Sacrifices of Joy (14 page)

He turned around abruptly, slight irritation lining his face. “I said I haven't talked to anyone. I never said I didn't share a word.”

And then he was gone.

From the closed blinds that lined the front windows of my office suite, I watched as he bounded down the stairs of the building and headed toward the parking lot. Once there he got into a rusty green pickup truck with tags from Pennsylvania. A nasty dent was on the passenger-side front fender and a large streak of peeling blue paint ran the entire length of the driver's side. That struck me. Yesterday he'd gotten into a yellow Jeep from West Virginia. I'd written down the license plate number, I recalled, that fact giving me an idea.

I watched as he pulled away, wishing I could make out the tags on this truck, but I couldn't. He stopped at the parking lot entrance to throw a balled-up sheet of paper into the gutter and then his car disappeared down the winding road.

I exhaled.

“What just happened?” I felt sick as I sat down in one of my own waiting room chairs.

Was that God speaking? I chuckled to myself, wondering why I thought I'd heard the Lord after dealing with such a confused, obviously delusional man who was teetering on, if not already falling from, the brink of insanity.

Well, in the Old Testament book of Numbers, God did use a donkey to talk to a man too stuck and hardheaded in his own way. I shook my head as I gathered my things once again.

I froze in my steps.

Of course I had not heard an audible voice. Years ago, during the time of my life when I'd spent my early mornings and late nights meditating on the Word of God, during the time of my life when I was not afraid to ask Him hard questions and hand him my pain, I would hear what felt like His voice in my consciousness. A clarity. An understanding that spoke so plainly to my soul, to the inner reaches of my spirit that it was impossible to deny that it was Christ Himself living, speaking, directing me from the inside out.

Making my life His public masterpiece to display.

It had been years since I'd felt and heard and knew that God was speaking to me. So long had it been that I'd questioned if it had even happened, or if I was just plumb crazy.

And yet, there was no mistaking the clear statement that had just resounded deep in me, pure and clear as a tolling bell, unmistakable as a long-lost lover's voice.

That man was a terrorist in our understanding of the word. I felt it, knew it, though I had no firm physical proof. He was a terrorist, someone who would kill to keep the masses living in fear with a purpose that made sense only to his twisted justifications. All terrorists acted out of a place of deep, dark, twisted belief.

He was a terrorist and he had a role in the attack at the airport, everything in me was convinced. His goal was to make a villain out of a hero: Jamal Abdul, a good man who the world now agreed was flawed. The media, the authorities, the masses, my father, were trying to understand why a man with commendable character would decide to kill the innocent, young, and old.

Bennett was right. The news focused not on the victims, but on the suspect. We already knew and understood death. It was part of life.

But a hero who would be a villain, and a villain of the vilest kind, was not grasped or explainable.

It destroyed the humanist belief that man could ultimately save himself. And, if we let it, it destroyed the person of faith's trust in God as we wondered how such an evil thing could permissibly happen.

When the foundations of all our beliefs are shaken, there is nothing else to do but stop having joy, to lose our peace, to settle blankly in front of our television sets, shaking and trembling in horror.

That was the aim of terror. To strip away our beliefs, to drain away the meanings we held of life, to reconfigure the wires of our inward thermostats that gave us our sense of comfort and safety. To cease to exist.

His words had unnerved me, and he had been pleased. But he had not realized that what he had meant to unsettle me had actually settled me stronger in my faith.

It was a verse from Romans and I understood it as I never had before. Terrorists had it wrong. What they meant for destruction could actually lead to greater, more powerful acts of love, mercy, and grace as that is the essence of a perfect God from whom we can draw our response. Darkness can never overtake light.

That man was a terrorist. It was no longer a nagging feeling or a question. I was certain of it. He'd even brought the attack up himself as the epitome of explaining his point. I had no proof, wasn't sure what to do, but I was certain that he was involved.

And I was also convinced that he was not done.

He'd thrown a balled-up sheet of paper into the gutter, I recalled. He'd been playing with the crumpled sheet during our talk, the small wad rolling around his fingertips the entire time of our discussion.

He hadn't meant for anyone to see what was on that paper.

With all my belongings in hand, I ran out, dropped my things in my car and then began jogging toward the entrance of the parking lot. As I neared the gutter, I slowed down. What if he was still nearby? What if he was watching me? If he hadn't wanted that paper to be found, and I got it, what would happen?

My paranoia was trying to return.

Was I just being ridiculous?

I studied the surrounding streets and did not see any green pickup trucks. Still walking slowly to the gutter, my eyes zeroed in on the metal grate for any sign of the paper wad that he had intended to be washed down through the pipes that eventually led into the Chesapeake Bay.

It was there, stuck next to a crumpled soda can. I looked around me again, then casually picked up the can and paper. As I tossed the soda can into a nearby receptacle, I pushed the wad into my pocket then strolled back to my car, hoping that I looked like a concerned citizen obsessed with keeping the bay clean, and not a rejuvenated therapist determined to prove that I had somehow identified a suspect the best in Washington had overlooked.

Okay, now that I thought about it, I sounded crazy.

“God, did I really hear You? Did You really just tell me that man's a terrorist?” I threw my head back and sighed as I sat down in my car. The excitement I'd felt about having a piece of trash in my pocket began to feel like foolishness. I started the engine before I finally fished the paper back out.

Way too much CSI.
I shook my head at myself, and way too little spending time with God. I wished like never before that I had spent more time in His Word so that I wouldn't have any doubts that I'd truly recognized His voice.
My sheep know my voice.
There was a verse something like that in the Bible.

“I don't know what I'm thinking, remembering, hearing, or knowing right about now,” I groaned as I unfolded the paper with my bare hands.

Trying to save fingerprints from a man who stated he didn't exist, what was wrong with me? That man had gotten under my skin real good for me to be acting and thinking like this. Twisted. That's what he was and that is what he had done with my brain.

Get it together, Sienna, and stop being delusional,
I told myself.

The paper, once unfolded, only confirmed that I'd gone way off track.

It was a drawing, the same illustration that he'd doodled on his blank registration packet, the same drawing I'd placed in his very incomplete chart.

A cat on a windowsill. The window framed with striped curtains.

I balled the paper back up and tossed it on my car floor. It wasn't even worthy of the tiny wastebasket I hung from the rear of my passenger seat. As I drove away, I decided that I would throw it in a trash receptacle once I reached the restaurant where Laz waited for me. Fingerprints? Laz would look at me like I was sure enough crazy.

I was embarrassed at myself for thinking the man was a terrorist.

I looked back at the platter of mint chocolate raspberry cookies bars I'd baked that morning.

That task and the mindset I'd had when I baked them felt like a lifetime ago. My thoughts, my moods, my conviction seemed like breezes in the wind. What I at one second felt certain of, I doubted wholeheartedly the next minute.

What was wrong with me? When had I become such a confused being? I sighed as I turned onto the beltway, the first leg of my trip to the restaurant in Columbia where I was certain Laz was already waiting.

Certain.

I chuckled, knowing that “certain” didn't even feel like it belonged in my vocabulary.

I'd told him yesterday that I had an answer to his proposal. What was my answer? I wanted to cry as walls began feeling like they were collapsing on me.

I told him I had an answer, and I would stick to it.

Staying true to what I had already decided felt like the right thing to do.

Even as I acknowledged that the times I'd felt most confident over the week were in those rare moments when I'd wholeheartedly believed that Bennett was a terrorist.

I only felt crazy, uncertain, and anxious when I fought against that instinct.

I-695 was clear enough for me to set my car on cruise control for a moment. After it was set, I used my right foot to slide the wad of paper I'd thrown on the far right-hand corner of the passenger floor toward me. I picked it up and placed it gently in my ashtray.

Maybe I was a little off, but something in me wanted to preserve that little piece of paper. Perhaps his fingerprints could still be salvaged....

Laz had chosen a fondue restaurant off of one of the main roads in Columbia. As I pulled into the parking lot, I recalled that a similar restaurant was in Towson, closer to my home, closer to my good friend Ava Diggs. I had been invited years ago by some friends at a former job to have the fondue experience once after work; I declined, never really seeming to fit in with coworkers and girlfriends the way I'd imagined most women did. Ava was ten years older than my mother and the closest I had to a “girlfriend.” Not sure what that said about me.

How long had I not been aware that I was alone?

I shut the engine off, closed my eyes, and wiped a trail of sweat that suddenly streamed from my forehead.

I was about to answer a marriage proposal. The last time I had done so, the entire track of my life changed.

And not necessarily for the better.

I reached for the platter of cookie bars I'd kept wrapped up in plastic wrap and foil in my back seat, trying to remember why I'd baked them, why I'd felt the need to bring them. I reached for, then let go, then reached for again the small wad of trash that had been handled by the stranger who'd made me second-guess all I thought, all I felt, what I knew of my instincts, what I'd held on to about my faith. I stuffed the wad into my purse.

With my heart feeling like it would pop right out of my chest, I finally entered the restaurant, self-conscious that I was carrying cookies, half dreading to see Laz, to answer him.

Dread.

Why that feeling?

“There you are.”

Laz appeared before the hostess could address me. Wearing a gray suit and a pink and blue striped tie, he kissed my cheek, touched my hair, winked at me, and led me to a private booth all before I could take in where I was or what I was doing.

“I think you'll like this experience, Sienna.” He was all smiles as I sat down. I put the plate of wrapped cookies on the seat next to me. A pot of rich melted cheeses sat on the table along with artisan breads and fresh vegetables. I noted from a menu that more courses—salad, entrée, dessert—were to come.

All this food and I wasn't hungry.

Diamonds glittered from the face of Laz's watch and I thought about the ring he'd offered me on Sunday.

Or rather, the ring setting he'd presented for me to fill with the jewels from the lion's head ring.

I smiled at him. The soft glow of candlelight that flickered across his sober face gave his features a warmth I did not usually see.

Everything is okay, Sienna,
I assured myself, wondering why I even needed assurance. I thought about the wad of trash I'd stuffed into the corner of my purse, and the sick, empty feeling that had begun feeding off the bottom of my stomach increased.

“So . . .” Laz's entire attention was on me. The smile on his face told me he had no idea of the raging war of uncertainty, fear, and anxiety that was churning in me.

I've made a decision. I'm sticking to it. No second
-
guessing.

“Do we get right to it, or do we chat about our days first.” I let my smile equal his, swallowing down the lump that threatened to take over my throat.
Was that man in my office a terrorist?
I could not keep my thoughts straight.

All over the place, I was.

“Well.” An oblivious Laz grinned at me. “Well,” an oblivious Laz grinned at me, “a good news story needs a good buildup, so I'm open to starting with the small talk. How was your day, Sienna?”

“It was . . . fine. That man came to see me today and I think we had a breakthrough.” I held my breath.

“Ah.” He dipped a piece of broccoli in the pot of cheese fondue. “I'm glad to hear that you're gaining ground with helping him. You're a good therapist, Sienna. Don't let the tragedies of the past few days distract you or get your thoughts and feelings off track.”

“Right.” I looked down, nibbled on a broccoli stalk. What was I expecting? For Laz to tell me that I needed to do all I could to prove that my suspicions weren't true? Was there anyone else on the planet who actually thought the wrong terror suspect was in custody? The even bigger question: was there anyone else on the planet who actually thought the man who said his name might be Bennett was a terrorist?

Listening to myself ask those questions in my head sealed the deal for me. I was crazy. That I even spent time thinking such things said a lot about my mental stability, or the lack thereof. And I had gone a step further and believed that God was talking to me, telling me I was on the right track with my insane suspicions.

I, Sienna St. James, had officially lost my mind. I felt embarrassed for myself, embarrassed that I'd even given space in my head to such delusions. Had that man gotten under my skin that much that I hadn't been able to think straight?

“So the blue or the green? What do you think, Sienna? I need to let the set designer know my preference soon.”

How long had Laz been talking? He'd put a computer tablet on the table at some point during my mental break and was rambling about set designs, potential guests, and news topics, I gathered.

I'd missed all of it, his whole conversation. I needed to put an end to my absentmindedness immediately.

“Yes, Laz. I will marry you.”

The words came out with urgency, certainty. Loudly. A woman at a nearby table looked over at us with sudden interest. A smile filled her face until she began looking back and forth between Laz and me in an effort to see “the ring.” Her smile slowly faded and she turned her attention back to whatever simmered in her table's pot as Laz and I simply stared and blinked at each other.

Whatever sentence he'd been in the middle of, whatever link he'd been about to click on his screen came to a halt. His finger froze in midair.

“You . . . said yes.”

We both looked surprised.

“Yes,” I said again. “We still have to figure out the whole ‘move to Atlanta' thing. I'm not ready to address that yet. One issue at a time,” I whispered, and nodded as tears I could not explain sprung to my eyes. He reached both hands across the table and covered mine in his. Did he know an unstable shell of a woman on the verge of a complete crackup had just agreed to be his wife?

“We are going to get through this together,” he whispered while rubbing the back of my thumbs.

“Are you comforting me, or congratulating us?” I asked and we both chuckled. “This is what you want, right? Us? Marriage?” I raised an eyebrow, a sudden panic settling into the other emotions that swirled around in my stomach.

“Of course, of course. I was the one who brought up the idea of marriage.” He let my hands go and sat back in his seat. I noticed then that neither one of us had eaten more than a single broccoli stalk.

“Then, what is it? Are you having second thoughts?” I held my breath waiting to hear his response.

“Everything is real now, Sienna. That's all. Everything I've ever wanted: my own show, not to be alone. I . . . I'm overwhelmed. Thank you.”

I saw the tears in Laz's eyes and for the first time since I'd known him, I saw the vulnerability.

Not to be alone.

The words jumped out at me. I'd just been thinking about loneliness when I'd entered the restaurant. Now I'd be leaving as a fiancée with the promise of a lifetime partner.

For better or worse.

Not to be alone.

The words haunted me.

“So I have a good jeweler friend of mine in Rockville who could help with whatever setting you want for the ring.” Laz had picked up his fork and had begun stuffing his mouth with food. “And you already have the papers to get started with the divorce.” He took a long swallow of whatever sparkling beverage was in his glass. “It's simple. Since nobody knows where RiChard is, you just have to show that you tried to look for him, then have the divorce decree posted in a newspaper for him to see and respond to, which won't happen, and then you'll be free to be Mrs. Tyson. Like I said before, I think the whole process should take about six months or so.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He spoke about divorce and RiChard so casually, I wondered if it really would be that simple. I wondered if I should tell him about my planned return trip to San Diego tomorrow.
What if I actually find out where RiChard is?

“Unless you wanted something big, Sienna, I figured we could do a small destination wedding, just the two of us, to one of the islands. Jamaica, Bahamas. Dominican Republic. Or, maybe, we could go to Mexico. There are some interesting stories I could cover down there. Just kidding. I won't work during our wedding weekend. We could have the whole ceremony and honeymoon all in one and be done with it. Or should I say, just starting? Wow, Sienna, we're getting married.” He put his fork down for a moment, blinked at me with a half smile and then went back to dipping and dripping with the cheese fondue.

Mrs. Tyson.

I forced another broccoli stalk down. “Wow,” I echoed, nodded along, wondering what I was supposed to be feeling as an officially newly engaged woman.

Laz continued rambling about wedding plans and his ideas for the show and house hunting in Atlanta and dreams and plans and hopes and wishes. I nodded when he seemed to be asking me a question, smiled when his pearly whites flashed between his moustache and goatee, laughed when he chuckled.

And wondered the entire time why I felt like throwing up. I thought I'd just said I wasn't ready to talk about Atlanta. I felt irritation as he began talking about the different suburbs in the Atlanta metropolitan area.
Then where will I be if I'm not there with him?

It was too much to think about, too much to figure out.

“I brought cookies,” I interjected as the chocolate fondue course began. “I mean, I wanted to give you my cookies.”

Laz's grin grew wider and he began licking his lips. But his smile dropped when I put the platter of cookie bars in front of him.

“Mint chocolate raspberry cookie bars. Special recipe. Homemade.” I pulled back the plastic and foil. I inhaled and thought of Leon. My eyes sprung open and I covered the bars back up quickly.

“Really, Sienna? You tell a man you want to give him your cookies and you . . . put out a plate of cookies?”

“Of course. What were you . . . ? Oh.”

An awkward silence filled the space between us as I finished tucking down the corners of the foil over the large plate.

Cookies.

Marriage would mean sharing cookies that I hadn't shared in eons with a man who seemed to be used to gobbling up crumbs from many bakeries.

Despite his many advances over the year, and the preheat button he'd occasionally ignite in me, I realized that I had not given much thought to all a marriage would entail; not just companionship, but intimacy.

With Laz.

He stared at me as I slowly uncovered the cookies again. I wondered if he, was bothered by the fact that I felt so awkward, unnerved.

“Sienna.” His voice was a whisper as he reached for a bar, split it in half. “We're going to be okay. I promise.”

We both took a bite out of the cookie he had broken.

But all I could taste, all I could smell, all I could feel was Leon.

Roman's words to me just days ago.

He was right. I needed to move on.

“Like I said, Laz, these are homemade cookies. One day, we'll have to come together to make a recipe of our own.”

“That's right. We'll be cooking together.” He licked some chocolate off of his fingers, never breaking his gaze from mine. “Make our own heat. And who knows? Maybe one day we'll have a lot of new creations all our own. Laz-ette. Siennafer. Sienlaz. We can get as creative as we want to be with our children's names.”

Screech!

I actually heard the brakes slam down in my brain, heard the tires come to a squealing halt. Laz saw it on my face and chuckled.

“Or not. Calm down, Sienna. I was just kidding. Nobody said we are having kids. Let's just start with a wedding date. Six months from now. Then you can resume your panicking if you choose.”

Sex. Babies. Panic was an understatement.

“We have a lot to talk about.”
And pray about,
I realized for what felt like the first time since I'd sat down.

“And we will talk, but, as you said, we don't have to figure that out right now. Let's enjoy the moment and figure out all the other details later.”

Exhale, Sienna. You are getting married. This is the right thing to do,
I told myself.
Enjoy the moment
. I let my shoulders relax.

But the moment was short-lived.

Laz's cell phone started beeping. Clanging, really.

“New developments.” He scrolled through his phone and began typing with a fury into his tiny keypad.

“Breaking news? About the terrorist attack?” When he didn't immediately answer, I reached for my phone to pull up CNN.

“It's not on the news yet. That was my source. I've got to go.” He began packing up his things, put away his tablet, then froze and looked at me. “Sienna, when the news does air . . . don't read too much into it, okay? I don't want you worrying.”

He dropped two fifties on the table and rushed toward the exit.