Losing Hope (19 page)

“Thanks for offering, but for confidentiality reasons, I'm really not supposed to disclose any names or personal information. I've probably said too much already. Plus, I'm not sure that there's any danger to be found. Everyone else thinks that this girl is making up this story about having a sister, whether by intention or delusion, reasons unknown.”

“Everyone else?” Leon quizzed.

“Yeah. My supervisor, her foster parents, shoot, even her own brother, who also spent years in the system, claim there is no sister named Hope.”

“You met her brother?”

“This morning. I kind of tracked him down near Greenbelt.”

“You tracked him down? You really are getting deep into this situation. If there is a girl named Hope that has been hidden all this time, someone is not going to like your attempts to expose her—or them. I'm not comfortable with the idea of you going at this alone. Is this really something you should be handling?”

He reached out a hand and rested it on top of my arm. I could have melted under the warmth that permeated my shirtsleeve. I looked away to keep from feeling like a fool under his intense gaze. That was when I noticed that the young woman who'd directed me to the basketball court when I first arrived at the center was staring intently at us. Her book was closed in her hand, and a slight frown pulled at the bottom of her too-bright-for-daytime lips. I looked down at Leon's hand on my arm, feeling silly for being so aware of the warmth of his touch. He must have picked up on my discomfort, because he immediately dropped his hand and took a half step back.

“Leon, I appreciate your concern. To be honest with you, I don't know why I feel so compelled to keep pursuing it.” Of course I knew a little of the reason why, but how would I even begin to explain my quest for reclaiming the hope that was missing in my own life?

“I admire you, Sienna, for your dedication. I just want to make sure that, like your son, you are safe from anyone who would mean you harm. Like Roman, I don't want you charging headfirst into a situation that could leave you hurt in any way.”

At the mention of Roman's name, I looked back over at him.

He was looking at me and Leon.

He had the same look of displeasure on his face that I'd had on mine when I first saw him with the swarm of girls, who were still giggling and chattering around him. Leon still had not noticed.

“Again, thanks for your concern, Leon. If I ever do begin to feel unsafe, I'll let you know.”

“Yes, please do.” He fished inside his wallet and pulled out a card. “Listen, I understand about the whole confidentiality thing, but if there is anything that I can help with, or if at any moment you feel like you are in danger, get in touch with me right away. Don't even consider not doing so.” He pressed the business card into my hand. It listed his business, cell, and work numbers. Twenty-four/seven access.

As he passed me his card, I could almost feel the fire breathing down my neck. Book girl, with the overdone makeup, actually had a snarl on her face. Her novel lay on the counter beside her. My son was frozen in the middle of the girl swarm, a solid rock in moving waters. The girls were beginning to notice his distraction, making all of them amp up their efforts. One girl, wearing tight blue jeans and a shirt that fit her like a latex glove, actually stretched her body along the length of the sofa that faced the video game console and propped one of her legs all the way up on top of the cushions.

That got Leon's attention.

“Young lady, please respect yourself and everyone else around you. Sit up and sit correctly,” he demanded. “Ms. Patricia, can you please help our young sister with her sitting skills.”

Book girl, or Patricia, as Leon had just called her, jumped into action with a smile too big for the situation, clearly pleased that he'd called on her for assistance.

“All right, Sienna. We'll talk again soon.” He walked me over to where Roman stood, fuming.

“Are you still coming to Sunday dinner?” My question sounded innocent, but that was far from what I felt.

“That's right. I'll be there to help with the talk between Roman and his cousin Skee-Gee.”

If looks could kill, I'd be dead twice. Neither Roman nor Patricia looked pleased with Leon's plans.

Or my smile.

As Leon walked away to break up a small squabble between two five-year-olds fighting over a crayon box, I was daydreaming about what outfit to wear on Sunday.

What was wrong with me? This was Leon Sanderson, for goodness' sake.

Roman was quiet in his seat. That was fine with me. I really had nothing to say. All I wanted to do was go home, sit in the quiet of my bedroom, and try to figure out where my life had made a wrong turn, to the point of me going on a mad hunt for something or someone that might not even exist but had caused damage to my car. How did I even explain the rock through my window to my insurance company?

I could feel myself losing Hope.

“Mom . . .” Roman's voice was barely audible. “You said you were going to talk to me about Dad.”

“Yes, we'll talk soon.” My voice beat his in the weakness category.

We were ten minutes away from home when my cell phone began ringing.

“Sheena?” I answered without a hello. My office mate never called me unless it was lunchtime at work and she knew I was at Chipotle.

“Sienna, I don't know what you are up to, but you really need to stop before you get a bunch of people in trouble! This is getting out of control, and you need to rein it back in.”

I could feel my face contort in irritation and confusion; old-fashioned attitude crept up my spine. I did not like her tone.

“Wait a minute, Sheena.” I did my best to keep sounding Christian. “What are you talking about, and why are you raising your voice at me?” Like I said before, I come from a line of folk who aren't afraid of standing up when something isn't right.

Then why can I speak up in some areas of my life but not in others?
The thought pierced me more sharply than Sheena's pointed tone. Why had I never challenged RiChard?

The thought was a monumental one for me, but I had to stay focused on my current conversation. Sheena had just said something about a bunch of people getting in trouble because of me. What was she talking about? I had just asked her, and she was hurriedly giving me a response.

“I'm sitting here at the hairdresser's, under the dryer, minding my own business, when my cell phone starts lighting up with texts. I mean one after another, and none of them make sense. The first one said”—she paused, as if scrolling through her phone—“it said, ‘Tell her to leave it alone.' The next one said, ‘She better stop if she knows what's best for her.' Then the next one was, ‘Yeah, I got her number, but I'm telling you to make sure she listens.' And then there was one more. ‘I got pictures, and they are not pretty.' Well, anyway, I'm sitting there, trying to figure out what these messages are about and how to respond to them, when my phone rings, and it's Roland Jenkins—”

“Roland Jenkins?” I interrupted, trying to place the familiar-sounding name.

“Yes, Roland Jenkins, my contact down at DSS, whose number I gave to you the other day.” She sucked her teeth. “He calls me, screaming and shouting, telling me I better call you and tell you to stop harassing people, that you are messing with people's lives, jobs, and incomes.”

“Sheena, I honestly have no idea what you are talking about. What people?”

“Oh, he rattled off a long list, but all I heard at the end of it was
me.
Sienna, I'm not going to lose my job because of something you've done.”

“I assure you, I haven't done anything to jeopardize your livelihood—at least nothing that I know of. What list did he rattle off?”

“He said you were endangering him, you, Ava Diggs, and for some odd reason, he mentioned Second Zion Tabernacle and the citizens of Baltimore, and, like I said at the beginning,
me
. Well, he did not exactly say my name, but if something goes wrong with Holding Hands, that is going to directly affect me, and I'm not having it.” I heard what she said, but I was stuck on one thing.
Second Zion Tabernacle?
I was about to ask her more questions, but my cell phone buzzed, indicating I had another call coming through. I did not recognize the number, but something told me I needed to answer it.

“Sheena, I want to talk to you some more, because I want to figure out what is going on myself. Hold on a moment, though. I have another call coming through, okay?”

She hung up without saying good-bye as I clicked over.

“Hello?”

“Hello . . . Ms. St. James?” It was a man's voice, and I sensed trepidation in it.

“Yes?”

“So this is really you?” the voice continued, and so did the fear.

“Yes? Who is this?”

I heard a loud sigh on the other end. “Ms. St. James, this is Tremont Scott. I got your phone number out of an e-mail I just received.” He sighed again. “Can you please meet me at the church?”

“What's going on?” Now I was feeling nervous.
An e-mail? Who? What? Why?
The questions did not stop coming.

“I'd rather talk to you in person, if you don't mind.” He paused for a moment, then said, “It's urgent.”

I looked back at Roman, who was scowling at me from his seat.

Too many fires, too much drama for one day.

“Okay, I'm on my way.” I let out my own sigh, wondering where all this was heading. And where it all had started. Was trying to find Hope that dangerous?

“Great. I'll meet you in the foyer.”

He disconnected, and I did not even bother to call back Sheena.

Not yet.

I needed to know what hand of cards I'd just been dealt.

 

 

“Ma, why are we here?” Roman asked as I parked in an empty space in front of the humongous church. On a normal day I would have quickly put his tone and question back in check.

But this was turning out to be anything but a normal day. Week, really. For one, this was the most I'd been to church in one week, and that oddity was just for starters.

“I have a meeting. I'm sure there is something going on here that can occupy your time for a few moments.” I scanned the full parking lot, figuring that among the many programs and activities occurring that Saturday afternoon, at least one had to be dedicated to the youth.

“You have a meeting?” he asked, following my gaze to the attractive music director, currently pacing in front of the main entrance of the church.

“Yes, Roman, but we'll find something for you to do.”

His eyes narrowed as he looked back at me.

“No, Ma. I'm staying with you.” He looked back at Tremont as if he'd just spotted the enemy on a war field.

“I'm not arguing with you.”

“And I'm not leaving.”

I left him sulking on the sofa near the front door, the same cushy sofa I'd sat in the day before, next to that sweet older woman. I forgot her name, but I still had her address in my jacket pocket. I closed my eyes for a nanosecond, remembering the comforting wisdom and the calming presence she'd exuded. I recalled the quiet breeze that had come over me as she walked out of the edifice.
Hope
. I remembered thinking that I'd just felt the gentle inkling of it.

That had been only a day ago, but the way I was feeling, the way things were going, it might as well have been a lifetime.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Tremont murmured, clearly preoccupied as he led me down a long corridor. “We're heading to my office in the music department,” he explained, as if reading my mind.

I offered a weak smile, though inside I was terrified. Tremont's gaze was intense, and not in a comforting way.

“Okay, we're here.” He unlocked a door and let me enter the massive office suite first. It was a musician's paradise. A baby grand piano sat in the center of the room, surrounded by expensive-looking equipment and other, smaller instruments.

“Sometimes we practice in here, and I like to record our sessions to play them back and perfect them,” he offered in response to my awe at the elaborate setup.

He led me past the instruments and equipment to a smaller office in the back of the room. This space had the look of a more traditional office space, with a desk, a computer, and a couple of chairs.

One of those chairs alone looked more expensive than my entire living room set.

“This is your full-time job, right?” I could only imagine having an office like this to come to every day.

He nodded as he pointed to one of the seats for me to sit in. He took a seat behind his desk but then pivoted his flat-screen computer monitor so that it faced me.

“This is the e-mail I received less than an hour ago. Your name and cell phone number were attached.” He clicked on a mouse, and a photograph appeared.

I gasped and quickly shut my eyes in shame.

“Clearly this image has been digitally altered.” Tremont looked furious.

I looked away and nodded my head in agreement, not wanting to view the graphic photo defiling his computer monitor, but wholeheartedly agreeing that the photo had been doctored. It was a picture of him standing next to an unmade bed, locked in a sensual embrace with the first lady of Second Zion Tabernacle, the strikingly beautiful young wife of the revered bishop.

Bishop Vincent LaRue had been widowed nearly a decade ago and four years later had taken a new wife not less than twenty years his junior. Only a few eyebrows rose at the age difference, however. Marcie LaRue had long been respected as a mighty woman of God, wise beyond her years, striking in her beauty. Her grandfather had been a respected elder in another denomination and had gone on to have a highly rated television show on cable. The bishop and the first lady's union appeared to be a perfect and heavenly match, and scandal had never marred it.

Until now.

Just Tuesdsy I'd sat in the session Marcie had led on stress management. Good thing she knew something about the topic, because she was going to need it now. I shook my head.

Though I agreed with Tremont that the photo had somehow been manipulated, I knew that if it was released, the gossip and the rumors that would follow could be enough to bring down the entire congregation.

In this day and age of mega-ministry meltdowns and controversies, even a dead lighter could start a forest fire.

“What can you tell me about this?” Tremont glared at me, as if I had created the image myself.

“I have no idea, Brother Scott.”

“You've got to know something. Your name and phone number were attached as a separate document to this e-mail. Whoever sent it wanted me to call you.”

“Who sent it?”

He scrolled back up the e-mail and pointed. A series of random numbers and letters made up the generic e-mail address.

“I already tried to reply,” he explained, “and it bounced back. The e-mail address no longer is in service.” He collapsed back into his chair.

“Sister St. James, I have worked and prayed very hard to get to this point in my life. I'll admit my past is not one that you would think would lead to success in God's Kingdom, but that's the beauty of grace and forgiveness. It would probably not be impossible for someone to unearth a photo of me like this from way back when, but to now involve the first lady in a blatant attempt to discredit this powerful house of God means that we're fighting against someone who can't stand the things and people of God. This isn't just a fight against flesh and blood. The enemy of our souls is busy, and the fight has just stepped up a notch.”

“Brother Scott, I'm sorry that you're facing this. All I can tell you is that I've been getting clear messages that someone does not want me searching for a little girl named Hope.”

“Hope. Who is she?” He said the name as a statement, not a question, and something about that small detail resonated with me.

“The sister of one of my clients.” I decided to treat Hope as a fact too. Though I had no hard proof that Hope actually existed, the threatening note, the phone call, and now Tremont's e-mail were evidence enough to convince me that she was real to somebody.

“I'm assuming you're talking about Dayonna Diamond, the Monroes' new foster child. I remember meeting her after Tuesday night Bible study. The one you e-mailed me about earlier this week.” Tremont studied the computer screen again, as if some detail would suddenly emerge to make a connection between it and Dayonna. I saw tears in his eyes.

“I'm sorry. I never meant for anything menacing to happen to anyone. I was only trying to find Hope, and I was not even sure she really existed.” Seeing him look so vulnerable made me feel like crying too.

“What did Dayonna say about her?” He turned to me quickly.

“Ask the Monroes. I'm really not supposed to give out any details about my clients. Client confidentiality, you know. I have probably said too much already.” I wanted to tell him everything but was careful not to give exact names or data. The way things were going, I needed to make sure I was in the clear when everything finally came out on the table.

“I understand.” Tremont contemplated the matter. “One thing, though. Pay attention from now on to who you talk to about Hope. That way, if anything else happens, you'll be able to trace it back to someone.”

“So you think I should keep pressing the issue?”

“If there is a child involved and someone is willing to go to these kinds of lengths to keep her hidden, then, yes, definitely. As scary as this is, at some point we've got to trust that God is bigger. Righteousness and holiness will win out for His name's sake. If someone does want to create a scandal, we've got to believe that justice will prevail.”

The word seemed to echo inside of me, as if there was an empty, cavernous space, devoid of feeling, thought, or reason. Devoid of hope.

How often had I sought to define that word
justice?
And to hear it grouped with such powerful words as
righteousness
and
holiness
left me wanting to take some time to digest it all.

But we did not have that kind of time.

“Do you think we need to go to the authorities?” I asked him, surprised at how weak my voice was.

“I was just thinking about that, and also whether or not I needed to alert the bishop.”

My eyes widened at that thought, trying to imagine how I would explain to the larger-than-life pastor why his music director and his wife had been placed in a compromising situation, with my name and number attached.

“Look, Brother Scott, I don't want to make this a bigger situation than it needs to be. Let's wait until I can get more information before going to anyone else about it. I don't even know what's going on or who is trying to hide anything, and I want to be able to provide more than a hunch to the authorities . . . or the bishop.”

Tremont seemed to weigh what I was saying, and then shrugged. “Okay. We'll go your route for now, but I'm going to be praying and fasting on this one, because this is one of those situations that will require true divine intervention. I have your number, and you have mine. Let's stay in touch.”

He stood and so did I. As he walked me back to the foyer, a question came to mind.

“Brother Scott, do you know anything about Dayonna or her sister?”

“Why would you ask me that?” His eyes narrowed.

“Well, you weren't very forthcoming about the extent of your relationship with the Monroes, so I'm not making any assumptions about your knowledge about Dayonna. Maybe there is something the Monroes said to you when they told you about her that could help now.”

He stared at me a few moments before answering. “I was not very ‘forthcoming,' as you put it, about my relationship with the Monroes, because I did not think it was relevant. And to answer your question, no. I do not know anything about Dayonna Diamond, besides the fact that she is the Monroes' foster child, she's a handful, and she is currently in the hospital. That is all they've told me about her. That's it.”

“Okay.” I believed him. “But let me know if they share anything else with you.”

“Will do.”

We were back in the foyer.

“Good afternoon, dear hearts.”

“Oh, hello, Mother Jefferson.” Tremont threw on an instant smile and embraced the familiar information desk attendant. I had been so focused on my conversation with the music director that I had not realized we had stopped right next to the information desk and Ernestine Jefferson, the kind elderly lady who had helped me.

“I just talked to you yesterday, didn't I?” She winked at me. I could not help but smile back, though words escaped me.

“You know Mother Jefferson?” Tremont looked confused.

“We met yesterday as I waited for Marcie to come get me,” she answered for both of us.

“Marcie?” I finally found my voice. “As in Marcie LaRue, the bishop's wife?”

“Yes, dear heart. She's my granddaughter,” the handsome elderly woman replied with a smile.

I looked over at Tremont, suddenly understanding his confusion about my acquaintance with the first lady's grandmother. He was looking back at me.

With suspicion.

I had to get out of there.

“Okay, it was nice seeing everyone. I'm going to get my son and go.” I turned to leave, trying not to run toward my son, who was still sulking on the nearby foyer sofa.

“You still have my address, Sister St. James?” Mother Jefferson called after me.

I quickly smiled and nodded, walking away even faster. Tremont narrowed his eyes, the furrow between his brows deepening.

“Just remember, my door is open whenever you are ready to talk.”

Like that was going to happen. I remembered that Marcie LaRue's grandfather had been a respected elder with a highly rated TV show. And to think I wanted to talk to Mother Jefferson about my husband. There was no way she could come close to understanding my marriage to RiChard.

“Come on, Roman,” I said, beckoning my son. I could not get out of there fast enough as Tremont stared me down.

It did not help that Roman was staring him down right back.