Who Do I Talk To? by Neta Jackson

knitting and purling away on Wednesday mornings, watching simple winter scarves grow longer, if not exactly symmetrical.
    I chewed the end of a pencil as I studied the list of possibilities for more “life skills” for these women with precious few resources. Now that Estelle had been hired on a part-time basis, she was the obvious resource for basic classes in cooking and sewing. That proposal was already on Mabel’s desk. And Edesa’s husband, Josh, had casually suggested a sports clinic for the shelter kids on the weekend . . . Hmm. His dad was the athletic director at Rogers Park High School. Possible resource there.
    I grinned to myself. Might as well get the whole Baxter clan involved here! They’d supported the Fun Night that Precious McGill and I had cooked up last month. Precious, a former resident and now a volunteer with the after-school kids—couldn’t exactly call it a “program” yet—had managed to get all the residents and most of the staff off their duffs that night, doing the Macarena . . .
    Precious! I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen the livewire volunteer or her teenage daughter, Sabrina, since I got back from North Dakota with my mother almost two weeks ago. I doubted she knew I’d resigned on Monday, much less became a “resident” that same night. What was up with her ?
    I reached for the phone and my staff directory.
    And I thought I had problems.
    The first time I tried the number I had for Precious, I got her voice mail. “Can’t talk now, but leave a number an’ I’ll call ya back—if Jesus don’t come back first, and if He do, it ain’t gonna matter!” I was a little taken aback, but managed to leave my name and a brief “Call me at Manna House when you’ve got a minute.”
    When Estelle banged on a pan for lunch, I went out and asked if she’d seen Precious lately. She shook her head. “It’s goin’ down tough for her an’ Sabrina lately. Not sure she’s in town.” The big woman flounced behind the counter. “Line up, ladies! Who wants to ask God to bless this food?”
    Going down tough? What did that mean? I decided I’d try calling again later.
    Thankfully, the knitting club was putting away their projects in a corner of the dining room, so I didn’t have to look far for my mother. But when I went to get her, I noticed her pale eyes were wet. “Mom? What’s wrong?”
    â€œI c-can’t do it anymore, Celeste.” Her lip trembled.
    Uh-oh. Calling me by my sister’s name was always a red flag. I gently took her knitting needles and the lump of pale green knitting attached. Dropped stitches and erratic knots were hopelessly tangled. “Oh, Mom.”
    One of the other knitters, a heavy-chested black woman named Sheila, shrugged sympathetically. “Last week, Gramma Shep was helpin’ alla us. Today . . . dunno.”
    â€œIt’s all right, Mom. Let’s put it away for now. We’ll fix it later.” As in, ask Estelle to knit a few rows with the green yarn and let Mom start over when she wasn’t feeling confused . Steering my mother into the lunch line, I helped fill her plate with the fixings for tacos and was getting her settled at a table when I noticed Tanya’s eight-year-old son sitting by himself at the end of our table, poking at his food. His usual shelter playmates—Trina and Rufino, seven- and six-year- old siblings—were throwing food at one of the other tables.
    â€œYour mom not back yet, Sammy?”
    Poke, poke. “Nah. Diane s’posed ta be watchin’ me.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of a dark-skinned woman with a big, loose Afro, like a throwback to the sixties. “But she say she gotta go out after lunch, even if my mama not back.”
    That was strange. Tanya had said she had an appointment at nine o’clock and she’d be back before lunch. The