Losing Hope (14 page)

It troubled me, Ava's response.
Don't rock the boat
. She'd said the same thing to me when I first talked to her about Dayonna's claim that she had a missing sister. Ava Diggs was not one to give up easily on a matter. Indeed, a large part of her success had been due to her unwavering commitment to leaving no stone unturned in providing the best care for the foster children she encountered.

Why was she so willing to leave the Monroes alone when suspicions about their behavior were not new? Perhaps I was thinking too hard. I collapsed onto a plush sofa in the church's narthex and pulled a pen and a scrap of paper from my purse. I wanted to jot down the things that were troubling me about the Monroes.

First, they seemed to be doing their best to keep me from talking frankly with Dayonna. I wasn't buying that they had nothing to do with preventing me from visiting her at the facility—at least I wasn't buying that Mr. Monroe had no knowledge of this. Though Mrs. Monroe seemed genuine in her surprise that I had been put on an exclusionary list, Mr. Monroe had much the same look on his face as the day I left a screaming Dayonna in my wake.

Put like that, I realized it would make sense that he would not want me seeing her at the facility. Perhaps he thought I would just set her off. But why not tell his wife if he had been the one to make that request—or knew that someone else had?

As far as Elsie Monroe was concerned, I still found it odd that the elderly lady insisted that Hope was a mere baby doll. Why was she so convinced? What made her so certain, so adamant that any other option could not be discussed?

And then there was that photograph. I wrote down the word
photo
on my paper. I didn't believe I would have thought there was anything odd about the worn Polaroid that Elsie Monroe gave the police officer the evening Dayonna went “missing”; however, the way the Monroes continually looked at each other, it made me question the story behind it. I had to believe that Dayonna had said or done something that alarmed them when the photo surfaced in their home.

Lastly, I could not forget the whole running away episode itself. I knew I saw Dayonna in their window, but then again, even she acknowledged that she'd taken off. She'd managed to leave a note in my car, and the Monroes had looked just as surprised to see her sitting in their living room as I had.

I scratched the word
runaway
off my list but wrote it down again just because something still did not feel right.

I had learned years ago to trust my gut.

A flash of RiChard returning alone to the village in KwaZulu-Natal entered my mind. I shook my head to rid myself of the unspeakable memory.

“Are you okay, dear heart?”

I looked up into the smiling face of Mother Ernestine Jefferson, the information desk attendant who'd helped me earlier. Her navy blazer and a navy purse hung from her lower arm. I guessed her “shift” was over.

“I'm okay.” I grinned. “Did you need to sit down? I'm about to leave.” I realized that my purse, my paper, and my big behind were taking up most of the sofa situated near the main entrance of the church.

“Yes, it's probably a good idea for me to sit down while I wait for my ride.” The older lady squeezed into the space next to me after I gathered my things.“Are you a member here?” she quizzed.

“No, just visiting.”

“What church do you usually attend?”

“New Eden Baptist Church.”

“Oh, with Pastor Joseph McKinney?”

I nodded.

“I went to school with his wife, Lola. That was a
long
time ago.”

We both chuckled.

“You don't look a day over fifty-five.”

“Oh, I know you are being generous. I'll be eighty-seven in May.” She flashed a full-toothed smile. “Yes, God has truly blessed me. That's all I can say. Now, how old are you, dear heart?”

“I'll be thirty-six in January.”

“Married? Any children?”

“I've got a son. He's fourteen. And my husband . . .” My voice trailed off. I had never talked to anyone about RiChard, but something about her felt . . . safe. “My husband . . . ,” I began again, with no luck. Mother Jefferson held up a gentle hand.

“Say no more, honey.” She chuckled. “I had me one of them kind of husbands too.”

“What kind is that?”

“The kind that can't be explained to nobody but Jesus.”

I had my belongings together, and there was no reason for me to continue sitting there. But I did not want to leave. This woman was a complete stranger to me, but there was a knowing about her.

I had never talked to anyone about RiChard. All of a sudden I wanted to tell somebody everything.

“My husband is . . . was—” I began again, but Mother Jefferson patted my hand.

“Don't start that story now.” She rubbed the back of my hand. “It's too big of a tale for this itty-bitty sofa. And you're not even sure where to begin.” She reached for the pen and paper that were still in my hand. Under the word
runaway,
which I had written moments earlier, she wrote down an address.

“I'm home all day most days. Come over anytime. No need to call. I'll be there. When you figure out what it is that you need to tell somebody about your husband, just come over and we'll talk and pray.” She pressed the paper into my palm and folded my fingers down on it.

A horn beeped outside the door, and I saw a white SUV parked by the curb.

“That's my ride, dear heart.” She stood to her feet. “What is your name?”

“Sienna. Sienna St. James.”

“Okay, Sienna. I'm going to be praying for you. And also for your fourteen-year-old son. Just come visit me when you're ready.”

As Mother Jefferson walked out the door, a mild breeze blew in.

I felt it.

A soft wind of hope rustling back into my life.

I wanted to inhale, but finding breath was still difficult in the wake of so many unanswered questions.

The day was halfway over, and I still had not made it to one of the main places I'd wanted to return to since yesterday. I was determined to find out who had requested that I not see Dayonna. The Monroes were a closed door, so I headed straight back to the hospital.

“For whom are you looking?”

What a loaded question.
I had to shake my head at the chirpy receptionist, who once again pecked away at her computer keyboard.

“I need to see a manager,” I said.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked, repeating what had been her first words when I approached her desk.

“Yes, you can send out a manager. I really need to talk to someone in administration.”

“I am in administration, and I would love to assist you.” She stopped talking for a moment and looked up at me. “Weren't you here yesterday?” She raised an eyebrow in disapproval.

“Yes, I was, and that is why I am back. I am a social worker with Holding Hands Agency, and I, I mean,
we,
have a client who is currently hospitalized here.” I could not claim Dayonna as mine anymore. “Her name is Dayonna Diamond. I am not asking to see her. I already know that my name is on a list of people who are not authorized to see her. I just want to find out who asked that my name be put on that list.”

“Usually restrictions are requested by—”

“I know. Parents or guardians or hospital staff.” I was not trying to be rude, but I could feel my frustration level rising.

Somebody somewhere was going to give me answers.

Today.

“You informed me of that policy yesterday.” I softened my voice and threw a smile back on my face. This woman, as all receptionists were, was my gateway to the facility's powers that be. I did not need to burn a bridge. I needed her help. “I'm just wondering if I can find out who made that request so I can make sure I'm doing my job correctly. I promise I am not trying to cause problems for you or anyone else.”

She liked my last sentence. I could tell because she resumed her happy keyboard pecking.

“Ms. Rose, I am glad to hear that you are not trying to cause any problems, because truthfully, I am prohibited from disclosing any information about a patient's care to someone who is not authorized to receive it. As a professional, I'm certain you can both understand and appreciate my responsibility for patient confidentiality.”

“I'm sorry, but did you just call me Ms. Rose?” I struggled to remember why that name sounded vaguely familiar.

Perky girl scrunched up her face and began typing faster. “I'm sorry, but isn't your name Crystal Rose?”

“No, I am Sienna St. James.”

“Oh, I see you. There were two people who tried to visit yesterday who were on the restricted list, and your name was just below my cursor.” She squinted at her computer monitor.

Crystal Rose.
I had heard or read that name recently. I was sure of it.

“Okay, thank you. May I please speak with a manager?”

This time my question elicited a loud sigh from the receptionist.

“Look, my supervisor—shoot, even the hospital president—is not going to be able to give you any further information about any patient in our care. I don't know what else to tell you.”

We both stared at each other. Maybe glared is a better word. I guess I had the fiercer eye, because she finally relented.

“The best thing I can tell you to do is to contact your client's DSS worker. She may or may not have been here yesterday.” The receptionist looked at the doorway behind her, which led to an administrative suite, and began typing again.

I could tell I had just been dismissed.

And helped.

 

 

I pulled out my workbag from the trunk of my car and sat down in the driver's seat, windows down. A soft, cool breeze filled the warm interior of my Chevy Aveo, and I was reminded of the gentle wind that had rushed over me as I watched Mother Jefferson leave Second Zion.

I was getting closer to Hope.

I felt it.

I sifted through the stacks of papers that filled my heavy workbag until I came to the notepad where I'd written tidbits from Dayonna's file days earlier.

Deirdre Evans. The DSS worker who had been assigned to Dayonna during the five months missing from her paperwork and also the DSS worker who'd visited Dayonna the day before.

I remembered seeing her name on the sign-in sheet, just under the Monroes'.

I dialed information and got the main phone number for Baltimore's Department of Social Services. I'd learned my lesson. No more calling people's contacts, ex-boyfriends, or former foster children. Any information I got a hold of now was going to come from my own research and efforts. I dialed the number and pressed through the computerized menu until I reached an operator. I requested the foster care division in my most professional, no-nonsense voice. I did not need any unwarranted questions anymore while on my mission. Finally, I reached an employee index that allowed me to spell out a worker's last name to get to his or her extension.

It took all of twenty minutes, but finally, finally, the extension for Deirdre Evans began to ring.

“Hi. You've reached Deirdre Evans. I am either away from my desk or on another call right now. Please leave a message and I will get back to you within twenty-four business hours. Thank you, and have a productive day.”

When the beep came, I had my message prepared.

“Good day, Ms. Evans. My name is Sienna St. James, and I am with Holding Hands Agency. I wanted to talk to you about one of our clients who I know you visited yesterday at Rolling Meadows Mental Health Center. Please give me a call back at your earliest convenience. I have some questions that I believe you will be able to assist me with.”

I rattled off my contact number, but as I hung up the phone, I realized that I'd just left my home number–and not my cell phone number—on Deirdre's voice mail.
Oh, well.
I was not going through that twenty-minute exercise to leave another message. I decided to simply check my home voice mail often to see if she returned my call.
Or better yet,
I thought,
why not just go home now and not even miss her call?

It made sense to me. I was tired. I wanted a chance to turn my brain off and relax. Just thinking about the sanctuary of my bedroom loosened my tight shoulders. I shuffled the notepad and loose papers together in my lap to make one neat pile. Just as I started to put all the papers back into my workbag, a name jumped out at me.

Crystal Rose.

I'd written down her name just the other day. She was Dayonna's mother.

And, according to the receptionist, she had visited the hospital the day before in an attempt to see Dayonna. Like me, she had been denied visitation.

What was going on?

His shoulders were not slumped; his back was not slouched. He walked toward the village with pride and confidence, though his hands were bloody.

His hands were bloody.

That was all I could see.

The other villagers wept and moaned when they learned of Kisu's death at the hands of men who did not appreciate his and RiChard's message. He'd been beaten and stabbed, and his prized lion's head ring stolen by his attackers, RiChard said. The two had, under RiChard's lead, gone to neighboring villages to try to round up support for a political protest.

I remember seeing Kisu's mother, shaking like a leaf trembling in the wind. There were no tears on her face, no sounds coming from her mouth. She just shook. Her husband, the aged and respected village chief, had the opposite response. He stood so still with his eyes closed, I recall thinking that if he had been lying down, one might believe he was dead.

Kisu's life had been ripped away violently, and his absence tore at the heart and soul of the village. He had been the first and sole university-trained son of his community. He had been their hope, their joy, their prize.

And he had been taken away from them because he'd joined along with RiChard. But that was okay, my husband reassured them. Kisu's death would outshine his life because he'd sacrificed himself in the name of social and political justice.

I remember standing there, feeling confused, angry even, that RiChard could continue standing there, rambling on and on about the fight, the cause, the righteousness of their battle, when all the villagers wanted to do was grieve.

But the blood on his hands.

That was what bothered me most.

After giving another speech on the sacrifices required for social justice, RiChard then announced that justice for Kisu's violent death had already been attained.

He had killed Kisu's attackers, he said. Ambushed them, fought them, killed them with his own bare hands. He detailed the bloody encounter without so much as blinking an eye or breaking into a sweat.

In all the time I had known RiChard, I'd always envisioned him as a man of peace, not as a murderer. But it wasn't murder, he assured us all; it was vengeance. He held up Kisu's ring as proof that he'd taken the lives of those who'd killed Kisu.

The village chief took the ring and studied the sunlight shining through the large blood-tinged jewels. I remember he mumbled something that no one could hear before kissing the ring and giving it back to RiChard as a reward for avenging Kisu's death. Both tears and cheers filled the village square as everyone crowded around RiChard to soak in his message and his method of fighting for whatever he said was right. No more questions were asked. As everyone clamored around him, I found myself being pushed farther back to the bare edges of the crowd.

The blood on RiChard's hands changed the way I looked at him, changed the way I looked at my life.

Sitting on my sofa, thinking about the lion's head ring, was not relaxing. That heavy, jewel-encrusted ring held memories of weeping and moaning; of murder and revenge; of my broken marriage; of my questions about life and meaning, justice and judgment; of my missing husband; of my devastated son.

I wanted some hot chocolate.

When I was younger, my mother would make homemade hot cocoa that was the perfect blend of bittersweet chocolate, creamy milk, and fluffy marshmallows. I thought about my mother and our upcoming Sunday dinner with Yvette and my nephew Skee-Gee.

Was there anything in my life that gave me peace?

A loud scratching noise at my door startled me. I jumped up from my sofa and grabbed a large cast-iron frying pan from my kitchen before peering out the peephole.

Officer Leon Sanderson.

“Leon?” I swung the door open and dropped the pan.

“Sienna?” He jumped back and looked at me with the same look of confusion I was giving him. “I wasn't expecting you to be home at this time of day. I was just leaving something here for Roman.”

I looked down and noticed for the first time a large plastic bag sitting by my door. I looked back up at him, still confused.

“Every now and then a corporation on a PR kick gives us extra funds to help with programs and supplies at the center,” he explained. “We're about to order a new shipment of games and activities for our elementary-school-aged kids, and I saw we had a little extra funds left over. I went out and bought some things for some of the older kids who I thought would benefit, as well. Roman was on my list.”

I reached for the bag and opened it. Inside was a brand-new basketball and a chess set.

“Roman can have these,” Leon continued, “but tell him he has to bring them along with him to the center at least once a week to share with the others there. Paying it forward. That's what I try to teach the young men and women I work with.”

“Wow.” I picked up the basketball and fingered the bumpy surface. “Thank you. I know Roman really will appreciate this, especially since he is grounded from doing anything that plugs in.”

We both laughed, though I noticed Leon was slowly backing away as he chuckled.

“No sparkly tooth today?” I gestured to his pearly white grin.

Leon sobered, licked his lips, pulled at his trimmed goatee. “No, no more gold cap.” He mused, “I wore it for a reason, and that was fine for that season, but at some point, you have to be able to move on from some things. Closure for me meant letting that cap go.”

His words lingered in the air as he stood with one foot on the landing in front of my door and the other on the first step down.

“Does closure always mean having to let go of something?” It was an honest question from me, which he did not answer immediately.

“I don't know. What I do know is that sometimes when we are able to let go of something that symbolizes what we're unhealthily holding on to—or what is unhealthily holding on to us—freeing ourselves from those objects tells us and everyone around us that we have really moved on.”

“You said your gold cap reminded you of your mission at the center. Something about your brother? Sounds honorable. Was that really something that you had to let go?”

He nodded his head, and a sad smile filled his lips. “I thought it represented my mission, that it reminded me of why I do what I do, but I realized yesterday, as we were searching for Roman, that it held another meaning to me, a darker motivation that has tried for years to be balanced out by good intentions, but it was there nonetheless.”

“What was that?”

“Revenge.”

He let the word settle in the space between us. I knew he had no idea of the emotional jolt I felt when he uttered that single word.

Leon broke our silence. “Don't try to understand it. It's a complicated story, my brother, that gold cap. Just know that I've finally learned my lesson from it. I've let it go, and no longer can my deeds meant to help others be colored in any way by wrong motivations. No need to try and save the world while your own soul is getting lost. That's why Jesus's sacrifice was so perfect. He was blameless. His motives were pure. Sorry to get all preachy on you. But that's where I've been the past twenty-four hours.”

“Life-changing week for you too, huh?” I smiled. I was not quite sure what else to say. Hearing Leon talk about Jesus felt a little strange to me. Yeah, and a little preachy.

“It will be okay, Sienna.” He shifted his feet on the steps. I felt uncomfortable too but could not quite put a finger on why.

“All right, Mrs. St. James. I'm off. Tell Roman to behave himself, or this old man will have to kick his butt in basketball again just to keep him in his place.” He smiled and was gone.

Lord, have mercy. That was a lot to take in.

Roman was exactly where he said he would be when I reached his school. His check-in sheet was initialed by all his teachers. I took him to Denny's, where we had breakfast for dinner. I listened to him talk about all his friends at school, which teachers were getting on his nerves, which video game he was going to play first when he came off of punishment. I drank my hot cocoa.

But all the while I was still trying to take it all in.