Losing Hope

by Leslie J. Sherrod

Genres: African American; African American Christian

Synopsis

Having earned starred reviews and a fervent following for her urban Christian fiction, Leslie J. Sherrod delivers the first in a riveting new series. In Losing Hope, Sienna St. James thinks she’s finally close to getting over her long-lost, globetrotting husband. Or so she thinks. One Tuesday, everything begins to come apart when a succession of strange events - including the mystery surrounding a girl named Hope - brings her past, present, and future into question.

Release date: September 1, 2012

Publisher: Recorded Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

His ashes came with the morning mail.

I had just finished my second cup of mint green tea when the usual pile of bills and store circulars were dumped through the mail slot on my front door. I was not expecting the mail carrier to also knock. Thank goodness I had gone against my norm and dressed for work before eating breakfast. The sight of me in my neon orange head scarf and granny-length floral bathrobe would have been too much for anyone on a Tuesday morning. Guess that’s why I am still single. Did I say single? That’s not totally true.

It’s complicated.

I looked at the box in the mail carrier’s outstretched hands and sighed. Then again, I thought, guess the title of single is now official.

“Ms. . . Sienna St. James?”

I wanted to shake my head no, but I nodded, anyway.

“Sign here.” The mail carrier pointed to a bright red X on the certified package, acting as if delivering boxes from the Crematório Rodrigues in Almada, Portugal, was part of his normal routine.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, taking the large, plain cardboard box from him, then closing the door. It was heavier than I expected, as if a set of stoneware dishes from Walmart was waiting inside.

RiChard.

“Welcome home, baby.” I bit my lip, waiting to feel the torrent of emotions I had been expecting to feel since last Wednesday, when I got the call.

Nothing. Numbness.

With the box of ashes still in my hands, I looked around my cramped rancher, searching for a place to put it. To put him.

God, help me.

The coffee table in the living room was piled high with library books and home-decorating magazines. The side tables had more of the same. No space. And there was no way I was putting that box on my kitchen table. Roman and I had to eat there. Oh, and before anybody asks, my bedroom was way out of the question. Too many memories. No, actually just too creepy.

I studied the box, running my fingers down the lines of heavy brown packaging tape, the box itself a weighty reminder that my life had not turned out the way I’d imagined it would when I was eighteen. And in love. Hard to believe that was almost two decades ago. A nearby silver teapot caught enough of my distorted reflection to remove any doubt. Though I still had my grandmother’s heart-shaped face, my father’s almond-shaped eyes, and my mother’s honey maple skin, a few strands of gray blended in with the copper highlights of my retro Halle Berry–styled hair. And a few extra pounds padded my once thin and trim frame.

My mother used to tell me that I needed to add a doughnut to my daily routine to catch up to the hip, butt, and boob fullness of the women in my clan. She hasn’t told me that in years.

One of my fingernails caught on an edge of the box, and I recoiled at the badly chipped raspberry polish. My fingernails looked like a preschooler’s beloved art project. Sheena Booth, the diva who was my office mate, would call in sick before showing up to work with her nails looking the way mine did at that moment.

Work! The digital clock over the microwave read 7:42. The way I-83 got jammed in the morning rush hour, I should have left twelve minutes ago if I was to have any chance of getting to work on time. Although I was her favorite, Ava didn’t play. I looked again at the box in my hands and then up at the kitchen ledge where I kept all my bills and junk mail. I have no choice, I reassured myself as I dropped the unopened box on top of my water, cable, and phone bills. A colorful advertisement for somebody’s family-owned gutter-cleaning business lay to the side.

I mean, what else was I supposed to do with it? Seemed appropriate in a way—my long-lost husband’s remains mixed in with my bills. How much had that man cost me? How much more did he owe me?

Some losses and debts couldn’t be measured in dollars and cents.

It wasn’t until I was halfway down I-83 that I realized what was wrong with RiChard’s temporary final resting place. Roman did not have basketball practice today. He might get home before me.

My fourteen-year-old son knew very little about his father. His last memory of him should not be an unopened cardboard box from a crematorium in Portugal sitting next to the gas and electric bill. I had not told Roman anything about the call I’d gotten last week or the delivery I knew was coming. I hadn’t told Roman much of anything. Truth was, I didn’t think I knew much of anything when it came to RiChard Alain St. James.

I had to get home before Roman did.

I thought that getting home before four thirty would be my most difficult mission of the day, but I should have known better. Anytime anything RiChard St. James showed up, everything in my life collapsed in one way or another. I knew this. Lived it, breathed it. Survived it.

And I still wasn’t prepared for what was coming next.

“It’s an easy case. You know I must like you. With Trevor quitting, we all have to pick up his clients—including me. I’m only giving you one of his, and it’s easy. I know you already have your hands full with Keisha King and the Benson family. Sienna, are you listening to me?”

Ava Diggs was a big woman in every sense of the word. Large, loose golden curls framed her round brown face. The 3XL-sized tunics she wore were usually in bright shades of yellow or orange or had animal prints. Wooden beads of all colors clanged on her wrists, from her ears, and around her massive neck. The only thing quiet about the woman was her voice and her friendly, attentive eyes, the two attributes that drew me to her tutelage during my long, drawn-out grad school days. The only thing bigger than her hair and clothes was her heart.

“Sienna, are you with me?” Ava gently pried again.

I was sitting across from her at her desk. Twenty-five minutes late, I had missed the beginning of the weekly Tuesday staff meeting, and Ava wanted to fill me in before lunch.

“I’m here, Ava.” I returned her smile. I still felt numb inside. There were no words to describe how I felt, no guidebook to map out what I was supposed to do from here. “I just had a, well, twist in my morning.”

“Roman talking about girls again?” She chuckled.

I wish. “No.” I blew out a loud, long sigh. “If only it were that simple.”

“Simple?” Ava’s chuckle grew louder. “Honey, that time you caught Roman on the phone with a seventeen-year-old girl who had three kids, I thought I was going to have to call a paramedic in here.”

I gave a weak smile. “No, Roman’s love life has nothing to do with my current drama.”

Ava raised an eyebrow and leaned toward me. Although her meticulously kept desk sat between us, it felt like she was sitting right next to me, holding my hand. “Sienna, what’s going on?”

I could tell from the slight coo in her voice that she was in full-fledged counseling mode. Although I had some of the same social worker credentials as Ava, I still melted under her masterful therapeutic skills. Indeed, her genuine empathy and perfected techniques had earned her the nickname “the Great One” among respected social work circles, professors, and clinicians.

The first time I met her—she was a guest speaker for a family therapy class I took at school—I was amazed at her wisdom and passion about spiritual wholeness and well-being. I was further amazed that she gave me her business card when I approached her privately with a question about her lecture after the seminar ended. I was a nontraditional student when I attended the masters of social work program at the University of Maryland in downtown Baltimore. “Nontraditional” is simply a nice way of saying “old.”

Okay, I was not that old when I went—a year shy of thirty—but sitting next to those “newly legal” youngsters who knew nothing about bad marriages, shaky child care, and just plain struggling to survive until the next student loan refund came through, made me feel intimidated at best, unwelcome at worst. I almost quit six times. Ava Diggs became my mentor—no, my friend—and I know that I am where I am today in large part because of that warm smile, those gentle eyes, and her compassion and encouragement.

Going to school part-time while trying to take care of myself and my son was rough. It took me six years to get my bachelor’s, another four years to earn my master’s. Ava entered my life in year eight. God in His great mercy knew I needed a cheerleader for the final laps. When I finished last May, I was given four tickets for graduation. Although she was asked to speak at another local college’s closing exercises scheduled the same day, Ava Diggs was sitting right next to my parents and my son as I walked across the stage, her smile as bright as my mother’s.

But although Ava Diggs was my dear friend and informal life coach, when she offered me a position with her agency, I immediately decided that my work hours under her would be just that—work hours. I did not want my personal life to cross the boundaries of our professional relationship.

“Ava, I appreciate your concern, but this one I need to handle myself, in my own way and in my own time.” I did not even know what that way and time were, but I knew that my closure with RiChard, whatever that meant, would come.

Taking my hint, Ava nodded, settled back into her leather seat, and put her glasses back on. The gold wire frames slid to the tip of her nose as she pulled a chart from a tall stack on her desk. We were back to business.

“Dayonna Diamond.” She flipped through the chart without looking up. “A true child of the system. Born to a crack-addicted mother, father unknown, in foster care right out of the hospital. Due to reasons outside of her control, she went through eight foster homes the first seven years of her life. Due to reasons within her control, she went through another six foster homes from ages seven to ten. After three group homes and a quick stint at baby juvy for a minor legal infraction, she spent time at a residential treatment center in Florida, where they diagnosed her with ADHD, bipolar disorder, PTSD, intermittent explosive disorder, conduct disorder, and every other diagnosis they could find in the DSM-IV.”

She pointed to the massive manual of mental health diagnoses she kept on her desk before continuing. “She got back last Wednesday. The city wants her in therapeutic foster care with wraparound services. Hence the referral to us. I handpicked the Monroes to be her new guardians.” Finally, she looked up at me as she spoke. “I need you to check in on them two, three times a week to make sure her transition goes smoothly. For reasons I cannot go into at the moment, I need you to understand that this placement must succeed.” She plopped the seven-inch-thick folder in front of me. It landed with an echoless thud.

“I thought you said this was an easy case, Ava. You know I’m already stressing over the ongoing saga of Keisha King. ”

Ava tore open a wrapped fork that came with the chef salad she’d pulled from a small refrigerator under her desk. “Horace and Elsie Monroe are great people. They never had children of their own but have helped raise a village.” She looked up at me over the rims of her glasses. “Plus, they’re members of Second Zion.”

“So are six thousand nine hundred ninety-eight other people,” I wanted to shout back in response to Ava’s reference to the respected mega-church. What does that have to do with me taking this case?

“The Monroes’ strong faith and their belief in the potential of every child—no matter how damaged or delinquent—have earned them one of the best records of all our trained foster parents.” Ava crunched loudly on a lettuce leaf as she talked. “They have never had an unsuccessful placement. Every single child that has entered their home either ends up reunified with their birth family or successfully adopted into a loving home. Every single child.”

She’s really expecting this to work out. Not with Dayonna’s history. I’d had only an MSW behind my name for just over a year, but all my previous work experience and internships had centered around child welfare and the agencies, departments, and foster homes that toiled in this heartbreaking field. I had worked with enough Dayonna Diamonds to know how this story would end, and the fact that Ava had hinted at the need for this case to succeed did not comfort me.

But I had no time for self-comfort. My cell phone was ringing.

“What do you mean, you have a half day of school?” I yelled into the receiver. I had excused myself from Ava’s office and was headed to my own. Dayonna’s file weighed heavily in my hands. “Who’s idea was this?”

“Ma, calm down. It wasn’t my idea, for real. It was listed on that calendar that came home the first day of school. Teacher development day, or something like that.” My son’s voice was in that stage when boyhood teetered on the edge of manhood. Every now and then a loud squeak broke through.

“It’s okay, Roman. This half day just caught me off guard. You know I don’t like not having a plan or activity to engage you after school.” That was only half true. Roman was a good kid, not perfect, and I still feared for his safety from the Jezebels of the world, but my biggest concern at the moment was that he not get home before I did. I did not want him to see his father’s ashes without preparation or explanation.

“Maa,” he squeaked, “I’m fourteen. You don’t have to plan every moment of my day. I’m in high school now. I’m almost a grown man.” His voice cracked again.

“Grown man,” I mumbled into the phone. “You’ve been in high school for all of what? Three weeks? Where are you now?” I held my breath.

“I’m still on the eight.”

“Good.” I sighed in relief. His magnet high school was in northern Baltimore County, and we lived on the west side. He still had to catch one more bus, which would take him across town, before he reached our neighborhood. “Hey, why don’t you go down to the Police Athletic League center and play a smokin’ game of... a pickup game with Officer Sanderson?” I regretted my words immediately, and not only because of my sorry attempt at sounding cool. I did not need Leon Sanderson thinking I was after him in any way, shape, or form. Sending Roman to the PAL center and having him ask for him would be just enough fodder for the old-school player to think I was actually considering his sorry advances.

“Uh, Ma . . . I was wondering if I could go . . . to Security Mall . . . with Skee-Gee. He can meet me there, and Aunt Vet said she could pick us up. She’s gettin’ her hair done there and can drop me off home by five.”

“Okay. That sounds good!”

“Huh? Oh, okay! Thanks, Ma!”

“And don’t forget to—” The phone was dead. My baby boy had already hung up. I must really be in a state to have agreed so quickly to his plan. Even Roman had sounded surprised. I shook my head and sighed again. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my little sister, Yvette, and her five children, but I was never happy about Roman hanging around my nephew Skee-Gee too long without my supervision. But with a seven-inch-thick chart sitting on my desk, I did not have time to worry. I’d tried my best to raise Roman right. At some point I had to trust that he was making good decisions, right?

I spent about half an hour skimming through Dayonna Diamond’s life. Ava had given an accurate summary. The notes I read were consistent with what she’d told me. They were also consistent with my rather pessimistic expectations. Oh, well. Time to get started. Ava had informed me that the Monroes were expecting me before the workday was out and Dayonna’s home tutoring session would be starting soon.

Due to her recent return from out-of-state treatment, she had not been enrolled in a school yet. A home teacher would be coming a few times a week for now to assess her and determine the best educational placement for her. It was still the beginning of the school year, so the assessments were a priority to keep her from falling further behind her future classmates. The tutor was due to come soon, according to the notes. I resisted the urge to call back Roman and headed to my car.

I still felt numb to the world around me. With my feelings on mute, I figured nothing else in the day could get under my skin.

I should have known better.

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 . . .