Dark Hope (16 page)

“I won’t tell Mom,” I said, and his head jerked up, his eyes full of surprise. He stopped twisting his hat, a grin lighting up his face.

“Thank you, Hope.”

I nodded, not sure what to say next.

My dad was first to break the silence. “I got a job, Hope.”

“That’s great, Dad!” My delight for him was genuine. It had been years since he’d last had a job.

“I’m night manager at the Taco Bell. You know the one, right off campus, near South College?” His voice was eager, his eyes searching for approval.

I swallowed my disappointment. It was a far cry from the engineering job he used to have, but it was a start.

He continued, oblivious to my warring emotions. “I figured I had more time now with you gone. They didn’t want to hire me at first, said I was overqualified, but when I explained everything they changed their minds. They’re really nice folks, Hope. They even let me take home the leftovers.” He pulled a neatly folded bag out of his coat and thrust it at me.

“Aw, Dad, you shouldn’t have.” I took the paper bag from him, gingerly holding it away from me so as not to be overwhelmed by the grease.

He beamed again. “It’s the new burrito. I bet you’ll like it.”

“I’ll take it home for dinner tonight.”

A shadow fell across his face. He seemed almost embarrassed and started mangling his hat again. “You probably shouldn’t. Just in case.”

Mom. I nodded swiftly, patting the bag. “I’ll eat it on the way home.”

I kicked some pebbles with my toe. This was the first time I’d ever had to visit my dad. It felt strange.

“So how is school?”

“School is okay,” we began at the same time, and then laughed nervously at our awkwardness.

“School is okay,” I repeated. “A lot of the same kind of classes.” I
fumbled around for something to add, the heat of a blush spreading across my face. “I ride the bus for now,” I said. “Oh, and I made a new friend. Her dad is a minister, and her name is Tabitha.”

“Great,” Dad said, straining to smile. “That’s just great.”

“Dad,” I burst out before I could stop myself. “Mom told me some things. Some things about when I was little. Why do you think that I am being targeted?”

He blanched and looked around nervously.

“Mom’s not going to find out you told me,” I rushed to explain. “I promise. I just, you know, wondered. Wondered why.” I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible so he did not feel threatened.

He looked at me warily. “You really want to know?”

I nodded vigorously. “I’m being serious. I won’t argue or anything. I just want to know.”

He sighed then, and his eyes suddenly became very tired. “Because I hear voices, Hope.”

His words came slowly at first, but as he continued, they seemed to rush like water bursting a dam.

“They started the night we found you. Sometimes it’s almost like a buzzing sound in my head. Other times they’re whispers. But if I ignore them, they get louder.”

Before, I would have asked him if he had tried using antipsychotic drugs to relieve his symptoms, but now I just remembered Michael’s words and tried not to let what my dad had said startle me too much. I took a deep breath and asked the question I needed to ask, even though I didn’t want to.

“What do they say, Dad?”

“To keep you close,” he said. “I never wanted to find out what would happen if I didn’t.”

I felt a stab of pity for him. How horrible must it be to be the
only one who believed in something so strange? To carry the guilt of my disappearance, but not be able to admit it, not even to yourself? To fear it might happen again?

“I know how this must sound,” he said. “The only person I ever told was your mother.” He laughed, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “She told her lawyer, but in court it never stood up. I’m not crazy. And I’m smart enough to know not to talk about it. And for whatever reason, your mother never pushed it. Couldn’t bring herself to drive the knife in, I guess. But the thing is—”

His voice dropped, and a sudden burst of wind nearly drowned out the next thing he said.

“What did you say?” I asked sharply, not sure if I’d really heard him say what I thought. I locked eyes with him, willing him to say it. His whole body sagged with defeat as I dragged the words out of him.

“They just stopped.” He seemed bewildered, lost, his hands falling to his sides as if a puppet master had suddenly cut the strings. “These last few months, the voices just stopped. It’s almost as if … it’s time. But time for what, I don’t know.”

A wave of unease gripped me. Michael and my father both felt some irresistible force, compelling one to guard me and the other to let me go. It couldn’t be all coincidence, could it?

“They didn’t even say anything when you tried to leave home. In fact, it felt like they almost wanted you to go.”

I looked at my father and realized, as he stood there alone, the winds whipping about him, that he felt he’d failed me somehow.

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, flinging my arms around him for a great hug. He looked down at me, surprised, as he wrapped his arms around me and patted my back.

“You’re welcome, Hope.” Awkwardly, as if he was afraid I would reject him again, he brought his great hand up and patted my head.

It wasn’t until later, in the silence of my bedroom, that I really began to realize the implications of what he’d said.

I welcomed the visit to the shelter the next day; anything to distract myself. I figured between Tabitha’s constant chatter and the interview itself, I would have plenty to keep me from thinking about Dad’s dreams, Michael, or what any of it really meant.

By the time we got to the center, I had heard all about Tabitha’s time with Tony on Friday night, as well as a vivid description of her father’s sermon earlier in the morning. All the while, I kept stealing glances at the Sunday “cleaned up” Tabitha: rings and tattoos removed, face scrubbed clean, hair its normal shade and pulled back, wearing a prim sheath in sleek navy.

“I can see you,” Tabitha finally threatened as we pulled into the parking lot, prompting me to hide a smile behind my gloved hand. “You’re so backwards, Hope. You stare at the ‘normal’ girl and hang out with the freak show.” She shook her head in mock disapproval. “Let’s hope you do better inside,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

The doors to the center were locked, and a numbered keypad, camera, and visitor’s button were conspicuously visible next to the entry. We pressed the button and waited. The loudspeaker buzzed to life.

“Who to see?” a disembodied voice called out from the intercom.

“Delores Blankenship,” Tabitha replied promptly. “We’re Dunwoody High School students, here to interview her.”

There was a long silence before the intercom crackled again. “Can you show your IDs in the camera?”

We dug in our purses and brandished them before the tiny lens.

We didn’t hear the voice again, but a loud whirring signaled that
the door was unlocked. We pushed our way through and entered the lobby.

The lobby filled me with hopelessness. It was windowless, lit only by long fluorescent tubes in the ceiling that gave the entire space a drab, lifeless feel. A gray steel desk was pushed up against the wall, stacks of papers spread out all over it and a steaming cup of tea as testament that someone had been there not long ago, but the desk itself was empty. Two lonely folding chairs sat in front of the desk. Everything was utilitarian and in slightly varying shades of gray or beige: the industrial linoleum flooring, the tiled wall, even the ceilings. Someone had done their best to cheer up the place, taping up posters and strategically placing plastic pots of dusty fake flowers around the room, but the attempt only underscored the drabness. A heavy door, its tiny window crisscrossed with bars, stood in one corner.

“Now what?” I asked Tabitha, but she just shrugged and started walking around, showing an inordinate amount of interest in the dated calendars and posters.

The click-clack of high heels echoed from behind the door, signaling someone’s approach. We stared at the door expectantly as it swung open toward us, and we were met by a burst of color and noise.

The woman was tall and large, obviously comfortable in her own body. She’d dressed in layers of flowy knits, a mix of violets, magentas, pinks, and blues that enveloped her in warmth and light. Long chains punctuated by polished agates and stones fell in layers from her neck and jingled as she rolled through the door. The busy look was topped by a fuzzy knit beret, perilously perched on the side of her head. She overcame the entire dreary room with her presence before she’d ever opened her mouth.

“Hello, girls! I’m Delores, Street Grace’s executive director. You
must be Mona Carmichael’s daughter?” she asked, nodding at me as, with one graceful move, she swept her reading glasses onto her nose. She did not pause for my answer. “Fantastic. I am so glad to have the opportunity to help you today. I don’t know your mom, but she’s a good friend of a member of our board, so I am happy to help you. I thought we’d start here, where I can give you some background information about Street Grace and tell you about the girls before we take you inside to their living quarters.” She gestured to the folding chairs as she stepped behind her desk and sat down.

Tabitha nodded mutely, seemingly in awe of the energy and force that was Delores. I was just amazed that anyone had managed to get Tabitha to be quiet. We quickly took our seats as Delores launched into a speech she’d obviously given before, not that it was rote. Her passion for her cause exuded from every pore.

“Street Grace works with all sorts of women and children in need—getting them off the street, helping them prepare for employment or school. We opened our doors in 1965 and have been in service, more or less, ever since. Some of the people we serve are simply victims of homelessness. Some are runaways or women who have turned to prostitution for whatever reasons. But our recent focus has been on human trafficking—that’s the work you’re interested in, right?”

She paused to take a sip of her tea, the only pause since she’d started barreling through her speech. She didn’t wait for us to answer before she jumped back into her story.

“In the past few years, we’ve seen a surge of people trafficked into Atlanta for a variety of purposes. In some cases, they’ve been lured from their home countries by the promise of a better life, only to find out later that they’ve really signed up for slavery. In other cases, they are sold by their families or outright kidnapped. In about half of all cases, the victims know the trafficker who ‘recruits’ them.” Disgust
flickered across her face as she pushed a stack of papers across her desk toward us. “I hate that term, ‘recruits.’ As if they had a choice.”

Tabitha snatched up the papers, scanning them quickly.

“Nobody knows how many people are brought into slavery that way each year,” Delores continued. “The figures are all over the place, partly because these are hidden populations and partly because our definitions are imprecise. Globally, we’ve heard everything from a few tens of thousands to up to thirty million men, women, and children trafficked annually. But really, nobody knows.”

My eyes nearly popped out of my head to hear such great numbers.

Tabitha interrupted then. “But what about here, in Atlanta?”

Delores leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “The very things that make us a great city for trade make us perfect for human trafficking, a strong transportation system being at the top of the list. We’ve been listed as high as thirteenth in the world for the amount of trafficking activity in our city. Who knows how bad it really is? Our point of view is that even one person trafficked is one too many.”

“What happens to them once they are here?” I ventured.

“All sorts of things, none of them wholesome,” Delores admitted. “Some become domestic workers: cooking, cleaning, that kind of thing. Some do farm work or restaurant work.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Tabitha said. Delores’s eyes flashed with anger.

“It doesn’t sound so bad, having to work eighteen-hour days without pay? Being threatened with physical punishment, humiliation, or even worse—retribution against your family back home?”

Tabitha shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fingering her demure pearls. “I didn’t mean—”

Delores slid her eyeglasses to the top of her head and sighed,
closing her eyes as she sought to regain her patience. She reopened her eyes and smiled brightly, reaching across the messy desk to pat Tabitha’s hand where it still rested on the stack of papers.

“No, I’m sorry, dear. Of course you didn’t. You’re just trying to learn. My temper just got a little away from me. There are a lot of people out there who don’t see this for what it is—outright slavery. I know you meant no harm.

“And in a way, you’re right. That kind of work is not the worst thing that can happen to these people. Forced prostitution or sexual slavery is the worst thing. And unfortunately, it happens frequently to the youngest and most vulnerable children who are put into this disgusting trade.”

She slid another stack of papers across the desk. We held them up and realized they were photos: A black and white shot of a filthy room full of bare mattresses laid end to end so that they covered the entire floor, shackles and chains the only other visible things in the shot. A series starting with a basement trapdoor that led to a crowded room filled with girls in nothing but their underwear, their faces mercifully blurred in an ironic nod to privacy. A truck caught in some border crossing, its back opened up to show it packed with girls who stared with unseeing eyes into the flashlights wielded by their saviors. They were so … tiny, and not just because of their ages. Their knobby joints and their protruding ribs gave mute testament to their obvious hunger.