Losing Hope (5 page)

The cookies were actually good. And still a little warm. The chocolate morsels melted on my tongue as I waited for someone to pick up on the other end. Everything felt bizarre about eating cookies while calling an international phone number for a crematorium in Portugal....

The woman who called me last week had told me that her name was Beatriz and that she knew very little English. Indeed, it had sounded like she was reading the few words she said. I could still hear the two sentences that made up most of the conversation. The words played like a scratched vinyl record in my head.
Hi. I am Beatriz in Portugal, and I am sorry to say that your husband's ashes are coming to you.

I did not know her. I did not know what had happened. I did not even know RiChard was in Portugal. I was stunned at the call, which came at 2:51
A.M.
Stunned and half asleep, I managed to get out one question. “What is your phone number?”

A man had immediately gotten on the line. He'd offered no name, no greeting, no explanation, just rote numbers in broken English. The call disconnected after he gave the last digit.

I'd debated about calling back to get more details since last Wednesday, but I thought getting more details would make the call seem real, and not just a fuzzy middle-of-the-night bad dream. Now the box was here, but no ashes. I needed answers.

The phone continued to ring.

I hung up and dialed again. Still no answer.

“Lord, I can't take it!” I slammed the phone down on the counter.

“Ma, what's wrong?”

How long had Roman been standing there? I made myself breathe and threw a half smile on my face.

“Nothing you need to worry about. I . . .” I searched for something to say. Dayonna Diamond reentered my mind. A perfect distraction. “You know what? I'm going to go get ready for church. And you can come with me.”

“I was about to do my homework. Besides, I don't remember Pastor McKinney saying there was a service tonight.”

“Boy, I know full well you were not about to do homework. Are you that against going to church?” Both of us chuckled, but I quickly put my “Don't mess with Mama” face back on. “Go get ready. We're not going to our church tonight. We're going to Bible study at Second Zion Tabernacle.”

“Second Zion? Why didn't you say so in the first place?”

I watched a mischievous grin ease onto my son's round face. He had his daddy's nose. It wrinkled ever so slightly when he smiled. I shook the thought, the memories, the pain, the loss, the sorrow—the questions—and focused on the present moment with my son.

“Let me guess. Some girl from school goes there, huh?”

“Ma, everyone goes to Second Zion.” His voice cracked as he struggled to contain the widening grin on his face. “I ain't worried about no girl from school.”

“Mmm-hmm . . .”

The girl business aside, he was right. Seemed like everyone in town went to Second Zion. I was banking on that fact. I did not want the Monroes or Dayonna to notice me in the pews, and a worshipping crowd of half the city was just what I needed to remain unnoticed.

We walked into the large royal blue foyer of Second Zion Tabernacle around quarter to eight. I had been in the massive facility once or twice before, but I still stood in awe of the majestic edifice. The narthex alone was grand. Floor-to-ceiling-length satin curtains lined the walls and windows of the foyer like stage curtains, complete with velvet tiebacks and posh tassels. The windows were works of art—commissioned stained-glass creations crafted by a local artisan in shades of blue, green, and gold. The entire ceiling, which soared high above our heads, was another commissioned art piece. More than just a painting of the blue sky, the ceiling artwork looked like the entrance to heaven itself. Billowing clouds, soft rays of sunlight, and chubby cherubim with faces in every color of humanity looked down on us with ethereal delight.

Bishop Vincent LaRue, the charismatic visionary behind Second Zion's tenfold growth over the past five years, had dreamed of a multicultural worship center. At the moment, however, mainly shades of brown filled his royal blue cushioned pews.

Roman and I flocked into the main sanctuary, which was already filled with a couple thousand congregants. Most churches seemed to have a difficult time getting people out to midweek Bible study, but the bishop ran his Tuesday night study more like a Sunday morning worship service, with the choir, band, and praise team in place. Only after an intense and inspiring musical praise prelude did the Tuesday night Bible study attendees pour into the massive classrooms adjoining the sanctuary. We'd gotten there just as the crowd was beginning to break into classes.

There were classes targeted to everyone from every walk of life: children, teen girls, teen boys, singles, marrieds, seniors. There were even specialized courses for mothers of preschoolers, single dads, pregnant teens, recovering addicts, and more. Biblically based workshops taught by licensed professionals were also offered, covering such diverse areas as household financial management, health and diet, grief, and small business start-up. I learned all of this by stopping at the circular information desk to the left of the foyer, where three women and one man answered questions and passed out brochures listing class names and locations.

“Sorry, Roman, but the teen boys meet in a classroom far away from the teen girls. Opposite sides of the building. Guess you're not going to run into that girl from school.”

“I told you I wasn't worried about no girl.” Despite his words, I didn't miss the disappointment filling his face. I shook my head and patted his back as he filed into a classroom lined with bold, bright posters.

He'd come here thinking he'd catch a glimpse of his crush, and I'd come here actually believing that I would somehow see the Monroes and Dayonna.

Like mother, like son. Delusional dreamers were we. Like father, too.

The backs of my eyelids burned anew as I fought to keep the questions from regaining control of my mind.

“Lord, what am I doing here?” I mumbled as I walked aimlessly along with the crowd. Even if I did perchance come upon the Monroes and/or Dayonna, what was I expecting to see? What did I want to overhear them say? What would
I
say if they ran into me? All I knew was that something was not adding up right with any of them. I felt it. I wanted to know more.

With no other plan or purpose, I sat down in a back seat in the closest classroom.
STRESS MANAGEMENT WORKSHOP
was written on a small dry-erase board pegged to the classroom door. The room was filled with about forty or fifty people, from business executive types taking notes on computer tablets and smartphones to old church mothers clutching square black purses and metal canes. A woman in her mid- to late thirties stood at the front of the room, her eyes closed as she walked the class through a deep-breathing exercise.

I recognized her immediately from the photo that graced the front of all Second Zion's bulletins. She was Marcie LaRue, the great bishop's young and beautiful wife. I guess a person in her position would have to know a little something about how to handle stress.

“As you inhale,” she was saying, “meditate on these verses from Isaiah twenty-six. ‘You will keep him in perfect peace, Whose mind is stayed on You, Because he trusts in You. Trust in the Lord forever, for in Yah, the Lord, is everlasting strength.'”

I watched as the young and the old alike, all with eyes closed, took quiet, deep breaths around me. I knew blood pressures were being regulated, anxiety was slowly being put in check, tension was getting released. I closed my eyes to join in the communal relaxation exercise.

“I want you to picture yourself in the arms of Jesus. Set your mind right there. Imagine His divine arms holding you, shielding you, hugging you, embracing you.” The woman's voice was calm, steady. It was a comforting image. I let myself go there.

“Feel your muscles relax,” she continued, “starting with your hands, then your arms, your shoulders, your neck. Keep feeling your muscles melt away in your face, your legs, your toes. Deep breath in . . . out. You can relax in the arms of Jesus. He is holding you up. His peace is eternal and strong. His peace nobody and nothing can take away from you. Find that last knot of tension inside of you, and feel it melt away in the presence of God. Inhale a deep breath of His grace. Exhale a deep breath of praise. Jehovah Himself will sustain you.”

I was there. I could feel it. Relaxation. Peace. Divine tranquility. And then . . .
bump!
A large burgundy shoulder bag jabbed me in the arm as its owner passed me.

A man in an olive-colored suit bent down to whisper in my ear. “I am so sorry, sister.” Something about his scent reminded me of the ocean, a lazy day, and a tropical breeze.

“It's okay,” I said and smiled as I looked up. I had to catch my breath when I saw the raw handsomeness standing over me. At least six feet tall, he was the color of gingerbread, with a smile just as spicy. He had a fresh haircut and a slight after-five shadow, and the only imperfection on his face was a small scar over his left cheekbone. And even that looked intriguing.

“I'm glad you're okay, sister,” he whispered, barely looking at me before readjusting his shoulder bag. I struggled to exhale, to figure out what I was supposed to say next, but he was already gone. Like a straw house slammed by a hurricane, something in me collapsed in his wake.

Pain, grief, guilt, sorrow . . . confusion.

I tried for several minutes to refocus on the teacher, her words, the scriptures....

No use.
I'm sorry, Lord. I guess my mind has not stayed on you, 'cause I'm having no peace right about now
. Not wanting to be a distraction to anyone, I quietly slipped out of the room.

The Bible study sessions still had about another half hour to go. I meandered through the hallways, nodding or speaking to other stragglers, until I found an overstuffed armchair in a quiet corner. I collapsed into it, ready to block out the rest of the world and wait for Roman while wallowing in my silent pain.

And that was when I saw them.

They were facing the doorway of another classroom. Mr. Monroe held Mrs. Monroe's hand as they both talked with sober faces to someone just out of my view. Dayonna was to the left of them, leaning against the wall outside of the room, looking away, her arms crossed. The seriousness on the Monroes' faces, the slight irritation on Dayonna's made me want to get up to hear what was being said.

Some classes were ending early, so there were just enough people in the hallways to make me feel like I could move a little closer to them without being noticed. Keeping my head slightly down, I joined a large group of women emerging from the singles' Bible study who were heading in the general direction of the Monroes. Again, I asked myself what I was looking for, what I was expecting to hear. Like with the rest of my life, I did not have the answers to my own questions.

The group of chattering, laughing, and profiling single women moved slowly through the corridor. I stayed in the center of the perfume-heavy crowd, feeling my heart beating faster as we approached the Monroes. There was no sign on the classroom door they were facing. The lights were dim. The room looked empty.

But they were definitely talking to someone. I was close enough to hear their muffled voices. Dayonna sighed loudly and looked up at the ceiling, her arms still crossed.

The group of women was starting to move faster, I realized. I upped my steps to keep up and keep my cover, but I quickly realized I was in danger of being noticed. They were heading directly toward the Monroes.

The Monroes noticed them coming, as well. I saw the two elders exchanging glances as the women neared. The ladies' steps were getting quicker, the sway of their hips more exaggerated.

I watched as the Monroes, hands still locked together, suddenly turned away from the classroom where they had been engaged in conversation with an unseen stranger. Mrs. Monroe reached out to Dayonna with her free hand, and the young girl joined their hurried departure.

The single ladies were now at the doorway, nearly clambering over each other to speak to the sole occupant remaining in the room.

A familiar face.

For a moment, I completely forgot what I was doing and who I had been trying to see.

“Hi, Brother Scott.” The voices of the women rang out in a uniform singsong chorus. The object of their syrupy hello was the man in the olive suit with the burgundy shoulder bag, the man who'd bumped me out of my Jesus-hugging-me relaxation groove.

Brother Scott, Brother Scott, Brother Scott
. I wanted to kick myself over how fine that man was. Seeing him full on only made him look better. It was like seeing a picture of an apple pie on a menu and then having the real piping hot thing placed in front of you.

Talk about a needed distraction.

One of the ladies patted his lapel with her hand. “Those were some mighty fine songs you led this evening.”

Oh? How had I missed it? Brother Scott was the music director of Second Zion Tabernacle. I suddenly made the connection.

Another woman quickly chimed in, nearly batting the other woman's hand off the singer's jacket. “You really know how to usher us into the presence of God.”

I felt embarrassed for them, until I realized I was still standing right in the middle of the pack.

Brother Scott, for his part, remained silent, only nodding with a slight smile at the flirtatious greetings. As he looked over the women, slowly easing away from their outstretched claws, I saw humility and gentleness in his brown eyes. I did not know a thing about this man, but I already respected him.

A familiar feeling began tickling my spine.

The student rally. The first time I saw RiChard. The instant need I had for the man I would marry. For the man who had disappeared so many times out of my life, even his ashes were elusive.

Nausea took over my stomach, and the taste of bile filled my mouth and stung my nostrils. I had to get away. Without thinking of how to make a more gracious exit, I pushed through the growing crowd of worshipping women. It was not until I reached the edge of the giggling sea that I remembered that he'd just been talking to the Monroes.

Second Zion Tabernacle was a church of thousands, and yet there was intimacy between the elder couple and the church praise leader. Something about their postures, their gestures.

The seriousness on the Monroes' faces.

Perhaps, depending on the nature of his relationship with the Monroes, he would be a good resource to find out what was the deal with them.

That was the story I told myself, anyway.

“There you are, Ma. I've been looking all over for you.” My son pulled on my elbow. “We gotta come back here sometime.”

“Is that right?” I couldn't help but raise my eyebrow at him. “So you enjoyed the all-boys Bible study class?”

“Yeah, it was cool. But the coed snack time afterward was even better.”

“I'm sure it was, Roman.” I smiled and shook my head.

As my son played away with the cell phone I'd sworn I would never buy him, I wondered how I could get in touch with Brother Scott to talk to him about the Monroes.

This was all becoming a very nice distraction from my reality, indeed.