Destiny's Daughters

by Gwynne Forster

The manager returned half-smiling and said, “Your apology has been accepted and they have agreed that you can pay for their meal. But I must warn you, if there is any further disturbance, LAPD or not, I will ask you to leave.”

  Maxwell breathed a sigh of relief. “Understood.” He helped Jamilla back to her seat before he went to the table where the other couple sat. “I just want to apologize personally. My girlfriend has just been going through some things lately, and I don’t know what happened here today. But please, have whatever you wish and I’m picking up the tab.”

  The woman was openly hostile, but the man seemed more forgiving. “Thank you for your generous offer. My wife and I accept.”

  Maxwell reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, opened it, and removed two crisp twenty-dollar bills. “This should also cover your dry cleaning.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the man said as the woman snatched the money.

  Maxwell looked between the two of them and smiled. “I insist.”

  Without further words, Maxwell returned to Jamilla, who sat quietly crying. Joel and crew had cleaned the area and reset the place setting. “Are you okay?”

  “Can we just leave?” Jamilla didn’t make eye contact with him.

  Maxwell knew she was embarrassed, but he was hungry. “Everything will be fine.” He reached across and patted her hand. “I’ve taken care of everything.”

  Jamilla withdrew her hand angrily. “You’ve taken care of what?” She leaned across the table, her voice growing louder with each word. “You’ve found my sisters?”

  Chapter 5

  The car ride wasn’t as quiet as the wait for the valet to bring Maxwell’s pearlescent white Hyundai Sonata. Jamilla was mortified to the point that she didn’t even want to look at Maxwell. She was equally as angry.

  His insistence that they stay and finish the meal had made her utterly miserable. The couple that had been innocent victims of her tirade kept stealing glances at her, whispering. Why hadn’t she driven her own car? She would have taken a cab home if it hadn’t been more than sixty miles away. How dare he hold her hostage! She had a good mind to file a police report.

  Jamilla almost laughed at herself and how irrationally she was thinking. How absolutely stupid she’d look to the police if she reported one of their own for refusing her request to leave an upscale restaurant without finishing their meal. Maxwell interrupted her revelry in lunacy.

  “I think you need to get some professional help, Milla.” Maxwell never took his eyes off the road as he spoke. “I’ve been worried about you for a while now.”

  Jamilla stared out of the passenger window.

  “You haven’t been sleeping. You’ve lost a ton of weight. And now this . . .”

  Jamilla turned quickly to face Maxwell. “And what?” she shouted. “We should have left. I was humiliated, and all you could think about was finishing your dinner.”

  “You need to face your demons.” Maxwell turned to her as he came to the light just before the freeway entrance. “You can’t continue like this. You’re having some sort of breakdown.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “If I thought it would help you, I’d gladly do exactly that.” Maxwell made the right turn to the freeway ramp. “What can I do to help you?”

  Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. The sad part about all of this was that Jamilla knew Maxwell was right. She was out of control. The visions and dreams were holding her creativity hostage and there was an APB out on her sanity.

  Maxwell stole a glance at her. Her tears broke his heart. He was a man who carried a gun and had vowed to protect and serve perfect strangers, yet he couldn’t do anything for the woman he loved. “Let me help you.” He took her hand and turned quickly to look at her. “Please.”

  Jamilla turned again to stare out into the night at nothing. “What is it you think you can help me do?”

  Maxwell hadn’t expected that particular question because he sure didn’t have a well-thought-out answer. “Whatever you need.”

  In a pain-filled voice Jamilla said, “My needs are simple. I simply need to find my sisters.”

  “I can do whatever I can, but you’ve done the right thing by hiring Brewington. I can help you with that financially.”

  Just like a man, thinking money or sex can fix anything. “I don’t need your money.”

  “I wasn’t insinuating that you did.” Maxwell had to rein in his anger. “To be honest with you, I don’t know what the hell to do. What you need to do is get yourself into some therapy. And several times a week is a good place to start!” The reins broke. “You’re going to have to deal with whatever feelings are causing those dreams. And no one can do that except you.”

  “I haven’t asked you for any help, so don’t be acting like the great black hope.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re just trying to make yourself feel better. If you swoop in and save a damsel in distress, you get to be the hero.” Jamilla spewed pure fire. “I don’t need you.”

  Maxwell made the exit onto National Boulevard. “Well, little lady, rescue your damn self, because you can consider this brother done. I wish you well in whatever it is you think you need to do.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Have a nice life.” The car accelerated slightly. “I’m tired of begging to be your man—your man in the true sense. Taking care of you, protecting you. You like your misery, so I’m leaving you to it.”

  Jamilla was stunned. Maxwell had never spoken to her in that manner. She didn’t know whether to be sad, angry, or flattered. She was ready to plead her case, but he had pulled up next to her car and stared straight ahead. She wasn’t sure what to do next. Maxwell helped her out with that decision. He leaned over and opened the passenger door, never looking at her, and said, “Good night.”

  Jamilla turned and stared first at the opened door and then back at Maxwell. “You’re throwing me out of your car?”

  Silence.

  “I’m talking to you.” Though she’d made it up in her mind at the restaurant that she wasn’t spending the night, she said, “I thought I was spending the night.”

  “That’s not such a good idea.” He never took his eyes off the stop sign straight ahead. “I need to get up early tomorrow to work out before the game.”

  “So you’re just going to let me drive back to Rancho at this hour after what happened at the restaurant?”

  “You don’t need me, remember?”

  Jamilla grabbed her purse and slipped out of the door. She slammed it so hard, Maxwell thought the glass would shatter. He laughed to himself as he thought of the scene when Tina Turner had done just that in What’s Love Got to Do With It. His laughter stopped abruptly as he realized—everything.

  Jamilla was in the car and peeling away from the curb in a matter of seconds. Maxwell was worried about her driving home in her condition. What would she do if she saw the babies while she was driving? He shook off the feelings, though his nonchalant attitude was insincere.

  Jamilla didn’t remember the drive home—only the tears that clouded her vision. Why had she told him she didn’t need him when the opposite was so true? He was her only true friend and she’d blown it. What would she do now? As she pulled into the garage, she resisted the temptation to call him.

  She refused to turn on the lights but climbed the stairs and fell into bed, still clothed. She was asleep instantly, and for the first time in she couldn’t remember how long, she had dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 6

  Fred picked up on the first ring. “Fred Brewington.”

  “Mr. Brewington, this is Jamilla Holmes Dixon. I was calling to see if you’d found out anything yet.”

  “Ms. Holmes, I do love promptness. You’re right on time.” Fred could be heard moving papers around. “Ah, yes, here we go.”

  Jamilla held her breath.

  “Amazingly enough, I found a Minnie Lou Holmes obituary in a Dale, Georgia, new
spaper in July 1973. In that obituary it says that she was survived by her infant daughters, Clarissa, Jamilla, and Leticia.”

  Jamilla grabbed the end of her desk as the room began to spin out of control. Had she heard him clearly? “What did you just say?”

  He laughed a little before he continued. “I believe I found your birth mother’s obituary.”

  “Oh, Mr. Brewington!” Jamilla sang with glee. “That is wonderful.”

  “Hold on here just a minute, Ms. Dixon. This is a long way from finding your sisters. The trail could be dead cold after this was published. I just don’t know at this point.”

  “Mr. Brewington—I mean, Fred—do you know that I have never even heard my sisters’ names before? So please let me have this.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit it’s a pretty good start.”

  “But this is more than I could have hoped for in such a short time,” Jamilla rambled on, breathless. “I called because it was easier than sitting here staring at a computer screen willing words to appear magically. I’ve been watching the clock since I got up at three this morning, waiting for this phone call.”

  Jamilla’s mind went back to the scene at the restaurant and subsequent fight with Maxwell. When she woke she was fully clothed and on top of the covers. Though she hadn’t dreamed, she still couldn’t fall back to sleep.

  “I’m glad to be able to share this news, but I want to warn you that this didn’t take any great investigative skills. You could have found this as easily as I did. The real test will come with trying to find where your sisters went from Dale.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that they’re still in Georgia? Dale, even?”

  “In a town with red dirt and no resources? I don’t hardly think so. Although anything’s possible, but chances of young people staying in a small town like that in this day and age are pretty slim.”

  “What’ll you do next?” Jamilla dared to hope that soon she’d be looking into eyes so much like her own.

  “Now that I have your sisters’ names, I’m going to see what public records I can find. If they were adopted and their names changed, that would make it more difficult, but not impossible, to find them.”

  Jamilla listened intently—all the while, her mind raced. Would Leticia and Clarissa be as happy to find her as she knew she’d be to find them? Did they even know that she existed? Were they together, or had they each grown up with a hole in their soul like she’d had since her twelfth birthday? “When can I call you again?”

  “You can call me whenever the spirit moves you, but if I get anything worth telling you, I’ll be sure to call you.” Fred Brewington paused. “But Ms. Dixon . . .”

  Jamilla interrupted him. “Please, Mr. Brewington. No buts—just find my sisters.”

  “I was going to say, I needed to warn you that it may be weeks or even months before I uncover another lead. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up too high.”

  Undaunted, Jamilla said, “Mr. Brewington, high hopes is all I have.”

  For some reason unbeknownst to him, Fred Brewington liked this young woman from the moment she’d stepped into the lobby of the office suite. There was a freshness and innocence about her that he hadn’t seen in a lot of years in this business. Most of his cases dealt with cheating spouses and jilted lovers. Occasionally, he’d help a father win custody of his children, but for the most part the rewarding part of his job had long since vanished.

  The idealism that had brought him to this business after a motorcycle accident had forced him into early retirement from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department had been crushed out like a fully consumed cigarette. He had grown tired of people hiring him to confirm what they knew full well in their hearts in the first place.

  The saddest part of all was, even when he’d shown the victim proof in black and white—or even living color—they had refused to believe. So his only motivation for the past several years had been the money until he’d met Jamilla.

  “Well, then, Miss Jamilla, I guess I’m just going to have to find your sisters, huh?”

  Chapter 7

  Jamilla gently tapped the handset on the cordless phone as she pondered whether she should call Maxwell. They hadn’t spoken since he’d thrown her out of his car ten days before. He’d left her several messages, but what could she say to him that would sound at all rational?

  Sleep had been her enemy since the episode. Screaming babies woke her from a sound sleep or caused her to jump suddenly when she tried to concentrate on her manuscript. She took a deep breath and began dialing. Maxwell seemed to answer before it even started to ring.

  “I was wondering how much longer you were going to make me suffer,” Maxwell said, only half joking.

  Sighing, Jamilla regretted making the call. She had nothing to give, yet Maxwell wanted something, anything, from her. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

  “Don’t you understand that I’m your friend?” Maxwell pleaded. “Which means we share everything?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s one of those magical formulas. When we share, you have half the pain and sorrow, but double the joy and happiness.”

  Jamilla sighed. “I know you’re my friend, and that’s why I called you.” Jamilla’s voice began to crack. “Please don’t make this hard.”

  “I’m not trying to, Milla.” Exasperated, he went on. “As your friend it’s my job to see the first tear, catch the second one, and stop the third.”

  Jamilla’s tears began to stream as he spoke.

  “And you know what, girl?”

  “What?” she managed.

  “You’re preventing me from doing my job.”

  Despite the emptiness and hopelessness she felt inside, she had to laugh. “You know you can always make me laugh.”

  “Just a part of my charm, my sweet.”

  “So tell me what’s going on with you. I really have been worried, you know.”

  “The dreams are coming every time I fall asleep. I hear screaming babies when I’m awake. I’m just exhausted.”

  “Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” Maxwell searched for something more profound but there was nothing. “What’s the investigator saying?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him this week, but I’m sure if he had news he’d call me.”

  “Let me give home skillet a ring—maybe he needs a little inspiration to make something happen.” Maxwell searched for relief from his pangs of despondency.

  “I don’t want to tick him off.” Jamilla wiped a single tear from her cheek.

  “Just leave this to me.” Maxwell smiled to himself. “If he knows you’re my girlfriend, then he’ll look at all of this differently, I promise you.”

  Too stunned at the words my girlfriend to respond immediately, Jamilla removed the handset from her ear and just stared at it. They’d never talked about being boyfriend-girlfriend. She enjoyed being with him, no doubt, but she wasn’t good girlfriend material. She needed to fill the void in her soul before it was worthy of a mate. She didn’t have any energy to be his girlfriend. “What did you just say?”

  A little perplexed, he replied, “If he knows I have a vested interest and I’m the police, he’ll be sure that whatever he’s doing is fast and accurate.”

  “No, I mean the girlfriend part.”

  “I don’t really understand what you’re asking me.”

  “You said, and I quote, ‘If he knows you’re my girlfriend, then he’ll look at all of this differently’. We’ve never talked about me being your girlfriend.”

  “Woman, we’ve been hanging out for almost two years.” Maxwell’s voice seemed a little higher than it had been. “What do you call it?”

  “Hanging out.”

  Daunted, Maxwell said, “I see.”

  Jamilla could feel the disappointment through the phone and it only underscored her point. She didn’t have any oomph to give this man and his emotions. She needed desperately to change the subject. “Do you want Mr. Brewington’s numb
er?

  “Who’s Mr. Brewington?” Maxwell was lost in his own selfish thoughts. He didn’t know when he’d fallen in love with Jamilla, but he couldn’t remember the time before he did. His feeling of impotence only escalated when she was this depressed. There had to be something, anything, he could do to help her find her sisters.

  “The investigator, remember? You checked him out.”

  “Oh yeah, yeah. I’m sorry—I was thinking of other things at the moment. Sure, give me the number.”

  Jamilla shared the number with him and made a weak excuse to hang up. She was so exhausted. Her lack of sleep alone would make her a hazard if she were operating heavy machinery. She dragged herself up from the comfortable leather chair and into the kitchen. Just as she placed her hand on the refrigerator door, the phone rang.

  “Don’t tell me you wrote the number down wrong,” Jamilla teased.

  “Excuse me?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—I thought you were someone else.”

  “Ms. Dixon, this is Ayasah Bennett. I work with Fred Brewington. He asked me to give you a call.”

  Jamilla’s pulse began racing instantly. She needed to sit, but the bar stool perched under the granite kitchen counter was too many steps away. Frederick Brewington’s words were ‘. . . if I get anything worth telling you, I’ll be sure to call you’. This could only mean that he had something to report. Jamilla tried to steady herself so she could speak. “How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Brewington wanted me to let you know that he found what he believes to be your sisters’ birth records in the county clerk’s office in Dale, Georgia. He has found birth records for Clarissa Holmes and Leticia Holmes, both born on your birth date, and it is listed that they were of multiple birth. But that also means they weren’t adopted.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Minnie Lou Holmes is listed as their mother.”

  Jamilla had turned her back so she could lean against the refrigerator, and as the woman spoke, she began to slowly slide to the floor. She’d just said she believed that her sisters’ birth certificates were found. Paper made them real. Minnie Lou Holmes made them hers.