Losing Hope (23 page)

“You.”

The single pronouncement stung like a single slap; the accusation in her tone sizzled with pure disgust.

“Yvette, let's start this off right. We came to help our sons make peace.” I did not even know why I'd bothered with my mother's proposed solution, other than to make sure I got a take-home plate of her dumplings. I was beginning to wonder if the savory poultry stew was worth all this drama.

I just had to endure it.

And then take my foil-covered plastic plate home.

“What are you doing here?” My sister's venom still spewed. She had not moved from the doorway.

“Yvette, why are you . . .” It was only then that I realized she was not staring at me.

Leon.

“Ma, what's the holdup?” Skee-Gee asked from behind her. He looked ready to push her the rest of the way through the door.

But she still did not budge.

“Sylvester, we are not going into this house. Not while the man who is responsible for your father's death is standing in there.”

“Who the—” Skee-Gee began, but Leon cut him off.

“Sylvester Tyese Grantley the third, you look just like the second. I've been wanting to meet you . . . you both . . . for some time.” Leon seemed completely oblivious to the hatred oozing out of Yvette's eyes. Tears were filling up in his own.

“What are you doing here?” Yvette asked again, this time her voice a hoarse whisper.

“Teaching your son and Sienna's son a lesson about forgiveness.”

“You can keep your lessons and your lies to yourself. Come on, Sylvester.” She turned back toward the porch.

“No,” Leon demanded. “This needs to happen. For you. For me. For Sienna. For your sons.”

“I ain't stayin' for this.” Yvette grabbed Skee-Gee by the elbow and started down the walkway.

“I never lied. I was undercover.” Leon's voice cracked.

“I was just trying to figure out who killed my brother. Everything went wrong. And when he pointed the gun at me . . . Well, you know what happens when someone doesn't put down their weapon when surrounded by cops.”

“Sly did not kill your brother,” my sister huffed as she spun back around. I tried to remember the loose details surrounding the death of Skee-Gee's father years ago.

Yvette had never talked much about her first love. In that regard, we truly were sisters.

“Sly betrayed my brother Lewis.” Leon's gaze was intense. “Set him up. Sly didn't pull the trigger, but he might as well have. Lewis was beaten up so badly before getting shot, my grandmother only recognized his gold tooth.”

“Sly did not pull the trigger on your brother, but you pulled it on Sly.” Yvette crossed her arms, her eyes narrow slits.

“No. I didn't.” Leon's arms were raised as if in surrender. “Another officer's bullet was the one found in Sly's heart. I didn't do it, but I've spent most of the last decade and a half wishing I did. And that's just as wrong.”

Yvette shook her head as tears streamed down her face. “Why are you here?” she demanded again.

“I came tonight to tell you, to tell Sly's son, that I have forgiven his father. Not because he deserved it—because he
did
set up my little brother—but I need to be free. Both Sly and Lewis have been dead going on fifteen years. At some point, I can't let the pain control my life anymore. Forgiveness. That's all. It's not that I will forget or even understand what happened, but I need to be free, and forgiving is the only way to that. Now, Roman and Sylvester, I know you're fighting over the missing ring, but I think it's deeper than that. That ring stands for something missing in both of your lives. Your fath—”

Roman was nearly airborne as he lunged and landed on Leon.

“Shut up! Don't talk about my father! He is not missing. He is coming back, and you need to leave my mother alone!”

My son was all fists and tears and yells as everyone except Yvette and Skee-Gee grabbed him to pull him off of Leon.

Within seconds, my father was holding Roman back by the arms, and Leon was wiping a stream of blood off his bottom lip.

“See?” Yvette sucked her teeth. “That's exactly how Roman beat on my son. Y'all always acting like everything Sienna do is perfect, and she can't even control her own child. And where is
her
husband? Ya'll can say what you want about me, but everyone knows where all my children's fathers are. Only death or jail could keep them from being here for me and my children.”

Skee-Gee joined the verbal assault. “And why ain't you shooting up Roman? He just jumped you and banged the mess out of you, and all my father did was look you in the eye man-to-man and you unloaded your gun.”

I wanted to say that according to Leon's story, Sylvester's father had a pointed and loaded gun in his hand at the time of his death; that Leon did not kill him; that Skee-Gee had not been born yet when it happened; that I was a good mother; that my son was hurting; that RiChard had told me he loved me . . . that he had blood on his hands; that I was tired of hurting, of crying in my room, of pretending, of going through the motions, of living life with no joy, no purpose, no hope of feeling like I could ever truly recover from the decision I'd made back in 1994 to chase a man around the world who was never running toward me.

The whole week piled on top of me. The whole week,
the whole past seventeen years
. Everything piled on top of me, and then I realized I was crying.

Sobbing.

“I'm sorry, Sienna. I only wanted to help. I'm sorry.” Leon's voice sounded distant, and I realized he was standing outside.

Leaving.

Yvette and Sylvester were already gone.

My father had disappeared into the basement with Roman.

All that was left was me, my mother, and her serving platters sitting cold on the dining room table.

“Let Roman stay the night here. Your father will calm him down. Go home, Sienna. Go home and get yourself together. Roman does not need to see you like this. He can stay here, and we'll make sure he gets to school tomorrow.”

“Mom, RiChard—”

My mother abruptly raised her hand. “I don't want to hear about it. About
him.
” She shook her head firmly and pressed her lips tightly together. “Go home, Sienna. Get yourself together. I don't want to hear anything else about . . . it.”

I still don't remember walking to the door, but somehow I did. I know I did, because I was standing on my mother's front porch, staring back at her, when she finally uttered the words I'd been waiting to hear from her since the day I returned from my last trip with RiChard, the one to KwaZulu-Natal.

“Sienna, I told you so.”

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope
.

I had started my Sunday by reading and rereading those words in Jeremiah. The day had begun with promise, a sweet reprieve from what had been a difficult week. I had wanted to believe that the words were meant for me, to encourage my spirit, to sustain me.

Now, alone in my house, I sat on the sofa, reading the words again, wondering if the message in them was really meant for me. I couldn't even say that questions filled my mind. Just facts.

My son was hurting in places I had not realized.

Leon was hurting in ways that he had never disclosed before tonight.

My parents were probably hurting. Yvette was hurting. Even Skee-Gee in his own way was hurting.

All this hurt in the world and what was there to do about it?

RiChard had tried to do his part but had left only more pain in his wake.

Was it even possible to be a vessel of healing without there being hurt involved? I thought about Leon, and how he had wanted to use his story to help Roman. He'd meant well, but everything had collapsed and quickly.

“Where is this hope, Lord? And this future? Who is it for?” My lips were cracked and dry, telling me that my tears had left me dehydrated.

“Is there really hope for me? My life feels a mess.”

I thought about Jesus, how he died to bring healing to the world. But hurt had still been involved. He
died.

Leon's words from the other day came to mind.
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.

But didn't RiChard have a pure heart? Weren't Leon's motives right?

I thought about all the work I had done as a social worker so far, the people I'd tried to help, the children I'd tried to protect, the vulnerable I'd tried to shield. I'd always put in my best efforts, as did most of the other social workers I'd been privileged to work with and under.

And yet burnout still came.

Hurt still surfaced.

I was tired of thinking about it, of trying to figure it all out. I crashed back into the cushions of my sofa. With nothing better to fill my time or my head, I grabbed the remote and clicked on the television.

“Great. Just the thing to cheer me up. The evening news.” I pulled the sweatshirt I was wearing down to my knees and reached for the last of the warmed-up chocolate chip cookies Leon had brought over the other night.

A few days ago I could not get the man out of my house. Now I could not get him out of my mind.

And now, judging by the way he seemed to back up automatically anytime I was near, he seemed intent on staying as far away as possible.

I let the chocolate morsels glide over my tongue, finding solace in the bittersweet flavor. I curled into the corner of my sofa, ready to camp out in my living room for the night with my cookies and my cable TV.

“And back to the breaking news we reported at the top of the hour.” The newscaster looked intently into the camera. “A local mega-church has been rocked by scandal with the release of pictures suggesting an affair between the music director, Tremont Scott, and the pastor's young wife, Marcie LaRue.”

I jumped to full attention, turning up the volume and moving closer to the flat screen as blurred images of the snapshots Tremont had been e-mailed yesterday filled the screen, followed by still shots of the mega-ministry building.

“Oh, no.” My hands covered my mouth as I watched the remainder of the report in horror. The news anchor explained that the photos had been submitted anonymously. Though I was certain it was only a matter of time before it was proven that the pictures had been manipulated, I knew the damage had already been done.

I had known this was a possibility, but I had never imagined it would come to pass.

Was this my fault? For searching for Hope?

I had tried to leave it alone. I had tried to ignore the questions that had arisen. Someone had tried to warn me and those around me to stop pursuing Hope.

But now I felt like it was up to me to expose the truth, whatever it might be.

Someone meant to quiet me, but they'd only lit a fire. And the fact that the church had been targeted was significant. Perhaps it wasn't me they were worried about. Special care had been taken to discredit the ministry of Second Zion, and especially Tremont Scott.

She had to exist. I was sure of it. Why else would anyone go to great lengths to hurt so many people?

I stood to my feet, paced the room, bit what was left of my pinkie nail. It was late, but I had to do something. Fast. I thought I would come up with some master plan, but whoever the master planner was behind this was quicker than me.

The story had not aired more than five minutes ago, and my cell phone was already ringing.

“Sienna.” It was Tremont Scott, and he sounded out of breath. “Who have you talked to? We need to figure this out.”

“Wait,” I responded. “First, tell me where you are.”

There was an unmistakable pause. When Tremont spoke again, he was whispering. “I can't really get into it right now, but I think you were on to something when you began to suspect that the Monroes are hiding secrets.”

“I know they are with you. You picked them up today and took them somewhere. Along with Dayonna.”

There was another pause, this one lasting longer than the first.

“Okay, you're right. They are with me. But things are more complicated than I realized. I will fill you in on everything, but I really don't want to do so over the phone. I'm going to give you a call sometime tomorrow with an address where we can meet. Until things blow over with these photos, I'm going to be keeping a low profile. Bishop's orders. I'm sure you understand.”

“I do.” But there was so much I didn't.

“Good. I will call you sometime tomorrow. And the whole truth, at least what I know, will be put out there on the table for you and for whoever else needs to know.”

We hung up, and I was too tired to figure out what had just happened in that phone call. What I did know was that I could not wait for someone to explain to me what was going on. Something Tremont had said jumped out at me.
Who had I talked to
?

Though I had not even whispered Hope's name or added anything else about Dayonna, there was somebody who knew that I had been trying to get more info.

Ava Diggs.

 

 

It was almost midnight, but I headed over, anyway. I had been close to Ava for years, and this would not be my first late-night visit to her home in Towson. There had been two other times. The first was when I thought I was going to have a mental breakdown trying to balance a full-time class load and a full-time job working for the state's food stamp program. The other time had to do with Roman and an issue he was having with his eighth grade teacher that was driving me crazy.

This time I just wanted answers. She had to know something. Or at the very least, she had to know there was something that needed to be found out about the Monroes. Earlier that day both she and I had been looking through their chart. I knew why I was.

Now I wanted to know why she was.

The breaking news story told me that someone did not want me after them and that I was getting close.

Towson, a liberal, affluent, college-oriented suburb known for its high-end mall and growing city center, was about fifteen minutes east of me, just off 695. Ava lived in a small enclave of homes that made up one of the oldest African American communities in the county, East Towson, a residential area that bordered downtown Towson. A tiny AME church and a community center known for its affordable summer youth camp sat near the ninety-year-old, renovated Cape Cod Ava called home. Brilliant chrysanthemums in shades of orange, yellow, and red graced the steps that led to the huge wraparound porch, which held a porch swing and several potted flowers.

I rang the doorbell and was surprised that of all people, Sheena Booth answered.