Losing Hope (25 page)

By 6:30
A.M
. I was dressed and ready for the day. I considered it a working day, since Ava had specifically told me to find out what I could about the Monroes and Dayonna. I had my work cut out for me and I was dressed the part, wearing a plain black pantsuit with a blue silk top and, of course, comfortable flat shoes. I'd eaten a simple breakfast of a banana and strawberry yogurt topped with granola. And, most importantly, I'd written down a list, a plan of action for the day.

I knew exactly where I was going and with whom I planned to talk.

My life had changed course last Tuesday, when the package from Portugal came in the mail and Dayonna's chart came into my hands. It was day six of the saga, and I was determined that I would not enter the next seven days with the same confusion that had defined the past week.

Today, I was going after it all.

Answers.

Conclusions.

I was moving on. I had hope, and it was moving me forward.

I pulled out my GPS the moment I got into my car. I rarely used it, and truthfully, I knew where most of the streets I needed were located. However, I wanted to be a good steward of my time today and figured that a satellite looking over me would not hurt.

Even more importantly, God looking over me would help.

“Jesus, please guide my steps today. Let me get all the information I need at this point in my life, and bring a peaceful resolution to everything that is concerning me.” The quick prayer jogged my memory about a verse I'd wanted to look up yesterday morning. I let out a sigh and reached for my grandmother's Bible, still sitting on its perch in the backseat window. The moment my fingers touched the ancient pages, I remembered where to find the verse. My grandmother had taught it to me when I was a child, visiting her home on Payson Street.

Psalm 138:8.

I read it aloud to encourage myself. “The LORD will perfect that which concerns me.” I was about to shut the Bible back up when the verse above caught my attention.
Though I walk in the midst of trouble, You will revive me; You will stretch out your hand against the wrath of my enemies
,
and Your right hand will save me
. Something about that verse gave me comfort and fear all at the same time. How often had I not picked up my Bible for that very reason? Reading some passages that were meant to encourage often had the opposite effect on me, reminding me that there was trouble to be had. Pain in the purpose. Sacrifice before redemption. Hurt before healing.

“But the LORD will perfect that which concerns me,” I reminded myself again, starting the engine and entering the first destination from my notes into the GPS unit.

It was still early in the day. Very early. I was hoping that the early hour would guarantee that someone would be home to answer the door.

I pulled up to the colossal row home on Druid Hill Avenue just before seven. Blocks away from the neighborhood YMCA, it was a narrow residence that billowed three stories above the street, much like the row homes that surrounded it. The intricate architectural details in the brick and arches told a story of a grand past dating back to the early twentieth century. I checked and rechecked the address, knowing that I was at the right place, but feeling like something was wrong.

The row house, like my sister's in Park Heights, sat in the midst of abandoned and vacant properties. Unlike my sister's abode, however, this home shined like a new penny. Obviously recently rehabbed, the marble steps gleamed in the new day's sun. The windows were vinyl replacement ones; the paint job, though somewhat aged, stood in stark contrast to the chipped and rotten horrors of the homes next door, most of which had boarded-up windows and doors painted over with graffiti and concert posters.

The doorway of this home led to a short hallway, I quickly discovered. Three unlabeled mailboxes were nailed to the wall, telling me that the three-story row home had been converted into a multifamily unit. A door was to the left of the mailboxes, and a staircase ascended to a dark unknown at the end of the narrow alcove.

I was studying the mailboxes when the door next to me swung open. A woman the color of worn khaki opened the door and bounded out into the hallway in a firestorm. She had a protruding forehead and tiny eyes that squinted upward. An MTA monthly bus pass was in one of her hands, and a set of keys dangled from the other.

“Come on! The bus will be here any second. You need to come now so you won't be any later than you already are!” the woman screamed into the darkened apartment.

“Go ahead! I'm coming. If I miss the bus, I'll just catch the next one. Shoot!” a young girl yelled back. I could smell pancakes and bacon, and I briefly wondered if my breakfast had been enough to sustain me for all the stops I planned to make that day. I smiled, trying to figure out what it was I wanted to say to the woman, who looked like she was about to bound down the marble steps to the sidewalk.

“Something sure smells good in there.” I tried.

The woman, I realized, had not noticed me standing there next to the mailboxes. She jumped, almost screamed, really, and it was probably good that she had only a bus pass and keys in her hand. Anything else and I probably would have been knocked down, the way she nearly swung at me.

“Who are you? Are you the new girl moving in upstairs?” She looked more than a little agitated at my presence.

“No, I, um . . .” I struggled with what to say. “Hi. I'm Sienna St. James. I'm a social worker with—”

“Oh, you're a social worker?” The woman immediately cut me off, backing away from me. “What you from? Child Protective Services? You must be looking for that lady that lives on the third floor. That's the one. We don't have no problems down on this level.” She stuck her head back into the apartment doorway. “Girl, come on! I'm about to leave you.”

“No, I'm not from CPS. I . . .”

It was no use. The woman obviously did not want to have anything to do with me. She hurried out the doorway to the street outside. I could see a bus stop a few yards from their front steps.

“Okay,” I sighed, trying to push down the frustration that was already threatening to take over my morning. Although I was not sure exactly what I was going to find at the first of the Monroes' previous addresses, I had expected that something would stand out. On Saturday I'd copied down all their prior residences listed in the chart, the same chart Ava had been reading through. I'd decided to go in chronological order, and this house on Druid Hill Avenue had been the first one listed in the Monroes' file. I wondered if the house had even been fully renovated when they lived there, if it had been one single house or the multiple-occupancy dwelling that it obviously was now.

“Horace is the best at fixing up old houses,” Elsie Monroe had bragged, beaming, during our first meeting. My guess was that the row house I was standing in had at one time probably looked just like the ones next to it: broken down, beaten down, and abandoned. I imagined that the renovations I saw were probably Horace's handiwork.

These were all speculations, I knew, but I had to come up with some kind of working theory to make this trip worthwhile.

I let out a sigh and headed for the exit, uncertain what else I was going to discover in this first trip of the day.
A waste of time!
I tried to convince myself otherwise. The woman I'd talked to, who was now standing at the bus stop, eyed me suspiciously and pulled her purse closer to her. I couldn't blame her. Although I'd identified myself, I was not displaying my badge, something I customarily did when I was out in the field. This woman did not know me from jack, and I, too, would be a little nervous about a stranger hanging around my front door.

I wanted to talk to her some more to attempt to explain the purpose of my visit, to find out if she had ever even heard of the Monroes. But I knew that was a hopeless task. Aside from the fact that this woman would probably not give me the time of day, I heard the loud diesel roar of an MTA bus churning down the street. The woman heard it too, pulling her purse tighter to her side, sneering at me, and letting out one final yell to the open doorway behind me.

“Dayshonique Emaleah Sapphire, get your butt out here! The bus is coming.”

I felt my jaw drop and my insides freeze as a girl of about sixteen or seventeen suddenly brushed past me, dashing down the steps, a zebra-print book bag bouncing off her behind.

“I'm coming, lady!” she shouted back, her voice raspy, with more attitude than the three words could even contain.

They were on the bus before I could even make sense of what had just happened, but in the quick second that the girl looked back at me, any doubts I had were completely erased.

Add about ten pounds, two years, and a bad case of acne, and that girl, Dayshonique Emaleah Sapphire, as the woman had called her, was the spitting image of her younger sister, Dayonna Diamond.

The bus roared away, leaving me coughing in a plume of black smoke.

I got back in my car immediately, punching in the address for my next destination. I wanted to get there before whoever was there left for school or work. My heart was pounding, not out of fear, but out of a knowing and a growing excitement. I took out the paper that Dayquon had given me on Saturday.

I took out an ink pen and put a check mark next to Dayquon's, Dayonna's, and Dayshonique's names. The GPS was telling me to turn right, so I obeyed and found myself heading for South Baltimore.

Highlandtown was one of those neighborhoods in Baltimore City that was in rapid transition. Long a community with residents of Polish and Greek ancestry, in recent years the area had become home to immigrants of a different culture and ethnicity. Countless families from South and Central America had begun forming their own community ties here. Now the barbershops, businesses, and carryouts that lined this part of Eastern Avenue reflected the change in cultural identity, with many signs and marquees written in Spanish. I drove a little ways down Eastern Avenue before turning onto a side street, where people of all shades and dialects were beginning their Monday morning routine. In this melting pot of countries and cultures, there were some African American families and households that dotted the neighborhood of tiny row homes. I saw one such family crowding into a cab right in front of the address to which I was heading.

A pretty young woman with a weave that extended down her back was half pushing, half tugging an entourage of small children into the cab. Two girls with neat pigtails hanging down their backs, fastened with brightly colored barrettes, waited inside. A little boy of about two or three kept acting like he was going to get inside the cab. He would take one step inside of it and then run back to the sidewalk, giggling the entire time.

The young mother did not share his amusement.

“Come on, Day-Day!” She chased after him, exasperation coloring her face. “We've got to go
now!
”

I had pulled my car to the curb behind the cab. I knew from my last stop that I probably had only seconds to make a connection. I hopped out of the car just as little Day-Day came rushing by. His mother, wearing high heels and leggings that tried in vain to contain her flabby legs, struggled to chase after him. I caught the mischievous youngster just as he passed.

“Thank you!” The woman gave a curt smile, barely looking at me as she grabbed him out of my arms.

“No problem,” I said, trying to follow her as she rushed to the cab, trying to see if I could get in any other words. My hustle was of no use; the cab sped off with the four occupants inside, leaving me alone in front of the house. I decided to knock on the door to see if anyone was home.

There was no answer, but confirmation of my suspicions still came. An envelope, what looked like a utility bill, was sticking out of the mailbox next to the front door.

It was addressed to Daynene Turquoise.

The oldest of the jewel-named sisters.

I pulled out my list and crossed out her name.

I had not had a conversation with a single person, but I felt like I was finally getting somewhere. Only 8:15
A.M.
, and I had already found two of Dayonna's sisters.

Sisters who, according to their brother, Dayquon, had never been part of the foster care system.

I still had two more addresses to go. Despite my success, I had a feeling that the rest of the day's journey would not be as simple. If finding Hope was just a matter of knocking on the right former door of the Monroes, I probably would have come across her already.

Which brought me to the obvious question.

What was the relationship between the Monroes and Dayonna?

Before I went knocking on anybody else's door, I wanted to get more clues to solve that puzzle.

I was heading back to church.

Mondays were usually a quiet day for Second Zion Tabernacle, or so I'd heard. Following days of classes, rehearsals, studies, and services, Monday was the church's weekend.

Not so today.

I'd already forgotten about the breaking scandal that had taken over Baltimore's airwaves.

The music director and the bishop's wife.

I realized as I pulled into the lot that I had been expecting the story to die quickly once somebody figured out the picture was doctored.

Or so the photo had looked to me.

From the number of television vans and the swarm of journalists set up on the asphalt surrounding the huge building, I could tell that this news story was not going to die a quick death.

I parked my car to the side of the lot and searched for a quiet entrance. There was a side door near a gathering of evergreen trees. With a speedy prayer that the door would be unlocked, and an even speedier trot to reach it unnoticed, I made my move and headed straight for it.

“Are you a member of this church?” A man in a dark suit who seemed to have jumped out of the bushes stuck a padded microphone under my mouth.

“No, I am not.” I raised my hand to cover my face and kept up my march toward the door.

Praise the Lord! The knob easily turned. But the news reporter was not done.

“What are your thoughts about this twisted turn of events here at Second Zion? Do you think it's true? Are you surprised at the alleged affair?” He beckoned for a cameraman to zoom in on me.

My first instinct was to turn away, but then a thought occurred to me. Whoever sent those pictures had done so, apparently, because I had been asking around about Hope. He or she wanted me to be quiet, and this was my chance to show that I was going to be anything but that.

My parents had raised a fighter, and I was married to a man who was willing to sacrifice it all for justice.

Even if I had not always followed through, it was in my nature to be bold.

I turned to face the camera full on. The news reporter smiled and motioned for the cameraman to keep taping. He just knew he was going to get a riveting statement.

“Truth always outshines lies, and no matter how dark the lies get, I will not be the one to lose or let go of Hope. I am on a mission to find Hope and to find answers, even if I have to get hurt in the process. I've been hurt enough, and I'm determined to find purpose in my pain.”

The news reporter frowned and motioned for the cameraman to turn away from me. He took over the shot with a plastered smile. “There you have it, folks. Community members are acknowledging that this scandal hurts their faith, and they will not let it go until they find some answers.”

“No.” I grabbed the microphone. “My faith is not broken. Indeed it's been strengthened as I wait to see how the Lord will shine and show Himself strong in this darkness. A Diamond's light can't grow dim and can be hidden only for so long.” I pushed the microphone away, leaving the news reporter looking both confused and irritated.

As for me, I marched through the side door, letting my own words be absorbed into my heart, soul, and spirit.

I had come a long way from the one-time college dropout who'd mistaken another person's dream for her own. I had come a long way from just last week, no longer satisfied with the monotony of my life and the seemingly unending, unsatisfying quest to rediscover myself, my own dreams, my own values.

My own plan of action.

In addition to coming a long way, I realized immediately, I had just come the
wrong
way.

As the door shut fast behind me and my eyes blinked to adjust to the dim light, I realized I was standing face-to-face with none other than the great and respected Bishop Vincent LaRue and his beautiful, smeared-upon young wife.