Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson

location of Manna House on the map, in the neighborhood just north of Wrigley Field, a male voice said, “You leaving now, Mrs. Fairbanks?”
    I turned. Josh Baxter stood behind me, holding the baby. “Yes. I’m trying to figure out if I can walk back to Richmond Towers without getting myself lost. It’s not that far, is it?” I pointed out the area on the map.
    â€œMm-hm, about two miles straight up Sheridan Road. But I was just outside; I came back to get an umbrella. Could rain any minute. Hey, Gracie and I are going to catch the northbound El up to Rogers Park. If you don’t mind riding the El, I could tell you where to get off. It’s just a couple of stops north.” He grinned and waved the umbrella. “Besides, we’ve got cover.”
    Which is how I found myself walking two blocks to the Sheridan El Station, pushing a baby stroller, while Josh Baxter held the umbrella against the light drizzle. “You’re going home without Edesa?” Obviously. I might as well have asked why , as if it was any of my business.
    He laughed. “Okay, you’re not going to believe this, but she’s staying to study. She’ll come home later, in time for Good Friday service tonight. But it’s easier for her to find a quiet corner to do her homework at the shelter—the chapel usually works—than it is in our tiny studio apartment with Gracie. She’s trying to get her MA in public health, but Gracie kind of interrupted that last fall . . . didn’t you, kiddo?” Josh bent down to tickle Gracie’s neck, making her giggle, but in the process, the open umbrella nearly knocked me into the gutter. “Sorry!” he said, and grabbed me back onto the sidewalk.
    At the El station, Josh showed me how to buy a CTA pass in the machine, insert the card into the turnstile, and grab it when it came popping out while pushing on the bar. He handed the stroller to me over the top of the turnstile, then came through carrying Gracie. I followed them up the stairs to the El platform, which stood eye to eye with the second-floor windows of nearby buildings.
    My stomach got queasy as I glanced over the edge of the platform and realized how easily one could stumble (or be pushed) off the platform, down onto the tracks in the middle with no way to get back up. I backed as far away from the edge as possible, though that didn’t help much. Behind me, only a short wall stood between me and the two-story drop to the street below.
    An elevated train rattled and squealed its way into the station, stopped, and the car doors slid open. People got off. People got on. “This is ours. Red Line,” Josh said, beckoning to me. Feeling foolish for my wobbly knees, I stepped gingerly into the car across what seemed like a big, wide crack and grabbed the nearest pole. Josh and Gracie swung into one of the molded plastic seats. “Come on. Sit down. It’s safer.”
    I sank into the seat beside them as the elevated train jerked and picked up speed. I blushed. “Sorry. Heights are sometimes a problem for me.”
    â€œThat’s all right. Is this your first time on the El?”
    I repeated my story about just moving to Chicago a week ago, we didn’t really know anyone, we had an “apartment” in one of the high-rises, my husband was going into business here with a partner . . . while Gracie pulled herself up on her foster daddy’s lap and stared at the people in the seats behind us.
    â€œWhat about you, Josh?” I cocked my head so I could see his face. Nice-looking kid. College age, if you asked me. Sandy hair, a bit shaggy, but that seemed to be the style these days. “How long have you and Edesa been married?”
    He laughed. “Since Christmas! Let’s see . . . almost four months.”
    â€œFour months! But . . . how long have you had Gracie?” Didn’t these kids know it made sense to wait awhile before starting