Losing Hope by Leslie J. Sherrod

insurance cards and other legal documentation, a bag I knew she’d gotten from Dayonna’s social services worker when they first took the girl into their home. “To your knowledge, does Dayonna have my cell phone number?”
    â€œI don’t think so.” Mrs. Monroe had begun filling out the first form that would be added to the thick chart, which, I’d noted already, had Dayonna’s name on it. “But if you’ve called our house from your phone, your number is probably on our caller ID.” Her pen stopped moving, but she did not look up at me. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œOh, it’s nothing, I guess. Just, well, the important thing is that Dayonna is here and will get stabilized to come back to your place.”
    â€œYes, she is in good hands.” Ida, the intake worker, tapped loudly on another clipboard. “You can always call if you think of any more questions.”
    My questions were not for Ida. I started to tell her that, but she didn’t have time and I didn’t have time, so I decided to move on. I turned back toward the doorway and almost ran into Mr. Monroe, who was entering the admissions office after having parked their car.
    â€œYou’re still here?” He looked at me and then at his wife. Was that concern or irritation on his face? I could not tell.
    â€œShe’s leaving now, Horace.”
    He gave a nod, seemingly satisfied with his wife’s words and my quick wave good-bye.
    Why was everyone rushing me out? I was only trying to do my job. I was halfway down the corridor, headed for the main exit, when a nurse poked her head out of a doorway across from the admissions office.
    â€œExcuse me, ma’am?”
    â€œMe?” I pointed to myself.
    â€œYes. Aren’t you the social services worker that came in with the new girl?”
    â€œOh, I don’t work for the Department of Social Services. I work for the therapeutic foster care agency that DSS contracted with to care for her.”
    â€œClose enough. Can you come here to witness while we do her intake exam?”
    She disappeared back into the room before I could answer. I had no choice but to take on the duty, remembering from past experiences that the mental health facility usually stripped new patients of most of their clothing upon admission to ensure that they did not have any weapons, drug paraphernalia, or any other dangerous or prohibited items before being escorted to the locked units.
    The first thing I noticed when I entered the room was that it was freezing cold. Why they would have the temperature so low when they knew patients had to undress in here was beyond my understanding. The second thing I noticed was that Dayonna was awake, alert, calm, and unrestrained.
    â€œHi, Ms. St. James,” she chirped in that raspy voice of hers. “I like your shoes.” She grinned at me like we were crossing paths in the supermarket and not standing in the intake exam room of a psychiatric facility.
    â€œHi, Dayonna. How are you today?” I kept up the charade as she began disrobing.
    â€œI’m good.” She smiled as she followed the nurse’s directions to extend, then lift her arms. “On my next birthday I’ll be fifteen. I can’t wait until I get my learner’s permit.” She giggled, and both the nurse and I exchanged glances, the same sly smiles on our faces. I knew the nurse had the same thought as I did. Wasn’t any way this girl would be driving anybody’s car anytime soon, if ever.
    â€œDoes your son have a car?” Dayonna giggled.
    My smile froze. “My son?”
    â€œYeah. Why didn’t you tell me you had a son when we first met? What’s his name?”
    â€œHow did you know I had a son?” I kept the smile on my face only because I was not sure what other expression to make. First, she knew my cell phone number—though I still wasn’t convinced that the extra husky voice at