At least she had Hosea and Zaya. Hosea kept her strong; Zaya kept her sane. Without the two of them, she would have already given up.
Jasmine lifted her head a bit to peek at her son in the crib just a few feet away. Yesterday, Hosea had said that he needed sleep and that he couldn’t get it with the toddler in their bed. But Jasmine had no intention of letting Zaya too far from her sight. So she’d rolled his crib into their bedroom and hadn’t closed her eyes for more than fifteen minutes at a time since.
Jasmine pushed herself up, trying to see Zaya. She sprang up, dashed to his bed, drew back the blanket, and released a toe-curling scream.
“Zaya!”
A new someone—or maybe it was the same someone—had snuck into their bedroom and taken her son, too!
“Zaya!” she cried again.
“Ms. Jasmine, Ms. Jasmine.” Mrs. Sloss rushed into the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice as frantic as Jasmine’s.
“Zaya! My baby. He’s gone!”
“No, Ms. Jasmine.” The nanny shook her head wildly. “He woke up.” She spoke so quickly, her English sounded more like Spanish. “And I took him. Didn’t want to disturb you.”
Distress had deafened her. Jasmine cried, “Zaya,” as she leaned on the crib for strength. She closed her eyes and trembled; there was no way she could live now.
Then she heard his giggles.
“See, Ms. Jasmine.” Mrs. Sloss rocked Zaya in her arms. “He’s fine. He was—”
Before she could finish, Jasmine snatched her son from the woman’s arms. “Don’t you ever take him away from me again!” Jasmine screamed, not noticing that Zaya’s giggles had stopped or that her son now looked at her with wide eyes and a trembling lower lip.
“Love Mama,” he whispered.
But neither Mrs. Sloss nor Jasmine heard him.
The nanny said, “Ms. Jasmine, I was only trying to—”
“I don’t care what you were trying to do. Never take him out of this room! Not unless I tell you to.”
Now Zaya was screaming as loud as his mother.
“What’s going on?” Hosea rushed into the bedroom.
Jasmine pointed an accusing finger toward Mrs. Sloss. “She took my baby!”
“No, no,” was all Mrs. Sloss said.
“Yes, you did.” Jasmine’s voice had quieted a bit, but not Zaya’s.
Hosea coaxed Mrs. Sloss out of the room before he turned to his wife. “Calm down, sweetheart.” He placed his hands on Jasmine’s shoulders. “You’re upsetting Zaya.”
“I don’t care! I’m keeping him safe,” she screamed.
“Jasmine,” Hosea whispered. “Jasmine,” he kept saying over and over, softly and soothingly, until her cries—and Zaya’s—began to subside.
When she finally sat down on the bed, Hosea said, “Let me take him.”
It still took a bit more persuading for Jasmine to open her arms and hand her son to his father. Her eyes stayed with the pair as Hosea backed away from her. At the door, he said, “I’m just going to take him to his room.” Before she could protest, he added, “He’s going to be right down the hall. I’m here, you’re here, Mrs. Sloss is here. He’s safe.”
Then they were gone.
The only way she could stay and not run after Hosea was by taking deep breaths—in and out. But really, how did she know that Zaya would be safe? Hadn’t she thought Jacqueline was safe when she had been taken?
Her tears began all over again.
Hosea returned and held her as she cried. “What are we going to do?” Jasmine asked her husband. “I can’t go on like this. I can’t go on without Jacquie.”
“I know,” Hosea said, pulling her closer. “But we have to keep it together. We have to take care of Zaya while we look for Jacquie.”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Jasmine shrugged away from his hold. “That’s why I didn’t want him to leave—”
Hosea shook his head. “No, sweetheart. We have to take care of him, not make him a prisoner. You haven’t let him out of this house in a week.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. I’m just doing what I have to do. What do you want from me?”
“I want Zaya’s life to be as normal as possible. He has to sense the tension, but I want him to feel safe and loved like he felt before . . . before this happened.”
“That’s impossible,” Jasmine said, anger replacing her sadness for the moment. “None of us will ever be normal again. Not until we find Jacquie.”
“I understand what you’re saying—for you and me. But for Zaya . . . come on, Jasmine. He’s going to be fine, but not if we don’t find a way to give him his life back.”
She understood what Hosea meant, but she didn’t know how to make things normal with her son when life was so abnormal without her daughter.
She paced in front of him. “I’m scared, Hosea,” she said. “Tomorrow will be a week, and . . .” Her head bowed with fresh tears. She had no idea how she’d survived these days, but she was certain that she wouldn’t be able to survive many more.
He said, “We have to think about Zaya.”
“And forget about Jacquie?” she asked, amazed at his words.
“Of course not. It’s just that we’re responsible for Zaya, too.”
Jasmine shook her head. Hosea may have been listening, but he wasn’t hearing her. Didn’t he realize that everything she was doing now, she was doing for Zaya?
Hosea said, “I need you to do something for me.” Her eyes questioned him. “Get dressed. I want to show you something I’ve been working on.”
Days had passed since she had last left the apartment, and her intention, really, was never to again leave.
But then Hosea added, “This is about Jacquie,” and she couldn’t get dressed fast enough. She would go anywhere, do anything, at just the mention of Jacqueline’s name.
It was hard enough thinking about Jacqueline. Wondering if she was scared, if she was cold, if she was calling for her mama and her dad.
Now Jasmine had to worry about Zaya, too. She couldn’t believe that she’d let Hosea convince her to leave their son at home. He kept saying that Zaya would be safe inside the secure building, behind the locked apartment door, with Mrs. Sloss watching him every second.
But safe was not a word she could really comprehend anymore.
Even so, Hosea had convinced her with the promise that this outing would be worth it. And then, she’d agreed only after he’d assured her that she’d be home within an hour.
Her thoughts had her so far away that Jasmine didn’t notice the passing streets as Hosea zoomed uptown. She didn’t see that he had turned onto 125th and had eased the SUV to a stop in front of the Renaissance Mall.
The sight made her gasp for breath. Why were they back here—at the place where she’d lost Jacqueline?
Her eyes never left Hosea as he walked from the driver’s side to her. When he opened the door and took her hand, he said, “I want you to see how many people love Jacquie.”
Even though it was the first week in December, officially the holiday season, the mall was Thursday afternoon quiet; there was just a sprinkling of customers passing through.
Jasmine’s eyes locked in first on the pet store. Then she glanced at the bench where she and Mae Frances had sat—the last place where she had seen her daughter. She inhaled, feeling the past as if it were the present. She could see and hear it all—how Jacqueline had waved, had said “I love you,” then had blown that kiss. She remembered how she’d waved back, not knowing that would be the last time . . .
She shuddered and turned her head away. Hosea squeezed her hand as if he was having the same thoughts.
Yuletide music wafted from the speakers above—just like last week—and she had to hold Hosea’s hand tighter as they ascended on the escalator. At the top, Jasmine followed Hosea down a long hall. When they neared the end, she heard the chatter. They stepped inside what looked like a conference room, the perimeter filled with comp
uters and telephones atop long tables.
Inside, there were about thirty people: some tapping on computers, others talking on the telephones, some folding papers. Everyone was absorbed in a task.
No one seemed to notice Jasmine and Hosea standing at the edge until Reverend Bush looked up.
He smiled and rushed over. “Jasmine, sweetheart.”
As he kissed her on the cheek, others turned. And that’s when the applause began.
Jasmine didn’t know why they were clapping; surely, it couldn’t be for her. She hadn’t done anything, except lose her child.
Reverend Bush took her hand and guided her into the room. “We’ve been working with the police and the mall on this,” he explained. “But it was all Hosea’s idea.”
Hosea nodded. “I worked it out with the folks from the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. They told me exactly how to set this up.”
Her eyes were wide as she looked at her husband, then moved alongside her father-in-law. As they passed, the volunteers wished her well.
“We’re going to find her,” and “We’re all still praying,” and “You know God’s got this.”
Some—the ones she knew, like Mrs. Whittingham and Brother Hill—hugged her. The way those two had treated her over the last week still made Jasmine marvel at the irony of tragedy . . . bad times plus old enemies equaled new friends.
Reverend Bush spoke through her musing. “We have a smaller unit like this set up at the church, but Hosea thought it would be good to set up this one closer to . . . where it happened.”
“And this is a good thing, Jasmine.” That came from Detective Foxx. “Because it’s always good to have a unit like this where the crime first occurred.”
“We have people downstairs all the time”—now it was Malik explaining—“talking to everyone coming into the mall. We’re asking people if they were here last Friday. And if they were, then one of the officers interviews them. The police tell us that these people are still our best shot. Someone had to have seen something; they just don’t realize it yet.”
They all nodded, as if this pep talk had been rehearsed.
“The key is, baby,” Hosea said, bringing up the rear, “that we’re all working on this. We’ve got a real shot at finding our daughter.”
They were at the back of the room now, and when Jasmine turned around, the people who had clapped and hugged her had all returned to their tasks. From where she stood, she recognized more of the faces. So many were from the church—some were even among those who had rolled their eyes or snickered when she passed by the pews on any given Sunday. Now they were standing by her side.
“I want to help,” Jasmine said, surprising them all.
“Are you sure?” Hosea asked. “I just wanted you to see this, and then I was going to take you right back home.”
She pulled out a chair at a desk in the back of the room. “No, I wanna stay. Just call Mrs. Sloss and make sure that Zaya’s fine.” She nodded at Hosea, knowing he needed her reassurance. She really did want to stay. Here, she felt close to Jacqueline; she needed to be a part of this center.
But then she picked up one of the papers from the stack that was piled on the desk. The top half was a picture of Jacqueline—the same photo that was in the frame on her nightstand. Below the image were her daughter’s vital statistics: her age, weight, what she’d been wearing, and when she’d last been seen.
Before the first tear crawled down her cheek, Hosea was by her side, pulling her up into his arms.
“Let’s go home,” he whispered as he held her.
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. She thought she’d be able to handle this; she wanted to. But it was too much, too soon.
Jasmine backed away from Hosea’s embrace, opened her eyes, and gasped.
There she was! The image of her daughter. Right here. Right in the front of the room.
Jasmine tore away from Hosea and ran. She was sobbing by the time she reached Brian and fell into his arms. Holding him as tightly as she could, she released her grief as his arms wrapped around her.
With her head bowed and her tears flowing, Jasmine never saw the shock that was frozen on Brian’s face.
And she didn’t see how stunned Hosea was either.
Thirty-three
BRIAN WAS GLAD THAT THEY were away from curious eyes.
In the hallway, there was no one to stare him down the way the volunteers in the center had just minutes before when Jasmine had rushed him and held him as if they were lovers. He had been beyond surprised, but he had to comfort her as she wept. What else was he supposed to do? Inside their embrace, the press of her body against his was uncomfortably familiar, but still, he stayed—until Hosea peeled his wife from his arms.
Now the three of them sat together right outside the conference room, where the volunteers had returned to work but surely had not forgotten what had just gone down.
“So when I finally talked to Detective Cohen,” Brian continued his story, “he told me about the center, and I wanted to come and help.” Then he added, “I’ll be here only a couple of days,” more to Hosea than Jasmine.
The way the Bushes stared at him—Jasmine with a smile and Hosea with a look that was contrary to his wife’s—made Brian feel like there was more to explain. “I’m sure you probably have enough volunteers, but I had to do something . . . to help.”
“And we appreciate it,” Hosea said, though his tone didn’t sound as if he felt any gratitude.
Brian didn’t miss the way they held hands—or rather the way Hosea held on to Jasmine. It was a message directed at him, and Brian wanted to make sure that Hosea knew he’d received it. He said, “Alexis sends her best,” hoping that Hosea understood his message—that he had his own woman, his own love; that he wasn’t there to do anything to mess up what he—or Hosea—had. He added, “She’s praying . . . for both of you.”
Hosea and Jasmine nodded together as if they were one. But even though they moved as a matching pair, Jasmine kept her eyes on Brian, staring as if she never planned to let him go.
The heat of her stare made Brian shift and focus his attention on Hosea. But it was hard to keep his eyes away from Jasmine. Not that he was attracted to her in any way—it was her pain that pulled him in. Her heartache was palpable—it seeped through her pores and filled their space with the stench of tragedy.
Hosea said, “I’m sorry you came all this way; if you’d called, I would’ve been glad to keep you up to date.” He paused and added, “I wish you had called.”
His words made Brian raise his hand to loosen his tie, and then he remembered he wasn’t wearing one. “I didn’t want to bother you. With all . . . of this.” He looked straight into the other man’s eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my being here, but if it’s a problem, I’ll leave.”
“No!” Jasmine exclaimed, her first word, shocking both of them. “We’re glad you’re here.” She turned to her husband. “Right, Hosea?”
Hosea’s smile was as stiff as the rest of him. “Of course.” Then, as if he had second and third thoughts, Brian watched Hosea settle, saw his face and shoulders relax. “Everyone can help. This is all about Jacquie.” Hosea stood up and glanced down at Jasmine. “We should show Brian around.”
“Definitely.”
Brian released a soft stream of air as Hosea led Jasmine into the room. He followed, though now his head was filled with questions. Had he made the right decision to come to New York? Maybe he was more of a distraction than a help—and that was not at all what he wanted to be.
Inside the conference room that Hosea called the command center, Hosea introduced Brian to his father; to Keith, a full-time volunteer; and to a host of friends. They were all polite enough, but behind their eyes, Brian saw their suspicion, even their disdain for Jacqueline’s biological father. Did any of these people think that he had come back to usurp Hosea’s position?
More doubt rose inside. Maybe this isn’t my place.
But then w
hen Malik, whom he’d met several times before, shook his hand and said, “Glad you’re here, man,” Brian settled his thoughts. He was Jacqueline’s father, and he was here to do a good thing.
As Hosea explained how they were using the Internet to get Jacqueline’s story out and how they were working with police departments in every city in the tristate area and beyond, Brian was aware of Jasmine standing close, moving by his side, as if he were her partner rather than Hosea.
Brian asked, “What about the media? Are they working with you on this?”
Hosea said, “That’s been the hard part. The first day or two, they were all over it; but after that, we were dropped. Guess it wasn’t interesting enough for them.”
“What?”
“You know how it is,” Malik joined in. “No matter that Jacquie is the granddaughter of a prominent pastor, she’s still a black girl. So the media . . . not interested.”
Brian shook his head. “Well, I have some contacts. Let me work on a few things.”
When Jasmine exclaimed, “Brian! That would be great,” he took two steps back, making sure that she didn’t wrap herself around him again.
Hosea handed Brian one of the flyers. “One thing that we’re working on here is remembering the basics.” He paused as Brian’s eyes perused the paper. “Our goal is to get these into a million hands. And we’re mailing them to doctor and dentist offices as well. You never know who’s going to see one of those.”
Brian couldn’t stop staring at the photo of Jacqueline. Her face—his face—stared right back.
The eyes of his little girl seared through him, instantly deepening his pain. And he sensed other eyes, Jasmine’s eyes, watching him. He had to turn, had to face her now, and when he did, he shared every ache that she felt. Now he was the one who couldn’t turn away, and he looked at Jasmine with a new heart. She was the mother of his child. Never had he really thought of her that way.
The flyer slipped from his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said, catching the paper before it floated all the way to the floor. Then as he stood straight, he added, “I’ve got to go.”
Sins of the Mother Page 14
