Losing Hope by Leslie J. Sherrod Page A

to finding Hope.

Chapter 19
    I had a lot on my plate—calls to make, clients to see, Dayonna to check on—but I wanted to take a moment to absorb my newfound mission.
    Or rather attempt to understand it.
    My life felt like a whirlwind, and I needed some calm within the storm.
    It had been years since I’d walked around Lake Montebello in Northeast Baltimore. A little over a mile around, the picturesque reservoir was a popular spot for bicyclists, joggers, walkers, and stragglers. On any given day, you could see everything from moms pushing strollers filled with toddlers sipping from juice boxes to dogs yapping and running alongside their owners, to bicyclists in spandex and bright helmets, looking like they were preparing for the Tour de France. If the weather was good, it was not unusual to catch a turtle basking on the large rocks that jutted out of the murky water along the stretch closest to Morgan State University.
    Today I was not going to walk. I pulled my car into a shady area outside of the walking/biking lane. A few cars were scattered around me. Some of them were getting washed in the warm September sun. Others were providing a respite for solitary drivers flipping through newspapers and magazines. All of them were blasting music, mostly rap and light jazz.
    I shut off the ignition and rolled down my windows just as a warm breeze stirred. Clean sunshine. That was what it felt like. That was what I needed. I sat there for about fifteen minutes, enjoying the clash of songs blasting from car stereos, the pounding of the pavement by nearby runners, the squeals of children, the casual chitchat of women and men walking in pairs. I took it all in with no thoughts or fears or concerns interrupting my quiet time. I could not remember the last time I had just let my mind go.
    No, I did remember. Just the other night, during the relaxation exercise at Second Zion Tabernacle. I imagined again the arms of Jesus holding me, strengthening me for the next leg of my life’s journey.
    My life post RiChard.
    Whatever that meant.
    I took out my cell phone and keyed in the international phone number once again. It was more of a rote exercise, I knew, as I closed my eyes and laid my head back on the headrest, preparing to hear the other line ring incessantly.
    â€œ Olá? ”
    My head almost hit the ceiling of my car as I jerked forward in my seat.
    â€œHello? I mean, olá. ” Stunned to actually get an answer, I scrambled for something to say. “Uh, uh, is this the . . . the Crematório Rodrigues?”
    â€œDesculpe-me?”
    â€œ Parlez-vous anglais, I mean, English?” I wanted to kick myself for resorting to my ninth grade French. I knew the woman was speaking Portuguese, but I was so thrown off that I didn’t know what language I was supposed to be speaking.
    â€œ Desculpe -me?” the woman said, sounding just as confused as I did.
    Finally, I remembered something.
    â€œBeatriz? You said your name was Beatriz.”
    Silence.
    Then a loud click and the line went dead.
    Beatriz, or whoever she was, had hung up on me.
    â€œOh no, you don’t.” I punched the numbers back in and waited. I felt too close to some real answers about RiChard’s—or his ashes?—whereabouts. This woman knew something, and I needed her to tell me. The phone began ringing again, but this time, it did not stop. I hung up and dialed again. And again.
    â€œI need answers!” I yelled, loud enough that an elderly lady power walking nearby with hot pink dumbbells in her hands looked my way. I realized my heart was pounding and sweat was forming on my forehead and just under my nose as I dialed the number a fifth time.
    This time a man answered, his words unmistakable.
    â€œNo call here again!” The line went dead once more.
    I dialed again, anyway, and kept doing so until I lost count. It was no use, I knew. Nobody was going to answer the phone. I threw my cell on the passenger