Without Faith (20 page)

“Father, we know that there is nothing too hard for you.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“You know the numbers of hairs on our heads, You call each of the stars by name.”

“Well, well.”

We were all standing in a circle, hands held, heads bowed, the food an aromatic feast on the table that we surrounded. I stood between my mother and my sister. Skee-Gee was leaning against the wall, alternating between closing his eyes and looking around. I could hear his younger siblings, Mother Sprigg's grandchildren, and some other youngsters from church playing in the basement of the home, their shrills of laughter and giggles a stark contrast from the sober pleas that were going up to God for the safe return of my son.

I could not keep my eyes closed.

I still needed to get to a computer.

The one Mother Spriggs had in her house was not connected to the Internet, and my sister had left her smartphone at home. My mother did not believe in such things, determined to hold onto her ancient flip-top until Jesus came back; and the other church members seemed to be confused about what I was talking about.

The prayers were getting louder, more intense, longer. I appreciated them, was confident that God was hearing us and would answer. I just needed to get online!

“Believe, my sister,” Mother Spriggs shouted out over the others, both of us looking at each other as everyone else's eyes were closed. “Believe that everything will turn out okay. If faith the size of a mustard seed, the smallest of all seeds, can move mountains, imagine what faith the size of a peanut can do. Just takes a little bit of believing to see things move your way, my sister. Hold on to His hands!” And then she began singing the old hymn about holding on to God's unchanging hands.

It was about that time that the front door of the home opened, revealing a polished, apple butter-colored man in a brown trench coat and fedora.

Laz Tyson.

“Am I late for the prayer meeting?”

Silence filled the room as everyone opened their eyes and looked at the controversial news reporter. I took that moment to break away from the circle and rush toward him. My mother and sister joined hands in my absence and the prayers continued. Mother Spriggs's eyes were still on me, her lips moving quietly as Deacon Evans took the helm of the pleas.

“Outside, please,” I whispered to Laz, not caring if I looked desperate at this point.

I
was
desperate.

He opened the door and we scurried down Mother Sprigg's front steps, shutting her front door behind us. It was all the way dark now, and the neighbors who had been sitting on nearby stoops and milling about the sidewalks looked like shadows moving through the night.

“I am sure that you have a phone on you with an Internet connection.”

“You don't have one, Ms. Superwoman?”

“Mine is dead and I don't have a charger.” I thought suddenly of all the potential calls I could have missed with my phone being dead so long. What if Roman had been trying to reach me? An emotion beyond panic was settling into my bones, my stomach, my heart, my lungs. “Listen, I don't have time to explain all of that right now. Give me your phone!”

“A take-charge kind of woman. That's what I like to see.” He took out his phone and slipped it into my hands. I didn't miss that his hands rubbed over mine as he did so.

“How do you pull up your Internet?” I asked impatiently. He reached over and pressed a button and I typed Roman's blog site on to the screen.

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I nearly threw his phone to the ground. “Oh, God!” I dropped my head into my hands. “Jesus, please! I just need a darn Internet connection!”

“It's going to be okay, Sienna.” Laz spoke softly.

Before I realized it, his arms were around me and he was holding me tightly. For once, this time, not because of who he was, but because I did not want to collapse to the ground, I let my entire body weight fall into his embrace. I was shaking as tears flooded down my face. “I need to know where my son is. I need him home with me.”

“Calm down, calm down.” Laz stepped back from me, and used his thumbs to simultaneously wipe both of my cheeks. “Look, I found something. It might help, it might not, I don't know.”

I held my breath and tried to get myself together as Laz dug into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a sheet of paper. “I looked up something earlier today and came across this. Thought it was worth printing out.”

He gave me the single sheet of paper and my mouth dropped.

“This . . . this looks like the lion's head ring.” I stuttered at the color picture, not yet making sense of the words around it.

“Looks like it to me.”

“What . . . what is this?” I asked, still too frazzled to make sense out of what I was holding.

“I found this on a Web site that auctions high-priced jewelry. As you can see from the description, it was believed to be the only one of its kind, and it was listed and sold over two years ago, just weeks before it showed up in that package you got from Portugal.”

“So, Kisu was probably the buyer? And then he shipped it to me under the guise of it being RiChard's ashes.” I tried to put it all together. “But where did the auctioneer, the Web site that posted it, get it from?”

“That is exactly what I have been trying to figure out. I contacted the administrators of the Web site. They pulled the file of the ring's history and stated that the ring was given to them for auction as part of an estate sale.”

“An estate sale.” I sat down on the steps, blowing out a long, hard breath. “An estate sale is usually done after someone dies.”

“Yeah, usually. Not always, but usually.” He allowed a moment of silence before continuing. “There's more.” He pointed to the back of the paper. “I asked them what else had been part of the estate and they were able to tell me a few items. I jotted them down on the back of the page.”

Slowly, I flipped it over and skimmed through Laz's list
. Authentic Chinese silk painting. Mayan vase from Belize. Indonesian bamboo stool. A Zulu beaded necklace.
Tears filled my eyes anew as the paper shook in my hands.

“Definitely RiChard. These are definitely RiChard's treasures.” I shook my head, biting my lips. “Wow, that man is dead, ain't he? Estate sale . . .”

Laz let out a loud sigh. “Kind of looks like it. Like I said, estate sales can happen for some other reasons, but odds are, this was probably death-related.”

I nodded in agreement. “Do you know where the estate originated from? Where he was when he died? Is there an address?”

“Still working on that. The person I spoke to at the auctioneer Web site did not have that information. No worries, there's always more than one way to get the answers you need.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “So my son is searching for a dead man. Where is he right now?”

Laz reached out for me again and I accepted his embrace.

“Thank you for your help,” I whispered. I was still in his arms when bright headlights pulled to a stop beside us. Too consumed with emotions I could not even identify, I did not even notice the slam of the vehicle door and the heavy, booted footsteps that neared us. It was only when I realized that the car that had stopped next to us was not a car, but a black Pathfinder, that I jumped back out of Laz's arms.

“Leon!” I jumped, startled.

“Hi, Sienna.” He stood about three feet away from me and Laz. “Your mom called me to say that you all were meeting here to pray for Roman. I take it there's still no word on him.”

“Not yet, but . . . but . . .” I stumbled, trying to figure out what I was supposed to say as the two men looked at each other.

“How are you doing, brother? Laz Tyson.” Laz extended a hand to Leon. He shook it.

“Yeah, I recognize you from TV. Channel 55, right?” Leon avoided eye contact with me as he let go of Laz's hand and bounded up the steps. “Your mom and sister are in here?” Leon grabbed the doorknob.

“Yes, but . . .” My mind had stopped working. “Wait, do you have an Internet connection anywhere on you? I need help.” My voice was weak, I could barely understand myself.

“I'm sure Brother Tyson can help you out.”

“No, he can't.”

Laz narrowed his eyes, his head jerking back. “Umm . . .” He shook the paper with the picture of the ring.

“I mean, he is helping me, but I really, really need to get to a Web site. Roman had a blog. I got to the last post he put up last week. There was a single comment underneath that I did not get to read. I need to see it. It might help me find him.”

Without missing a beat, Leon turned back around and beeped his truck door unlocked. He opened the passenger side door and pulled out a computer tablet. “What's his site, Sienna?”

His passion matched mine as he typed in what I told him. I stood next to him as he sat in the passenger seat with the door propped open. Laz stood behind me, straining his neck to see what was going to pop up on the screen.

“He's been writing posts for the past two years?” Leon scrolled through the site, moving faster than I had the first time I'd pulled it up.

“Yeah, I went through all of the posts, I can tell you about them in a moment. Right now, I just need to see the last post. The comment underneath.”

Leon clicked on it, and the page stalled. “What were the other posts about?”

“Long story short, he thinks he has a picture of RiChard, but it's actually someone else RiChard knew long ago. He also found old paperwork from when RiChard was in California sixteen years ago. I don't know what new information he may have come across to make him think he had enough to leave like he did. That is why I need to see that one comment that was left on his last post last week. Maybe it will give some answers.”

“It's coming up now.” Leon seemed to be holding his breath like me.

Laz poked his head over my shoulder. “This is it,” he stated, as if not knowing what else to say.

“What in the world?” I read and reread the single comment as everything in me wanted to collapse, puke. Scream.

“I'm on it, Sienna.” Leon slammed the cover over his tablet. “I'm on it right now!”

“Police have initiated a nationwide search for a local sixteen-year-old male who went missing yesterday in the Las Vegas area. Authorities are following up on leads, but need your help. If you have seen this young man, Roman St. James, or have any information about his whereabouts, please call 911. Live from East Baltimore with friends, family, and church members who have gathered to pray, this is Laz Tyson. Back to you in the studio, Brittany.”

Laz took off his fedora and handed his microphone to a crew member as a bright camera light clicked off. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief as Yvette stormed up to him.

“You didn't say anything about this Croix person!”

“The police are asking the media not to mention it until they are able to fully investigate. We don't want to tip off a potential predator that we're on to him or her before we even have a chance to figure out where they are, especially if Roman is with him or her, you know?”

The word and my son didn't belong in the same sentence.

I felt nauseous again, and this time I could not hold it back as everything inside of me pelted out into the gutter next to the sidewalk in front of Mother Sprigg's house.

Sweating, hyperventilating, chills, more vomit.
Oh, God.
I felt myself blacking out....

 

 

I was lying across Mother Sprigg's couch. Had no idea how I got there, what time it was. Remembered why I was there. Blacked out again....

 

 

“We are praying, big sis. Roman is just fine and will be home soon.” Yvette was whispering in my ear. I could smell her cheap peach body spray and feel the cool, damp washcloth she was patting on my forehead.

“I failed him. I failed my son.” My voice was a hoarse whisper and the taste of bile filled my mouth again. “All this time, I just assumed that he was running away from me and that he would call when he was ready. That maybe he had even found him . . . his father. I guess that is what a part of me was thinking, hoping. He's so independent and strong-willed, it never occurred to me that he could be in real danger. Oh, God . . .” My voice faded into a whimper.

“No, Sienna.” Leon's voice sounded distant though he was sitting on the floor next to me. “We
all
just assumed he was out there doing his thing. You know how Roman is. Once he has a thought in his mind, he doesn't let it go until he follows it through to the end.” He paused. “I should have urged my contact to track down his phone when you asked. I didn't realize . . .” His voice faded like mine.

Everyone was starting to crowd around me, and though I appreciated the prayers and concern, I wanted to be left alone to try to make sense of what was going on with my son.

Who the heck was that?

I felt the extremities of my body growing numb. A fresh wave of stomach-sickening worry began sweeping through me.

“Excuse me.” I jumped up. “I . . . I have to go. Just for a moment. Get myself together so I can think, be of some help. I have to get myself together.” How on earth was I going to do that?

I could feel arms, hands holding me back, making me all the more determined to get out of there.

“Don't lose your faith, Sienna.” Mother Spriggs was a blur of white through my tears. “We already touched and agreed and prayed for Roman's safety. We are going to trust God wholeheartedly that things do not seem as they appear and Roman will return without so much as a scratch on his head, in Jesus' name. Amen?”

I heard her words, though I did not have the strength to acknowledge her.

I had to get out of there. Breathe.

It was dark as midnight when I stepped out of her house. A chill in the air crept up my shirt sleeves and I realized I had not put on my coat. I hugged myself as I wandered down the steps, no idea of a destination, purpose, or point.

Was there even one?

“Here, use my coat.”

I had not seen Laz leaning against the house, but there he was, outside alone, the news crew long gone, the cameras put away.

“You're still here.”

“Yeah. I keep trying to figure out what I can do to help, what else I can look up, who to call, you know?”

“Thanks for caring,” I murmured.

“Of course. Though I've seen him around church, I haven't had the pleasure of meeting your son yet; but knowing his mother, I'm sure he's a great kid. I'm hoping and expecting the best here.” He was smiling, a warm gesture, but something behind the way he was studying me irritated me. “Tell me, Sienna,” he continued, smiling, “what kind of activities does Roman like to do in his spare time? I'm only trying to get a better sense of who he is since I never talked with him.”

I blinked at the man, my irritation growing. “Um, do you need to take out your notepad to remember all your questions and write down all your notes?”

“Sienna, what are you talking about?”

“I guess you finally have your big breaking story.”

“Sienna—”

“Brother Tyson, you are going to have to go. I can't deal with you right now. My son is missing. I do not know where he is, and you are out here asking me some dumb questions about him so that you can have more to say during your next report. I am sorry that your segment was not long enough to warrant more attention on you, but I really don't care, and I really don't want you here right now.” I threw his coat back at him and turned away.

“No, Sienna, no.” Laz tried to grab my hand, but I immediately recoiled.

“No, no, you have me all wrong,” he pleaded. “I'm sorry for upsetting you. That was not my intent.”

“Go away, Laz.” I marched toward my car, thankful that although I had not grabbed my coat, I did have my car keys. If people could not leave me alone, I would go away myself.

“Sienna, listen please. You've got me all wrong. Was I trying to get more information about your son to help with my next report about him? Yes. Am I doing that for my own benefit? Absolutely not!”

“Get away from me, Laz!” I pried his fingers off my wrist, heard my voice getting louder as I continued trying to push toward my car. Laz did not let go.

“Sienna, Roman is your son, your pride and joy. You know him. You know his innocence. However, to the rest of the country, to the rest of the world, he is just a black teenage boy from Baltimore. Do you think his missing is going to send shockwaves across the country? Do you think floods of volunteers are going to start combing through deserts and fields, and inner-city neighborhoods to find him?

“I'm not trying to be mean, but I know the media world, Sienna. I know the reality. How much air time do you think his disappearance will get on the news networks tonight? He's not a female, he's not blond, and he's not eight years old. I am out here, Sienna, right here with you and the people who care about him most. Where are the national news vans? Where are even the other local news stations?

“You want me to help find him? I can do that with the power I have using a camera and a microphone, but you need to help me. Other networks—especially national networks—are only going to pick up his story if people care. And people are only going to care if they don't get stuck looking at him as a young black man who they secretly fear or outwardly hate or just don't understand. They need to see Roman as their
own
son who plays video games too much, who . . . who keeps his room a mess, who eats up all the food out of the refrigerator, whose biggest mission in life right now is making the varsity team or making out with a pretty girl.

“Sienna, let me help you by telling the world exactly
who
is missing. I need to know if he tried out for the football team, if he likes peanut butter on his burgers. I need more than his picture. I need his story. ”

My hands were over my mouth and every limb of me shook as the truth of his words absorbed into me. “His room . . . is not messy right now,” I whispered. “He cleaned it right before he left.” Of all the things I thought and felt, that was the only sentence I could get out. “I'll be back. Please, let me go. I need . . . I . . . I'll be back.” I stared up into his eyes. He let go of my arm, and took a step back away from me. I took two steps toward my car before turning back to him.

“Officer Sanderson has a key to my house. Get him. You two can go there. You can see Roman's room. Take shots of his trophies, his mola quilt that his father . . .” My hands went back over my mouth as if covering it would somehow shut back the tears. “You two go. Leon can tell you more about Roman. You can see his room for yourself. You go. There is no way that I can go back into my house if he is not there yet.” I turned back toward my car, opened the door, got in. I watched as Laz stared after me a moment more, and then he jogged up Mother Sprigg's steps, and disappeared into her home.

I drove away. No destination, no plan, no peace.

“God, I am so afraid. Please help. Jesus, please.”

My family, my church community had been offering prayers up all evening, and yet that was the first prayer I'd said out loud that night, the only words I could voice without feeling my stomach churning again.

Power.

The word comforted me. Emboldened me.

Laz said his power to help my son was with his microphone and camera. What was my power? I refused to feel helpless. I'd been immobilized all evening. Passing out. Lying on couches. Weeping. Whining. Trembling like a leaf on a tree withstanding wind.

But I had not fallen.

My son needed me, and he needed me to walk in power.

I decided that I would not stop driving until I figured out exactly what power
I
had to save my son.