Losing Hope (9 page)

I breezed through two client visits and walked into my office just before noon. Sheena spun around in her chair and looked at me.

“Girl, where have you been? Seems like I haven't seen you half this week.” The twentysomething-year-old looked like she had just stepped out of a hair and nail salon. Everything about her—even the way her costume jewelry matched the exact shades of blue of her blouse and high heels—looked like a lesson in detail.

I smiled, then started to answer her, but there was no point. She'd already turned back to her workstation and her Facebook page, which was up on her screen.

“Seriously, Sheena, do you ever get any work done?” I shook my head at her, and she rolled her eyes at me.

“For your information, Ms. St. James,” Sheena stated with mock attitude, “I'm all caught up. I doubt that you can say the same since you always seem to be trying to dig up more work than what's already in front of you.”

I had to smile again, knowing there was some truth to what she'd said. Sometimes I made things harder than they needed to be. With that in mind, I sat down at my desk, trying to decide what would be the easiest way to determine if a girl named Hope Diamond really existed. I began to brainstorm ideas and started a “to-do” list. The obvious was to explore the matter in greater depth with Dayonna, but who was to say when she'd be in a state to talk about it coherently? I pulled out the list of her DSS workers. Perhaps one of them could shed some light. I had circled and starred Deirdre Evans's name. I really wanted to talk to her to get an explanation for Dayonna's five-month absence in her chart.

Then there was the brother. Dayonna's chart indicated that she had a brother who aged out of the system several years back, and Ava had mentioned this to me. I flipped through the thick pages and found his name. Dayquon Hardison, DOB November 13th, 1987. That would make him about two months shy of twenty-four. All things being equal, he would have aged out of the foster care system when he was twenty-one, nearly three years ago, unless he'd aged out as a teenager.

“Sheena, you used to work for a program that transitions older foster children to adulthood, right?”

“An independent living program. Yes.” She did not look my way as she played around with her smartphone.

“If I wanted to find out what happened to someone after they aged out of an independent living program, how would I go about it?”

“Does this have anything to do with your current workload?” She gave me a sideways glance. When I responded only with a half grin and a twitch of my eyebrows, she shook her head. “Just get in touch with the last program the person was in, and see if anyone kept in touch with him or her.”

“What if I don't know what program they were in?”

“Call DSS. Find out who their last worker was. Talk to them. But, Sienna, if this is not directly related to one of your current cases, you're going to have a tough time getting anywhere.”

“That's probably true. Do you have any good contacts at the department? I haven't really kept in touch with any of my old classmates who went on to work at DSS, so I'm not sure where to begin.” I pulled up the Web site for DSS and began searching to no avail for an index or directory of its workers.

Sheena studied me intently, tapping a long bright blue fingernail on her desk. “So this
isn't
related to one of your current cases?”

“It is . . . just indirectly so.”

“Girl, you are never going to get anything done.” She shook her head again but then began scribbling something down on a sticky note. “Here.” She handed it to me. “I used to date a guy who was a supervisor there, Roland Jenkins. Be careful, though. He knows everybody and everything.” She looked me straight in the eyes. “That means he can work for you or against you.”

“Thanks, Sheena. And I'll keep your warning in mind.” I turned back to my desk, wondering what harm a complete stranger could do me.

Thinking about complete strangers somehow made me think again about Brother Scott, the music director at Second Zion. I remembered wondering if he could be a resource for better understanding the Monroes.

I was willing to chase all leads, and the Monroes seemed like they knew more than they were letting on. Perhaps Dayonna had told them something in her initial days or hours in their home that had spooked them. They'd already proven that they would be willing to hide something from me if it in any way, shape, or form made them look less than spectacular or unable to handle her bizarre ways. Maybe if Brother Scott had a good relationship with them, he'd be able to help them trust me more. He certainly seemed like a man of integrity and good intent, I decided. Those women from the singles ministry were swarming around him like bees on honey, and he remained focused on being a light for the Lord.

I wanted to trust him.

I needed to trust somebody, I realized.

Of course, in the likely event that I could not earn his confidence, I would at least get another good look at his face.

Don't judge me for trying. I had to chuckle at my own self, knowing full well that my desire to find Hope at all costs was not the only reason I wanted a chance to converse with the man.

I liked the feeling that came over me when I looked into his face, when I smelled the scent of him and his burgundy leather bag.

I was too old to be having a schoolgirl crush, and Lord knows I was not really trying to go anywhere with it. I really just enjoyed having an innocent distraction from RiChard and the pain that resurged with every memory of him.

I pulled up the church's Web site and clicked on the “Contact Us” link. There was a long list of ministries, followed by the names and e-mails of the contact person for each. Some of the entries had photos of the ministry heads. I scrolled through the list, respecting the diversity of ages and backgrounds of those who were at the helm of Second Zion. From the food pantry ministry to the small business association to the garden club to the afterschool program, men and women stared back at me from their leadership photos, some in Sunday best attire, others in T-shirts and jeans.

I smiled when I saw Mrs. Monroe's photo next to the pastor's aid committee, her gap-toothed smile unmistakable under her flowery and feathery bright yellow hat. That woman loved her some yellow. I shook my head.

And then my head kept shaking for different reasons. I'd reached the music ministry link and the photo that accompanied it. “Brother Tremont Scott,” it read underneath the studio quality close-up photograph of him. His eyes, the perfect combination of hazel and gray, pierced me from the snapshot with grace and solemnity. His smile looked no-nonsense but somehow still warm.

“Who is
that?
”

Sheena scooted her chair over next to mine so fast, I thought her weave would fall out from whiplash. “All right, Sienna, I gave you the seven digits to a man
I
know, so it's time for you to return the favor.” She chuckled. “That is a fine-looking somebody right there. Do
you
really know him?”

I tried not to take offense at the way she'd said “you,” as if there was no reasonable explanation for a woman like me knowing a fine man like that.

I guess I really did have esteem issues, which even marrying RiChard had not cured.

“Not exactly,” I said, attempting an answer to her question. “I mean, I bumped into him at Second Zion Tabernacle the other night. He's the music director over there. I enjoyed the weeknight service, and I was looking to see what other ministries they had.” I spoke cautiously, ready to change the topic, but knowing that if I did so too quickly, I'd be raising Sheena's suspicions and inviting more questions from her.

I did not want her asking questions I did not have answers to.

“Sure you were.” She looked at me sideways again, a sly grin filling her face. I remembered looking at Roman the same way just before we went to the midweek service.

“Is that his e-mail address next to the picture?” She chuckled again. “I can think of a few praise reports I could send him. Girl, I'm ready to praise the Lord just for seeing that picture. You're gonna have me going back to church to get my shout on. Glory!”

We both let out a loud laugh as she scooted back to her desk.

“I'm sure he gets a lot of e-mails,” she murmured as she turned to update her Facebook status on her computer screen.

She had a point, I realized, as I clicked on the link to his church-based e-mail address. I imagined him deleting half the frivolity that came through his mailbox. I cringed at the thought of what some desperate women might send him.

I needed my e-mail to stand out.

I was contacting him for professional reasons from my professional e-mail, so there was no reason to feel like I was doing something wrong or crafty, I figured. I wrote in the subject line “Your Assistance Requested.”

To keep from gaining Sheena's attention again, I typed up the e-mail with speed and certainty.

I read through my words and immediately felt silly. Sending this e-mail made absolutely no sense, I finally admitted to myself. Was I that desperate for answers and closure in so many areas of my life that I would even consider contacting a man who did not know me, and would believe he would just agree to help me get through to the Monroes? I did not even know what kind of relationship he had with them. I was going on only the close body language the trio had exhibited when I saw them talking alone in that darkened, empty room two nights before.

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to catch the error of my ways before it was too late!
I let out a loud sigh, feeling both foolish and relieved that I had not pressed SEND and made what probably would have been one of the hugest, most ridiculous mistakes of my adult life. What had I really planned to say if he had responded?

I clutched my computer mouse, directing the onscreen arrow to DELETE. Just as I clicked on the mouse, Sheena whisked back to my side, startling me and throwing my attention and movements off in seconds that happened too fast.

“So you
are
e-mailing that fine Brother Scott!” Sheena grinned.

“Oh, no!” I gasped aloud. In my startle, the arrow had moved to SEND at the moment I clicked on the mouse.

“Your message has been sent,” stared at me in big, bold black letters.

“Let me know how that works out.” Sheena winked, completely oblivious to my sudden horror.

“Excuse me,” I managed to whisper, trying to roll away from my desk. My head felt like it was too weak to stay on top of my neck, and my stomach felt like it had just dropped to my knees.

The only thing that kept me from passing out was another photo that caught my eye. “Wait, Sheena. Scroll back up.”

My office mate had completely taken over my workstation and was going through the rest of Second Zion's ministry listings. Right after “Praise and Worship,” “Prayer Team,” “Revolution Youth Movement,” and “Senior Saints” was a familiar face.

“No, right there. Stop,” I directed Sheena and moved closer to read the small print underneath the photo that had caught my eye.

“Um . . .” My office mate raised an eyebrow at me. “Don't you think he's a little old for you?” She looked back and forth from me to the computer screen.

“Don't be silly, Sheena. This is not a dating Web site. It's a church. And that's not my wannabe future husband. That's one of the foster parents of Dayonna Diamond.”

Horace Monroe.

The caption under the balding elderly man read “Substance Abuse Ministry Leader.”

I felt my stomach sinking even lower. Both Mr. and Mrs. Monroe had leadership positions at the church. It would make sense for them to have a close relationship with Brother Scott as he was a leader also. Their shared intimacy might have no personal dimension to it . . . more business. Well, church business, anyway. How would I even begin to explain my e-mail to any of them?

Or to Ava?

All of this was bound to get back to her. I guess I should have just heeded her directive and quit “rocking the boat” before I got too far ahead of myself.

“I'm going to lunch,” I mumbled to Sheena, though my stomach craved food about as much as a fish craves air.

“I'd go with you, but I'm meeting up with an old friend today. Let me know if you get in touch with Roland.”

“Roland?”

“Yes, Roland. Remember, my contact at DSS?”

“Oh, yeah.” I nodded as I reached for my purse and car keys. I had no idea where I was going. I stared at the sticky note with Roland's name and number printed on it, which was sitting on the side of my desk. I wanted to tear it up and leave finding Hope alone. All it had gotten me so far was potential embarrassment and trying to figure out how I was going to explain this to a bunch of folk, my boss probably being one of them. “Thanks, Sheena.” I smiled for her satisfaction. I did not want her to ask me any more questions.

“No problem, big sis.” She turned back to her Facebook page.

I envied the seeming simplicity of her life and loathed my knack for complicating mine.

“Still didn't see you get any work done,” she teased as I walked out of the door.

She was right, I realized. I had spent all that time in the office and had not written a single case note.

Just a silly—and maybe even dangerous—e-mail.

The scary part about rocking the boat was not knowing whether the churning waves would eventually take me under.