently on mine. “There's only one way to find out. And that's to talk to him. That's all I'm saying. Just talk. But I'm not in your shoes. You're the one who has to decide, and it's got to be hard. Do you want to pray about it?”

I jerked my hand away and stood up. “No. Not now. I—I'm sorry, Jodi. I need to get the boys home.” Which was a pathetic lie, but I was close to tears and wanted to get out of there. I didn't want to pray about it! Didn't want Jodi or God or anyone else to tell me I “should” talk to Philip.

I was miserable as I drove home from SouledOut. How could I treat my friend like that? Jodi Baxter, of all people! Hadn't she listened patiently to me spilling my guts the past month and a half about the breakup of my marriage? Hadn't I asked her to be my prayer partner? So why had I gotten all riled up when she wanted to pray with me about this latest wrinkle?

The boys—bored as usual on a Sunday afternoon—wanted to do something. Me, I just wanted to pull the blinds, turn on the fan, and take a long nap. “Look, Mom.” P.J. shoved
The Chicago Guide to Summer Festivals
in my face. It listed a Greek festival going on that weekend in the Lincoln Square neighborhood. “They've got
souvlaki
or whatever you call it and a bunch of other neat Greek foods. And live music and dancing and lots of stuff. It's not that far. See?” P.J. spread a Chicago city map out on our makeshift dining room table and found the Lincoln Square neighborhood north of us where the Greek Orthodox Church hosting the festival was located.

I gave the map a cursory glance. “I don't know, guys. Parking could be a nightmare.” Lame excuse. But I let it hang there, hoping it might carry the day and I could crawl into my cocoon.

P.J. snatched up the brochure and the map and stomped out of the room. “Fine,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Paul and I can go by ourselves if you don't want to. I can figure out how to get there by bus.”

That did it. They probably could get there by themselves—I saw lots of teenagers using the El and buses to get around town. But I knew if P.J. and Paul were out and about, navigating a still-strange city by themselves, I could forget a nap even if I stayed home in the bed with the covers over my head. I sighed and picked up my purse. “Okay, okay! You guys win. Let's go.”

As it turned out, I said to Estelle the next day, leaning over the kitchen counter at Manna House, the Greek Festival was noisy and fun and took my mind off stewing about Philip. “I even got talked into trying one of the traditional line dances by a fifty-something Greek gentleman with dark twinkly eyes.” I giggled. “Much to the embarrassment of my sons.” I held out my arms to the side shoulder-high and did a few steps with a line of imaginary partners.
“Dum de dum de dum . . . Opa!
”

“Uh-huh.” Estelle poured two cups of fresh coffee, added cream to one, and passed it over the kitchen counter. “You gotta watch out for those fifty-something Romeos who can dance your feet off. Next thing you know they gonna be down on their knee promising undying love.”

I stopped dancing. “Estelle! Did Harry Bentley ask you—?”

She cut me off with a look. “Now, don't you go readin' more into that than just good advice, girl! I'm just sayin'.” She snatched up the required hairnet to cover her topknot and took a tray of hamburger patties out of the freezer to thaw.

I hid a grin. It was definitely true that Estelle had been swept off her feet by Mr. Harry Bentley dancing the Mashed Potato at Manna House's first-ever Fun Night. But something else niggled at my brain . . .