Losing Hope (2 page)

My mother was a fifth grade teacher when I was young. A vocal, not easily moved woman, Isabel Davis had spent hours in the evening, sometimes working until well into the night, preparing her next day's lessons, making sure that even the slowest child in her class would be able to grasp the objectives required by the Baltimore City Public Schools system. She had kept an ongoing supply of hats, coats, and gloves for students who came from homes where warmth and protection from the elements were a luxury. She would flip through my grandmother's old leather-bound Bible, searching for just the right scripture of encouragement to write down on index cards and mail to former students she'd heard had turned to the streets for continuing education.

I admired my mother. Wanted to be like her. Wanted the scent of hot tea and lemons she wore like a perfume to surround me and somehow change me into the essence of who she was.

But even I knew that was an impossible dream. Maybe that was why I fell so hard for RiChard.

 

 

I pulled up in front of the Monroes' home at about a quarter to two. They lived in an end-of-group row house in the Belair-Edison neighborhood of East Baltimore, an area still dominated by proud home owners and a strong community association. Their block was neat and tidy, with flower beds and sprinklers dotting little trimmed lawns. The Monroes had several yellow cushioned chairs and multicolored potted plants on their covered front porch. A large wreath of real daisies hung on the door. The blue- and yellow-checkered doormat read
WELCOME DEAR FRIEND,
and two wind chimes of angels and crosses tinkered in the breeze.

Dayonna Diamond was going to tear this place apart. I was sure of it.

Before I could knock, the door swung open.

“Hello! You must be the girl from the agency. Come on in.” A coffee-colored, wiry, petite woman grinned up at me. Her thinning hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and her smile seemed to fill half of her face. “Horace, she's here!” The rich voice that boomed from her body betrayed her small frame.

I followed her into the bright and airy interior and smiled myself. The blue and yellow theme from the porch continued into the cramped living room. The space, though small and slightly cluttered with carefully placed knickknacks, reminded me of my great-aunt Josephine's home. I immediately felt welcomed. Mrs. Monroe's singsongy, though somewhat loud, voice added to the warmth.

“You have a lot of interesting pieces.” I pointed to the scores of figurines and ceramics that dotted the room. As I stepped farther into the house, I realized that there was more bric-a-brac lining the walls and bookshelves than I had realized. A lot more. “Are you an artist?”

“No. I am not.” Her voice cooled, and she frowned, making me wonder if I had offended her with my question. However, she quickly saved me from the slight awkwardness of the moment. “Come sit down,” she said, directing me to a floral-print sofa. “I have some iced tea and my prizewinning coconut cake left over from my meeting with the pastor's aid committee. I'm the chairwoman.” She beamed, exposing a small gap in her top front teeth.

“As you can see, my wife is too humble for her own good.” A hearty chuckle filled the room. I had not seen Mr. Monroe emerge from the kitchen, but there he was, a tall, thin, honey-colored man with a wisp of a mustache and a few wavy strands of black trying to pass as hair on his bald head. Usually an unannounced entrance in a new home rattled me, but Horace Monroe's smile was as welcoming and engaging as Elsie's. I extended a hand to both of them, gently declining the offered food, ready to get to the business at hand. Ready to meet Dayonna.

I did not have to wait long. Before my behind could finish fighting through the pillows on the oversize, cushy sofa, a tall, slim teenage girl with quiet, fluid movements entered the room. I watched her and she watched me as she plopped down silently on a wingback chair facing the sofa on which I sat. Wearing skinny jeans and a bright yellow fitted T-shirt that had small rhinestones on the collar, she propped up a foot on a plush ottoman and popped open a can of soda. A spiral notebook filled with purple paper rested in her narrow lap. Sandy-colored, shoulder-length relaxed hair was pulled back into a single smooth ponytail. A sparkling cubic zirconia butterfly clip rested strategically above a perfect part on the left side of her head.

She was the same age as my son, Roman, but she seemed lifetimes older.

“Hi. I'm Dayonna.” Her surprisingly raspy alto voice broke through the incessant banter and chatter that had been swimming nonstop from the Monroes' mouths. I realized then that I had stopped paying attention to the elder couple's conversation the moment Dayonna had entered the room. Something in the young girl's quiet, sad, and distant eyes unnerved me. From the report I had heard and read that morning, I honestly was expecting to meet a monster. In person, this quiet, slim girl with the sad eyes looked barely able to hurt a fly.

But I had been around long enough to know that looks could be deceiving. I turned my attention away from her and back to the Monroes, who were saying something about an upcoming revival at their church.

“And Bishop Vernon Tracer of Sing a New Song Tabernacle will be the speaker. That's a gifted man, you know,” Mrs. Monroe gushed, beaming. I had no idea who she was talking about, but I smiled and nodded my head along with her.

“Sounds like you really have something to look forward to. That's exciting!” I said. “So . . . you've got a beautiful home. I can tell you really take pride in keeping up with things here.” Though I loved attending a good service as much as anyone else who was into Jesus, I usually avoided getting into discussions about church and God with clients. Another lesson I learned early on? Everybody is not coming from the same place, and that can get complicated with the families I serve. Fortunately, the Monroes did not seem to mind the sudden shift in the conversation.

“We bought this house several years ago, and believe me when I say it was a true fixer-upper,” Mr. Monroe replied, grinning.

“I wish I could say I helped fix it up, but all the credit for the changes in here truly goes to Horace. Horace is the best at fixing up old houses.”

“Only because it's for you, my lady.”

The elder couple gazed at each other in mutual admiration. A quick memory of RiChard standing on a hilltop in Zambia many years ago flashed through my mind . . . the look in his eyes, the heat in mine. I shook the image, the feeling, away. Quickly.

“You should see the work he's done all over this state, restoring homes and such,” Elsie continued. “We got married late in life, well beyond the years we could have children of our own, but he's always made the houses we've lived in feel like family homes. Hence, we've always had a foster child within our gates. If we couldn't raise our own together, we sure enough can help another's poor baby.”

Horace still beamed at his wife, but something had changed in his eyes. I tried to figure out what had just flashed in them, but I needed to stay focused on the reason for my visit.

“So Dayonna has been here a few days now. Tell me how things are going for each of you.” I made certain to share eye contact with all three to ensure nobody felt excluded from my invitation to talk. In doing so, I did not miss the brief moments of silence that suddenly took over the room. The Monroes looked at each other again, though I could not read what emotion passed between them.

“Everything has been quite perfect, to be honest with you.” The gap in Mrs. Monroe's upper teeth showed through her smile.

But her bottom lip was quivering.

“Yes, indeed.” Mr. Monroe's voice sounded louder than necessary. “No problems here.”

I looked over at Dayonna, who stared back at me with a blank look on her face. “Your thoughts on how things are going so far?” I inquired.

She said nothing, only continued to stare at me with that blank, unreadable look.

Teenagers were some of the most difficult people to navigate, even without a mental health diagnosis.

“Well . . . ?” I shuffled through some papers in my lap, trying to figure out what words would break the apparent agreed-upon code of silence suddenly permeating the living room. If Ava was there, she would know exactly what to say, what to do, where to go from here. Despite all my training, at times I still felt like a novice. “So . . . ,” I said, beginning again, “everything is going well? No questions or concerns you—any of you—would like to bring up?”

“All is well.” Mr. Monroe gave a plastic grin.

Mrs. Monroe nodded her head in agreement, a crazed smile on her face.

“Perhaps I can talk to each of you individually.” I glanced over at Dayonna, whose lips were pursed, as if she was about to finally speak.

“That's a great idea, Ms. St. James,” Mr. Monroe said, cutting through Dayonna's unspoken words, “but we are actually about to get ready for our Tuesday evening Bible study at church. Dayonna's tutor isn't coming today, so we wanted to take advantage of this time to go get some Word! How 'bout we plan on meeting with you one-on-one at your next visit?”

“Okay.” I bit my bottom lip. I felt like whatever control I had over my role with this family was slowing shifting away from me. Everybody was smiling; nobody was talking. What was I supposed to do? I decided to just be bold and go for what I was after.

“You know, I will meet with you each one-to-one next time, but I am getting a sense that some things are not being said. Please know that I am here to help. If there are any concerns—”

“Everything really is fine.” Dayonna's raspy voice cut through mine. Her face remained expressionless.

“Okay, well, how about we—”

“Ms. St. James, we appreciate you stopping by today, but as my husband said, we need to start getting ready for Bible study. Perhaps we can finish this visit another time?” Mrs. Monroe's smile did not waver.

There was nothing else for me to say or do. I gathered my things and casually headed for the door. “Okay. I'll come back on Thursday, same time, okay?”

“That's perfect.” Mrs. Monroe clasped her hands together. “We'll have more time to talk then.”

As I stepped out onto the porch, Dayonna was suddenly next to me, walking down the steps with me. She walked so close to me that my attaché was pinned between us.

“Wh—where are you going, little Miss Diamond?” Mr. Monroe called after us.

“Just walking Ms. St. James to her car,” she shouted back. I stayed quiet, feeling like I needed to let things go wherever they were heading without my interruption. I could see Mrs. Monroe struggling to get out of her house slippers and put on her shoes. She wanted to come outside with us.

But I was already at my car.

“Is everything really okay, Dayonna?” I gave her my warmest smile. She was quiet as I opened the driver's side door and threw my attaché over to the passenger seat. She shrugged her shoulders and turned as if to leave but then was suddenly next to my ear.

“You gotta get me out of here.” Dayonna's voice was a sharp whisper.

“Why? What's wrong?” I was pleased to finally be getting somewhere.

Dayonna frowned and looked me straight in my eyes. “They're going to kill me.”

My head swung all the way back. “Kill you? Why do you think the Monroes would want to kill you?”

“They killed my sister.” Dayonna's words rushed out. “They killed her and ate her. Chopped her into pieces for cabbage stew.”

I froze and looked in her eyes. A wild gaze stared back at me. I remembered seeing in her chart that she had at one time been prescribed Risperdal, an antipsychotic, to calm her violent moods and soothe her psychotic symptoms. Had she seen a psychiatrist since her return to Baltimore? I made a mental note to find her one.

Immediately.

“I'm just joking. You know that.” Her face broke into a smile. But her eyes still looked a little wild to me. I was becoming more uncomfortable. Some things you just don't joke about. And those eyes . . .

“Dayonna, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe seem like nice people. How are you feeling about being here?”

“Are you going to help me find her?”

“Find who?”

“My sister. She is gone. You have to help me find her.”

I could feel my eyes blinking as I tried to think of what to say next. “Um, I did not know you had a sister. I know you have a brother.” I had seen the name of one sibling, an older brother, somewhere in Dayonna's chart. I could not remember if a name was given, but I was certain I'd seen a birth date and a note that he had aged out of the system a few years ago. I had not paid much attention otherwise.

“I have a sister. And they chopped her and cooked her in cabbage stew. Are you going to help me find her or not?”

Before I could make sense of what she was saying, what she was asking, Mrs. Monroe had rounded the side of my car. In one quick movement, she put a thin arm around Dayonna's bony shoulders. I noticed the elder woman's shoes were on the wrong feet.

“All right, Ms. St. James.” Mrs. Monroe's voice was extra chirpy. Or was that just my imagination? I'm not going to lie. I was feeling a little thrown off in that moment and not trusting my gut. “Thank you so much for checking on us,” Mrs. Monroe continued. “We look forward to seeing you Thursday.” She wrapped her thin arm so tightly around Dayonna, I thought she would cut off the child's circulation. “Come on, Miss Diamond.” Mrs. Monroe smiled uneasily at her. “We have to get ready for church. Bye, now.” She waved vigorously at me as she stepped back and away.

Dayonna smiled and turned to leave with her guardian, no hint of worry, fear, or agitation on her face. It was as if her words from moments earlier had not been uttered. “Bye, Ms. St. James.” Dayonna grinned. “See you Thursday!” The two of them walked up the front steps together.

“Okay.” I shook my head and started my car in earnest. I had to get out of there. Besides the fact that all of them seemed a little off their rockers, I saw on my car clock that it was now inching closer to three o'clock. I still had to go back to the office to do paperwork and then get home before Roman did at five.

Somewhere inside of me, pain wanted to swell up and take over. But I did not let it. Instead I reached for the play button of my car's audio system. The sudden movement of my hand knocked over my attaché.

“Darn it,” I mumbled as I reached out to keep my big brown workbag from turning upside down on the floor. It was open and filled to the brim with papers, charts, and other work junk. I caught it just in time, but in doing so, a little torn piece of purple paper that had been sitting on top fluttered out. I did not recognize it at all, so when I stopped at a light, I picked it up and examined it.

I frowned at the four single words written in big, sloppy letters.

 

 

“Hope Diamond? Hope Diamond. As in the big blue diamond on display at the Smithsonian?” My office mate, Sheena Booth, flicked some lint off her plum blazer with her long, perfectly manicured fingernails. “Seriously? That's the best name she could come up with? Creative. I give her that. I can't believe you are even giving this a second thought. You know our clients are crazy.” Sheena adjusted the rhinestone-studded Bluetooth in her ear and turned back to her computer. Web sites for Facebook and Nordstrom filled her work screen. A half-written case note blinked underneath the open Web browsers. “Hope Diamond.” She shook her head as she turned.

“That's assuming they have the same last name,” I offered.

“That's assuming she actually exists.” Sheena shrugged and then looked back at me. “You're not really buying into that mumbo jumbo are you? Didn't Ava tell you that Dayonna Diamond had some weight on her from all her medications? But when you saw her, she was as skinny as a stick? That should tell you something. That girl ain't taking her meds!”

“I know it sounds crazy, but sometimes you have to wonder where our clients get this stuff from. You know?” I had been at my desk for twenty minutes, trying to summarize my first visit with the Monroes in a coherent, professional-sounding note.
You never know when your documentation might be subpoenaed for court
. These words from Ava Diggs always stayed with me. “I mean, some things they say are
so
out there, you have to wonder where it comes from.”

“Broken families. Messed-up childhoods. Crack in utero. Bad weed. Name it, Sienna, and our clients have lived it or said it, if only in their heads. There's a fine line between sense and insanity, and if someone's spent their whole life dealing with drama and trauma, it's not hard to see how the two can get blurred.”

“Her name is Hope.” I studied the scrap of purple paper one more time before sticking it back into Dayonna's chart. For good measure, I had rechecked her chart and confirmed that there was no mention of any other siblings except the older brother. Dayonna was just trying to get to me. I was sure of it. I shook my head, trying to dispel the unsettled feelings my new client had brought me. “Whatever. I need to get out of here. My son should be home in forty-five minutes, and I want to get there before he does. I don't know why this little fourteen-year-old is getting under my skin.”

“He's fourteen. He's supposed to get under your skin.”

“I was talking about Dayonna Diamond, but Roman is pulling a close second.” There was no way I was going to share with Sheena my real reasons for wanting to get home before Roman. Nobody at Holding Hands Agency—not even Ava Diggs—knew the full story about my complicated past with RiChard Alain St. James.

“Look, if Dayonna is getting to you that much, talk about it with Ava tomorrow. She's gone for the day for meetings with the bigwigs at social services. I'm sure she'll be more than willing to help you get chopped-up sisters and cabbage stew out of your system. Oh, have mercy. Look at how fine this brother is.” Sheena had turned to a copy of
Essence
magazine and did not look back up at me. Whatever audience I had with her was over.

Just as well. I had three minutes to log off and get back to my car, which was parked on the back lot. Rush hour was about to become full force on I-83 again, and I was on a mission. I had made it down the hall and was stepping onto the elevator when Sheena poked her head out of our office door.

“Wait, Sienna. Phone call. Your girl Dayonna just ran away.”