Losing Hope (17 page)

The lightning bolt left me sizzling hot. If whoever this was thought I would run off, quiet and scared, they did not know Sienna St. James, daughter of Alvin and Isabel Davis, mentee of Ava Diggs.

I came from people who did not back down without a fight. It was in both my nature and my nurture to swing back even if I was falling—and to do it with finesse. If I hadn't been on a mission to find Hope before, I was single-minded and single-purposed now.

Finding Hope had become personal.

Someone had had the nerve to threaten me and damage my property.

“Come on, Roman,” I said, beckoning him to get in the backseat of the car. I had gotten all the broken shards I could see off of the passenger seat, but I didn't want him sitting there until I had a chance to give it a good vacuum.

I was not going to let my son get hurt on my road to finding Hope.

“Where are we going, Ma?” Roman looked perturbed. “And what is on that paper you're holding on to?”

“
You
are going to the PAL center, where I know you'll stay out of trouble under the watchful eye of Officer Sanderson. And I am going to take care of this note.” I pressed down on the accelerator, going a little too fast for an outer downtown street, as the loud flapping of the plastic I'd used to cover the broken window alerted me.

“Someone you know broke the window?” Roman leaned forward in his seat.

“I don't know who did it.”

“Then what was in the note?”

“I can't get into that right now.” I pushed a little harder on the accelerator. I already knew where I was going after I dropped Roman off.

“Ma, do you think Daddy is dead?”

Good thing the light on Martin Luther King Boulevard was yellow, because I sure enough slammed on my brakes.

“What did you say, Roman?” I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I closed my eyes and could feel them fluttering behind my eyelids.

I felt weak.

And nauseated.

“I was just wondering if you knew whether or not Daddy was dead.”

The light turned green and I tried to go, but my foot felt like it had been superglued to the brake pedal.

“What makes you . . . Why do you ask that?”

“I don't know.”

“Something made you ask that. Talk to me, Roman.” I wished then that Roman was sitting in the passenger seat. I really wanted to see his face. “Why—” A loud car horn blared behind me. I still could not move.

“Ma, you need to go.”

“Huh?”

“Ma, we need to move on from here. We can't stay stuck when we're supposed to be moving. People behind us are depending on you to go.”

I heard him and knew that he was talking about the traffic light, but there was something deeper in his statement that rang out clear as a bell.
Or as loud as a horn
.

Cars, trucks, and maybe even a bicyclist, had joined in an angry chorus against me. Between the beeps, honks, and, yes, chimes, I knew I needed to do like Roman said and move forward. The time for wrapping my head around his words would have to come later.

And, more importantly, I needed to move forward so that I could answer my son honestly. At least I wanted to be able to answer him honestly; I was not sure that it was possible.

I waited until we were cruising at an acceptable speed to touch the raw spot again. I teetered gingerly around it so that neither of us would bleed.

“Hey, Roman . . .” I had to keep moving forward. “You've been thinking about your father, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Me too.” I looked at him in the rearview mirror. “You're worried about him?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I'm sure that he's okay. It's just that you seem to be talking more to Officer Sanderson, and I, well, I don't think you should be, not while Dad's still around. You've never talked too much to any man before now, so I've been trying to figure out if, you know, if Dad's still alive.”

I did not know whether to laugh, cry, scream, slap him, or slap myself to make sure I was hearing right. All this was over Leon Sanderson? Was the boy crazy?

“Roman, you know the only reason Officer Sanderson has been around is to help straighten out your behind. That's
all
.”

“But he likes you, Mom.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“No, of course not. But I know how I feel when I see a woman I like, and he looks at you the same way.”

“Okay. There are so many things wrong with what you just said that I'm not even going to touch it. But just so you know, you will never have to worry about me having any type of relationship with Officer Sanderson.” Why was I even saying all of this to him? Seemed like the conversation should be going in the other direction, with me hounding him over some girl.

But the root of the matter, I knew, was RiChard. Always RiChard.

“So Dad
is
okay?”

Was the boy in my head?

“I don't get the connection.”

“Well, the way I see it, you wouldn't be liking Officer Sanderson if Dad was still around. And you still don't like him, so Dad must be okay.”

“Um, just so you know, Leon Sanderson is not the only man in the world. I hope he is not your measure of my love life.” Why was I continuing this discussion with my fourteen-year-old son? I turned around to look at him. Our eyes met, and he quickly looked out the window. “What is it, Roman?” I asked, but I was not sure that I really wanted to know.

“That box. The one that Daddy's ring came in. I know it was from a crematorium. I looked up the address online, thinking I could find Dad.”

I looked back at him again. This time he did not look away.

“Mom, can you please tell me where my father is?”

I was at a traffic light a couple blocks away from the PAL center. The light was green; I knew I could not stop here, no matter how much I wanted to.

“Roman,” I said as I pulled to a stop in front of the building, “we'll talk. And I'll tell you everything I know about your dad.”

I guess I was expecting him not to get out of the car, to put up a fight, to resist my attempts at delaying the inevitable.

But he did not do any of the above. He got out of the car and headed directly to the center door, even waving back at me before disappearing into the building.

Maybe telling him the truth about his father would be bearable.

For both of us.

Bearable or not, I had a mission to accomplish.

With all the broken glass and broken hearts and broken spirits that seemed to be filling up my week—my life—finding Hope had become my road to keep from losing hope. Knowing that Roman would be safely occupied at the PAL center, I drove back home to get my old Mazda Protégé, which I held on to solely to give to Roman once he was old enough to get his license.

Then again, the way things were going, that might not happen until he is thirty.

My backup car roared to life, ready, it seemed, to show me that it had a lot of life left in it. I got back on the highway, heading toward my next destination.

Dayquon Hardison.

It was time to meet Dayonna's older brother.

 

 

Greenbelt, Maryland, was a suburban community near the college town of College Park, Maryland. The enormous flagship state institution defined the area around it, and the sprawling apartment complex that had been Dayquon's address—at least on November 15th, 2010, the one reference to him on the case search Web site—was no exception. I noticed
FEAR THE TURTLE
bumper stickers and University of Maryland flags all over the parking lot and the balconies of the rental complex as I pulled into a tight space.

Apartment 4G.
I reread my notes and started the hike up to the fourth floor of the building in front of me. It was an older unit with plenty of wood panels and brown brick that blended into the mature trees surrounding it. Despite the dingy carpet and a stairwell that smelled of old pizza and stale beer, the building was quiet.

Then again it was still Saturday morning.

I checked my watch. Eleven thirty-seven. What time did people start getting up around here? I was debating on how loud to bang on the door to apartment 4G when I heard someone fumbling with the doorknob on the other side. Before I could get in a second thought, a tall, thin, lightly browned young man with shiny black hair was standing in front of me. He wore a gray tracksuit and had a bright red book bag slung over his shoulder. Both of us jumped back.

“Can I help you?” He spoke with a thick accent.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I think I have the wrong address.”

“Wrong address? Who are you looking for?”

Before I could answer, another voice spoke from somewhere in the apartment.

“Preetish, who is at the door?” This voice had a thick accent as well.

“A lady who says she has the wrong address,” Preetish called out. The second man joined him at the door; his black hair hung to his shoulders.

“Hi. Are you looking for the tutoring group?”

“No. I'm sorry. I have the wrong address.”

“But that is the right apartment number you have in your hand.” The second man pointed to the paper I held. “You are at the right place. I am Bisaj. Come in. You are early, but we will be starting soon.”

“Really, I am at the wrong address. I was looking for someone else, but—”

“Oh, are you in Dayquon's study group?” the first one, Preetish, asked, rejoining the conversation.

“Dayquon? You know Dayquon Hardison?”

“Of course. He is one of our roommates.” Bisaj looked confused. “But his group is meeting in one of the group study rooms in the basement of the Engineering and Physical Sciences Library. He started at eleven, so it will probably be over by the time you get there. You can stay here if you want. We're starting at noon.”

I was already backing away from the door. “Thanks for your help!”

“But . . .”

I was not trying to be rude, but I was determined to find Dayquon, and as far as I was concerned, catching him at the end of whatever study session he was leading was perfect timing.

I had been on the massive university's campus only once before. One of my mother's former students landed on the basketball team and gave my mother tickets for his debut game. That was a few years ago, and the campus had grown even more since then. Thankfully, the engineering building was right near the main entrance. I found the library easily.

A group of students was emerging from the room as I entered. I took a chance.

“Is Dayquon still here?” I asked casually.

“I think he's still in there.” A girl with orange and green yarn braided into her long blond hair pointed to another door.

I waited for the small crowd to disperse and then went into the room. A young man with shoulder-length dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail was packing up a laptop and several thick textbooks. His back was to me as he shut down a projector and erased a small chalkboard.

“Dayquon Hardison?” I called out.

He turned around. The narrow, pointy nose and sad eyes were definitely similar to Dayonna's. Everything else about him was his own.

The legacy of having different fathers.

“We're done for the day.” He barely looked at me as he spoke. “Here's the schedule for next week.” He handed me a paper that listed times and dates for various math, engineering, and computer class study groups.

“You lead all these groups?” I was impressed.

“My roommates and I are all TAs for some of these classes. We rotate to help the undergraduate students when we can.”

“You're a graduate student?”

“Yeah. I'm working on my master's in electrical engineering. What about you? I don't think I've seen you around. Are you new to campus?” He opened a can of cola and took a long swig before turning off the lights and heading to the door. I followed behind him.

“No, I'm not a student. My name is Sienna St. James, and I'm a social worker with Holding Hands Therapeutic Foster Care Agency in Baltimore. Do you have a second to talk?”

He stopped walking and looked directly at me, I realized, for the first time.

“Are you from that organization that keeps contacting me? If so, I've already said I do not want to be interviewed. There are plenty of other former fosters that you can talk to who've also taken advantage of the college tuition waiver program. I get that everyone wants to hear a good ‘feel-good' story every now and then, but I'm tired of rehashing the details of my life. What may sound like a good story to you is nothing but painful memories to me. I've moved on.”

He turned to leave, and I could not blame him. Although I was not from whatever group that wanted to explore his life story, I had the same aim.

And I understood a little something about not wanting to uproot pain-filled memories.

But I was on a mission.

I wanted to believe that finding Hope would bring healing of some nature to everyone involved.

“Dayquon, wait,” I called after him. “I'm not from whatever organization you're talking about, but I do still want to talk to you. I am afraid your sister might be in danger.”

He froze again, his back still to me. Slowly, he turned around.

“Which one?”

“I haven't seen Dayonna in years. She's still in and out of hospitals, huh?”

“Yes, she's in one now.”

Dayquon shook his head. “Poor thing. She had it the roughest out of all of us, I suppose.”

We were sitting in the student union, in an area that looked like the food court of a mall. Dayquon was gulping down two slices of pizza, a cheeseburger, medium fries, and an extra-large chocolate shake, a meal that belied his solid athletic frame. I stuck to a bottle of water and a small taco. My frame had given up a long time ago, but I still tried to act right on occasion.

“So you do have more than one sister?”

“Yeah, I was the only boy. Seemed like my mother wanted another son, 'cause she kept trying, but she kept getting girls. Then again, the way she named them, I used to think she only wanted girls. She treasured them much more than she ever did me.”

His face darkened, and I could tell from the ensuing silence that I could not afford to lose momentum in this conversation. He was a hurting somebody, and talking about his family was going to be difficult. Once the door closed, I knew it would go back to being trip-wired and guarded.

“Hope Diamond.”

“Excuse me?” Dayquon raised an eyebrow as he slurped down his shake.

“Hope Diamond. You were talking about the names your mom gave your sisters, and I was pointing out the uniqueness of Hope's.”

“You mean Dayonna Diamond.” He reached for one of his fries. “All my sisters have different last names, and she's the one named Diamond.”

“Wait a minute. How many sisters do you have?” I resisted the urge to take out my notes. Something clearly was not adding up right here.

“Four.”

“Four? How can that be? I've been through Dayonna's chart front to back a few times, and the only other sibling I've seen of hers is you.” Even Ava had confirmed this fact.

“It doesn't surprise me that my other sisters weren't in Dayonna's chart. She and I were the only ones that made it into the foster care system. I don't think any social workers anywhere had dealings with my other sisters.”

“So your other three sisters stayed with your mom?” I was pretty sure I'd read somewhere that his mother had her parental rights terminated. If she had other children, they probably weren't supposed to be with her.

“No. None of my sisters ever really lived with my mom for long. As far as I know, other family members took them in.”

“Do you know who?”

“No. Whoever they were, they didn't take me.”

“You don't remember any family outside your mom? Your father? Aunts? Cousins? Grandparents? Anyone?”

Dayquon set down his shake and blew out a long sigh. “No. The memories I have are of people in my house who were not relatives, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't know what you mean.”

“My mother. Her problems.” He looked past me. “There were a lot of men, a lot of traffic in and out of our house. I don't remember them being family.”

“So the only family you remember is your mom and your sisters?”

He closed his eyes and opened them again. “There was an aunt, I think. An aunt or a cousin. Or maybe she was just a neighbor. I don't remember. My mom called her Lisa. Or was it Sharon? I don't remember.” He threw up his hands. “I was back and forth so many times between my mom's home and foster homes, I couldn't tell you who was who.”

“Okay. So what about Hope? You said you all had different last names. What was Hope's?”

Dayquon shook his head. “Who is Hope?”

“One of your sisters, right?”

He shook his head again. “I don't have a sister named Hope.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. It's impossible. That name doesn't even fit the pattern.”

“Pattern? What are you talking about?”

“Our names. I'm Dayquon. You know Dayonna. And then there's Daynene, Dayvita, and Dayshonique. See, there couldn't be a Hope.”

He had a point. Unless her name was Day-hope, or his mother had a change of mind during a later pregnancy, the odds that Dayonna had a sister named Hope seemed slim to none.

But there was rock on the floor of my Aveo and a crumpled note in my pocket that said otherwise.

I debated whether or not I should tell him about my mission to find Hope. Considering that I really did not know who or what I was looking for at this point, I decided to keep my mission to myself.

At least until I had more information.

“Listen, Dayquon, I know this has not been an easy conversation for you, and I appreciate your time. I'm also proud of your accomplishments, especially considering how many challenges you've had to face in your life. Thank you for talking with me. Before I leave, would you mind writing down the full names and birth dates of you and your sisters? Also, your phone number, if I have more questions?”

“No problem.” Dayquon took the pen and paper I offered to him and began writing. After he handed both back to me, he extended his hand to shake mine.

“Nice meeting you, Ms. St. James. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly what you are doing, but I believe you are helping Dayonna somehow. I'm glad someone is. When you see her again, please tell her that her big brother still thinks about her every day.”

I shook his hand, and he gave me a curt nod.

We both stood to leave and turned in opposite directions. Just before we completely parted ways, I called back out to him.

“Dayquon, wait. I have one last question.”

The young man turned back around, tucking a loose dreadlock back under his ponytail.

“Do you know where I could find your mother and other sisters?”

“I have no idea.”