Losing Hope (29 page)

I'd made many journeys in my life. I'd flown to countries I'd never heard of, met people with customs I did not quite understand. I'd traveled for recreation, for charity.

For love.

I'd had trips that took me out of my comfort zone and travels that redefined it. I'd lost some luggage and gained some friends.

Now, as I made my way past cornfields whispering gently in the cool evening breeze, I reflected on the many journeys I'd made—from villages in South Africa as RiChard's partner in revolution to home visits in Baltimore as a social worker. With my windows down to let the cold air numb my bones, my music off to listen only to the thoughts in my head, I knew that this trip to Cambridge—to find Hope—was symbolic of many trips I'd made before.

I was alone, seeking direction, not sure of the destination and the lessons to be had when I arrived. Like with the rest of my life, I was winging it, without a true plan, with just a general belief that I would end up at the right place somehow, doing the right thing for somebody.

I'd been a young woman when I thought my purpose was tied solely to RiChard and his ideals. When I stopped understanding him, I lost understanding of myself.

Yes, I had achieved much without him—my degree, my job, my home—but it had been done with the purpose of proving to RiChard that I was good enough for his ideals.

Now I knew my purpose could never be tied to a single person.

But Jesus.

With Him, my dreams, my desires, and my hopes were safe.

 

 

Eleven-nineteen Waterpointe Road turned out to be an old Victorian-style home on a dead-end street off of farmland that overlooked the Choptank River. With multiple porches and landscaped gardens, the property had to be worth close to a million dollars, by my untrained estimates. Though the house was probably about a hundred years old, spotlights placed strategically in the front yard showcased a dwelling that had been recently updated.

Even in the darkness, it was obvious that the house was the crown jewel of a home renovator's project list.

I parked in the circular driveway and walked up to the double front doors. Despite the spotlights that shone on the exterior of the massive Victorian mansion, I did not see any lights on inside. I tried to make sense of the interior darkness, wondering if I had come too late. Maybe I should have called Tremont to make sure he was still here. I pulled out my cell phone.

No signal.

I knocked on the door, not realizing it was already open. When it swung in with a loud creak, exposing a darkened foyer, I wanted to laugh at myself for the sudden fear that overtook me.

This is not a horror scene in a movie,
I reminded myself, trying to calm my racing heart.
Nobody is going to come jumping out at me.
I thought about the man-that-turned-out-to-be-a-poster experience at the vacant home earlier that day and tried to keep a realistic perspective.

Just the same, I still did not feel comfortable.

“Hello? Tremont?” I stepped into the foyer, leaving the door open to have a little bit of light. “Anyone home?” As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I noticed a floor lamp near the entrance. I pulled the chain and light flooded the room.

Despite the old-fashioned Victorian exterior, the interior of the home was a contemporary masterpiece done in shades of baby blue, cream, and sage.

Very calming.

Luxurious fabrics and finishes filled the foyer, living room, and dining room—the areas I could see from where I stood. Well-planned niches and tucked-away seating gave the feeling of escape. Though it was nighttime, I imagined that the large bay windows offered breathtaking views of the nearby river.

Honestly, the room was the antithesis of Elsie Monroe's ceramic and knickknack explosion decor. There was no way she'd had any say in the interior design of this home, I concluded, admiring the modern but inviting layout and furnishings.

“Hello?” I ventured deeper into the home, still leaving the front door open, as I did not want to feel like I had just made myself fully comfortable in another's home. “Tremont? Mr. or Mrs. Monroe?” I called out. “Dayonna?”

I flicked on another light and found myself standing in a beautiful and indulgent sunroom. This room was done in all cream with rich gold accents. A plush chaise lounge near the center of the room seemed to be calling my name, and it took all I had not to go over and collapse into the oversize pillows that sat on top of it.

That was when I realized I was exhausted.

“God, what am I doing here? All the issues going on in my life, with my son, and I am standing here in this empty house, two hours away from my home, searching for someone I am not sure exists.”

I needed to go back home. I checked my cell phone again, this time with the thought of calling Roman.

Still no signal.

I flicked the lights off, but just as I did, something caught the corner of my eye and I turned them back on.

A magazine on the floor.

It was not so much the magazine but the address label on the back of it.

Crystal Rose.

Dayonna's mother.

I picked up the magazine, confirming that the address matched the house in which I stood. It did.

“Crystal Rose? What is she doing here?”

“I wondered the same thing, Sienna.” The voice came from the darkened hallway.

“Tremont?” I jumped to keep from screaming, his presence so unexpected. “Where did you come from?”

“I'm sorry, Sienna.” He took a step back. “I did not mean to scare you. I was upstairs.” He motioned to the back of the house. I noticed a dim light in what appeared to be the kitchen. A back staircase led to an upper floor from there.

“Are you here alone?”

“No.”

I noticed tears in his eyes.

“What's going on, Tremont?”

“I think you should come upstairs and see.”

“I'm not feeling . . . very comfortable right now.” It was a brave thing for me to say, but I said it.

“I understand, but you've come this far, Sienna, so I know you are determined to find whatever it is you've been looking for. I've been on my own mission since I talked to you. I've definitely been getting answers, and, well, it's been painful, to say the least. Come upstairs. I need you to see what I've learned.”

With nothing else to do, nowhere else to go, I followed him through the dimly lit hallway to the back staircase in the kitchen. When we made it to the upstairs landing, I realized we were not finished with our hike. I also saw where the light was coming from. A second set of steps spiraled upward where the first one ended, leading to what looked like a finished attic. A door with light peeking around the frame blocked my view of what lay ahead, but an unmistakable familiar sound came through nonetheless.

Whimpering.

Dayonna.

Even Tremont seemed to hesitate as we got closer to the door. The whimpers were getting louder. With a loud sigh, he opened it, and I realized the whimpers were really full-blown screams. The finished attic must have had some type of sound barrier or insulation built into it.

As I blinked my eyes to adjust to the brightly lit, windowless room, I saw that Dayonna was not alone. Horace Monroe stood in a corner, under the eaves, his large hands rubbing his forehead in angst. Elsie Monroe was seated on a metal twin bed, Dayonna draped across her lap. The elderly lady had a wet washcloth that she was using to dab Dayonna's forehead.

“We're sorry, Tremont,” Mr. Monroe mumbled. “This isn't how we wanted you to find out.”

They all must have thought I'd figured out everything, because nobody said anything else for a long time. At a complete loss for words and direction, I moved closer to where Mrs. Monroe and Dayonna sat on the bed. Tremont remained frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide, as if in shock.

I noticed as I approached that there were a couple of pictures stacked on the bed. Silence remained even as I reached for them. The first was a family photo, of a younger Horace Monroe in a black hat, with a charming smile, and a woman who was most definitely not Elsie Monroe.

And a girl of about seven or eight who had the familiar slanting eyes and thin nose that I'd come to recognize as a family trait for Dayonna and all her siblings.

“The woman in this picture—”

“Bertha.” Elsie Monroe cut me off. “My best friend from childhood. And Horace's first wife.”

I paused to make sense of that bit of information, along with the strained look on Mrs. Monroe's face and her blank stare off into space.

“And the girl?” I asked, gently prying, though I already knew the answer.

“Crystal Rose.” Mrs. Monroe looked at me.

“Your daughter?” I looked over at Mr. Monroe. He nodded and gave me a weak smile.

“Yes. She didn't have our last name, because Bertha wanted to be different. She was a free spirit, an artist—a gifted artist. A lot of the knickknacks and ceramic figurines at our house are her handiwork. She wanted Crystal, her greatest creation, to be named after her birth month, June. ”His smile strengthened slightly, then waned.

“And rose is the birth month flower for June?”

He nodded again.

“It suited her,” Mrs. Monroe chimed in, a blank look still plastered on her face. “At least in the beginning. Crystal was a free spirit too, but addiction, unfortunately, became her artistry.”

“It was in her genes.” Mr. Monroe almost sounded defensive. “I was an alcoholic when Crystal was young. It only got worse when Bertha died. But then Elsie stepped in and helped turn my life around.”

Mrs. Monroe's face brightened as she focused in on her husband. “And now he helps lead the substance abuse ministry at Second Zion.” She beamed.

“Crystal, she wanted to continue her mother's tradition and gave her daughters surnames based on their birth months,” I said. “But she used birthstones instead. Topaz, Sapphire, Diamond. . . . I'm forgetting one.”

Mr. Monroe's smile dropped as he and Mrs. Monroe exchanged glances. “Y—you know about the other girls?”

“And Crystal's son.” I nodded firmly.

“Dayquon? You know where Dayquon is?” Tears glistened in the older man's eyes.

“I have his phone number. And address.”

“Praise the Lord!” Mr. Monroe dropped into a worn armchair. “He went into foster care at an early age, and because of the breakdown in our relationship with Crystal, we weren't able to keep track of him—or get him back. After that experience, I promised myself that no other child she gave birth to would leave our family. Crystal was so high, she didn't even care that I saw to it that family members took in her offspring. Dayonna was the only other one who got away.”

“So you started taking in only girls, hoping she would somehow show up.”

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe exchanged glances again.

“And when she did, you weren't going to lose her, no matter how difficult her behavior.”

“I have done everything in my power, with all my resources and all my might, to keep my grandchildren somewhere in my care. I was so afraid that I would lose them to the system, like we did Dayquon, if anyone outside of our family found out about them. Kinship care, even as grandparents, is not always so cut and dry once the foster care system gets involved. The authorities want to know every detail of your life, and we just wanted to live our lives, no questions asked. I wanted my—I mean,
our
—grandchildren to have as much of a normal life as possible despite Crystal's, well, shortcomings.” He smiled over at Mrs. Monroe, who blinked rapidly but smiled back.

“God forgive me if any of my strategies weren't as honest or straightforward as they probably should have been,” Mr. Monroe continued, “but I did not know what else to do or where to turn. I was determined to save everyone without stirring up too many questions from those outside our family.”

“But we haven't been able to save Crystal.” Mrs. Monroe looked away again. I noticed for the first time that Dayonna had stopped whimpering.

I looked back over at Tremont, who still looked stunned.

“Tremont, I know the path I took to come here, but how did you end up here today? You knew about all of this.”

“I knew nothing.” His voice came out in a whisper. “But I knew Crystal. When I was a foster child in the Monroes' home, she was always around. I was selling drugs back then, and Crystal, well, she was . . . beautiful. . . and feigning for her next high. That combination. . . well, you can put two and two together.”

I watched as Mr. Monroe squinted, as if a searing pain had shot through his body.

“The picture that's floating around on the news, of me and the bishop's wife?” Tremont continued. “Like I told you, it was fake. What I didn't tell you was that the picture was based on a real one. It is me in that photo, but the woman in the original was Crystal. When the picture first showed up in the Monroes' mailbox years ago, when I was living with them, understandably, Mr. Monroe kicked me out.”

“I was just doing what I thought was best for my daughter at the time.” Mr. Monroe looked and sounded apologetic.

“Please . . .” Tremont held up a hand. “I've told you before and I'll tell you a million times, you kicking me out was the start of me getting my life together. When I had nobody left but Jesus to turn to, that's where I turned, and I'm better off for it.”

Elsie nodded. “You got better, and Crystal seemed to get worse. We didn't see her too much after you were gone. Poor thing.” She shook her head.

Tremont shook his head too. “Anyway, like I said, that picture was from years ago. When it showed up in my e-mail the other day, I knew it had to somehow be related to Crystal. I called the Monroes, demanding answers, but I'm still struggling to accept the answers they're giving me. How could you have kept this information from me?” Tremont sounded like he was still demanding answers as he stared at Mr. and Mrs. Monroe.

“What is he talking about?” I was trying desperately to make the connection.

Mrs. Monroe made it for me. “Dayonna is Tremont's daughter.”

“And you came all the way here to tell him that?”

“Yes.” Mr. Monroe stated flatly. “I renovated this house for Crystal, thinking that if she had her own private detox place, she'd finally get it together.”

“But she hasn't,” Mrs. Monroe noted. As if recognizing the shortness in her tone, she quickly added, “So we use this as our own private getaway. We thought that in addition to having a peaceful place to tell Tremont about his daughter, this would be a good place for him to hide out of the public spotlight until things calmed down in Baltimore. There's really nowhere he can go back home where he is not recognized. Plus, we figured Dayonna would benefit from having a personal retreat. It's been a challenging week for her, and when the hospital discharged her, we knew immediately that we were coming here.” Mrs. Monroe looked down in her lap and patted the still quiet Dayonna with the washcloth.

I nodded along, trying to absorb all this new information. But some of the dots still were not connecting. “Okay, I get what you are saying, but what about the picture and the crazy texts and phone calls? Who is behind all that?”

“That's what we are trying to figure out, Sienna,” Mr. Monroe said. Tremont and Mrs. Monroe firmly nodded.

Silence ensued as I tried, along with the others, to piece together the complicated puzzle.

“Deirdre Evans?” I threw out her name.

Mr. Monroe raised an eyebrow. “You know about Deirdre? Wow, you really have been digging.” He leaned forward in his chair. “As I said, after we lost contact with Dayquon, I wanted to do all I could to keep my other grandchildren out of the system. I did not want their names to even come up. And why should they? They are being well cared for by family members who wanted to take them in. We knew Dayonna was in the system and caught wind of her whereabouts about a year and a half ago, when Deirdre Evans was her DSS worker. She was also the worker for a foster child we had in our home at the time, and she was not as conscientious as you, Sienna. Dayonna was her toughest case, and she talked about her constantly, names, addresses, and all. Through her, we knew that Dayonna went missing for a while, and that she was subsequently placed into a residential treatment center.

“Deirdre was the type of person who knew a lot of people and asked a lot of questions. I could not take any chances of the system finding out about my grandchildren, splitting them up and sending them who knows where,” Horace explained. “When it seemed like she was getting too close to finding out about my other granddaughters, I found a way to offer her a better position, paying better money with fewer hours, and she took it. It was good for her and good for us, as we still had a way to keep tabs on Dayonna. Deirdre doesn't even know that I used her pull to get Dayonna hooked up with Holding Hands once she came back from the out-of-state center. She just knew not to keep asking too many questions.”

“Hold on.” I held out a hand. “Just to clarify, you are Jewels, right?”

Mr. Monroe ran a hand over his balding head and dropped his eyes. “I've overseen many home renovation projects and rentals throughout the Baltimore metropolitan area, and even out here on the Eastern Shore. My business has been very profitable for me, and it had to be. The money I've made has been bread and butter for my family members, especially the ones who've taken in my grand-girls. But again, I did not want anyone getting a whiff of any of them so that there would be no risk of losing them to the system, like what happened to Dayquon. I've managed to avoid too many inquiries about my business, especially since I donate most of what's left after caring for the girls to the church and other charitable causes without my name even attached.”

“It's been a blessing to be able to help so many,” Mrs. Monroe commented.

I wanted a moment to absorb all that was being said, but Mr. Monroe was not finished with his explanation.

“Deirdre Evans was not only a caseworker, but also a member of our church. When she began to ask too many questions, I managed to quiet her down by convincing her that somebody wanted us all to stay quiet. Jewels, naturally, was the first name that rolled off my tongue. But I never called her or texted her with threatening messages. I haven't been able to figure out who knew what was going on and what was being gained by scaring that poor woman. Anytime anyone asks questions about Crystal and all her children, strange calls and threats start happening. But what could I do? I didn't want any of this to become public knowledge.”

“So you think Crystal could be behind all this?” I asked. Crystal certainly seemed like the likely candidate. I stared over at Tremont, who looked just as confused as I did.

“I've wondered that myself.” Mrs. Monroe answered. “Crystal has not been happy that all her children have been taken from her, although she signed documentation giving family members guardian rights. Most of the time, she's too high to really care. But when she does care, her behavior can get extreme.” Mrs. Monroe continued wiping down Dayonna's head as she spoke tome.