Losing Hope (18 page)

 

Back in my car, I stared at Dayquon's neat handwriting, trying to make some sense out of his sisters' names. He had not been lying when he said that his mother treasured her girls. Unless she had a penchant for dating men with exotic last names, Crystal Rose truly saw her daughters as her jewels.

Turquoise, Topaz, Sapphire, and Diamond. I scanned the unusual surnames once again.

So maybe there really was no Hope.

I remembered the large rock that still sat on the passenger floor of my other car, along with the remains of shattered glass. What was the explanation for that?

“My head hurts.” I massaged my temples, wondering what my next move should be. “What am I even doing? What am I even looking for or hoping to find?”

I'd forgotten that there was an old leather-bound Bible I kept on the back window shelf of this car. It had been my grandmother's and at her death had become mine. It was so worn and heavy that I'd never quite known what to do with it, so it became the symbol of my faith, riding along with me everywhere I went, until I had upgraded to my newer model.

Today, for the first time, I considered cracking it open. I was sure that there were bound to be verses and verses about hope.

Tears brimmed my eyes as I let out a heavy sigh. From the driver's seat, the Bible in my back window looked far away and heavy, just out of reach—much like most of my dreams and hopes always seemed to be.

Don't get me wrong. I'd been going to church all of my life. I knew Psalm 23 and the books of the Bible by heart, and I signed up to help with the annual youth conference at my church every fall. But for some reason, just looking at my Bible and trying to fit it into the complex context of everything that was going on in my life right now made my head spin and my heart heavy.

I knew there was hope in its pages, but my feet felt like they were stuck in muddy clay, making it hard, if not impossible, to move to where hope gurgled like a wellspring.

I was too tired to even think about what it meant. Where it was. If Hope was even real. I just wanted my life not to feel so bland, so predictable.

So empty.

Meaning.

That was what I'd been hoping for, I guess. And Hope continued to evade me.

Minutes later, I was back on 95 for the hour-long trip back home. Before I stopped to pick up Roman, I ran into a small farmers' market on a side road in Howard County. I picked up peaches, grapes, and a freshly baked apple pie. Okay, and a pulled pork sandwich oozing with tangy homemade barbecue sauce.

It was nice to have some comfort food.

Munching on the grapes from the farmers' market brought back unexpected memories. My trip with Roman across the United States to see his father. The surprise on RiChard's face. The confusion I knew was on mine.

He'd been back from South Africa for three weeks, I learned, and not once had he called to check on me or our newborn son.

Outside of him sending a postcard with suggested baby names when I first wrote that I was pregnant, I'd not heard from or seen RiChard since I left KwaZulu-Natal.

“Sienna, I've missed you.” He'd kissed both my cheeks. I remembered nestling my head on his neck and feeling scratchy stubble on his face. “And my son, he is beautiful. Perfect.”

It was my proudest moment, the way my husband looked at Roman for the first time, as if a priceless pearl had been created in my womb and I had just brought RiChard all that was good and wonderful in the world.

He loved his son. I never questioned that.

“His name is Roman,” I'd told him, eager to show him my embrace of his ancestry. Although his mother was Italian, at the time I did not know Perugia from Sicily or Venice. When I thought of Italy, all I pictured was Rome.

RiChard frowned.

“Ancient Rome was a political monopoly that took over a quarter of the world, crushing the cultures and lifestyles of all it devoured.” He must have seen my face drop, because he quickly added, “But it is a strong name that will serve as a constant reminder to our son to fight for what is right and just for those who are most vulnerable. He will grow to understand his place in the world because of his name.”

He kissed my forehead, and I could smell black tea and hickory on his breath.

“So you've been here three weeks?” I looked at him, wondering how to even begin asking the questions my heart had not yet been able to form. I'd found him at a commune in Southern California. He'd been staying with a few dozen other people in a group of solar-powered adobe homes sprawled out over a large avocado orchard.

“Yes, this is where I've been, but it's not permanent. Think of this as a personal retreat for me. The last few months have been rough, traumatic, really. The work has been harder than I ever imagined. I didn't want to call you because I was in a bad place emotionally and spiritually, and I didn't want to give off anything that would unsettle you or, or . . . Roman.” He looked down again at our child in my arms, letting Roman's little fingers curl around his thick thumb. Dark mud and dried blood had caked under his fingernails; and his skin, once smooth and healthy, was now blistered and sunburned.

I believed him when he said the past few months had been trying.

“It's good that you've come, Sienna. My retreat is almost over, and I was planning my next trip. I'm glad I got the honor of meeting my son before I left.”

“You're leaving again?” I remembered wanting to ask him much more, but not finding the words. Or maybe the courage.

“Yes. I've learned about some things happening in South America. I want to go see how I can help.”

“But what about Roman?”
And me!
I'd wanted to say.

“Ah, yes, I'll send you money when I have some.”

Those were the last words he'd said to the two of us in person. There was no good-bye, no embrace. No kiss. Just a smile and a nod and a handful of grapes as he disappeared back into the greenery.

I was back on a plane, headed to Baltimore, three hours later.

He'd never even held his son.

I'd never told Roman that fact.

 

The grapes from the farmers' market were cold and crisp in my mouth. By the time I reached the PAL center to pick up Roman, I'd eaten nearly the entire bunch. I parked and stepped inside.

“They're down at the courts,” called a young woman nestled in a metal chair and reading a book as I scanned the empty room. Wearing enough makeup to paint a wall, she looked out of place—and bored. I followed her pointing finger and headed toward a basketball court and a tennis court nearby.

“Ball, ball!” I heard Leon Sanderson call out. As I neared the double court, I almost laughed. It was a ragtag team of players if I'd ever seen one. Girls and boys of all shapes, ages, and sizes filled the blacktop, with just as many basketballs. Seemed like everyone on the court had one. I watched as a boy about six years old did his best to dribble a ball with both of his hands and then shoot. The ball went backward over his head and nearly landed on a teenage girl who'd been fiddling with her fingernails.

“Lamar!” she screamed in his face.

“Stacy, calm down. It was an accident.” Leon smiled at the upset teen before giving solemn directions to the small boy. “Lamar, good try. Next time face the basket before you throw. Aim for the middle of the backboard.”

Leon lightly patted both youngsters on their backs with all the seriousness of an NCAA Division I coach during March Madness. “All right, that's enough. Back inside, everyone.” He mopped his head with a white towel and instantly transformed from basketball coach to traffic cop, directing the small mob of children and teens back to the PAL building. I searched for Roman and finally spotted him hanging out with a group of teens under some shady trees.

Mostly girls.

“Mrs. St. James,” Leon called out to me just as I was about to march over and rescue my son from the she-devils. “Nice day out. Figured I'd let the kids enjoy what's probably one of the last warm days of September.” He took a long swig from a water bottle as I joined him in herding the group of running children and bouncing balls back through the center doors.

I'll get to Roman in a minute,
I decided.

Leon pulled up close to me, his dark brown eyes piercing mine. “Listen, Sienna, Roman told me you had some trouble this morning. Something about your car being broken into? He said you might know who did it.”

“Oh, yeah, that. It's a long story.”

I shook my head and looked back over at Roman, who was completely oblivious to me, surrounded by that pack of ravenous wolves. I swore one of those fast things was licking her lips. I looked back at Leon and then quickly looked away again.

Leon was wearing a yellow T-shirt and black running shorts. Though he was dripping with sweat, I could smell the body wash he must have used that morning. Something about seeing his exposed sculpted biceps and legs was bothering me. It didn't even feel right noticing these details. This was Leon Sanderson, for goodness' sake.

For his part, he seemed not even to notice it was taking all I had not to stare at his smooth mahogany skin.

“Is everything okay, Sienna?” His voice was a whisper as he worked to catch his breath.

Then again, maybe he noticed more than I realized.

“Huh? Oh, yes. Everything's fine.” I wanted to smack myself for feeling, and acting, so ditzy.

“Put the balls back in that closet,” he yelled out to a few hardheads and NBA dreamers who'd brought their dribbling game into the small room. Roman finally came in with his female fan club. I watched as all of them headed to a corner stacked with video consoles and games.

“Sorry about that, Sienna.” Leon was talking to me again, still oblivious to my alarm over Roman's company. He and the other teenage boy with him were surrounded by about five or six girls.

And they looked way too grown up for my liking.

“Now, tell me about what happened to your car. What's going on?”

I was drawn back to Leon's eyes.

“It's work related. I have a client who claims to have a missing—or murdered—sister, depending on what state of mind you catch her in. Nobody seems to believe her, but ever since I started asking questions and digging for answers, strange things have been happening.”

“This sounds serious, Sienna. Strange things like what?” He pulled on his chin with his thumb and index finger.

“Well, for one, her foster parents have been acting strangely, especially the foster father. Well, really both of them. They keep looking at each other like they've got something to hide, and they are not keeping me abreast of her behavior. I think my client may have possibly told them something important, but because they are determined to look like they can handle her and her issues, they are reluctant to tell me everything that is going on.

“Then someone pretending to be my client called me on my cell phone in the middle of the night, telling me not to look for this phantom sister. I don't believe it was my client, because the voice sounded like that of a grown woman. She's currently in the hospital, and I've been forbidden to visit her since I tried to question her more about her story. Then again, she went off so badly after I pressed the issue, I guess I could understand why I would be asked not to visit again.” I pondered this for a moment but then threw up my hands. “And now my car.”

“Yes, tell me about your car.” Leon crossed his arms, his muscles bulging.

“There is a five-month gap in my client's chart,” I said quickly to keep my mind from going off track. “I've been attempting to get in touch with the DSS worker who was responsible for her during that time period. Ironically, I found out she's been to see my client at the hospital, although, to my knowledge, she isn't assigned to her anymore. I'm assuming she's either close to her or trying to cover something up, since she's still involved in some fashion.

“Anyway, I left a message for her, accidentally leaving my home number. I got a text last night that supposedly was from her—on my cell phone, whose number I did not give her—asking me to meet her at Lexington Market this morning. Well, I got there and waited, and she was a no-show. Roman was with me, although he did not know what was going on. When we got back to our car, someone had thrown a rock through the window and had left this note on the seat.”

I took out the crumpled piece of paper, unfolded it, and held it up for Leon to see. His mouth moved silently as he read and reread the single message.

“Hope is the missing sister's name?” Leon narrowed his eyes, as if in deep thought.

“That's what my client claims.”

“Missing or murdered,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “Either one of those scenarios would lead to strange behavior, secrets, and cover-ups.” Leon looked squarely at me. “Or threats. Sienna, I really don't like the way this sounds, and I definitely don't like the idea of you possibly being in danger. Why don't you give me some names and more information, and I can look into this for you?”