Losing Hope (4 page)

I felt weak. And sick. “So you opened the box, and the only thing inside was . . . bubble wrap and . . . the ring? Nothing . . . nothing else?” My voice sounded the way I felt. Where were the ashes?

“Yeah, Ma. Were you expecting something else to be in there?”

I wanted to scream, cry, hyperventilate, or something along those lines, but I noticed then that in addition to the sweeper across the street, Mr. Monroe was watching me from his living room window.

And from an upstairs window, behind frilly lace curtains, I was being watched by none other than Dayonna Diamond herself.

“I promise you I'm not crazy.” Those were the exact same words I told my mother in November 1994. I was home for Thanksgiving break, and all the clothes, books, containers, and goods that my parents had helped me lug into my dorm room that past September were now sitting in their living room. I had moved out of my dormitory. I had stopped attending classes. I was dropping out of college.

RiChard was by my side.

“Mr. Davis . . . Can I call you Alvin? I love your daughter. I love the passion she has for the human race. I love the beauty she brings to this world with her genuine smile. She is a blooming flower in a landscape of thorns.” This was what RiChard was saying to my father, a truck driver for a local bakery. My father grumbled something and pushed another forkful of steaming hot mashed potatoes into his mouth. My younger sister, Yvette, sixteen at the time and pregnant with her first child, snickered in her seat at the table, glad, I guess, for once that she was not the object of my parents' wrath.

“Sienna has a full scholarship, and our family values education greatly. She is not leaving school.” These words were my mom's, the woman who worked her way from fifth grade teacher to elementary school principal. She had her principal voice on then, talking to RiChard as if she were chiding a fourth grader caught talking during a spelling test, and not a grown man announcing to my family his intention to marry me and take me on his trip to a mountain village in China to help teach the locals English.

“Perhaps we in this country define education too narrowly,” RiChard countered. He was afraid of no one, eager to share his thoughts with presidents and ambassadors, not backing down from dignitaries or chiefs. I admired his bravery. I
needed
his bravery for what I was about to do. “What greater classroom exists than the open-ended experiences allowed us in foreign terrains?” he continued.

My mother rolled her eyes and slammed her fork down on her good china. “Look, my husband and I have worked too hard to watch Sienna throw away her chance at success. It is all fine and good if you want to go globe-trotting to save the whales and rain forests, but once whale season is over and the rain forests are cut down and you have moved on to your next refugee camp, I need to know that Sienna can get a job and take care of herself. Sienna, you have lost your mind if you think you are going to throw away a full tuition, room, and board scholarship to follow this lunatic around the world.”

 

 

“I promise you I'm not crazy.” I found myself repeating those same words to Mr. and Mrs. Monroe as we stood in their living room once again. “I am one hundred percent certain that I just saw Dayonna looking out of your upstairs window.” The bright yellow colors of the living room were starting to get to me. Even more unsettling were Horace's and Elsie's smiles. The painted lips on the porcelain dolls scattered throughout the room had more warmth and life on them than the pale, plastered grins on both the elders' faces.

“Ms. St. James,” Mr. Monroe began again, “we appreciate your concern, but believe you me, if Dayonna was in this house, we would know it and you would know it. Like I told that friendly policeman, she jumped out of our car and ran off down Belair Road.”

“It was an awful sight,” Mrs. Monroe chimed in. “We were in the middle of traffic when she took off.”

I eyed the two of them, trying—once again—to figure out what to say, but I'll be honest, as disturbed and confused as I felt over Dayonna's alleged disappearance, my heart and attention were not there.

I needed to see for myself that RiChard's ashes were
not
in that box lying on top of my bills at home. I wanted to take that heavy, gaudy ring from Roman and try to make sense of its sudden appearance after years of loss. And if RiChard was not in that box, where was he?
And why?
Once again that man was leaving me broken, lost, and confused. Anger, not sorrow, brimmed just under the surface of my collected demeanor.

“Look, Ms. St. James . . .” Mr. Monroe was talking again. I wondered if he had been talking the entire time. How much in life had I missed? From how many conversations had RiChard distracted me? “If it would make you feel better,” Mr. Monroe was saying, “you can go check upstairs yourself and see that Dayonna is not in our home.”

“Yes, please do.” Mrs. Monroe nodded. “It would make me feel better knowing that you felt better. We are honest and decent people and have no reason to make up stories about Dayonna or anything else.”

“That's right. We sure don't,” Mr. Monroe affirmed emphatically.

Both Monroes glanced at each other.

“Okay.” Out of routine, I held my bag close to me as I climbed the steps ahead of the older couple. Their row house had a layout familiar to any Baltimorean who'd lived in or visited the older brick homes that comprised many neighborhoods throughout the county and city. At the top of the stairs was a short hallway with two bedrooms in the middle and a bathroom and third bedroom at either end. A linen closet faced the stair landing. I walked toward the front bedroom that faced the street. The door was open, and the white lace curtains I had noted moments earlier danced softly in a breeze blowing through a cracked window.

“This is our room.” Mrs. Monroe beamed with pride. The somewhat large master bedroom looked as frilly and flouncy as I expected it would. Dollies and ruffles and lace and ceramic knickknacks filled every corner, crack, and crevice. The room was decorated in shades of sea-foam green, white, and, yes, more yellow.

“I love the ocean, and my dear, sweet wife made our room look just like a cottage suite by the shoreline.” Mr. Monroe was beaming now. The ocean was the last thing I would think about standing in the middle of that overdone room, but I was not there to critique their tastes in home decor. In silence, I scanned the room, opened the closet, peeked out the window, not really sure what else I was looking for, as Dayonna was obviously not in that room.

“You can check the other rooms if you'd like.” Mrs. Monroe blinked and continued smiling as I followed them down the corridor. One by one, I began opening the other doors, taking in the peach-scented and peach-colored bathroom, the hallway linen closet, which smelled of cedar and gardenias, the navy blue guest bedroom, tripling as a home office and a craft room. Finally, I stepped into the bedroom that was currently serving as Dayonna's personal space.

Antique white furniture, including a small vanity, a chest of drawers, and a twin-sized ruffled canopy bed, was draped and wrapped in every shade of pink. The ribbon-framed mirrors, feather boa–decorated walls, shaggy carpet squares, even the ten or so arranged teddy bears on the crisply made bed were all shades of rose, fuchsia, coral, and magenta. Though somewhat faded and worn, everything in the room was perfectly clean, tucked in, and in place. With the detailed attention clearly given to the room, I figured it was safe to assume that the Monroes routinely took in only female foster children. No little boy or male adolescent would want to sleep in that pink festival of a bedroom. I made a mental note to review their fostering history back at the agency.

There was no sign of Dayonna.

Indeed, the only sign that she had ever even stepped foot in the room was a battered suitcase propped up against the closet. It was brown, plain, threadbare in sections, and out of place in the ostentatiously girly room.

“See, she's not here.” Mr. Monroe looked clearly satisfied with his statement. He clasped his hands together under his belly and rocked back and forth on his feet.

“No, it does not look like she is up here,” I conceded. “Do you have a basement?”

The two looked at each other, their expressions unreadable to me. “Well,” Mrs. Monroe began slowly, “the only things down there are my crocheted dolls. I make 'em and sell 'em at the flea market when I have the chance. It . . .” Her eyes darted between mine and her husband's. “It's really a mess down there, but if you don't mind stepping over all my supplies, we can go take a peek.”

I followed the two of them down the wooden steps that led to their unfinished basement and immediately wanted to go back the other way.

“This is interesting.” The only words I could think to say. Crocheted dolls in all sizes crammed the dark, cool, expansive space. Skeins of yarn in every color of the rainbow were stacked in crates and boxes along the black tiled floor. Loose yarn zigzagged from the tops of the taller boxes, the walls, the ceilings, creating the feel that we had just entered the inside of a room-sized loom.

What got to me more than the maze of woven colors were the dolls themselves. I would say there were at least seventy-five, maybe a hundred, of those things. And none of them had faces. Creepy. No sign of Dayonna.
Time to go.
I hurried back up the steps. Both Monroes were right behind me.

As if reading my mind, Mrs. Monroe chimed, “I know it kind of startles people when they first see my dolls, you know, with no faces. But there is a reason I do not add eyes, noses, and the like.”

The basement steps ended in their small kitchen. I stopped next to the refrigerator and turned around to give her my full attention. I hoped there was a sane reason for the featureless dolls.

“See, I make them because of the foster kids, all those countless children in the system who've been neglected or forgotten, abused or forsaken. I make those dolls to remember them. When people see those empty faces, they remember the reason why, after I tell them. And it puts those precious children with no families or homes into everyone's heart and consciousness. The money I make from selling them, I give as a donation to your agency, Holding Hands. Every cent. Been doing it for years.”

No wonder Ava praised the Monroes so highly. They are helping to keep her agency afloat.
“And you sell a lot of them?” I could not help but ask. How many people would want one of those dolls hanging around their house?

“You'd be surprised,” she said and smiled, as if reading my thoughts. “When people know the story behind my dolls, they usually buy at least two or three of them. One man bought all the ones I had at my table when I was at the Patapsco flea market a few months ago. I do it for the children.” Her smile turned sad; her compassion seemed genuine. “We can't keep all the foster kids in the system at our home, but we can help by bringing attention to the issue and raising money for support. It's my small way of making a difference under God's great sun.” Her smile faded as she looked into the distance. “There is nothing worse than losing hope. . . .”

Mr. Monroe, who had been listening attentively to his wife's words, patted her shoulder and turned toward the living room. And then he froze, his eyes wide with disbelief. I quickly discovered the reason for his alarm.

Dayonna was sitting on the living room sofa.

“W—where did you come from?” The elder man's words were a whisper. Mrs. Monroe looked just as shocked as he did.

Dayonna gave a plastic, wide smile before turning back to the magazine through which she was thumbing. She said nothing, riffling through the latest edition of
People
.

“I'll let Officer Collins know she is back.” I was ready to leave. Dayonna was back. I could tell from her body language that she was in no mood for talking. And I had no idea what, if anything, the Monroes knew about her disappearance or return. Or if she had ever even left. No one in that home was going to give me answers. I felt it in my gut. No need to waste my evening beating dead horses. I had other dead matters waiting for me at home that needed my attention.

“I'll call you tomorrow, and we'll talk,” I said to nobody in particular as I walked myself to the door and headed to my car.

Not surprisingly, there was another note waiting for me. This one had been slipped through the small crack I had left in my car window. Had it only been twenty minutes since my world had turned upside down?
So you opened the box, and the only thing inside was . . . bubble wrap and . . . the ring? Nothing . . . nothing else? Yeah, Ma. Were you expecting something else to be in there?

The note had landed on the passenger-side floor. I waited until I was at a traffic light several blocks away from the Monroes to pick it up. The message was again written in Dayonna's large and loopy scribble.

I crumpled up the note and threw it on the backseat. I was exhausted—mentally, emotionally, and physically.

I finally pulled up to my home at 6:30
P.M.
, too tired to notice the police cruiser parked in front.

I guess I should have been paying more attention.

My only thought when I entered my living room was to find my son and make sense of the box before crashing on my bed. I truly was not prepared for the reality waiting for me instead.

“There she is, the finest woman on the planet. How are you today?” Even before I saw the flash of his gold tooth, I smelled the aftershave he'd obviously baptized himself in, and, oddly, I also caught a whiff of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

Officer Leon Sanderson.

“Wow. My day is now complete. I can go home now . . . to my empty, lonely home.” The forty-something Police Athletic League officer was leaning against my excuse for a kitchen island. The tiny butcher-block cart on braked wheels looked ready to collapse under the weight of his solid frame. I wondered if he had even noticed that he was positioning himself for a hard fall.

“Hi, Leon. I see my son let you in.” I did not even attempt to hide my disdain as I dropped my workbag onto my sofa and glared at Roman, who quickly began fishing through our refrigerator.

“Officer Sanderson baked cookies.” Roman sounded defensive, attempting to explain why this man was in our home. Crumbs surrounded my son's mouth and spilled down his T-shirt. I wondered again if he really was fourteen.

Grown man,
I thought, remembering his words from earlier that day, and shook my head.

“They're good, Ma,” Roman said, slurping down a tall glass of milk at the same time.

“That's right.” Officer Sanderson straightened up and produced a paper plate stacked high with chocolate chip cookies. “And these aren't those shortcut, prepackaged kind. I made these from scratch, my grandmother's recipe. Only you, Ms. St. James, are worthy of Alberta Sanderson's chocolate dream cookies. Some sweet chocolate for some hot chocolate.” He extended the plate toward me as I passed by the kitchen on the way to my room.

“I don't have time for this. Roman, that's enough cookies. Please see Officer Sanderson to the door so his house won't be lonely.” I had nothing against the officer, and to be honest, he wasn't a bad-looking man, but his pitiful pickup lines made everything about him seem like an outdated plastic camera—disposable. With all his corny jokes and over-the-top attempts to be romantic, it was hard to take him and his gold tooth seriously. Besides, although I'd never explained it to him, I was not exactly “available.” Well, this morning, that possibility had been there, but now, with the ashes possibly nonexistent, I was once again in limbo regarding my marital status.

Too much to explain to an old-time player.

“Aw, Sienna, you play a hard game, but one day you'll realize you've met your match. No need to walk me to the door, young soldier. Your mother thinks she won this round, but she hasn't tasted my cookies yet.” He winked at Roman, and out the door he went.

“Seriously, son.” I shook my head at my first and only born. “You struggle when I tell you to take out the trash, but you have no problems letting it in.”

Roman grinned. “Don't worry, Ma. I know the deal. I guess I saw no harm in eating cookies while we wait for Dad to come back home.”

I turned away quickly before he could see my face.

There was so much I had not told my son. I hoped when he
was
a grown man, he did not hate me.

“It's all good.” I blinked back tears, wondering if I believed my own words. I was standing next to my bedroom door, trying to remember what it was I wanted to do, where to begin, how I'd gotten there.

“It's right here,” Roman said, interrupting my confusion. His right hand was cupped open. I already knew what he held. Feeling weak and nauseated, I stumbled my way to the long leather bench at the foot of my bed. Roman followed me into my room and quietly sat down next to me. He cupped the jeweled lion's head ring in his hand as if he were holding a butterfly, gently and firmly all at once.

“I'm going to get a chain and wear it around my neck like you said Daddy used to.”

I watched him trace the rubies, sapphires, and diamonds with his left pinkie finger. “Not yet, Roman. Don't wear it yet.” I did not trust my voice, did not know what else I would say with it.

“Yeah, you're right. You told me Daddy was going to give this to me for my eighteenth birthday. I can wait. Daddy would want me to wait. But then again, since he sent it now, maybe he thinks I'm ready. I'll ask him the next time he calls.” The smile on Roman's face stabbed my heart.

“Roman, there is a lot . . . I think I need to explain. . . .” I sighed. What was I supposed to explain to him when I did not know the questions or answers about RiChard myself?

“Ma, you're crying.”

Was I really? I lifted a finger to my face and discovered that a single tear had indeed washed down my cheek.

“I'm okay. I guess I am just a little surprised . . . to see this ring. Roman, I do not know where your father is. I do not know . . . if he is even okay.” That was the best I could get out. And it was the truth.

“Oh, Ma, of course he's okay. He wouldn't have sent the ring if he wasn't. I gotta go tell Skee-Gee about this one.” And with that, Roman was gone, leaving me alone to wonder for the umpteenth time in my life if I was a wife or a widow. Where were the ashes? Were there any ashes?

I was sick and tired of the constant limbo in which RiChard kept my life, my heart, my soul.

“Not today.” I tried to shake off the constant sorrow that seemingly outlined the edges of my sanity and headed back into the kitchen. I kept a notepad on a shelf above my stove. I had scribbled on it the phone number of the stranger in Portugal who'd contacted me last Wednesday.

I guess I'd known even then that our conversation was not over.