Sacrifices of Joy (7 page)

I had a lot to think about, consider, mull over, and decide.

I needed to pray.

I needed to use that soaking tub.

And I needed no interruptions.

That last need would be met, I realized as I nibbled on a piece of the quesadilla.

Laz still had my phone.

That man from the airport had a left a message stating that he would be calling me Sunday evening, now, to schedule a “conversation.” The fact that I would not be able to get a potential phone call from him calmed and frightened me all at once.

As always, over the top.

At exactly eight-fifteen, I received a call from the front desk to inform me that my limo was waiting. I gathered my belongings, including the envelopes and the gift bag with the ring, and left the rest of the suite's mess for Laz to address. I headed downstairs in a hurry, anxious to get back home, ready to put this crazy weekend behind me.

I'd been near a terrorist attack, run from family drama on the West Coast, been somewhat proposed to, and had my entire life, existence, and purpose challenged by a man who truly got on my nerves, but treated me to a day spa.

I could not imagine what else waited in the coming week, though my gut told me more absurdity was on the radar.

Plus, I had to plan my trip back to San Diego. Though I'd successfully avoided thinking about it, I still had the brochure from the La Bohemia Café in my purse.

Kisu Felokwakhe. 7:30 p.m. Thursday.

In light of Laz's offers, I needed definitive answers about RiChard's whereabouts, all the more reason for me to speak with Kisu. Perhaps he would be able to help shed some light on the unending mystery that was RiChard. Unbeknownst to Laz, I had in the past looked up what needed to be done to divorce an absent spouse. A divorce by publication. Since I did not know where RiChard was, I would have to show the courts proof that I looked for him as best as I could, and could not find him. Then, the decree would have to be announced in a newspaper and other widely published outlets for a specified time period with no response from him to make the divorce final.

That's if I even went forward with it.

Why wouldn't I?
Laz was right. I could not fully answer my own question. Aside from the energy it would require, and my efforts to stay focused on my son and my job, a part of me, I realized, had secretly wondered if it was okay to pursue a divorce. Though I had every reason to do so, would I be breaking some moral or spiritual law or code to end a marriage made before God, even though by any reasonable estimation it never really existed?

I felt so far from God, and had been feeling a growing distance for years now. It hurt to think in the spiritual and I did not know why.

“Ms. St. James? I can help you with your bags.” A man with gelled black hair and a three-piece black suit met me at the entrance and helped me with my luggage. Laz had booked a white stretch limo for the forty-five minute or so drive to the Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport where my car waited.

“Thanks.” I nodded as the chauffeur opened the door. I stepped inside nonchalantly, as if driving around in a limo was my usual routine. The interior was dark and cool with a flat-screen television, light refreshments, and more flowers and chocolate. On one of the seats lay a sheet of paper with the words, “This is how your life will be with me—LT,” and next to the note were my cell phone and my “joy bag.”

I picked up the bag, traced the letters, and wondered why I felt so empty of the very thing the bag purported.

It was time to rejoin my life and the world around me, I thought as I put down the bag and reached for my phone. As I turned it on, I thought of how much of my day, interactions, and schedule hinged on my smart phone.

We were fully en route to BWI as my phone came to life with its usual buzzes, dings, and other notifications. Laz had not been kidding about all the action on my phone. Just in the past few hours, Roman had called and texted me several times to make sure that I had returned home safely. I'd missed several other phone calls as well, mostly family and friends who hadn't known that I'd been traveling that weekend, but who had learned of my plans from Roman and were checking on me too. I recognized all of the phone numbers and waiting voice mail messages except for one, and the one I didn't recognize was a Baltimore-based phone number.

Good.
I exhaled, remembering the phone number with the Ohio-based area code.

Maybe I would never hear from that man again.

Since all of my voice mail messages were local and mostly familiar, I decided I would check them later after I got home.

A quick scan of my e-mails gave me further relief. Nothing unusual or unexpected. A couple of clients had e-mailed to schedule appointments as the terrorist attack had unleashed new anxieties, fears, sadness, and worry. Ava had forwarded information about a seminar she thought would interest me; and then there were the normal e-mails of store circulars, sales, and specials from mailing lists I'd forgotten I'd signed up for. My junk mail folder was filled with just that—junk. I was now certain that the bizarre e-mail I'd gotten in the wee hours of the morning was a random spam message that didn't get filtered out by my server.

All of this silly worrying.
I wanted to laugh at and kick myself.
The therapist needs a therapist.

I was thinking about my conversation with Laz and how I failed the very lessons I taught my clients about relationships, communication, and self-assessment, when the limo reached the main road that led to BWI.

The road was blocked and all manner of official vehicles and uniformed personnel milled around. The flashing lights of countless emergency vehicles lit up the night sky, cast shadows, and revealed the intense investigation going on at the scene. One of the officers approached the limo with a flashlight and stopped at the driver's window. After a few moments passed, the chauffeur sounded through an intercom.

“Ms. St. James, most of the airport is closed. There's only one runway in operation with limited flight service, and all vehicles are being checked before entering the loop. Did you confirm that your flight is still scheduled?”

“I'm not flying anywhere. My return flight here was cancelled and I came in through National. I'm just trying to get to my car, which is parked in the express lot.”

A few more moments passed and then the chauffeur spoke again. “Okay, pass up your parking ticket that has what number space your car is parked in. Also, pass up your car key. They will get it for you and bring it down here.”

I'd clipped my parking ticket to my original flight itinerary. I pulled it out and passed it up to the chauffeur through the privacy partition. The limo pulled onto the side of the road under the direction and careful watch of a police officer. As the seconds turned into minutes, I decided to turn the flat-screen television on to catch up on the news.

Just think, this will be Laz at the anchor desk soon,
I thought as I flipped through several national networks on the satellite TV. I stopped at a station offering a live report.

“Those who know Jamal Abdul are expressing shock and disbelief at the allegations that he singlehandedly performed this atrocious act of terror. Born and raised in Prince George's County, Maryland, he was valedictorian of his high school class and graduated from college with a 4.0 GPA. He holds two master's degrees, one in biochemistry and the other in mechanical engineering, and he was currently pursuing a doctorate in biomedical engineering. He had been working with his employer on a government contract developing new and advanced prostheses for wounded soldiers. Staff and patients at the Walter Reed Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, where he is said to have volunteered on a regular basis, have expressed disbelief and disgust regarding his alleged involvement in the explosions.”

As the reporter spoke, a montage of pictures of the suspect filled the screen, including graduation photos, a work ID, and snapshots of him embracing disabled veterans. The reporter continued.

“Jamal was raised alone by his mother, Thelma Johnson, who currently works as an office manager in Largo, Maryland. His father, Abdullah Abdul, whose relatives say has not been in Jamal's life since he was three years old, is a Sudanese immigrant who works as a school bus driver in Portland, Maine. Jamal has been married for seven years to his wife Keisha, a kindergarten teacher, and the couple have two daughters: Hailey, age five, and Chloe, age three. Here is what Jamal's sixth-grade science teacher, Esther Mansley, has to say about him.”

The camera focused on an older woman wearing what looked like her Sunday best: large, shiny costume jewelry, bright red blush on her cheeks, black patent leather purse, and all.

“Oh, it's on?” She turned to the reporter. “This is live?” She quickly looked back at the camera, and her face became awash with tears. “Yes, Jamal was in my sixth-grade science class. He was quiet, studious, and never got into any trouble. I cannot imagine what happened to make him become so dangerous, evil, and radicalized. He had us all fooled!” She frowned at the camera and then turned back to the reporter. “How'd I do?” she whispered.

I didn't miss the reporter's slight roll of the eyes and half step away from the lady. “This is Regina Anderson reporting live from Largo, Maryland. Back to you in the studio, Alan.”

“That's enough about the suspect for now. Let us focus again on the victims of this horrible tragedy,” the man named Alan remarked from behind a large anchor desk. “Here are their names and faces once more.”

As the photos began rolling across the screen—bright smiles, family photos, school portraits, all races, ages, colors, and creeds—I tried to swallow down the huge lump that formed in my throat. And the flutter of fear that jumped from my stomach to my esophagus.
What if they have it wrong? What if it wasn't Jamal?
I could not stop the questions from forming, but quickly reminded myself that Laz promised to mention my fears to his source at Homeland Security.

I typed a text to remind him and to calm my nerves. Don't forget to tell your person about the man I met. I pressed send, hoping, expecting to feel better.

I didn't.

“Ms. St. James?” The chauffeur's voice startled me back to the moment. A uniformed officer stood next to the driver's side window again. “They need to see your ID.”

“Sure.” After fishing for it in the deep depths of my purse, I passed it through the partition. The small window slammed shut after I'd done so.

“What's taking so long?” I mumbled to myself before my attention turned back to honoring the dead and injured whose faces still flashed on the TV screen.

They'd gone through all eighteen victims who'd passed, and half of the list of the thirty-four injured, when I realized that almost half an hour had ticked by since we first pulled up to the checkpoint. I was still waiting for my car. I knocked on the privacy partition and it opened with a slow, noisy squeal.

“Has anyone said what's taking so long?” It was nearly 10:00 p.m. I wanted to be home.

“I . . . I'm not supposed to say, but . . .” He spoke softly and looked over at a group of four uniforms before turning back to me and speaking in an even lower voice. “I don't think they can find your car. They wanted your ID to confirm your travel plans to see if you really flew out of here like you said. They're being extra cautious, you know, in light of what happened here yesterday.” He looked back at the officers. One of them broke from the group and started walking toward the window. The chauffeur slammed the privacy partition shut, and I went back to digging through my purse.

“They can't find my car? What kind of foolishness is this?” I groaned as I searched for the printout of my flight confirmation from yesterday morning. “Here it is,” I shook my head as the officer bypassed the driver's window and instead opened the door to where I was sitting.

“Ms. St. James?” His voice was all business. “Please get out of the car.”

I snapped off the television and exited slowly, trying to figure out what was going on. I just wanted to get to and in my car and go home. The officer shined a flashlight up and down me and then took out a pen and paper he used to take notes.

“What is the make and model of your car?”

“I drive a black Honda Accord.”

“What is the license plate number?”

I belted out the number and letter combination, but quickly added, “My car is parked in that numbered space written on the parking ticket I gave to the first officer.”

“There's no car parked in that space, ma'am.” He eyed me. “You just flew out of this airport yesterday?”

“Yes.” I unfolded the paper that held my flight confirmation number and handed it to him. “I visited my son in San Diego, but the trip didn't go so well. I came back last night, but landed in DC since BWI was closed at the time. A friend of mine booked this limo so I could come pick up my car and go home. Are you sure you checked the right parking space?”

The officer, who had been reading over my handout, looked up at my question, but didn't answer. “Wait here,” he commanded and walked away.

My cell phone started ringing inside the limo. I decided against getting back inside to answer it. I wanted and needed my car! Several moments passed, and then the officer returned.

“Okay, Ms. St. James. Everything you said checks out. I'm not sure what to tell you about your car. It appears to have been stolen. It is likely that in the panic that ensued yesterday, someone may have gotten into it and driven away.”

“I have a very sophisticated anti-theft package.”

“Even still, the best I can tell you is to file a report for a stolen car. Perhaps the limo driver can take you home, or to one of the car rental places around here so that you can get home yourself. I'm sorry. There's nothing more I can tell you. You're going to have to leave now.”

“Wait,” I said as he began walking away. “Can't you make a report for me? And wouldn't there be video surveillance that could help determine if someone stole my car?”

The officer paused. “In light of the lives lost yesterday, looking at video coverage and searching for your car will be taking a back seat to the overall investigation at this time. As a federal officer, I suggest you contact your local authorities to address this matter after we leave. Understood?”