Losing Hope (11 page)

“Sienna, Sienna, Sienna . . .” Ava was sitting in my desk chair. She backed up and sighed as I entered my office.

Sheena was gone, so I sat down in her seat, facing my supervisor.

“I've been trying to call you for the past two hours.” Ava looked at me, a slight frown pulling down one side of her lips. “I even tried your home phone. Sheena did not know where you went. She said you just took off for lunch, and nobody's seen you since.”

“I'm sorry, Ava. I saw your calls, but I was in the middle of dealing with a . . . crisis with Roman.”

She raised both eyebrows. “Is he okay?”

“He will be.”

“Are you okay?” She pressed her lips together.

When I said nothing, she turned back to my workstation, rubbing her eyes with both of her hands.

“Girl, you know you about gave me a heart attack. I worry about you. I know I push you, but I do worry about you. When you didn't answer my calls and nobody knew where you were, I thought something bad had happened. It's not like you to not answer your phone.”

She looked back at me. I still said nothing.

“I wish you would just tell me what's going on.”

“I'm sorry, Ava. I'm not trying to worry you or fall behind in my work or even avoid work. Life has been kind of complicated for me this week, for many reasons that I do not want to get into. I'm just trying to . . . not lose hope.

I thought again of my mission and knew that I needed to stay focused and keep from being swallowed up in the quicksand of emotions threatening to overtake me.

This time Ava was the quiet one.

Finally, she spoke. “You asked to be taken off of Dayonna Diamond's case yesterday, saying she was only adding to whatever stress has been affecting you this week. I still think you need to hold on to her case to survive the lesson of balancing life and work. However, I think you might benefit from a day off from
everything
. It's what? Thursday? Go home, Sienna. Relax this evening. Do whatever you need to do in your personal life tomorrow and over the weekend. Come back on Monday. I'll cover your cases until then. Agreed?”

“Okay,” I sighed, not sure if I felt relieved—or more stressed—at the prospect of having more time to dwell on the matters concerning me.

She looked at me sternly, but I knew it was more for show. I could see deep concern in her eyes as she accepted that I was not going to spill my heart to her. She saw that I wanted to maintain a business mode, and she was willing to play along.

“All right, Sienna.” She patted my shoulder as she left my office.

“Thanks, Ava.”

As I began shutting down my computer and closing up my files, I could not shake the feeling that something was not right. It was not until I had left the building and started up my car that I realized what was wrong.

In my haste to find Roman earlier that day, I'd left everything open on my computer screen. My e-mail account that said my message to Brother Scott had been sent; the Web site for Second Zion, with Horace Monroe's photo showing. Even the contact information for the Department of Social Services had been up on my screen.

However, when I'd shut down my computer just now, the only Web site up was one that offered maps and driving directions.

I had not opened up that Web site. I had not closed the others. And I knew from past experience that Sheena would not get on my computer unless I was in the office, alongside her. She did not want anyone going through her virtual world, and she'd made it clear that she would never do that to anyone else.

Ava had been sitting at my desk when I came in. What had she seen on my screen? I thought again of the map and driving directions that had been open on my computer.

And what destination was she looking for? I wished I had noted the address.
Oh, well.

I was too antsy to go back home. And too hungry also. My stomach was letting me know. I headed out to a little lunch spot I went to on occasion, with the goal of getting both my nourishment and my research needs met.

Located on the outskirts of Baltimore's Hampden neighborhood, Charlie's Grill was easily passed by those not familiar with the area. On the corner of a street dominated by old warehouses and seedy-looking parking lots, the greasy spoon catered mainly to the working-class locals, mostly older white men, who came to grab a hearty meal of subs and chips and to play a round of keno over beer and loud conversation. During lunch hours, the family-owned café became a dining spot for people of all colors and from all walks of life who'd discovered the freshly made sandwiches and Italian and Greek delicacies. This café embodied the unique charm of Baltimore as some envisioned it, a place where everyone was named “hon” and battered and deep-fried western fries and half-and-half—lemonade mixed with iced tea—were on the menu next to gyros, chicken cheesesteaks, and lasagna.

I settled in a deep booth with a triple-decker turkey club sandwich on toasted wheat bread and plotted my plan of action.

Ava wanted me to take some time off to pull myself together, reassemble my focus, and work toward resolving whatever issues were pushing me off track. For me, I knew my mission to find Hope was the answer to my problems. More than just another distraction, it gave me a sense of purpose, and a feeling that closure was indeed possible.

I needed that more than anything right now.

I pulled out the sticky note that Sheena had given me hours earlier and keyed the phone number into my cell phone.

“This is Roland,” a deep voice inflected with attitude boomed into my eardrum.

“Yes, hello. Mr. Jenkins?”

“Yes, this is me, as I've already stated.” Irritation joined the attitude that suffused the bass voice. How had Sheena put up with this man in a dating relationship? I had heard only two sentences from him and was already turned off.

Way off.

“Um, yes, I was calling to see if I could get some information from you about a young man who was formerly in foster care but aged out of the system a few years ago.”

“And
you
are?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Sienna St. James. I am a social worker at Holding Hands Agency. Sheena Booth is my office mate, and she suggested I talk to you. I'm trying to find the whereabouts of the older brother of one of my clients. I need to know how to go about finding out which independent living program he may have been a part of before he aged out.”

“Sheena sent you to me? Hmm.” There was a long pause. “So you are trying to get information about your client's older brother. Not your client?”

“That's right, Dayquon Hardison is his name. My client is named Dayonna Diamond.”

The conversation was briefly interrupted by someone on the other end handing Mr. Jenkins some files or something.

He came back to the phone. “Look, Ms. Sienna St. James,” he said, enunciating each syllable of my name with exaggeration. “All I can tell you is that unless you have a signed release allowing me to give you information about Dayquon Hardison, I am not at liberty to disclose any information to you. I am sure that Dayonna Diamond's DSS worker has already apprised you of this fact.”

“Dayonna's DSS worker? I believe she is out on maternity leave.”

“Did you consult with the worker's supervisor to see who is covering the case?”

I wanted to kick myself for once again making a simple task complicated. Why hadn't I started there? “To be honest with you, I'm not sure who to contact. I just inherited this case this week.” I tried to laugh off my failure of not starting with the obvious. Roland Jenkins was not amused.

“Ms. St. James, before you waste another moment of my time, please familiarize yourself with basic policies and procedures about what information we can give out and to whom. And, also, please inform Sheena Booth that if she desires to regain my attention, she needs to approach me herself. Incompetency is not attractive.”

For the third time that day, the phone line went dead in my ear.

I looked down at my half-eaten turkey club sandwich. Now, instead of hunger rumbling through my stomach, all I felt was nausea.

That man, Roland, was ridiculously rude. I wanted to call him back to tell him a little about himself, but fought the urge. A verse from Psalms crossed my mind.
Great peace have those who love Your law, And nothing causes them to stumble
.

If I was going to find Hope, I needed also to hold on to my peace.

I thought again of the verse from Isaiah that the bishop's wife had shared at the relaxation workshop:
You will keep him in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on You, Because he trusts in You. Trust in the Lord forever, for in Yah, the Lord, is everlasting strength.

I considered how having hope was tied to having a sense of peace, which in turn was tied, according to the scripture, to trusting the Lord. It almost seemed too simple, but I was all about keeping it simple now. I'd complicated matters enough.

On this mission, I was going to have to trust the Lord with all the details, even when those details involved annoying people who stood in the way of the answers for which I was searching.

Why hadn't I thought of it before? I'd been searching for so many other things online, why not look for a person? For all the technology I'd invested in for my cell phone, I did not have the best Internet access, but I did have my workbag, I remembered.

With renewed enthusiasm, and excited that the small grill offered a Wi-Fi connection, I reached for my company-issued laptop and Googled “Dayquon Hardison.” I searched Facebook, Twitter, and every other social media network Web site I could think of.

Nothing came back.

What kind of twenty-three-year-old male did not have any online social imprint anywhere? I was back to square one, but then another thought occurred to me.

The Maryland Judiciary Case Search. The public online database that offered basic info about cases seen in district and circuit courts. If Dayquon had any traffic, civil, or criminal court case records as an adult, then they should show up in the free search engine provided by the Maryland court system.

I went to the case search Web site and entered his name and birth date. One record came back. It was for a traffic violation back in 2010.

An address was given: 1526 Lizbrooke Lane, #4G, in Greenbelt, Maryland.

I jotted it down, feeling like I finally had something or someone to turn to in my Hope quest. Greenbelt was in Prince George's County, about an hour away. Maybe I could try to drive out there over the weekend. The day had been long enough already.

I looked at the “to-do” list I'd created earlier and put a check mark next to Dayonna's brother's name.

“Are you finished with that, hon?” A woman in a dirty apron stopped at my table and pointed to what was left of my sandwich. She was smiling, but an eyebrow was raised. I looked down at my plate and saw why she looked so concerned.

My sandwich looked like it had been mauled by an angry dog.

Had I been that distracted and disturbed while attempting to eat my lunch?

“Yes, I'm done.” I gave a curt nod and began gathering my things together. I had to find somewhere else to go. I was no longer hungry but still did not feel satisfied, still did not feel ready to retreat home.

I was halfway up 83 when I realized where I was going.

It was time to pay a visit to Dayonna.

I had no idea what time Leon was going to bring my son home, and I had no idea what I was expecting to get out of a visit to the hospital where Dayonna was housed.

I wasn't even sure that I would get to see her.

In reality, it was not her that I was hoping to see. It was her chart.

One of the first lessons RiChard taught me is that every culture has its own currency that has nothing to do with money. Behind the dollars and cents that help determine power and wealth are the decision makers and the chosen ones who get to figure out where the bottom line should be. If you can figure out the language of those who have the money, then the money becomes as good as yours.

In the helping professions, it seems like the currency of power is paperwork.

Go to any office, clinic, hospital, or building where the healing arts are administered and behind the scenes and on every desktop is paper, paper, and more paper. Whether detailing policies and procedures, or outlining rituals and routines, a person's or a company's paperwork will tell you what or who is really calling the shots when all else is said and done.

I recalled seeing a thick chart with Dayonna's name on it at the hospital.

She had a history there, and I wanted a chance to see it.

I was especially curious to see if there was ever any talk about missing sisters and cabbage stew before her entry into the Monroes' home.

I had no concrete plan when I parked my car and entered the facility.

“Can I help you, ma'am?” A cheery-looking young woman with sun-bleached blond hair sat behind the receptionist's desk, which had been unmanned the last time I was there.

“Yes, I'm here to check on Dayonna Diamond. She was just admitted yesterday. I'm not sure what unit she is in.”

The woman frowned as she clicked through files on her computer and glanced over at a wall clock hanging behind my head. After she noted the time, her smile returned. I remembered that these types of facilities usually had preset and limited visiting hours at various times of the day. I guess I'd made the cut.

“And what is your name?” The woman kept typing, her eyes glued to her computer screen.

“I'm Sienna St. James, her worker from Holding Hands Therapeutic Foster Care Agency.”

“You're her DSS worker?” A slight frown pulled at the corners of her lips as she continued typing.

What on earth needs to be typed for so long?
I wondered.

Again, paperwork.

“No, I'm not from the Department of Social Services. I work for an agency that DSS contracted with to help with the provision of her services.”

The receptionist continued typing for a few seconds more before looking up at me, her fingers finally quiet.

“I'm sorry, Ms. St. James, but you're not on the list to see her.” Her perky smile was really starting to annoy me.

“I'm not on the list?”
What is this? A nightclub? A private event?
“I'm sorry, but there must be some mistake. I'm her current worker. I'm with the agency that oversees her placement.”

“I understand.” Her head bobbed up and down as she continued smiling. “But all visitors must be preapproved before seeing patients, and unfortunately, your name is not on the list.”

“Um, okay.” I could feel my eyes blinking nonstop. “I understand that is your policy, but as her treatment foster care worker, I should be able to check on her condition.”

“I'm sorry, but I am going to have to ask you to leave.” The perkiness was leaving.

“Perhaps I can speak with one of the administrators here?”

“You don't understand, Ms. St. James.” The woman was now blinking as much as I was. “It's not just that you are not on the list of preapproved visitors. Your name is down on a list of people who
cannot
have any contact with her during her stay here.”

“What? That does not make any sense. Is that standard protocol? To have a list of who can't come?”

“Well, it's not the standard procedure, but when a request has been made, we have to honor it.”

“Can you tell me who requested that I not be allowed to see Dayonna?”

“I would not have access to that information, but it's usually a parent or guardian or even the medical staff, if they have reason to believe that a particular visitor would not serve the best interest of the patient. Okay?”

No, it was not okay. I glared at the young woman, who simply went back to typing. Remembering the scowl on Mr. Monroe's face when I'd left here in a hurry last time, I took out my cell phone to call the Monroes. However, as the phone began ringing, I realized that my call would be futile. A visitors' sign-in sheet lay on the counter near where I stood. Both Mr. and Mrs. Monroe's names were on the sheet, with an “in” time noted and no “out.” I was not going to get an answer or an explanation from them.

But that was not what really caught my attention on the sign-in sheet. It was the signature underneath the Monroes'.

Deirdre Evans.

Why did that name sound so familiar? I wondered as I turned to leave, knowing that I would not get any further with my mission at the hospital. Paperwork. The beginning and end of progress, it seemed.

Just as I stepped out the door, I remembered why that name sounded familiar. I turned around and went back to the receptionist's desk.

“Excuse me. Is there a DSS worker here to see Dayonna?” I asked.

“Yes, there is.” Perky girl did not even look up at me as she continued typing.

“That doesn't make sense,” I said aloud, though I was really talking to myself. Deirdre Evans was the name of the DSS worker who was in charge of Dayonna's case during the unaccounted for five-month period before she entered the residential treatment center in Florida, her last placement before the Monroes.

“She was on the list, so I had no reason not to let her visit Dayonna.”

All I could do was shake my head and leave there more confused than when I'd come. Why would Deirdre Evans visit Dayonna? And why was I not allowed to see her?

I headed back to my car, wishing that I had Dayonna's chart with me to get the name of the current DSS worker's supervisor assigned to her case. I had no way of accessing her chart, so I did what I thought was the next best thing.

“Hi, Sheena,” I sang into my headset, happy that my office mate had picked up her desk phone on the first ring. “Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Sienna!” She nearly yelled in my ear. “I can't believe you are asking me to do another thing for you today! I have no idea what you told Roland Jenkins, but please don't ask me for anything else. I have work to do, and I don't have time for foolishness, his or yours!”

I beat her to hanging up, determined that I would not hear another dial tone in my ears today.

What in the world was going on?

Beatriz, Roman, Leon, Roland, Ava, Dayonna, the Monroes, Deirdre Evans, and now Sheena. In one day, more questions had arisen about both loved ones and strangers in my life than I felt like dealing with.

I decided to finally take Ava's advice. I went home.