Free Who Do I Lean On? by Neta Jackson Page A

heading out the door of the shelter at ten thirty on Wednesday to pick up P.J. from his third day of cross-country practice. After taking him home, I needed to go straight to Legal Aid for my eleven o’clock appointment with Lee Boyer. “Mom! Why don’t we take Sammy and Keisha swimming with us at Foster Beach this afternoon? They never get to go swimming!”
    Keisha and Sammy? No way would that be relaxing! I doubted if either of them knew how to swim, and I’d have to keep an eagle eye on them. I opened my mouth to say no, and then hesitated. Here I was taking time off for a personal appointment from my already shortened day, and even though Mabel was generous with flexible hours for doctor’s appointments and the like, I still felt I should make up the time somehow. Taking Keisha and Sammy swimming with my boys this afternoon would certainly fall under my job description of program director for the shelter.
    â€œGood idea, buddy. But it has to be after my appointment at Legal Aid, and they need to ask their moms. You work it out, okay? I’ll be back to pick you up after lunch—and if they don’t have swimsuits, tell them to bring an extra pair of shorts and a T-shirt!”
    I smiled as Paul ran off in his orange-and-black T-shirt that said “Manna House Volunteer” across the front, with “I’m part of God’s miracle” in small letters beneath. The week was settling into a workable routine. P.J. seemed just as glad to chill out at the apartment after his sweaty workout with the Lane Tech cross-country team, and by two o’clock when I got off work, we were all ready to do something together. The beach. Grocery shopping. Maybe the bike trail along the lake one day—though I had to get a bicycle first. And Mr. Bentley was picking us up to go to the zoo on Thursday.
    After all the pain and uncertainty of the first part of the summer, these few weeks felt like being rocked in God’s lap. Thank You, Jesus. Thank You . . .
    I was still basking in the blessings of God when I walked into Lee Boyer’s office at eleven. “Hey, Gabby!” he said, jumping up from his desk and giving me a quick hug and big smile. A professional hug, I told myself. “Glad you didn’t cancel another appointment. I’ve got good news! We’ve got a court date to hear your petitions on”—he glanced at some papers—“September eighth. That’s three weeks from Friday. I figured you’d want time to get P.J. and Paul settled in school.” He looked up and grinned again. “I’m eager to hear how it’s going since your boys got back.”
    Lee Boyer. Dressed in his usual jeans, Birkenstock sandals, open-necked short-sleeved dress shirt, brown hair with gold flecks brushed neatly to one side, and friendly light brown eyes behind retro wire-rims. He was such a down-home guy. I’d liked him from the first time I’d made an appointment at Legal Aid, and he’d certainly gone out of his way to help me find a place to live so I could get custody of my sons. He seemed to like me too . . . which got a little confusing at times.
    Like now. I hadn’t come for a personal chat. “I . . . the boys are fine . . . but I really need some legal advice about money.”
    â€œAh. The inheritance your folks left you. That’s good, that’s good, Gabby. Now that you’ve got an apartment and a nest egg in the bank, that can only strengthen our case for getting custody of the boys. Not that I have any doubt that a judge will rule in your favor.” He smiled and leaned back in his desk chair. “I suppose you want to set up some kind of trust fund for the boys?”
    I licked my lips. “Well, not exactly. I have an idea, something I want to talk to you about. The building where I live . . . it’s still for sale, right?”
    Lee peered at me over the top of his wire rims. “As far as I know. But if