Chapter 8
The opulent suite he'd booked had a living room, formal dining room, one and a half bathrooms complete with limestone and slate, a soaking tub and a bidet, French doors, a separate office space, and a view of DC that would make you smack your momma.
And yet, I did not notice any of that as I marched straight to the bed and collapsed into it. I did not stop to admire the massive flower arrangement he'd left on a side table. I did not bother to open the box of chocolates or read the greeting card that was propped up next to it in the living room.
I completely disregarded the three large manila envelopes that lay next to each other on the bed. Fatigue kept me from caring that each envelope had a sticky note on it that read “No Peeking.” I tossed all three to the floor and each landed with varying thuds.
During the three and half hours that I slept, my phone rang twice; it buzzed that there was new breaking news, beeped that I had a new voice mail message, and dinged that new e-mails waited in my inbox.
I ignored it all.
Even when I did get up, I left my phone alone, determined to clear my head and block out any thoughts that disturbed me. In the half hour I had before my day spa appointment, I headed to the boutique hotel's fitness center. One thing about trying to keep up with Laz over these past few years, I'd changed my exercise habits and had managed to maintain a weight and muscle tone I was proud of.
By all appearances, I had it all: healthy body; successful therapy business; a relationship with an ambitious, well-paid professional; a son in college.
Inside, I felt like the falling sand in an hourglass: slow, steady loss, plunging downward into a narrow, dark hole, with just a matter of time left before my attempts at looking whole were fully exposed and all that would be left to do was flip over and flip out.
I pedaled with a vengeance on an exercise bike and then collapsed into a stupor when it was my turn on the massage table. However, by the time five-thirty rolled around, the kinks that had been kneaded out of my shoulders, back, and neck had been replaced by new knots.
I'd successfully avoided the news on television and the notifications on my phone, which I'd left in the suite in a futile attempt to stay relaxed; yet the noise in my head was louder than ever.
Laz was late.
I waited outside for him where he'd directed, dressed in a long black and white floral sundress with matching beaded jewelry. Since I had not known why Roman wanted me in San Diego, I'd packed an outfit in my carry-on that could handle any social setting, from the casual to the dressy. My multipurpose dress seemed to fit the bill for the evening. As the minutes ticked from 5:30 to 5:45 and then 5:52, I moved from standing by the entrance to sitting in the lobby.
A woman sitting near me was watching live news coverage on her computer tablet. I had no choice but to listen in.
“Authorities are offering few details about the suspect in the bombing at BWI, but an official at the hospital where he is being treated has confirmed with our network that Jamal Abdul remains in a medically induced coma. The official, who did not want to be identified, further states that the suspect was conscious for only a short period of time upon arrival at the medical center. He was escorted there by members of Homeland Security, the FBI, and the National Security Administration.
“Another official close to the investigation states that Abdul, when he was conscious, vehemently denied being part of the attack, stating that he was traveling with his family to visit relatives in Chicago. Initial reports indicate that the blast came from a piece of luggage belonging to the suspect, and an additional official confirms that video surveillance captured the entire sequence of events leading up to and following the explosion.
“Authorities are confident that they have the right suspect in custody and are not looking for any additional suspects, stating that evidence supports the notion that Jamal Abdul acted alone. A possible motive has not yet been identified and questions remain about the nature of the explosive device used and how Abdul was able to get it past airport security and checkpoints.”
My heart began racing again as the hairs on my arms came to attention. Everything about the report made me queasy. Everything felt wrong.
These are trained government officials. They have proof. They have evidence. They have the right man in custody.
I fixed my mind on the facts and tried to squash yet again the nagging fear that all was not what it seemed.
“So sad.” The woman with the tablet noticed me listening in. She wore a pale pink business suit with a single strand of pearls, and her blond hair was secured in a tidy bun. “I'm glad they at least got the bastard.”
I tried to say “yeah” but the word got lodged in my throat.
“These nutcases need to go back to their desert sand piles, or, in this case, the jungles where they come from,” she continued. “Seems like they are letting anyone into the country these days, and they need to simply stick to having real Americans in our land to reduce these types of terror risks.”
“Uh . . .” I wasn't sure how to respond to that. Did the suspect they had in custody come from another country? I completely understood the anger, but I wasn't sure what she defined as “real Americans” and how she differentiated between fake and authentic.
“No offense to you.” She looked at me sympathetically, confirming my suspicions. “You look like you're a shining star in your community. Beautiful, proud black women such as yourself give me hope that everybody is capable of assimilating to the American way.” She smiled at me like we were friends, confidantes, almost equals.
“Excuse me,” I managed to squeak out as I stood and walked away. The range of my emotions had widened, and not toward the happy end of the feelings spectrum.
Laz, dinner, or not, I headed back to the suite.
As I walked to the elevator, I realized what bothered me more than the confusing exchange I'd just had with the woman in the lobby.
The news reporter had stated that the suspect said he was about to fly out to Chicago at the time of the blast, the same place that mystery man had said he was headed.
Was Jamal Abdul and his family at the same gate as that man?
I strained to remember if I had seen that polished bronze face with the huge smile sitting or standing across the aisle. Perhaps if the media showed pictures of his wife and children I would recall seeing them there.
Knowing that the suspect had been on his way to Chicago gave me a strange comfort. Maybe my gut feelings were right. Maybe the sense that I really had looked at or talked to the perpetrator was correct, I just hadn't realized it at the time. I remember feeling like I'd missed something as I boarded the plane; maybe I'd seen Jamal Abdul in passing and realized on a subconscious level that something was awry.
This new line of thought did not fully jibe with what I was feeling, but I was determined to be logical in my approach. Truth was, there were probably several flights headed to Chicago. I still did not know where exactly in the airport the explosion had occurred. I needed to see more news coverage. And I needed to make what I felt fit in with the facts, not let a loose, unfounded instinct keep my stomach in knots.
It was 6:02. If Laz truly had reservations for dinner at six, we weren't making it tonight. I wasn't upset about it; I actually felt relieved. I wanted to do nothing more than make my way back to Baltimore and get ready for the week ahead.
I had clients waiting for me in the morning and a return trip to San Diego to plan. Not to mention, the nameless man from the airport had left a message indicating that he would contact me again. Irrational bad feelings about him or not, I needed to get myself together emotionally and physically to deal with it all.
And spiritually,
a small voice inside of me said.
I exhaled as I got off the elevator and headed back to the suite.
“Father, I don't know what I'm feeling right now, or why, but please help. Help us all, Lord Jesus.”
It was the first prayer I'd prayed out loud in a long, long time.
I hoped it was enough.
Chapter 9
I entered the suite and was startled to find the lights dimmed and Luther playing. Spicy vanilla filled my nostrils and lit candles of all shapes and sizes filled the entry room. I walked into the dining room and saw that the table had been set with dinner for two: tossed salad, buttered rolls, and chicken cordon bleu. Bubbly liquid-filled champagne flutes were at both settings, and a chocolate quesadilla adorned with real flower petals and fresh strawberries and raspberries served as an ornate centerpiece.
“I wondered how long it would take for you to come back here. I'm surprised you didn't call me.”
Laz.
He was leaning against the wall by the dining room's buffet table, wearing only a sleeveless white tank, brown khakis, and leather bedroom slippers. His fedora hat twirled playfully around his fingers.
Oh, no! Does this man think
. . .
?
“Calm down, Sienna.” Laz chuckled and walked toward the table. “It's just dinner. Nothing more. I've done nothing but respect your very high standards, avoid your barbed wires, and backed off of your brick walls, even though we're in a supposed relationship.”
Something about the way he said “supposed” unnerved me, but I said nothing and instead sat down in the chair he pulled out for me.
Luther Vandross melted into Brian McKnight. My feelings were getting more complicated by the second.
“You . . . fixed all this?” I inhaled slowly. The smell of herbs and butter, cheese and chocolate, vanilla and cologne swirled around in my nose, an uneasy complement to the mix of emotions that whirled inside of me.
“No, of course not. No time.” Laz sniffed his drink. “I picked all this up from a restaurant down the street. I did set the table, though. I hope that suffices for the lady.” He smiled at me and his pearly whites looked devilish in the glow of candlelight.
“It's nice. Thank you.” I prayed a silent blessing for the food, took a bite, and looked away.
“So you're still not relaxed?” Laz asked between munches. “I got you the best room available, sent you to the spa, gave you a four-star dinner, and you still look like you are about to crack and collapse. What is it, Sienna?”
“I'm fine, Laz.” I took a sip of the bubbly and almost choked. The Baptist roots of my upbringing kept me from being completely comfortable with drinking, though on occasion I tried to look like I could handle it. At the moment, a part of me wanted to find the whole bottle and chug it down, choking, tears, and all. “How was your day?” I wanted to change the subject. “I'm sure you've had your share of excitement.”
“Yes, I have, but we'll get to that in a moment. First, please tell me how you're doing. I can't imagine how you're feeling being that close to a terrorist attack. You missed it by what, thirty, forty minutes? Is that what's eating at you?”
I hesitated, but then put my fork down and decided to put it all on the table. “I met a man at the airport yesterday morning who gave me the heebie-jeebies. He was on his way to Chicago too, like the man they're holding, Jamal Abdul.”
Laz stuffed a large bite of salad into his mouth and then used a cloth napkin to wipe a trail of vinaigrette dressing off his lips.
He looked bored.
“So you're worried that the man may have been hurt in the blast.” He reached for his champagne flute.
“No, I think he did it.”
Laz looked at me from over the top of his glass before setting it back down. “You do know that they have who they think did it in custody. The man you just named, Jamal Abdul.”
“I know, Laz, but something is not sitting right with me. I can't put my finger on it but I feel like they have the wrong person. You've known me long enough to know that my gut is normally right. I wish I felt differently. Heck, I've been trying to feel differently, but this feeling won't go away. That man I talked to”âI shook my headâ“he knows something, he did something. I'm sure of it.”
There. It was out, and now that it was, I didn't feel as crazy as I had when I tried to keep it in.
Laz didn't look convinced. He took another bite of his salad and followed it with a piece of the chicken cordon bleu. “What was his name?”
“I don't know.”
“Where was he from?”
“I don't know.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don't remember.” I shut my eyes and opened them again. “Look, he said, âYou'll know my name soon,' or something like that. He was . . . creepy.”
Laz put his fork down. “And yet the bomb has gone off and he has not put his name out there for you or anyone else in the public to know.”
“And he said he didn't believe in God. Or, he didn't believe in believing. His words were really bizarre.”
“Sienna, I think this has been a traumatic experience for you and, like anybody else would, you're trying to make sense of what happened. You're trying to find a way to make it better, to be the superhero who saves the day. But it happened. There's nothing you could have done to stop it. You did nothing wrong. It was horrible. You survived. Now, we have to heal and move on.”
“Laz, this is eating at me.” I looked down and picked at my plate. “I gave him my card and he called and left a message saying that he wanted to have a conversation with me. Plus, I got a crazy e-mail at three in the morning, and I wholeheartedly believe that it came from him.”
“What did it say?”
“Uh, the sender was âEverybody Anybody,' or something like that, and had five fun facts about him, or whoever sent it. It said that he didn't like animals or papier-mâché. That he brushed his teeth for a long time and, well, I don't remember. It was weird.”
“And possibly random spam, right?”
“I guess. Let me get my phone and I'll show you. I left it in the nightstand drawer.”
“I know where your phone is. It was ringing and dinging like crazy. I shut it off and put it in my pocket. And I'm going to hold on to it for a little longer. You need a break. You really need a break. I'm trying my best to give you one.”
“I know, thanks. I'm just trying to make sense out of it all.” I shook my head, opened my mouth to say something else, considered demanding my phone back, but fell quiet instead.
“Hmm . . . Tell you what, Ms. St. James.” Laz's easy smile returned. “I'll let my source at Homeland Security know that you were at BWI right before the explosion and that you met a man who made you feel uncomfortable. If there is a need for further investigation, they will make that call. How's that?”
I bit my lip, nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it. I'm not trying to come off as delusional. I've just learned to trust my gut, and my gut is telling me something is wrong, that there's more to the picture.”
“Sienna, it sounds like you met someone who might need mental health treatment. You are a trained clinician, so you're going to pick up on such things. He has your card and will contact you for an appointment. It's a win-win situation. He needs services and you are a darn good therapist.”
“Not that good.” A tear that I didn't know was in my eye splattered down my cheek and landed on my plate.
“What are you talking about? You have a practice that has grown exponentially over the past three years to the point that you're hiring other therapists to work for you. You've been recognized with awards from local organizations and getting grants from government contracts to expand your clientele. Even Ava said she was proud of you, her protégée, and she is a legend in the world of social work, at least that's what you've told me. You must be doing something right, babe.”
“Yes, I'm a therapist, and I help all these people. But somewhere along the way, I haven't been able to help myself.” I paused, thinking of the dizzying array of emotions that had been jostling me around as of late. “Or my son. He doesn't even talk to me about the things that affect him most. Or maybe I just haven't listened. I listen to and help everyone else, but my own household, my own heart is in pieces. The trip to San Diego yesterday was a disaster.”
I could not hold back any more tears. I hated looking, feeling, sounding like a weak, sobbing woman who needed to be rescued, but a dam broke inside me that I could not repair. For the first time since I'd heard about the terrorist attack, for the first time since I'd gotten Roman's call last week to come out to San Diego, maybe even for the first since I'd learned about Mbali and her children from RiChard's double life and lies, I cried.
No.
I wept, snotted, moaned, blubbered, and bawled.
More than anyone else in my life, including Ava, my mother, even Leon, Laz knew the facts about my history with RiChard; but he didn't know my feelings.
He'd never asked.
From our first meeting several years ago, he'd always called me a strong woman, and I, for whatever reason, had done my best to maintain that image in front of him.
Today was a fail.
Sitting across from me, twiddling his hat between his fingers, he stared at me as I sobbed, his expression unreadable as I no longer tried to hide the oppressive emotions that had finally caught up with me. Then he stood and came by my side, took my hand, pulled me to my feet.
“Come here, Sienna.” He led me to the separate office space that was part of the luxurious suite. “It's time to get to the business of why we're here. I did all this today for a reason.”
He opened the doors of the study and in between whimpers I saw three large manila envelopes spread out over an oversized desk. They were the same three envelopes that had been on the suite's bed when I first came in the room that morning, the envelopes I'd knocked to the floor without a second look. This time, however, the sticky notes that read “No Peeking” had been removed and replaced with the numbers 1, 2, and 3.
“Enough with the tears, Sienna. I've got answers to all your problems.” He waved a hand over the envelopes. “In order.” He smiled. “I need you to open each one.”