Sacrifices of Joy (12 page)

I dialed Laz's number as I ran back up the staircase, but hung up just before his phone started ringing. What was I supposed to say to him? That I'd figured out that strange man's name may or may not be Bennett and that he used the word “fascinating” so he must be an Internet stalker, or worse, a terrorist?

Even I heard the foolishness in those claims.

The front door of my suite was unlocked.

“There you are.” Darci's sing-song greeting met me as soon as I came in. She was emptying wastebaskets, tidying up the waiting room magazines, preparing for a full day of clients.

“Look at you.” I smiled. “Are you working today or do you have other plans?” I raised an eyebrow at the clingy, yellow wrap dress she wore, black high heels, and yellow and black jewelry.

“Nope, no other plans. Just thought I'd spruce myself up for a change. It's amazing what you can find when you actually go through your closet.”

Her smile was bigger than usual. She seemed bright, glowing, and not only because she wore a sunbeam-shade dress.

Had she heard that man say he was coming back today? I thought about how her eyes had lit up when she'd announced his presence yesterday. Was her outfit in any way related to him? It was a wild thought, but even thinking it made me uneasy.

No, Darci! Don't get caught up with him, no matter how gorgeous you think he is.
I screamed this in my head, but knew I'd have to say it out loud if there was any hint of my suspicions being true. But there was no need to embarrass her and make myself look like an idiot, I decided.

When and why had I become so paranoid? I guess I suffered from my own delusions, I concluded.

“Your son called.” Darci was back at her desk. “He wants you to call him back as soon as possible.”

Roman.

With all the craziness that defined my life these days, my son was the one constant, the one person who made sense.

And yet I had failed him by never fully seeking complete answers about his father and by rejecting the idea of a relationship with the siblings he called family.

“Thanks, Darci.” I hurried to my office and shut the door behind me.

The need to talk to someone “normal” was nearly overwhelming me. I tried to shake off the convoluted feelings that Bennett, or whatever his name was, left me, and dialed my son. He picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Roman. How are you?” My heart always melted when I heard my son's voice on the phone, like it did the first time I'd held him in my arms. He was the only positive to RiChard's negative.

“I'm fine. Just wanted to check on you.”

“I'm fine, Roman.” There was a long pause. “What's wrong?”

“I don't think I'm coming back here next school year.”

“Wait. What? Why?” I heard the gasp in my voice and questioned it. Weren't these the words I'd been longing to hear come from his mouth?

“I can't deal with it anymore. I'm too far away from my family.”

I'd said the same thing when he first applied, ignoring his assertions that he had family, brothers and a sister, with whom he wanted to connect.

“Roman, you can't . . .” My voice faded as I searched for the right words to say. “You can't let whatever is happening between you and . . . them keep you from finishing your degree out there. Keep your eyes on the bigger picture. Didn't you say your program is nationally ranked?” I felt dizzy as my mouth said the complete opposite of what I felt like saying.

“It's not working. I don't want to be here. They don't . . . feel like family. I just want to come home. For good.”

I did not know what was happening. I hadn't been there for him, to listen, to understand the way that I should have been (and I was a therapist!) so I knew I had to get this right. I didn't want my son giving up on the relationships that meant so much to him. As much ambivalence as I felt about Mbali and her children, I knew it was right for Roman to keep fighting for the family connections he dreamed of having.

“Listen, I'm coming back out there on Thursday. Don't make any firm decisions right now. Let's talk some more then, and I will support you in your efforts to fix whatever is going on with you and your brothers and sister. Don't run across the country away from them; otherwise, it will never be resolved and you'll have those relationships hanging over your head like a weight.”

“Mom, I'm a grown man. I don't need you flying back out here to rescue me.”

Rescue.

The word jumped out at me and I remembered the uneasiness I'd felt moments early.

“It's not a rescue, Roman. I already had plans. Something I need to do.”

In the several seconds of silence that ensued, I could almost hear his brain struggling to figure out what I was up to. He gave up trying and didn't bother trying to ask me questions, seemingly knowing that I would have already given him answers if that was my intent.

“Mom, you have never wanted a relationship with them yourself and you never really wanted me to come out here in the first place. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“Because this isn't about me; it's about you. I don't want you making the same mistakes I did and end up spending a lifetime overshadowed by loose ends from broken relationships.” I let the words settle before continuing. “We'll talk more on Thursday. Maybe we can have that dinner we missed on Saturday. Or better yet, lunch.” Kisu's seminar was in the evening. I didn't want to take any chances of having to explain to Roman where I was going.

He was in the situation he was in now because I hadn't found out the answers I'd needed for both of us years ago.

No more loose ends.

But no telling him about it until those ends were tied. I didn't want to prolong the pain, for either him or me, any longer.

We hung up after a bit of small talk about his projects and exams. I resumed my workday, floating through individual and family therapy sessions; catching up on notes; thinking about family, love, and relationships. I'd made a living out of helping people sort through complex feelings, communication failures, and the choices that affected them all.

By seven-thirty that evening, I'd helped a woman talk through the bitterness she felt over an abusive ex, listened to a teenage girl plead with her mother to stop ignoring her crying, and guided a grieving widower through a healing exercise to address his deep feelings of loss. I helped them and many more clients, both scheduled and walk-ins, before I headed home. I finally took care of the rental car return and then I collapsed onto my bed.

And I'd also made a decision about Laz.

Four hours, thirty-three minutes.

16,380 seconds.

I was calculating time again, my old standby, a safe constant.

That's how long it had been since I'd made up my mind about Laz. Now I just had to tell him.

Curled up on my bed with my comforter wrapped tight around me, I'd turned on the eleven o'clock news, knowing that in the midst of the harrowing stories about the terror attack and its aftermath, Laz would come on at some point. Though there'd be no telling exactly where he'd be when the live shot came, it was guaranteed that he'd find some new angle, some unexposed facet of the story on which to report.

Laz looked for and reported controversy.

His story came on at 11:07, early in the broadcast. He must have good information. I turned up the volume and waited for him to start speaking.

And waited to see if, when I saw him on the screen, my heart would confirm what my head had decided.

“Even as authorities are trying to better understand how the suspect, Jamal Abdul, was able to plan and initiate the attack, many are just trying to understand the suspect. From close family members to longtime friends to neighbors, coworkers, and former little league coaches, those who crossed paths with Abdul are grappling with what made the suspect turn on his own country and wreak havoc, injury, and death to his fellow citizens.” Laz looked in the camera solemnly, his hat fixed straight on his head.

“Investigators are looking at potential ties through his father that may connect him to radical groups. Those who know him best are looking back over the days, weeks, and years they've spent with him, trying to see if and how they missed any warning signs of this current disaster.”

“Jamal used to come to our center and play board and card games with us.” A taped interview began playing and an elderly man sitting at a table spoke as several other seniors surrounded him, nodding their heads and looking forlorn. “Spades, pinochle, checkers; he even helped run some bingo nights.”

“His wife would bring pound cake and lemonade to share with us, and his two young children were a real hoot,” a woman wearing a crooked wig chimed in. “We are shocked, flabbergasted, and in total disbelief. There has to be some kind of mistake. I just can't believe it.”

The screenshot dissolved into a collection of photographs of the suspect at various community and charitable events. One picture showed him in a white tuxedo at what looked like a fundraising ball for cancer research. In another snapshot, he wore denim overalls and stood alongside several youths in an urban community garden. As the pictures continued, Laz's voice rejoined the report.

“While those who know Jamal Abdul are trying to come to terms with the allegations against him, the rest of the country, indeed the world, is seeking an explanation for how a monster could be hiding inside someone who appeared to be a hero to many. This is Laz, live from another ground zero, if you will, at BWI. Back to you, George.”

Hero.

The word cut through me, grabbed my attention, and made me forget what it was that I'd been looking for when I'd first turned on the nightly news. I sat there for a few minutes, unaware of the remaining broadcast as I reflected on the conversation I'd had with the Bennett man earlier that morning.

And then I laughed at myself for being so darn paranoid, working myself into a tizzy over the word “hero.”
Or am I?

As soon as the news went off, I dialed Laz. When I can't shake nagging feelings, I have to do something about it until it's clear to let them go.

As much as I wanted to deny it, the nagging feeling in my gut that I had missed something, that we all had missed something, still ate away at me.

“Hey, pending fiancée,” he greeted me on the fifth ring.

“Hi, Laz, I have a question.”

“I was hoping you had an answer.”

“I do, but I can't get into that yet.” I heard his sigh, but I kept talking anyway. “I saw your report on the eleven o'clock news. Where did all those pictures of the suspect come from?” I held my breath, not sure why it felt so important to me to know how the station had obtained the photos.

“You mean the photos of Jamal Abdul seeming to save the world before he went and turned it upside down? My crew and I found them online.”

“On Facebook? On Twitter?” I exhaled, then inhaled sharply again.

“Yeah, but not on his accounts. They were photos posted on different people's pages, organizational Web sites, that sort of thing. It doesn't appear that he had any social media accounts beside his professional networking ones.”

“Oh,” I replied, wondering what I was supposed to think or do about that new bit of information.

“Why do you ask?” Laz asked, then paused. “Wait, does this have anything to do with that man you're worried about?”

“No. Well, yes. It looks like I'll be treating him on a regular basis. We met this morning and had a really bizarre conversation about the Internet and social media sites and eternity and existence and, well, it was weird. He had a lot of opinions about Facebook and that sort of thing.”

“So, you are thinking that because this man talked about Facebook and some pictures of the suspect pre–terror attack came from Facebook, the man you spoke with should be questioned?”

“No, that's silly. That's not what I'm saying. I don't know what I am saying.”

“You need to be saying that you've agreed to become my wife.” He chuckled. “I've got to go in a moment, Sienna. You said you had an answer for me. Can you tell me something, please?”

“Let's meet for dinner tomorrow night. We'll talk then.” I didn't think answering a wedding proposition was an appropriate topic for a hurried phone call.

Laz groaned but agreed. “Okay, I'll give you a call sometime tomorrow when I'm free. We'll figure out where to meet and when. I'm gone, Sienna.”

He disconnected and I was left alone again to wade through the murkiness of my own thoughts and imaginations.

A billion people use Facebook. A quadrillion pictures are posted online every day. Why was I worried about the peculiar ruminations of a man possibly named Bennett?

Wednesday morning.

I'd set my phone alarm early so that I could get a quick workout in before dawn. After doing some crunches and riding the exercise bike I kept in my spare bedroom, and getting showered and dressed, I sat down at the kitchen table to plan my day. I had a lot to accomplish and little direction except for my questionable instincts and my weary heart.

It was a still small voice that spoke to my consciousness, one that I rarely heard these days. I glanced over at a worn Bible I kept near my kitchen table on a rack by the pantry. It had been my grandmother's. And like her, it felt like a distant, but warm memory of better times, love, and soul food.

When was the last time that I had picked up that Bible, any Bible? I strained to remember. There was a time in my life when I'd read scriptures for daily nourishment. Like breakfast, lunch, or dinner, I would sit down in the armchair in the living room of my old house—the one I lived in before I'd learned the truth about RiChard—and study passages, meditate on the meanings, and digest the truths that I knew were changing my life, giving me direction.

I truly could not remember when I'd stopped having my daily spiritual meals. I would read and listen and pray, sometimes cry, then smile, hum or sing.

And worship.

What was that really about anyway? I mean, it had been so long since I'd really taken time to talk to God, to genuinely thank Him, to contemplate His character and the safety of my life in Him, that the idea of worship felt distant, foreign.

Nearly out of my reach.

As I sat in my kitchen, staring at my grandmother's Bible on the shelf near my cookbooks, I recalled late nights years ago when I'd pondered verses and prayed intense prayers.
This must be what a relationship that's grown cold feels like.
Blazing fires of love and total infatuation had somehow been reduced to mere glowing embers, a roaring waterfall into a hollow drip, a melodious string symphony into a single out-of-tune violin.

What had changed?

It wasn't God.
The same yesterday, today, and tomorrow,
a Bible verse about God stated.

That only left one party at fault in our two-party relationship.

Me.

I'd stopped going to church regularly nearly three years ago, but I knew that was not the root issue, just a superficial symptom. Not going to church was like avoiding a favorite café at lunchtime because you knew an old flame would be there. This wasn't about me missing church. This was about me missing
Him.

I'd stopped spending regular time in the Word, praying, waiting, reading, listening, ages ago. I mean, ages.

I shut my eyes, but refused to let the tears that burned the back of my eyelids fall. Everything in me burned. A flurry of emotions, none of them positive, whirled uneasily inside of me.

Exhaustion. Disappointment.

With myself. With my life. Okay, even with God.

In His omnipotence, He'd allowed everything that happened to me happen. I thought briefly of a conversation I'd had once a couple of years ago with a hurting young woman named Silver. She'd been angry, hurting, and bitter about the atrocities that she'd undergone in her childhood and young adult life. She couldn't understand why bad things had happened to her, and I'd tried to assure her that God cared. I thought of my words to her back then:

It was early morning. I had much to accomplish today; but I knew that nothing could be started or finished without me first making amends with the one who held my life and times in His hands.

Who loved me like no man on this earth ever could.

Like no man on this earth ever did.

It was time to draw close to Him, to draw from Him.

With my eyes still closed, I tried to pray, I mean, really pray. I opened my mouth, waited for words to come, waited for something, anything. But my voice felt lodged somewhere in my throat. When words did come, they felt the way I imagined a rusty door must feel when someone forces it open after years of disuse.

Loud. Squeaky. Unpleasant.

I got out only two words.

“I'm hurting.”

I opened my eyes and all I could see were the pieces of my life, the shards left over from the men I'd loved and lost. Anger. Grief. These were the jagged, sharp slivers of my shattered heart.

Was I really that messed up because of men? Really?
What is wrong with you, Sienna?
I fussed at myself, debased myself.

Shame, guilt, embarrassment mixed in with the rest of the stew of feelings that simmered inside of me. With no other way of fighting what I felt, I stood, walked over to my cookbook shelf, and took off my grandmother's Bible.

I had no specific scripture in mind, no expectation that all of a sudden I would feel better just by flipping through the thin, gold-trimmed pages. I opened it where a postcard stuck out.

I smiled at the memory of the spry church mother from a local mega church. I'd had some dealings with her and some other members from Second Zion Tabernacle years ago when I tried to locate the whereabouts of a girl named Hope, a child nobody was certain even existed. Mother Jefferson's notes of encouragement always showed up in my mailbox just when I needed them.

I put the postcard to the side and looked at the page that it had held. Matthew 6. My grandmother must have come to this chapter often, for the crease was deep and many of the verses, written in red, were underlined.

The Lord's Prayer.

A familiar passage I'd memorized in childhood.

Our Father which art in heaven,
I began reading, and I kept reading until one line jumped out at me like it never had before:

Forgiveness.

I talked about it all the time with my clients, but wasn't sure that I'd examined it truly for myself.

I wasn't, I realized, really sure how.

Zing! Zing! An alarm on my phone went off, the time that I usually set to wake up, and I knew I had to get moving if I expected to get everything on my lengthy to-do list completed for the morning.

For one, if I was truly heading back to San Diego tomorrow, I needed to book a flight, find a room, and set my plans. I'd have to let Darci know to free my schedule, though it helped that Baltimore was three hours ahead of California.

I shut the Bible and logged on to my laptop. I'd avoided planning this trip the entire week, and I knew it wasn't just because I was anxious.

The idea that I would actually see Kisu in person left me feeling numb. What would I say to him? What would he say to me? Did he know the truth and extent of RiChard's lies? Why had he sent the lion's head ring to me years ago? Why not call and talk to me? Was that his way of letting me know the truth? Was there more that I did not know, had not considered?

Once the questions started, I could not make them stop. What I did know was that Kisu had to have answers. He had to. At a minimum, I hoped that he would be able to give me an idea of where RiChard might be, that is, if RiChard was even alive.

Not that I wanted to see him. I absolutely did not! But the little bit of research I'd previously done about divorcing an absent spouse informed me that I'd have to prove that I'd done my best to look for him.

A quick check of flight information let me know that thanks to the time difference between the East and West Coasts, a nonstop flight that left midday tomorrow would get me to San Diego by the evening time. The seminar was scheduled to start at 7:30. The only nonstop flight I could find still available was out of Dulles. To get there in time, I'd probably only be able to see one or two of my early morning appointments tomorrow.

Hey Darci, I typed in an e-mail, I have to go out of town again tomorrow so I can only see my 7:30 and 8:30 appointments in the morning. Please clear my schedule for the rest of Thursday until Friday afternoon. You can offer the cancelled clients times on Saturday, if any still want to come in this week. If there are any new intakes, let Kierra know she can have them if her schedule permits. Thanks!

Kierra was the newest therapist I'd hired and she was actively building her caseload. I read through the e-mail and pressed send. Although it was only a little before six in the morning, Darci's reply was immediate.

She never asked questions about my life and I rarely asked questions about hers. She kept pictures of her three-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, on her desk, and occasionally updated me on her nursing studies. Outside of that, I knew little else about her, except that she was a dependable, hardworking employee whose commitment to excellence had helped my practice grow.

After booking a flight, a rental car, and a hotel room by San Diego's airport, I realized I had really nothing else I needed to do before leaving for work. My schedule was in good hands with Darci. I'd already done my morning workout. I looked at my grandmother's Bible and knew the one sentence from the Lord's Prayer would have me chewing on it for a while.

Why had I woken up so early again? The feelings I'd had about the tasks I'd just completed had made them feel like they would take longer than they did. And now I had an hour of free time.

As I put the Bible back on my cookbook rack, a folded piece of paper fluttered out. I smiled when I opened it and knew exactly what I was going to do for the next hour.

It was a recipe.

From Leon.

A no-nonsense cop, he'd gotten his tender touch with food from his own grandmother, who had raised him. During our two-year friendship that should have grown into more, but didn't because of me, we spent more time in kitchens, mine or his or my mother's, than we did dining out.

My smile widened as I ran a finger down the crease of the paper, remembering the story behind the one recipe he'd given to me.

Mint chocolate raspberry cookie bars.

The first time we tried to make it together, the sugar spilled, the eggs splattered, and my favorite glass baking pan shattered.

“I don't think Granny is pleased.”
He'd chuckled, and we reworked the recipe together to make it all our own.

I realized that I had never laughed as much with anyone as I had with Leon.

I was giving Laz Tyson an answer to his marriage proposal tonight.

Fifty-three minutes, the clock on my microwave told me.

I had time.

I took out my mixing bowl, grabbed the brown sugar I kept in the pantry, bubbled with excitement once I'd confirmed that I had all the ingredients I needed.

As the bars baked in the oven and the sweet, intoxicating scent of chocolate, mint, and berry filled my nostrils, I recalled memories of other moments I'd spent with Leon: long walks around the Inner Harbor; short jogs around Lake Montebello; lively discussions with Roman around the dinner table; quiet reflection after church.

While Laz's sharp tongue and wit challenged my intellect and kept me on my toes, Leon had been like the worn comforter I kept on my bed.

Someone I could curl up with, exhale, relax, and just be.

I was giving Laz my answer tonight.

I was at a different place in my life than where I was before Leon left town to help his long-lost niece get back on her feet in Houston.

I was in a far different place than where I was when I'd left everything behind to follow RiChard blindly around the world.

Cooking the bars felt like a celebration for me, a nod to where I was now, to the decision I'd made about Laz, a decision I was determined to hold fast to. No longer would the man in my life have to wonder about my intentions or guess at my desires. No longer would I have to feel like a feather in the wind when it came to love and marriage.

My mind was made up.

I would even bring some bars to give to Laz when I saw him.