Sacrifices of Joy (22 page)

The anger I'd felt moments ago seemed to have disappeared from my emotion bank and landed on Laz's face. “We are not here to talk about my past, your past, my mother, my sisters, RiChard, or anything or anyone else,” he boomed. “I am all about the future right now, and I've got to fix the present distraction you've caused before it gets too out of control.”

“I'm not a child, Laz. You don't have to talk to me like one. And why are you so insistent on blocking out the past? I've never seen you like this.” Curiosity bested me as I studied his scowling face.

“No. No psychoanalyzing. That is not why I am with you.” He turned toward the door.

“Then why are you with me, Laz? I am a therapist. I am a woman who is recovering from her past, and, to hear you tell it, I am currently messing with your future, though all I am doing is following my instincts, instincts you've said in the past you respected. What are we doing here? What is this, what are we doing, Laz?”

“We're moving forward.” He opened the door, stepped out on the porch. He paused for a moment and looked back at me. “The TV works, but there's no cable. There should be a box of lasagna in the freezer. The microwave doesn't work right, so just use the oven to heat it up. And if you need to get in touch with me, there's a phone in the back bedroom. Only call me if there is an urgent emergency. Otherwise, I'll be back in the morning. By then everything will be back to normal.”

Normal. I didn't even know what that was anymore. I was too tired, too frustrated, and too frazzled to fight against him.

“Funny, Laz, you gave me ‘you in an envelope' so that I could know more about you, but all you really had to do was bring me to this house. I've discovered more about you just looking around these rooms for the past five minutes than I have in any of our conversations. I had no idea your roots were so basic and, well, humble—the complete opposite of how you portray yourself. You've piqued my interest, Lazarus Tyson.”

“This house does not define me.” His words came out in a sharp whisper, a borderline low growl. He turned and left.

Standing alone in a foreign house in a town I'd never heard of, I listened as the wheels of the Range Rover screeched away into the distance.

What is his problem?
I shook my head, rubbed my eyes with both hands. Sat down.

I'd been running and going and thinking and stressing all week. For the first time since last Saturday, I was by myself with no agenda, no expectations, and no phone.

And no clear understanding of why I was in this house.

Large velvet pillows filled the flowery green sofa on which I sat. As I sank down into the cushy pillows, I felt everything inside of me begin sinking too. The realities of the past week came into focus.

Adrenaline had been keeping me afloat, but now deflation took over.

I'd seen RiChard.

And the moment went nothing like I'd imagined all these years. Sure, I'd pictured seeing him again, and the daydream alternated between a heart-stirring reunion and me telling him off and then getting an apology.

Neither version happened.

I actually ran after him. I recoiled at the thought, recalling how I'd tried to chase him down for answers. As if there could be any explanation for doing women and children so wrong. As if anything he could have said would have somehow made things, made me, feel better.

I had wasted the best years of my life waiting, loving, missing him.

And for what?

A deep bitterness filled every limb, every blood vessel within me. I could taste it. My body shook under its weight, the grief and anger so great, I could not think nor feel anything else.

“I can't live like this.” My voice echoed in the small house. I was in a place beyond tears. “I can't function like this.”

I had important tasks to do, a mission to complete. Bitterness would only immobilize me. I had to shake it. I fought to shake it, but I could not break free of the chokehold that had suddenly clamped around my neck. I felt it squeezing out the last bit of joy, the last bit of peace I had in me.

I realized my eyes were closed and I opened them. There was a family Bible on the coffee table in front of me, a thick, maroon, leather-bound volume that looked to be a foot and a half tall, maybe five pounds heavy. I wrestled against the pillows and moved to the edge of the couch, reaching out a hand to open the Bible.

A family tree filled the first few pages. Different-colored ink, different handwriting on the blanks of Laz's family history gave testament to the many generations who'd handled it.

I stared at the names, the birth and death dates, the marriage dates, and all I could think about were those multiple marriage licenses in RiChard/Alex's suitcase.

The bitterness increased into a physical suffocation.

I turned the pages.

Genesis 1:1.

I thought about it, thought about the “conversation” I'd had with that man, Bennett, his views on the universe, on evolving, on existence.

Whatever you believed about the origin of life would determine what you believed about life's value and purpose, I realized. If we were here by a random act of chance, then morality and virtue and how they were defined had no real meaning as everything that exists would just be the result of a universe-sized accident.

But if you believed, as I did believe, that there was a Creator who fashioned the world with purposed intent, then life itself had purpose and intent just by nature of being created.

I looked at the first verse of the Bible again, recognizing that I had to be strong in the basic elements of my faith if I was to have any hope at successfully wrestling with the complex issue that now faced me.

Forgiveness.

Forgiveness was about as complex an issue as it got.

Forgiveness was at the heart of many therapy sessions I'd facilitated. The matter of forgiveness surrounded crimes of passion and court cases, was at the root of issues exposed on talk shows and in ongoing drama on Facebook posts. The lack of forgiveness changes our countenance, our decisions, our moods, our motivations, and our actions.

Forgiveness was why Jesus died and rose again.

I knew all of this on a mental level; but my heart level was a different story. The pain was oppressive. My feelings completely justified.

But I needed to be able to live my life apart from the pain.

Forgiveness was not about RiChard or whether he deserved it.

Forgiveness was about me.

I shut the Bible, but then opened it again. The gold-trimmed pages were heavy on my fingertips, but not heavier than the weight that felt like it was taking me under in waves. Sitting in that house, at that moment, I was fighting for my life. That Bible felt like the only life preserver I had. I opened up to a random page. My eyes fell on a single verse. Psalms 27:6.

I could not get my eyes off of the verse as I absorbed its meaning.

David the psalmist acknowledged having enemies, but his head was lifted up above them so he could offer sacrifices of joy.

A sacrifice cost something.

Surrendering often brought discomfort as a possession, a mentality, a lifestyle, a right to hold on to something was decisively let go.

I'd never thought of joy as being a sacrifice, but in that moment I understood. To offer sacrifices of joy meant giving up the right to be sad, to feel hurt, angry, and disappointed.

I recalled another Psalm of David I'd read years ago.

If I was going to stay in God's presence (and I needed to in order for my spirit, soul, and body to survive,) if I had any chance of knowing the right path to take at this moment in life, or what decisions to make about marriage, my family, or my mission to find that man from the airport, if I was going to ensure that my gut instincts were being directed by the Holy One on High and not just my own broken heart and thinking, I had to offer up sacrifices of joy.

I had to surrender my right to be unsettled, upset, and sorrowed by RiChard's unjust actions, and accept that joy was God's expectation of me in His presence.

And forgiveness was the dagger to kill my soul's deep sorrow.

It hurt, it was hard, it pained me, but I was determined to make joy my sacrifice. I needed God's presence; I needed clarity for what path to take for everything going on in every area of my life.

And it wasn't just
a
sacrifice of joy that I needed to give. The verse said “sacrifices.” That meant a continual act of surrender was required, a multiple offering of my will, my thoughts, and my emotions to see Him, to see the way clearly.

I took out a sheet of paper. I didn't know if I would ever see RiChard again, but just as Jesus told His disciples to commemorate His sacrifice on the cross by taking Communion, I felt the need to commemorate this moment of me deciding to let go of bitterness and surrender to joy.

“I forgive you, RiChard.” I wrote it down and said it out loud as tears filled my eyes, the numbness in my body dissipating. I could feel again. “I forgive you, RiChard,” I said again, and I realized that a small smile had taken over my face; a lightness had begun filling my spirit. Joy filled the room. “I forgive you!” My voice was almost at shout level.

I took the paper, folded it up, wondered where I could put it as my feet suddenly felt like moving, my heart suddenly felt like praising. Songs of worship whose words I'd forgotten for years began flowing from my mouth as a sense of peace that I could not explain or understand washed over me.

I was in the presence of God, the one who had pleasures in His right hand evermore, the lifter of heads, the forgiver of those who also forgive. The line from the Lord's Prayer did not bother me anymore.
Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

I. Was. Free.

I felt like dancing, swirling, singing, laughing, crying all at once.

I was free. Even the air felt different as I breathed it in, exhaled it out. Pure, fresh, sparkling clean, renewed. Me and Jesus, the Sacrificial Lamb who'd made forgiveness possible, we were just all right. On good terms. First-name basis.

I looked again at the folded up paper in my hands. I knew where I wanted to put it. The joy bag, the crocheted purse Skyye had fashioned and I'd bought to give to Roman's sister, would be the perfect place.

The words of forgiveness belonged there. Not the note I'd just written, per se, but a card, a letter, something that spoke to the freedom, the forgiveness I had in my heart, the freedom I now felt to pursue a relationship with RiChard's other family.

It did not hurt now to think about them. A revolution had happened in my soul and my mind was now open to new possibilities.

“Lord, let me be a vessel of healing.”

And I was trained to be one. I smiled. Yes, I was a worker for social justice, a servant for the public good. I was destined and prepared to help bring hope and healing, restore relationships, and encourage inner peace through my work as a therapist, my calling as a social worker. The message I had for my corner of the world was powerful and radical: there is freedom in forgiveness, the fullness of joy in God's presence, and it's worth sacrificing our right to be angry and upset to experience it all.

I know not everyone believes in the same God I worship. Saying anything about Christ and his sacrificial death is not “PC” but I didn't need words to get out the truths I was experiencing. My “mirror moment,” as Ava termed it, was showing me that allowing Christ to reflect off of me would be enough for the world to see His glory, and I would look fabulously good doing so.

I knew exactly what I needed to do next; no doubts, no second-guessing, no questions about it.

Clarity came with freedom. And so did courage for the next leg of the journey. Clear vision and strength were byproducts of joy.

I had to get to my car.

The joy bag was in the back seat and my phone was in the glove compartment. Plus, my workbag containing my folder and notes about the man from the airport was in the passenger seat. I kicked myself for not bringing that and my carry-on bag with me, but Laz had rushed me, and I'd had no idea where we were going or what we were doing.

I looked for the sole phone in the house and shook my head when I found it in what looked like the master bedroom. Wood paneling covered the walls of the tiny room and a comforter decorated with bright apples and cherries covered the queen-sized bed. The phone was on a nightstand next to the bed. It was a rotary phone, bright red and looking like it had seen better days.

“I hope this really does work.” I picked up the handset and relief flooded through me. A dial tone never sounded so good. There was no point in calling Laz. I needed a cab. Thankfully, there was an old department store catalog on the nightstand next to the phone. It was addressed to a Lozella Tyson and had the full address of the home; otherwise, I would not have known where to tell the cab company to come.

Within thirty minutes, I was en route to the restaurant lot where my car was parked.“Wait,” I called out to the cab driver as we passed a strip mall not far from Laz's secret family house. “I need to stop at that ATM so I can have money to pay you.” I pointed to a bank.

“I take credit cards, ma'am.”

“That's good, but I, uh, still want to stop at the machine.” I needed cash. One benefit of hanging out so much with an investigative reporter was that you picked up tips and hints for staying low-key. Avoiding a paper trail became my aim.

“Thanks.” I smiled politely as he let me out in front of a bank I'd never heard of. Hopefully the bank was obscure enough that any transactions I completed at its ATM would not be posted until the next business day, Monday, three whole days away.

I hope I'm not still dealing with all this next week. I refuse to be.
I was determined that the weekend would not end without me getting complete answers about that man from the airport. I had peace about what I was doing, but the urgency had not left. Now that my thoughts were clearer, the urgency had, in fact, quadrupled.

A quiet rain had started falling by the time we pulled up to the restaurant parking lot about forty minutes later. “Ma'am, we're here.” The cabbie pointed to the fare on the meter. “It was a long drive so it's not going to be cheap.” He raised an eyebrow at the horror I was sure he saw on my face.

Except my sudden alarm had nothing to do with the cost of the trip.

My eyes had scanned the parking lot as we'd pulled up in front of the restaurant doors.

My car was not there.

“Um, here's your money, but do you mind waiting for a moment? I need to see if my party is here.”

“Lady, it's raining and it's Friday night in DC. I can get a lot of business right now.”

“I promise that I'll be right back out. Just give me five minutes, please.”

“Five minutes, no more.” The cab driver grunted as he counted the twenties I'd handed him.

“Thank you.” I used my purse to cover my head and hair from the growing rain shower as I stepped out of the cab. I headed immediately into the restaurant.

My car had gone missing from the airport, I recalled, but it had happened when I wasn't expected to be in town.

This felt different.

“Welcome, how many in your party?” A different hostess from yesterday greeted me with a couple of menus.

“I need to use your phone. I . . . I'm not sure that my party is here, and I, well, I left my phone in my car.”

“Sure, you can use the one right here.” She passed me a handset from her stand and walked to a group of seven who'd entered behind me. I quickly dialed Laz's number. His phone rang for a while before he picked it up.

“Hello, who's this?”

“It's me, Laz.”

“Si . . . I mean, uh, where are you calling from?” His voice dropped to a near whisper. He also sounded more formal than usual.

“Someone stole my car.”

“What? No. That did not happen.”

“I'm back at the restaurant right now. My car is not here. That man stole it. I didn't tell you how it was missing on Sunday when I went to get it from BWI, but then it was in front of my house Monday morning. I'm telling you that man from the airport is somehow involved with the bombing and he's stalking me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. And why are you not . . . where I last saw you? It's not missing. Something came up. Wait, hold on, please.” It sounded like he put his hand over his phone, but I could still hear his words as he spoke to someone near him. “I'll be right back. I have to take this call in private.” I could hear his footsteps and a door slam shut. When he got back on the call his whisper was as potent as a full-blown yell.

“Sienna, what are you doing? I took you to that house for a reason. You were to stay until I came to get you tomorrow morning! I told you I'm working to make everything okay. You're screwing it all up!”

I had a lot I wanted to say to that, but I lost my train of thought watching the cab pull away from the front of the restaurant. Had five minutes passed already? I turned my attention back to my conversation with Laz.

“How are you going to tell me that my car is not missing? I'm here looking at the empty space where it should be. And who were you just talking to? Are you with her? Camille?”

“No, Sienna, I am not with her, but, like I said, something came up. Right now, she is just independently investigating some things. She was going to take whatever information she thought she had to a higher level, but I begged and pleaded with her to not do so. She wanted to follow your phone, check out your car, and that's all that was supposed to happen; but after she checked it out, she started making other calls and apparently had it taken away. I don't know what is going on, and she has stopped giving me information. I wish you had just listened to me and stayed where you were.”

“Wait a minute. You knew that woman wanted to look at my car? You were working with her against me?”

“No! I mean, yes, I knew she wanted a closer look at your car, but I didn't realize she'd have it towed away. I just told her where your car would be and when. She doesn't know that I picked you up or hid you. I was doing that for both of us, keeping you out of the spotlight until she leaves you alone. Now, I don't know what I'm going to do.” He sighed.

“So, she thinks I had something to do with what happened at the airport?” I wasn't worried. There was absolutely nothing that could tie me to such a ludicrous claim.

“Sienna, did you hear what I said? She has stopped talking to me about anything related to the case. I don't know what is going on right now. I don't know why she has your car or what she is doing with it. I'm trying to get another source right now, and I need to get off this phone so I can finish talking to an FBI agent who seems willing to talk to me.”

“Laz, come get me, take me to her, or whoever, and I'll set everything straight. If they have my car, they'll see the notes I've taken. I can tell them all of my concerns. Everything will be okay. Calm down.”

“How dare you tell me calm down, Sienna? Do you think the network offering me a nightly news show will still want me if my fiancée was at one time a person of interest in a terrorist attack? Why did you have to insist that you knew something about anything, Sienna? They already had someone in custody and you've only complicated matters.”

“Oh, ma'am, you're still on the phone?” The hostess had returned from seating several parties. “We need that line for reservations.” She smiled, but I saw the slight irritation in her eyes. I gave her a gracious nod.

“I'm almost finished, thank you. Laz, I've got to go. Can you come get me?”

“No, I can't do anything until I know what's going on,” he spoke quickly. “I gotta go. I'm losing the FBI agent. It looks like someone from CBS is talking to him.” The phone went dead. I handed it back to the hostess.

“Did you still need a table?” She looked at me sympathetically. “Is your party coming?”

“I need a moment,” I replied, because I did.

“Sure. You can have a seat at the bar while you wait.”

“That's not necessary. I will just . . .” I froze as I looked over at the bar. Several television screens hung over it airing different networks. One screen had the words
CBS BREAKING NEWS
running across it. “I will sit down for a moment.”

I was glad that the bartender was busy taking orders from a party of five on the other side of the long bar area. I stared up at the muted television, which had captions running across the bottom of the screen.

An anchor sat somberly at the desk.

“We have breaking news into our news room,” the caption read. “Authorities have confirmed that there is a possibility that the suspect being held in custody for the bombing at BWI may not have acted alone. We are hearing reports that additional evidence has been recovered from the mechanism used to set off the explosion. Though authorities have not officially disclosed any details of the bomb, what type it is, or how it was able to evade airport security personnel, sources are telling us that some type of scrap of paper collected at the scene is being investigated. The source tells us that it appears to be the remnants of a business card that may have been inadvertently left behind.”

I'd given my business card out twice over the past week. Once to the man at the airport. Secondly to Camille. This latest news development could not be a coincidence. Or maybe it was. I swallowed hard, trying to understand what this meant, what I was supposed to do.

I got off the barstool, wondering if I could talk the hostess into letting me use the phone again. I needed Laz to come get me.

As I walked to the window, I noticed flashing lights in the distance. Were police cruisers coming this way? Laz knew I was at the restaurant. Had he told Camille or anyone else? Was his phone tapped? My imagination started going wild.

Person of interest. Laz had used those words. Me? Was there actually someone somewhere thinking I had something to do with what happened?

It was ridiculous, ludicrous! And yet, if Jamal Abdul had nothing to do with the attack and was still identified as a suspect, anything was possible. I swallowed hard again, watching as the flashing lights that had looked far away mere seconds ago seemed to be not so distant anymore.

I'd wanted to talk to authorities all along about my suspicions. Actually, I had talked to someone, but now I was uncertain about what had resulted from my talking. No, I knew what the result of that conversation was. My car was towed and Laz tried to hide me and now wanted nothing to do with me. There couldn't be any warrants or anything out for me or I know Laz would not have helped me in the small way he had.

Helped me? Let me correct my thoughts. Helped himself.

The lights were getting closer.

They could be going to an accident nearby, or they could be ambulances and fire trucks rushing to a hospital or fire. Shoot, it could be a presidential motorcade; I was right by DC after all.
I'm being paranoid,
I told myself.

Paranoid or not, I didn't want to take any chances. I did not want to talk to Homeland Security, the FBI, NSA, traffic cops, or mall security guards until I had something definite that could tie that man to the bombing.

It was no longer just a matter of national security.

I had my own behind to cover.

I headed back toward the bar area, away from the front windows. Following the signs to the restrooms, I was glad to see the kitchen entrance was nearby. A waiter exited, balancing a tray of plates, and I stepped behind him into the clanging, yelling commotion of a Friday late-night dinner rush at a popular restaurant. Cooks and other staff were engrossed in their stations, but I did not wait to see if I'd be noticed as I rushed toward a back entrance. Within seconds, I stood outside on a truck loading dock. I jumped down and headed toward a line of trees that bordered the restaurant's parking lot.

As nervous as I had been walking through that church basement just last night, nothing compared to the nerves that overtook me now. Last night I had a map in hand, a destination in mind, though I would have never pictured the outcome.

Tonight I had no direction, no place to go, and plenty of outcomes were playing on my brain's movie projector. I wanted a new script for this scenario.

With no car, no phone, and no clue as to what to do next, I cut across the treed lot and headed toward a main thoroughfare. I could rent a car, I considered, but quickly shot that idea down. I'd have to use my credit card and I was avoiding a paper trail. Call my mom? My sister?
Lord, what do I do?

I was not too far from Dulles Airport so several hotels were nearby. I decided to get a room, watch the news, figure out what was going on.

Figure out what to do next.

I stopped at the closest one to me, a three-star establishment. Not too big, but not too intimate, quiet, but still near the main roads. The rotating marquee outside the entrance advertised a business center with free Internet access and a daily continental breakfast.

Perfect.

“Do you have a reservation?” A young girl with long braids smiled as I stopped at the front desk.

“No. I just need one night.”

“Name?”

“Josephine Davis.” My middle and maiden names.

I paid in cash and was given a key and a standard room with views of the parking lot. I would not miss any approaching police cars or any other potential authority figures trying to find me. Yes, my imagination had gone wild, envisioning all manner of frightening scenarios. I used my money to buy a change of clothes—another t-shirt and an additional pair of sweatpants—from the gift shop, along with a baseball cap and sunglasses in case I needed to play down my appearance tomorrow. My intention was to shower, then flip through all the news stations to soak in every detail about the attack and current developments.