Losing Hope (28 page)

“Thank you, Ms. Richmond.”

“Stop by anytime, okay? It was nice talking to you. I don't hear from my kin too often, and I ain't one for talking much to the neighbors.” The woman beamed. “Say bye-bye, Daymonica.”

I could only grin as the toddler, Dayonna Diamond's little niece, scrunched her fingers together and blew me a slobbery kiss.

Belvedere Square was a boutique shopping area not far from Nellie Richmond's house. Eclectic, inspiring shops and a fresh food market helped create a unique upscale atmosphere in this part of Northeast Baltimore City. I had not eaten all day, and the hunger pains were starting to interrupt and cloud my thinking. I needed a moment to regroup, refresh, and figure out what to do next.

I was sitting at an umbrella table outside, inhaling the steam from my generous bowl of vegetable curry, deciding on when to call the number that Nellie had just given me, when my cell phone rang.

Sheena Booth, my office mate.

“Girl, you just can't stop, can you?”

“Sheena, what are talking about?”

“The news, honey.”

“Um, I still don't know what you are talking about, Sheena.”

“I'm sitting here watching the four o'clock news, and there you are all up in front of the camera, standing next to Second Zion, talking about not losing hope. I have no idea what you were talking about, but someone out there must, because I instantly got a text message, and I'm assuming it's a message for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It was your address, Sienna. Someone texted me your home address.”

“What? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don't know. Maybe whatever you said hit too close to home for the sender—and for you. I don't know.”

I felt a chill inside as I considered the time. Roman. I had not checked on him all day, but he should be home from school. A stranger had our address, and my son should be home.

Just too much. Everything was too much.

“Okay.” I swallowed, trying to keep from screaming. “Thanks for telling me, Sheena. I'll figure out what to do from here.”

“Did you find out what was wrong with Ava last night? Are our jobs in jeopardy?”

“I don't know. I don't think so. I mean, I'm trying to find out what I can to make sure that she is okay, and that we'll be okay.”

“Well, although you are the one who seems to have stirred up all this trouble, you know I'll help with whatever I can to make sure Ava is okay.”

I knew that she really wanted to say “to make sure my job is okay,” but I appreciated the small gesture from Sheena. In a way, I felt like I was not totally alone in this.

“Thanks, Sheena. One thing. What number did the text come from?

There was a pause as she scrolled through her phone, and then she belted out the digits. My heart dropped as I read along with the number she was giving. It was the same phone number Nellie Richmond had just given me.

“Okay. Thanks, Sheena. I really need to go now.”

I'd taken only two spoonfuls of my curry, but I left a few bills to cover the cost and a tip and hightailed it out of there.

I was in my car, heading home, my headset on and over my ear, ready to start making urgent phone calls within seconds.

“Call Roman,” I directed my mobile phone for the fourth time. Again, the number rang and rang.

After the raw feelings that came out last night at my mother's house, I had purposely given Roman some space today. I knew my parents would ensure he made it to school, and I had planned to have a face-to-face talk with him when I got home.

Now I wished I'd talked to him earlier. I had no idea what state of mind he was in.

“Call Leon,” I shouted into my headset.

The number dialed in my ear, and once again, all I heard was a deluge of rings.

I was driving down Northern Parkway, headed to my home in Woodlawn, and the closer I got, the farther away I felt. I just wanted to get to my house and make sure all was okay.

“Information.”

When the operator picked up, I requested the phone number for the Police Athletic League where Leon worked. My nerves were too worked up for me to try to remember the number on my own. The ringing began again, but this time someone answered.

A woman.

I remembered the young lady, Patricia, who had glared at me on Saturday, when I picked Roman up from there and confirmed that Leon would be meeting us for dinner.

“Hello.” The sass in the voice of the woman who answered the phone let me know it was Patricia again.

“Is Officer Sanderson in?” My heart was beating faster, I realized, for many reasons.

She paused before answering. “No, he's not. Who's calling?”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I don't know where he went. He drove off a couple of hours ago with one of the teens who comes here sometimes.”

“Was it Roman St. James? This is his mother.” I held my breath.

“I don't know, miss. I just started here, and I don't know all the children's names. Give me your name and number, and if I hear from Leon, I'll pass along your message.”

I did just that and disconnected, wanting to believe that Roman was with Leon. If he was, I knew he was in good hands.

I was about to call the number Nellie gave me, the one from which the text to Sheena was sent, but I was close enough to my home that I decided to wait. First things first. I needed to make sure all was well on the home front.

“Roman!” I shouted as I stepped into my foyer.

No answer.

Only the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies greeted me. My stomach growled ferociously in response as I followed the sweet aroma into the kitchen, where a paper plate piled high with the gooey cookies sat waiting, loosely covered in plastic wrap. A note sat atop it.

Taking one bite into one cookie made all the troubles, twists, and turns of the day feel minor. True escape. I thought about calling my mother, even my sister, for a family check-in, but I did not want to ruin the moment of perfection Leon had given me with the still-warm cookies. Roman must have helped him bake them, because I noticed my mixing bowls and a cookie sheet were clean and sitting in the dish drainer next to my sink.

I collapsed onto a stool next to the breakfast bar, enjoying the next bite, then the next. Perfection. Closing my eyes, I enjoyed the rest of the cookie and then reached for another.

That was when I saw the day's mail sitting on the counter.

That was when my moment of peace came to a screeching halt.

A letter from Portugal sat atop the junk mail and bills.

My hands shook as I picked up the delicate envelope that was stamped and covered with international postage and postmarks. From what I could gather, it looked like it had been mailed the day after Beatriz called me to tell me that the package was on its way.

Almost two weeks ago.

There was no return address, and my name was written in block print.

My fingers continued to shake as I gingerly tore the envelope open. A sheet of paper was the single item inside. I took it out, smoothed down the creases, and felt my heart sink.

The entire letter was written in Portuguese.

I studied the foreign words, fingering the letters and commas, guessing at the message contained in the five paragraphs.

“RiChard, where are you?” My voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

I laid my head down on top of the letter, wanting to cry, knowing I had no time to do so. I'd have to deal with this letter later. A plan was already forming in my head. For now, I would finish the mission I'd started that day.

Finding Hope.

If I could find her, prove that she was real, and not just a figment of Dayonna's hurting imagination, then maybe I could begin coming to terms with the crippled hope in my own life.

I grabbed my cell phone and keyed in the number given to me by both Nellie and Sheena. Hidden Jewels of the City Home Rehab Co.

The phone rang three times before being picked up.

“Hello?”

I recognized the male voice immediately, though I was surprised at how surprised he sounded.

“Tremont?”

“Sienna?” He paused. “I was just about to call you. I've been finding out some troubling things over the past couple of days, and I wanted to talk to you about it. First, though, how did you get this number?”

“Tremont, or should I say Jewels, I think I should be the one asking the questions.”

“Sienna, I really don't know what you're talking about. Who is Jewels?”

“Please, don't do this. I've found you, although I thought you were going to be Horace. Can you just tell me what is going on? And where is Hope Diamond?”

“Hope Diamond? So she
is
real?”

“Tremont, please! Let's be done with the lies and confusion. Just tell me what's going on.”

“Sienna, that is what I am trying to do. I do not know all that's going on myself. Right now, I'm at this house—”

“On the Eastern Shore, right?” I interrupted.

“Y—yes. How did you know that?”

“I've been trying to find you and the Monroes—and Dayonna—all day.”

“Okay, well, now you know where I am, and I really need to talk you. About Dayonna. About the Monroes. About everything I've been learning. Like I said, I've been trying to figure out what is going on with them myself, especially since that e-mail I showed you yesterday has made it to the media. I wanted to know who was behind it, and everything keeps pointing back to them. I've been doing my own investigating, and, like I said, I'm finding out some disturbing things.”

“Tremont, I'm not an idiot. Just tell me—”

“I know you're not, Sienna. That's why I want to talk to you, and only you. You are the only person I know I can fully trust right now, because you have no agenda, no strings attached to any of this.”

“What are you finding out, Tremont?” I rolled my eyes, growing sick and tired of the confusion that did not seem to end.

“I want to tell you, but I'd rather do so in person. And to be honest with you, I think you probably need to come here to find the answers you're looking for.”

“To the Eastern Shore? You mean, like, now?”

“I know it's a two-hour drive from where you are, but I'm not leaving here until I find what I came here for, and my gut tells me that we are looking for the same thing.”

“Hope?”

“I think you should come here, Sienna. I want to talk to you in person. It's too much to get into over the phone. This is heavy for me. I'm at this house in Cambridge now. The Monroes and Dayonna have stepped out. I was just kneeling here, praying for direction. The phone rang, I answered it, and it was you. You figured out this much. I think you need to see the whole story for yourself. I know it's getting late, but can you come?”

“Let me call you back, Tremont.” I ended the call before he could say anything else, and now tears did flow.

It was all too much.

I remembered the first time Tremont bumped into me, just last Tuesday at church. I'd seen him four more times since, and what had struck me during each meeting was the sincerity in his eyes, the warmth in his hands. He'd just told me that I was the only person he was trusting right now. I wondered if I should give him the same courtesy.

I wanted to trust somebody in my quest to find Hope.

I think that was all I'd ever really wanted. Someone to trust with my hopes. RiChard had failed me. Disappointed me. Angered me.

I opened up the letter from Beatriz again, wishing I could make out what it said, turning to my last plan for answers to learn his whereabouts, his life and/or death status.

Tomeeka Antoinette Ryans.

The Portuguese teacher from the community college.

Roman had a scanner in his room. I held my breath and closed my eyes to the chaos of his sleeping quarters and, using his scanner, turned the letter into a graphic computer file. I found the syllabus that Tomeeka had passed out to me and Luca on Friday, remembering that her e-mail address was on it. The e-mail I sent her was short and simple.

A request to translate the attached file.

My energy was nearly depleted, but I knew I had a lot more ahead of me before I could say that the day was done.

I left a note on the dining room table thanking Leon for bringing my son home safely and instructing Roman to go to bed, that I would be home extra late.

It was already a little after five. The sun was showing hints of setting, my stomach was screaming for mercy in the form of food, but I had too much to do to stop now.

I was going to drive to the Eastern Shore to meet Tremont.

But before I did so, I had one more stop to make.

Those were the last three words in the last sentence I'd ever heard from RiChard's mouth.

Though the last time I saw him was when I'd made that cross-country trip when Roman was an infant, I'd had a few telephone conversations with RiChard over the years.

Six, to be exact.

He called on Roman's third birthday and then again on the day after Roman started kindergarten. He called one Christmas, when Roman was eight, and one Valentine's Day, when I was thirty. The next call came on a random Thursday in April when Roman was ten. The last call came on Roman's thirteenth birthday, when RiChard told Roman that he was now a man according to some global cultural traditions.

There had been letters and even more gifts and packages, but I—and Roman—lived for the times that the phone rang and RiChard's voice was on the other end.

When the last phone call came, Roman and I had just walked into the house following a dinner at my mother's to celebrate his transition into adolescence. I picked up the phone on what was probably its last ring.

“Hello, Sienna, my love. Is my son, the full-grown warrior, available?”

It was like hearing his voice for the first time. My heart stopped anew as I beckoned a wide-eyed Roman to the phone. The two talked for twenty minutes. I watched my son try to cram three years of school projects, sports victories, girl problems—what?—and some other odds and ends of his life into that conversation. When I took the phone back from him, I started with the same questions I had whenever I heard from RiChard over the years.

“Where are you?” “How are you?” “When will we see you again?” “How can we reach you?”

He always had the same answers.

He was on his way to a remote village with no phone service. He was tired but found strength in the righteousness of the cause. He had no idea when he'd be stateside, and the work was too dangerous for a woman and child—though he'd just pronounced Roman a man. He did not have a way for us to reach him, but he'd do his best to stay in contact.

He loved us, he missed us, and he'd call again as soon as he could.

That was how he was going to end the conversation, the way that had become the accepted standard between us. However, this time, I'd worked up my courage to ask a question that was not in our script.

“Why can't we all be more a part of each other's lives?”

It was not the true question that needed to be asked, but for me, it was a brave start.

I was not ready to handle the true answers.

RiChard played along.

“Sienna, I know I have been absent for a large part of your day-to-day life, but you must keep your eyes on the bigger picture. I need to do what is right.”

The words echoed back and forth in my head like a Ping-Pong ball, getting hit from all sides, whipped from all angles. I wanted RiChard to need
me,
to need me and his son in
his
day-to-day life.

But his needs were not my own.

I realized now as I was driving that the entire trajectory of my life would have been different if I had accepted that fact years ago.

For one, I would have moved. I'd stayed in the same house, afraid that if we moved, RiChard would not be able to find us when he was finally ready to come home.

I'd been hoping against hope that something in RiChard's equation would change, but I knew now that two plus two would always equal four. Any other outcome would mean different factors were involved.

I had never been willing to really examine the factors, to realize that while I was working on two plus two, RiChard was measuring triangles. It wasn't just about solving problems in different ways—we weren't even working with the same formula.

 

 

Mother Ernestine Jefferson lived in a senior condominium building on Clarks Lane in the Upper Park Heights neighborhood. This part of Park Heights, which was worlds away from my sister's end, was known for its large Orthodox Jewish community. Although it was not the Sabbath, I still saw small hordes of men in all black, wearing long beards and black hats, walking and milling about the neighborhood.

I pulled into a visitor parking space and smiled as the suited doorman, a light-skinned black man with a round face, a bald head, and pretty hazel eyes, whisked the lobby door open for me with a wink and a nod. Inside the lobby, an older black woman with curls as big as Ava's sat behind a glass wall. She slipped a sign-in sheet toward me through a small opening.

“Who are you here to see, ma'am?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

“Ernestine Jefferson in two-two-six, please.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“Um, kind of?”

Mother Jefferson had told me I could come by anytime when she'd given me her address last week at church. She must have extended her offer to countless others, because the lobby attendant gave a short chuckle and called up to the apartment.

“Hey, Tina. Another one of yours is here.” The attendant continued to chuckle. She hung up and nodded at me. “The elevator is down the hallway to your left, but she's right above us on the second floor, if you want to take the steps.”

I followed her pointed finger and headed for the stairs. On the second-floor landing, the door to apartment 226 was already open. Before I even got to the door, Mother Ernestine Jefferson was standing in the doorway.

“I thought it would be you, Ms. Sienna St. James.” She smiled. Although she was almost ninety years old, she had a youthfulness about her, which I didn't see in even some fifty-year-olds. Wearing a plum-colored velvet running suit and vibrant white sneakers, she looked like she could run circles around me.

“You remembered my name.” I was genuinely surprised.

“Oh, dear heart, of course I remember your name. It's not too often I come across other women who have the same look on their faces as I did when I used to talk about my old Edmond.”

I smiled, but inside I was shaking my head. This woman was married to a nationally, if not internationally, respected television preacher. What on earth did he have in common with RiChard, who probably would have had something negative to say about the elder's evangelistic ministry?

RiChard was not into Jesus. He called himself a man of many faiths, reading and studying the major religions of the world, even adopting the belief systems of whatever village or community he settled in.

I'd muted my faith to stand beside him. Maybe, I realized, I'd muted it so much that I'd forgotten where I put the volume button. When I'd needed it most, when I'd needed
hope
most, all I'd heard was silence.

No more.

“Come on in. Have a seat. I was just heating up leftovers from Sunday dinner. Meat loaf, green beans, and mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy. You want some?”

“Do I ever.” I didn't even bother to hide my hunger. I don't think my body would have let me. Plus, I still had a long drive ahead of me. I had not planned on being here for a long stay, but I needed this pit stop.

Body, soul, and spirit.

“Good. Actually, instead of sitting down, can you help me get this food together?”

I did not mind the silence that ensued between us as we pulled out pots and pans from her refrigerator and set her dining room table with good china, real silverware, and etched glasses.

“I don't always get to have company for Monday night dinner, so I'm going all out for you, dear heart,” she explained.

While we waited for the meat loaf to finish warming in the microwave, I could no longer hold in what was gnawing me.

“Mother Jefferson, you keep saying that you see in me the same thing you saw in yourself as it pertains to the relationship you had with your husband. How is that so? Your husband was a revered man of God, who served with integrity. You don't even know what I've been dealing with.”

Mother Jefferson let out a slight chuckle as she spooned a mound of mashed potatoes onto my plate.

“Honey, I recognize that look in your eyes as if I was looking into a mirror.”

“What look is that?”

“Loneliness.”

She let the word sink in before sitting down in her seat and continuing.

“I know what it is like to watch the man you love and want to spend every second with share his days and nights with countless crowds. You admire what he does, but wish sometimes that he could just stop and spend his life with you.”

“But that's just it. You admired your husband. You knew what he was doing, where he was, why he was doing it. And at the end of the day or the week or the month, he was back in your arms, and not in some unknown village across the globe, with blood on his hands for the sake of what he called justice.”

Mother Jefferson put down the spoon and stared at me.

“You know, Sienna, you are right. I do not know the entirety of your life. I don't know your husband or where he is or what he's done. What I do know is that whatever mission he is or has been on in life, you were part of it. Your life intersected with his, but it did not end with him. You'll never be able to understand the weight of all he's done. You'll never be able to come to a final judgment of his actions—or inactions, as they may be. What you can do is make sure your hope is in the right place. Man will always fail you, but God is a rock. You must stay grounded for your own life's sake.”

I heard the word and shook my head.

“What is it?” She eyed me.

“Nothing. Just about sick of hearing that word hope.”

“I'm not even going to ask the story behind that one, but since you say you're feeling so sick about it, consider this verse from Proverbs. ‘Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.' Don't get so caught up in your heartsickness that you miss the tree that's ripe with the fruit of your heart's desire standing right in front of you.”

It was a lot to take in, and we both knew it. Silence became the third guest at the table as we finished the grand feast of leftovers. Though I was not sure that I'd been able to absorb all that was contained in the treasure of words she'd shared, I knew it was time to complete my mission for the day.

“I'm sorry about the awful rumors circulating around about your granddaughter.” I could not look at her, wondering if she knew of my ties to the situation.

“Oh, we're not worried about that. No, it's not something we like or would have planned, but God is working out His purposes even in this. At some point, we just have to trust Him. When all looks like it is falling apart, inside and out, therein lays our hope.” She winked. “God is perfecting
all
that concerns us.”

“Amen.” What else was there for me to say?

I helped Mother Jefferson with the dishes, and we laughed and carried on about random things, lighter things. No more discussion about husbands and heartbreaks, loneliness and hope.

I left there realizing that I needed everything that Mother Jefferson offered me that night: food, fellowship, and words to build my faith.

Simple moments were often the ones that had the most substance.

With a hope-filled heart and a satisfied stomach, I headed toward the Bay Bridge and Cambridge, Maryland.

It was already a little past six o'clock.