Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson

saying. “There was one reason, and one reason only, that Jesus came to earth, went to the cross, and rose from the dead—and that was to take the death penalty for our sins, so that we might have new life. New life for me, new life for you.”
    Oh sure, I thought. Easy for you to say. You have a good-looking husband, probably have a good job. You seem happy. But what about all these women here? No man, no family to take them in, no home . . . not much hope of a new life here.
    I was startled by my thoughts. Good grief. Who was I to pit this Avis Douglass person against these women? Look at me . . . Philip and I lived on a six-figure income, we just bought a pent-house, I arrived here tonight in a taxi. I didn’t grow up rich, but we weren’t poor either. Never missed a meal in my life. So what in the world was going on?
    Only later, after the service was over, after I met Josh Baxter’s parents—a friendly couple who seemed to kid around with each other and laugh easily, even though they had to be married longer than Philip and me—and after I was back in the taxi alone with my thoughts, did I realize why I had reacted so cynically to Avis’s devotional.
    Even though we had just moved to Chicago, it didn’t feel like a new start or a new adventure or a new opportunity or a “new life” to me.
    In fact, I wasn’t sure I had any kind of life at all.

chapter 8

    Philip was in the den with the phone to his ear when I came in. I could tell he was talking to his mother. I waved a hand to get his attention. “Boys okay?” I mouthed.
    â€œJust a sec, Mom.” He looked up with exaggerated patience. “The boys are fine , Gabrielle. Dad took them back to the academy this afternoon”—and then he turned back to the phone, his desk chair swiveling so that his back was to me.
    What’s wrong with this picture? I muttered to myself, stalking off to the bedroom. We should be telling the grandparents that our boys are fine—not getting the news from them. And why hasn’t Mrs. Fairbanks talked to me about the boys? . . . though I knew perfectly well the answer to that. Philip’s mother had been less than enthusiastic about his son’s rash decision to marry “that girl from North Dakota.” “It was France,” I overheard her tell a guest on our wedding day. “Men don’t think straight in France. The place is so quixotic, the first girl they meet, they think it’s love.” And her friend had said, “You’d think he would have fallen for a French girl. I love a French accent, don’t you?”
    Well, howdy. I’d barely made it through France with my Trav­elers’ Guide to English/French Phrases . So what? I was the mother of the Fairbanks grandchildren, and that ought to count for something !
    I slammed the bathroom door on “something” and decided I needed a long soak in the tub. Running the water as hot as I could stand it, I found a bottle of bubble bath and shot a stream of golden liquid under the gushing faucet. Sliding under the bubbles until only my head and my knees poked out of the water, I wondered if this was how a crocodile felt, poking its eyes up out of the water and scoping out the territory. My eyes traveled around the room, the marble wall tiles, the glass-enclosed shower, the marble counter with two sinks—and no windows, thank God. I didn’t need any reminders that this crocodile pond was thirty-two floors deep.
    I flicked a bubble that floated past my knees, then another, bursting all that came within fingernail reach. Story of my life . . . bursting bubbles. First there was Damien . . . even now I got goose bumps remembering his dark lashes, lopsided grin, hair falling over his forehead like an Elvis clone. He was top banana of the pep squad at school, and had the same rah-rah attitude at the Minot Evangelical Church youth group. Even the mothers at church loved