Losing Hope (13 page)

I'd been driving for only ten minutes when the call came.

“Sienna, my office now.”

I made another U-turn and headed back toward downtown.

Even the security guard in the massive lobby of the building where Holding Hands was located seemed to sneer at me. Of course, I knew it was my imagination, but I felt like I kept making decisions that were either getting me nowhere or leading me into trouble.

Not sure why that line from the Lord's Prayer crossed my mind just then. Maybe it was a hint from Jesus that I needed to be praying as I prepared to see my mentor, my boss, who, I could tell from her four brief words on the phone, was completely infuriated with me.

Ava Diggs was loyal, nurturing, and compassionate to a fault. But don't get on her bad side. She fought for which she believed, and if she believed that you were working against the good of her company or her clients, she would tell you so.

Just because I was her golden child did not make me exempt. If anything, it made me even more of a target, since I knew what she expected from me. Or in this case, flat out told me.

When the elevator door opened for me to go up to the fourteenth floor, Sheena stepped out. She was chatting away on her Bluetooth but still managed to shake her head at me.

“Girl,” I heard her say, “my office mate is trying to get all of us in trouble. Me, the agency, DSS, and everyone else she can get a hold of.”

Who knew that searching for Hope would create so much chaos?

I entered Ava's office, ready for my scolding, uncertain how I would even respond. She was busy filling out paperwork, her ink pen moving nonstop as I took a seat. Several moments passed as she checked and rechecked the forms in front of her.

Paperwork.

Finally, “Sienna, what are you doing?”

I said nothing, because I did not have an answer. Ava took off her glasses, and I noticed for the first time deep circles around her eyes.

“The Monroes called me. They expressed concerns about a breach of confidentiality?”

“I can explain.”

“Please do.”

“I contacted someone at their church—”

“The church where you went to spy on them . . .”

“Um, well, I sent an e-mail to someone I thought could help me earn their trust. I know you wanted me to leave well enough alone, but my gut tells me that all is not well. Something is up with Dayonna, and I feel like the Monroes know more about her than they are letting on. I think she may have told them something that might be important, and they are afraid of disclosing it because they want to continue proving themselves as worthy foster parents.”

Ava rubbed her tired eyes. “What you are saying, what you are doing, is wrong on so many levels that I don't even know where to begin. In addition to breaching the confidentiality of one of our clients, you also continue to insist that something deeper is going on with this foster family, with no reasonable cause for concern.”

“Ava, I realize now that I did not use good judgment, but I can assure you that my e-mail did not contain any names, not the Monroes or Dayonna's.”

“Then how did the person you contacted know to contact the Monroes?”

“I have no idea. That's what I've been trying to figure out.”

Ava got quiet at this, but her eyes never left mine. After several minutes she continued.

“I've never seen you get so troubled about a case, especially one that you've been working on for only three days. What is going on with this case that has touched off so many personal nerves and reactions for you?”

“I told you I've been having a challenging week. There are so many areas of my life that are not making sense. I guess I felt that if I could make sense out of Dayonna's life, there was hope for me to make sense out of my own.”

“I've changed my mind, Sienna. I'm taking you off the case. I still believe this is an excellent opportunity for you to grow, but I can't afford to let your personal growth come at a cost to our clients. You've crossed a line, Sienna, and whether it's due to bad judgment, stress overload, or a combination of both, I can't let you continue working with the Monroes and Dayonna, because I do not know what you will do next.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling ashamed that my mentor had to share this moment of my career with me. I felt bad and embarrassed at my professional mistake. Yet I did not feel relieved.

“Finish taking your time off, and I'll see you on Monday.”

“Okay, Ava. I'm sorry.” I stood up and headed toward her door, but just before I went out, Ava spoke again.

“By the way, who was the person you contacted at the Monroes' church?”

“The music director, Tremont Scott.”

“Tremont?” Ava looked confused, which made me feel the same way.

“You know him?” I asked.

“Of course. He was one of mine. A foster child with our agency many, many years ago.”

“Are you serious? You've served a lot of children over the decades, and you specifically remember him?”

“Oh, yes, I do. Tremont Leonardo Scott was a handful. I almost gave up on social work because of him. And now you're telling me he is the music director at Second Zion?”

I nodded my head, and she chuckled.

“Jesus really does know how to turn lives around.” She shook her head as I turned to leave, trying to make sense out of this revelation. “Sienna,” Ava called after me again. I turned to look at her, and all the humor had left her face. In fact, a frown tugged at the corners of her large lips. “I just remembered something else.”

“What's that?”

“The Monroes were his foster parents.”

I wanted to ask Ava if I could peek at his chart, but I knew that would only make things worse. She had already taken me off of Dayonna's case. There was no reasonable explanation for me to get her permission to access archived files. But questions still weighed on me as I headed for my car.

Why had neither the Monroes nor Tremont disclosed their full relationship to me? The revelation nagged at me, like a squeaky seesaw going up and down in my stomach. On one hand, it really was none of my business that he'd been a former foster child of the Monroes. That would explain why he was so close to them. It would also explain why he knew that I was talking about them in my e-mail.

But on the other hand, why not mention it? If there was nothing to hide about him or Dayonna, or anyone else, why keep anything hidden?

Dayonna officially was no longer my client, but I had no sense of closure.

I still felt like I needed to continue my mission to find Hope, and I had to believe that Tremont's past with the Monroes could somehow still help me understand their present with Dayonna.

He said he'd be at the church. It was my day off. I decided to go there. I wasn't pursuing the matter for Dayonna's sake, I told myself. My actions were for Hope.

I felt obligated to be Hope's advocate, whoever, whatever she was.

I pulled up to the multi-acre complex of Second Zion Tabernacle, wondering what in the world I was trying to do. I admit, my actions and decisions over the past few days made little sense to me, but something was compelling me to move forward.

It bothered me that I could not quite put my finger on what that compulsion was.

I checked my phone and resisted the urge to call Roman's school again. He certainly had seemed more like his usual self this morning when I dropped him off. I planned to check and make sure that each of his teachers had signed my homemade check-in sheet the moment I picked him up after school.

I decided to leave my fears and thoughts about Roman alone for the moment.

Despite it being late morning on a Friday, the massive parking lot at Second Zion was about half full. It seemed like something was always going on at the church. I walked into the royal blue foyer for the second time that week, blinking in awe once again at the tapestry and the grand allure of the entryway. After giving the grand foyer its respectable due, I headed straight to the information desk. The circular wooden structure was manned this time by just two women, who were wearing identical navy blue blazers with plastic name badges identifying them as Sister Margaret Kelly and Mother Ernestine Jefferson.

Mother Jefferson flashed me a warm smile that made even my toes feel cozy as I approached the desk.

“Today is the day the Lord has made. Welcome to Second Zion. How can we help you, dear heart?”

It was easy to smile back at the elderly woman with the closely cropped, curly silver hair. She was what my mom would call a handsome lady, with flawless cocoa butter-colored skin and magazine-perfect makeup. She probably was over eighty years old, but I'd seen women twenty years her junior who looked older.

“Hello,” I said, continuing to smile. “I was wondering if you could direct me to the music administration wing?”

“You're looking for Brother Scott too?” Her smile widened, and I immediately felt embarrassed.

“I . . . I, um . . .”

“They're in Grace Hall, at the end of this corridor. I think it is really wonderful what you are doing for the young people. Do you give private lessons as well?”

Before I could look even more confused or come up with an answer that would not make sense to her, Sister Kelly saved me.

“Ernestine, Deacon Roberts is waiting for you on line seven.”

The elder lady nodded toward the hallway I should walk down as she took her call. All the common sense left in my head was telling me to get out now, to head back to my car and leave Brother Scott alone.

But again, a nameless compulsion kept my feet walking down the long corridor that led to Grace Hall. I opened the double doors to a scene I had not expected. I had imagined that the large room, painted baby blue and dripping with gold chandeliers, would be the perfect place to host a wedding reception, but at the moment it was hosting countless teens holding, blowing, plucking, or otherwise banging on all manner of instruments. They were sitting everywhere throughout the room, in groups of two or three or six or seven, playing songs off beat, off-key, and just plain “off”-ful!

Tremont Scott was in the middle of the room, waving around a baton with the seriousness of a conductor leading a philharmonic orchestra. I had to cover my ears at the chaos and understood immediately why the musical assemblage had convened in the extravagant room.

Grace Hall was soundproof.

“Okay,” Tremont shouted over the broken notes. “Let's start again from the top.” He tapped on a large black music stand, counting out the beats, and the chaos started up again. Somehow I managed to make out the beginning notes of “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.” Just the beginning. After about twelve beats, the song collapsed into a tumble of shrieks, blasts, squeals, and cymbals.

“Okay,” he shouted over the notes again. “We need to move on to the next song. Let everything that has breath praise the Lord. You guys are doing it! Keep praising Him.” As he shuffled through some music sheets, I admired the perfection of him. Still donning his brown outfit from that morning, he'd taken off his suit jacket, revealing an oatmeal-colored T-shirt that fit his sculpted arms and chest nicely. His brown cap was still on but was sitting slightly to the side of his head. There was a carefree quality to his posture, and the smile on his face was easy and genuine.

“Yes, keep praising him, saints!” I could almost imagine my officemate Sheena saying. The thought made me smile, until I remembered that my conversation with her old flame, Roland at the DSS, had soured our relationship in some manner.

Something else to salvage on my “to-do” list.

Tremont was a couple of minutes into the next song when he noticed me standing near the double doors of the grand hall. I could tell that I had his attention because the carefree, easygoing smile and stance that had quietly captivated me suddenly disappeared. He finished conducting the song with a stiffened back and starched arms. When the song was over, he beckoned one of the teens to take over and headed directly toward me.

“Ms. St. James.” He greeted me with a straight face.

“I'm sorry to intrude.”
What is my purpose for coming here?
I asked myself again.

“Keon,” he shouted to the teenage boy who held the baton, “go over this song two more times, and then do the Kirk Franklin song I introduced last week.”

He led me across the room and opened the door to an empty restaurant-quality kitchen that stood adjacent to the lavish room.

“Let's go in here to talk.” He motioned for me to step into the kitchen, and he followed. The soundproofing was amazing. The disjointed music faded into the distance.

“Church band?” I asked, uncertain where to go, being careful not to shatter the already thin ice I was creeping on.

“Not quite.” Tremont picked up his cap and ran a hand through his hair. “We've formed a partnership with a couple of high schools who've had to let their music programs go. Every other Friday, the church pays for some buses to pick up these students, whose parents have consented, and I and a few other musically inclined church members have been trying to teach them how to play.” He peeked out the door, and the brassy notes of a misdirected tuba player blared through. “At least we're trying to.”

We both chuckled, but Tremont quickly sobered as he let the door close again.

“So, I know you did not come here to be serenaded by our music troupe. What's up?” His gray-hazel eyes searched mine with a slight squint.

“Well, first, I wanted to apologize about the whole situation with the Monroes. It was bad judgment on my part to send you that e-mail.”

“No problem.” The intensity in his eyes was unnerving.

“Secondly, I guess I was wondering why neither you nor the Monroes mentioned that you were a former foster child of theirs.”

I watched as his eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened, so I quickly continued. “I'm not trying to get in your business. I just feel like too many people are hiding too many things. I would not otherwise care, but it's my job to ensure the well-being of the children I come across, and something just isn't feeling right. I can't put my finger on it, but secrecy only confirms to me that more is going on than meets the eye. The Monroes probably are not going to be saying much to me, but I guess I'm hoping that you will.”

His mouth relaxed a little, but he bit his lip before speaking.

“I'm not quite connecting the dots that are making you uneasy. Yes, the Monroes were my foster parents, but I'm not sure what that has to do with your concerns regarding their current client.”

The kitchen door swung open, and a youngster with a snare drum hanging around his neck tapped on it impatiently. “You coming back, Mr. Scott? Keon out there trippin' like he's really in charge.”

“I'll be right out.” Tremont flashed the teen a warm smile. When the door closed, he turned his attention back to me. “For whatever it's worth, Ms. St. James—”

“Please call me Sienna.” I was probably only a year or two his senior, and the formality was making me feel old. And somehow ugly.

“Okay, Sienna,” he continued, “I'll be perfectly honest with you. I did not bring up the fact that I was their former foster child, because they specifically asked me not to. Why? I don't know. Although I lived with them for two years of my life, there is still a lot about them I don't know. Or understand. Some people I just don't even question.” He looked back at the kitchen door, almost as if he expected it to swing open yet again. “Look, I have nothing to hide, but I've always felt like the Monroes did.”

“What do you mean?” My eyes widened at his confession.

“I don't know. I've probably said too much already. I'm not trying to get anyone in trouble.” He looked back at the door.

“Who would be getting in trouble? And
why?
” My heart was beating faster, and it wasn't just because Tremont had stepped closer to me.

“My mother died from AIDS when I was fourteen years old. My father was in jail, and my grandmother did not want me. I was a wreck and a rebel before my mom died, and my grief, anger, and bitterness only made me ten times worse when she passed. I bounced around a couple of foster homes until I was sixteen. That's when the Monroes took me in. Their care and commitment toward me turned my life around, and by the time I was eighteen, I had pulled my life together enough to make it on my own. I owe a lot to them. I truly would not be the man I am today if it wasn't for them. That's why I don't question them. And I'm definitely not trying to say or do anything that will cause them trouble.”

“So you think there's trouble to be found?”

“No, not exactly.” He shook his head. “I'm just saying that feeling you have that something is not right, that they are hiding something, I've always had it too. But for the most part, I've left it alone.”

“For the most part?”

“Yes. I said something once to my caseworker at the time. Actually, I think she was the director of the agency you work for.”

“Ava Diggs?”

“Yes, that was her name.”

Ava had told me that she had overseen Tremont's case. When she was short staffed or when her workers starting quitting to avoid particular clients, she was known to step in and handle things herself.

The door slammed open again. This time a disgruntled flute player, a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, stood there with her free hand on her hip, tapping her foot with impatience.

“I'll be out soon, Jasmine.” He chuckled as she whipped around and marched back out of the kitchen. “I really need to go back to my students.” He reached for the door handle. I followed him out, and he walked me back to the double doors of the spacious hall.

“Thanks for your time, Brother Scott. Just one last thing,” I shouted over the musical mess as I stepped back out into the main corridor leading to the church's foyer. “What did Ava Diggs say to you when you went to her with your concerns regarding the Monroes?”

“She told me not to rock the boat.”