Losing Hope (7 page)

Clothes, trash, broken ceramics, and porcelain shards were everywhere. For the average person, this would have been an overwhelming mess. For the Monroes, whose home had their own version of a neat, cozy cottage feel, I knew this was disastrous.

And yet it was obvious that they still wanted her there.

After helping me lay a still sleeping Dayonna in her bed, Mr. Monroe helped clear a safe path down the steps and through the living room. We sat at the untouched dining room table to talk. The catastrophe of moments earlier had been contained to the living room and staircase.

“I guess Dayonna was the one who called you.” Mr. Monroe sighed and rubbed a hand over the wrinkles that lined his balding forehead. “My wife had just offered her one of her dolls, explaining that she gave one to all the foster children that come in our home. Then . . . well, then, Dayonna just went berserk. But we can handle it. We really can take care of her,” he asserted.

“She keeps saying that we're trying to kill her,” Elsie blurted out. “And that cabbage stew business! Have you ever heard such a thing?” The older woman nearly wept. For the first time I could recall since I'd met her, her voice sounded as frail and small as her frame. “Why is she saying all this? Are my dolls that disturbing?” She rested her head on Mr. Monroe's arm. He reached out his other arm and patted his wife's thin shoulders.

“No, sweetheart. Dayonna just needs some extra love and attention.”

And medication, as far as I was concerned.

“Listen,” I said, smiling at the love-filled couple, wondering if I would have a mate like that with whom to share my senior years. “I understand that you really want this placement to work, and I will do my best to support you. That is why I'm here. I need you to understand that.”

The pair grabbed hands, looking less like a seasoned older couple and more like two youngsters getting chided. I continued with my lecture.

“In the future, if Dayonna is having a meltdown, you need to let me know as soon as possible. Please don't wait until after your living room is pulverized. I believe that you are really dedicated to taking care of her, but that does not mean that you have to face challenges alone.” I remembered the new decor of their front porch. “What happened outside?”

“Last night.” Mr. Monroe's voice was barely above a whisper. “After church. Elsie cooked us a late dinner. Baked chicken, potatoes, and . . . and cabbage.”

“Say no more.” I sighed loudly.

“We keep a second set of porch furniture in the shed. That's what's out there now. She stabbed the other set through and through with a butter knife.” Mrs. Monroe shook her head. “It was bad. Our neighbor across the street, Everett, threatened to call the police with all the screaming and running around she was doing. But just as quick as it started, it ended, and she went up to her bedroom and went to sleep, like nothing had ever happened.”

I remembered the cinnamon-colored man sweeping across the street yesterday and made a mental note to check in with him at some point for his observations.

“We should have called.” Mr. Monroe glanced at his wife and cleared his throat. “But we've had such great success with all our foster children, and we could tell Ava Diggs had high hopes for us with this one. We did not want to look like we're failing.”

A loud noise, like a ceramic plate shattering against a wall, sounded on the floor above us. I forgot what we were talking about as a single scream pierced our ears.

“Sisssterrrr!”

“That's the other thing . . .” Mrs. Monroe let go of her husband's hand and looked at me nervously. “Do you know anything about a doll baby named Hope?”

The intake worker at Rolling Meadows Mental Health Center gave me a weak smile as she held out a clipboard filled with forms. I
DA MCKERNAN
was typed on her plastic name badge. I could tell from the way she kept checking the clock on the wall of the small admissions office that she was close to her lunch break or maybe even the end of her shift.

“You, or whoever, need to fill out all of these. I also need her medical assistance card.”

“Sienna,” Mrs. Monroe began again, “you really don't have to stay here for this. I've done this before with other foster children. I know the routine. I know you have other foster families to check on, and you've spent so much time with us already. Horace and I can handle it from here.”

I gave her a warm smile. “I know I do not have to stay, but I promised that I would be here for support.” Shoot, I'd been there to follow the ambulance and to witness the grand fiasco in the emergency room. The least I could do was hang around long enough to see which room Dayonna was going to be given.

I'd called 911 when the second round of throwing and screaming began at the Monroes. The doctors in the ER immediately agreed that the teen who came via ambo, on a restraining board, needed inpatient hospitalization. They'd had to drug her just to keep her from hurting herself or someone else in her out-of-control state.

“Um . . .” Ida, the intake worker, was still holding out the clipboard. “I'm not trying to rush you, but I do need someone to fill this out.” She looked back up at the clock.

“I can do it.” Mrs. Monroe took the forms and a seat. “Really, Sienna, you do not have to stay.”

“Okay.” She was right. I did have other clients to check on. “Just keep me updated. Please don't hesitate to call me anytime, day or night.” I handed her my business card, knowing that I'd already given one to the family before. Then I remembered something else.

“Mrs. Monroe . . .” I stopped before I went out the door. The elder lady was pulling out a plastic sandwich bag filled with Dayonna's insurance cards and other legal documentation, a bag I knew she'd gotten from Dayonna's social services worker when they first took the girl into their home. “To your knowledge, does Dayonna have my cell phone number?”

“I don't think so.” Mrs. Monroe had begun filling out the first form that would be added to the thick chart, which, I'd noted already, had Dayonna's name on it. “But if you've called our house from your phone, your number is probably on our caller ID.” Her pen stopped moving, but she did not look up at me. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, it's nothing, I guess. Just, well, the important thing is that Dayonna is here and will get stabilized to come back to your place.”

“Yes, she is in good hands.” Ida, the intake worker, tapped loudly on another clipboard. “You can always call if you think of any more questions.”

My questions were not for Ida. I started to tell her that, but she didn't have time and I didn't have time, so I decided to move on. I turned back toward the doorway and almost ran into Mr. Monroe, who was entering the admissions office after having parked their car.

“You're still here?” He looked at me and then at his wife. Was that concern or irritation on his face? I could not tell.

“She's leaving now, Horace.”

He gave a nod, seemingly satisfied with his wife's words and my quick wave good-bye.

Why was everyone rushing me out? I was only trying to do my job. I was halfway down the corridor, headed for the main exit, when a nurse poked her head out of a doorway across from the admissions office.

“Excuse me, ma'am?”

“Me?” I pointed to myself.

“Yes. Aren't you the social services worker that came in with the new girl?”

“Oh, I don't work for the Department of Social Services. I work for the therapeutic foster care agency that DSS contracted with to care for her.”

“Close enough. Can you come here to witness while we do her intake exam?”

She disappeared back into the room before I could answer. I had no choice but to take on the duty, remembering from past experiences that the mental health facility usually stripped new patients of most of their clothing upon admission to ensure that they did not have any weapons, drug paraphernalia, or any other dangerous or prohibited items before being escorted to the locked units.

The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was that it was freezing cold. Why they would have the temperature so low when they knew patients had to undress in here was beyond my understanding. The second thing I noticed was that Dayonna was awake, alert, calm, and unrestrained.

“Hi, Ms. St. James,” she chirped in that raspy voice of hers. “I like your shoes.” She grinned at me like we were crossing paths in the supermarket and not standing in the intake exam room of a psychiatric facility.

“Hi, Dayonna. How are you today?” I kept up the charade as she began disrobing.

“I'm good.” She smiled as she followed the nurse's directions to extend, then lift her arms. “On my next birthday I'll be fifteen. I can't wait until I get my learner's permit.” She giggled, and both the nurse and I exchanged glances, the same sly smiles on our faces. I knew the nurse had the same thought as I did. Wasn't any way this girl would be driving anybody's car anytime soon, if ever.

“Does your son have a car?” Dayonna giggled.

My smile froze. “My son?”

“Yeah. Why didn't you tell me you had a son when we first met? What's his name?”

“How did you know I had a son?” I kept the smile on my face only because I was not sure what other expression to make. First, she knew my cell phone number—though I still wasn't convinced that the extra husky voice at two in the morning was really hers—and now she knew I had a son? Was I in the twilight zone?

“I heard the Monroes say so. They saw you at church last night. What's his name? Can I meet him?”

I was speechless. I'd spent nearly the whole day with them, and not once had the Monroes mentioned that they'd seen me at their church.

“Okay, little miss lady.” The nurse handed Dayonna a hospital gown. “You'll have to wear this until someone brings you some clothes that match our unit rules. No buttons, zippers, or belts.” The nurse's attention turned toward me. “Thanks for your help,” she said and smiled.

Dayonna slipped the thin gown over her head and began following the nurse toward a door that led to another hallway.

“Dayonna, do you play with dolls?” I had to ask, figuring this was the safest place to broach the topic.

The young teen suddenly stood still, like her feet had become roots lodged into the linoleum floor. Her head turned ever so slowly to meet mine. Her eyes had taken on that familiar wild look. “I will tell you, just like I told them,” she said in a gruff whisper. “Hope is not a doll baby. Hope is my sister. They killed her and they know it and I will be dead next.” A low moan—almost a growl—began rising from somewhere deep in her chest.

“I'm sorry. You're going to have to go now.” The nurse spoke quickly to me in a calm but firm voice as she reached to press a button on the wall.

As I headed back down the corridor to the facility's main entrance, I could hear the nurse's page over the hospital intercom system.

“All available hands. Room two.”

Within seconds the empty hallway burst with activity as doors were flung open and workers in a rainbow assortment of scrubs flurried toward the room I'd just left. When I reached the revolving doors that would take me to the visitor parking lot, I took one last look at the chaos I had created behind me. It was during the last few steps I took in the circular doors that a lone figure caught my eye.

While everyone was running the opposite way, Mr. Monroe stood still, facing in my direction, staring at me.

A sneer filled his face.

Should I even try to make sense of it, the Monroes and Dayonna? Of course I could not. I wasn't even sure that I wanted to, nor did I have the time. After leaving the hospital, I squeezed in two quick visits with a couple of my other clients. I was supposed to see each of them only twice a month. Though I'd technically met my quota for Dayonna for the month, it was pretty clear that I'd be seeing her at least on a weekly basis, at least until she was stable.

I was almost back at the office to finish my paperwork when my cell phone started ringing.

Of all people, of all days, my sister. I loved my baby sis dearly, but she was one of those people who carried drama with her like a pocketbook—if it was not on her shoulder, it was nearby.

I answered the phone, anyway.

“Hey, Yvette. What's going on, girl?” I put my headset on so I could drive and talk at the same time.

“I know you better come get your son!”

Yvette was not one to waste words. No ‘Hello. How are you?' Just the usual immediate demand.

Except she had just said something about my son.

“What are you talking about? Roman came to your house after school?” Had I missed a call or a text from him? I did not recall Roman asking permission to go anywhere other than home, especially since I had not yet debriefed him about his afternoon with Skee-Gee, Yvette's eldest, yesterday.

“
After
school?” Yvette was just getting started. “Apparently, he did not even
go
to school today. And now he got
my
son bleeding.”

“Yvette, what are you talking about? Roman went to school today!”

“Humph. I hate to break the news to you, sister, but your little prince ain't perfect. All I know is you better come round here right now and get him. Punching and kicking my son? Oh no. I'm not having this.”

The line went dead.

I snatched my headset off and threw it onto the passenger seat.

“What is going on now?” I made a U-turn to head back toward I-83. Yvette lived in Park Heights, near the Pimlico racetrack—the lower end of Park Heights, to be exact. The part the tourists never see.

 

 

I pulled onto Yvette's street at about a quarter to four, suddenly aware that I had not eaten all day. The permeating scent of jerk chicken coming from a corner store a few blocks away did not help my cause. My stomach growled as I got out of my car and stepped over empty sandwich wrappers, soda bottles, and other free-floating trash that littered the sidewalks like flower petals down a bride's aisle.

My sister lived in the sole occupied house in a row of abandoned homes with her five children and one of their fathers. Tim, Thomas, T-Man? I forgot his name. He and I really did not get along. She lived here and like this not because she had to, but because she wanted to make a statement. She'd been saying since she was fifteen that she would never be the type of woman our mother wanted and groomed us both to be, and on that point she had succeeded. Yvette and I were polar opposites of the same shoelace—she was the chewed-up, raggedy end, and I the end that had been repaired with transparent tape.

For better or worse, we were tied together.

“It's about time you got here!” Yvette was standing on the porch. Two years my junior, she looked twice my age. I would never say that out loud. She'd had a rough go of it.

Mostly by her own choosing.

I bounded up to where she stood, careful not to trip on the crumbling cement steps. She stood with one hand on her wide hip. Her hair, some of which was hers, all of which was dyed bright blond, fell out of a hurried ponytail at the crown of her head.

“Where's Roman?” I demanded, not recognizing my own voice for the fear and anger that were mixed in it.

“The heck if I know,” Yvette snarled. “I fussed him out after what he did to Skee-Gee, and he stormed out of here 'bout fifteen minutes ago. When you can't take the heat, you gotta get out the kitchen.” She swatted at a fly and crossed her arms.

I looked up and down the desolate street and saw no sign of my son. My heart started beating a little faster. Roman was not a child of the streets.
God, keep my baby safe till I find him!

“What did he do to Skee-Gee?” I had to stay calm. My sister was riled up enough, and I needed more details before she really let loose.

“Sylvester Tyese Grantley the third, come here!” Yvette did not bother to turn her head or move as she yelled for her son. After a few seconds, my fifteen-year-old nephew plodded out the front door, the screen door slamming shut behind him. He had a black eye, a bloodied nose, and a half-inch scrape above one of his eyebrows.

Despite all that, he had his usual idiotic half grin on his face. “Hi, Aunt See.” He leaned against a porch post as he greeted me with his personal nickname for me. I hated when he called me that, and he knew it.

“What happened? Where's Roman? He didn't go to school today? What's going on?” I had too many questions to stick to only one. Skee-Gee's smile only widened.

“Roman called me last night, talking 'bout he had to show me something. Talking 'bout some dumb ring his dad gave him from Africa. I told him it wasn't real, and so we were going to meet up today 'cause he was gonna show me it. That's all.”

“That's all?” I looked from him to Yvette.

“Tell her the rest, Sylvester.” Yvette glared at me.

“Well, he came over here, and when he showed it to me, I asked him if I could hold it.”

“Okay, I'm still waiting to find out what happened.” My foot patted the ground.

“Well, he wouldn't let me hold it.”

“So . . .”

“So I thought I would teach him a lesson about how you supposed to treat family and not put dumb jewelry before your own blood. It took all day, but he finally put it down to play with my DS when we came out here on the porch. When he went inside to the bathroom, I hid it under this brick right here.” He pulled out a loose brick from the side of the tiny row home.

“Yvette, where is my son?” My patience was completely gone.

“Let Sylvester finish, please.”

So now he's Sylvester and not Skee-Gee?
I wanted to roll my eyes at both of them, but I held my tongue. I needed to know what happened.

“Well, when he came out the bathroom and didn't see the ring, he started hollering and screaming at me. I told him he needed to calm down and back up off of me. But he didn't listen. Instead, he came at me swinging.” At this point, Skee-Gee stepped away from his post on the porch and began a live demonstration. “He put his arm out like this, see? Then I put my arm out like that, right? Then I made pretend I was going to punch him, and at first he stepped back. But then he got back in my face and banged me.” Skee-Gee grinned and pointed at his bloodied nose as if he'd just won a trophy. “But I ain't no punk. I ain't gonna let nobody beat on me, especially no little cousin who gonna put a ring over his own family.”

The ring came from family. I was at my boiling point with this, breathing hard but determined to stay calm until I got the information I needed to find my son. “So what did you do?”

“Wait a minute,” Yvette cut in. “Did you just hear what your son did? Why—”

“Hold on. Let me finish, Ma.” That smile was still on Skee-Gee's face. I wanted to smack it off. “Like I said,” he continued, “I ain't gonna let nobody mess me over. I don't care who you are. So I took that little fake ring and threw it as far as I could. It went out over across the street.” He pointed at the litter-filled vacant lot that completed the lovely view from Yvette's front porch.

“Just so happened that Bootman and his boys—you know they in a gang, right?—was standing over there. They picked up the ring, flashed a gun at us, and went on about their business. Fool Roman was about to run after them and say something, but I held him back. Ain't no need on getting killed over that stupid ring. Anyways, Bootman and his boys went that way.” He pointed to the left. “And Roman took off this way.” He pointed to the right, then sat down on the porch wall and poured half a bag of sunflower seeds into his mouth, seemingly satisfied with his tale of breaking my son's heart.

No words could even . . . I looked at Yvette and wanted to . . . Swirls of colors flashed.... Was I in a cartoon? Reality?

“Wait a minute, Sienna!” Yvette was yelling at my back as I marched to my car. “What are you going to do about your son beating on mine?”

My foot was already on the accelerator when I put the car in drive. Usually more cautious when on one-way, narrow streets, I zoomed within inches of cars parallel-parked on either side of me. But I could care less. My eyes were only on the sidewalks, the stoops, the bombed-out-looking vacant porch fronts that lined the street. My mission was to find my son.

Seven blocks down. Roman. Sitting alone on someone's steps. His head was down; his shoulders slumped. His unused backpack thrown at his feet. I parked five cars away from him, the closest I could get. He did not hear me coming.

“Roman.”

My fourteen-year-old son looked up at me. A single trail of snot hung from his nose. With no words, he stood to his feet, swinging his backpack up on his shoulder. We walked in silence to the car. He got in. I got in. A full eleven minutes ticked by before I started the motor.

We were almost home when I finally spoke, the only words I could say, the only words I knew he could handle at the moment.

“That ring survived a deadly battle, a tragic tsunami, and God knows what else. We'll get it back, Roman. We'll get it back.” I looked over at him.

One corner of his bottom lip quivered, but the snot was gone.