Sacrifices of Joy (8 page)

“I understand.”
But I want to scream!
I stayed cool, calm, and collected despite the Grand Canyon geyser–sized wail that was going off inside of me.

He handed me back my license, keys, and papers and I got back into the limo.

“Can you drop me off at one of those car rental places we passed?” I buzzed into the intercom.

“Sure thing,” the chauffeur replied.

The limo started and I settled back into my seat.

 

 

A little over an hour later, I pulled up to my townhome in Rosedale. The car I'd rented, the last available compact car the rental company had on its lot, cut off with a loud sputter. Sleep weighed down on my eyes and on the rest of my body and helped me decide not to do a darn thing else but go to bed. I'd deal with the police report tomorrow. The e-mails and voice mail messages would have to wait. Thankfully, I'd had enough sense before I'd left for my trip to San Diego to clear out my Monday morning schedule. No clients to see until one tomorrow afternoon.

Nothing else to do but go to bed and sleep late into Monday morning.

Well, my mother always told me that God knows what you need when you need it. God knew that I needed my sanity to function, because it was His grace that kept me from checking my e-mails once more before I went to sleep.

If I'd read the e-mail that came into my inbox in the midnight hour, I probably would have lost my mind.

Five Fascinating Facts About You

I blinked and stared and blinked again at the headline of the e-mail. It was ten o'clock on Monday morning and I had finally pulled myself up out of my bed. I'd had a full cup of coffee, a hot shower, unpacked, and was ready to finally go through my messages and prepare for my day.

If I acted like life was normal, then maybe it would be, I told myself as I fought back thoughts about Roman, Mbali, Kisu, RiChard, terror, Leon, and Laz. Each thought represented a different circumstance, a different issue in my life, but the underlying feelings were the same.

Exhaustion, anxiety, sadness, and confusion.

And now this, I swallowed, debating whether I wanted to open the e-mail that had come at 12:13 a.m., or delete it for fear of what could be in it.

“I'm being silly.” I shook my head at myself as I sat at my kitchen table. A plate of cold eggs and half-eaten sausage links sat to the side of my laptop. I'd been staring at the e-mail headline for over twenty minutes. The plan was to check my e-mails on my computer and then go through my phone messages, but this second message from Everybody Anybody had thrown my plans for a loop.

I clicked the e-mail open.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” I whispered to a nameless messenger. My heart felt like it was skipping right out of my chest as I read each line again. Everything on the list was true. But how? Who? I stood up, then immediately felt dizzy and sat back down. “God, what is going on?” I rubbed my cheeks so intensely my skin began to feel warm and raw. Prickly heat formed on my brows, my hairline, and over my top lip. I picked up my phone and dialed Laz and started talking the moment he picked up.

“Laz! This is serious. I got another crazy e-mail. I think it's from the same man. Did you tell your source yet? I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm scared. I think he's stalking me.”

“Sienna, whoa, whoa. Calm down.” Laz was eating something crunchy. He paused to swallow and then munched again on whatever was his meal.“One thing at a time. I'm sure there is a reasonable explanation for whatever is going on. Read me the e-mail.”

I started at the beginning and felt my fears rise anew as I spoke each line out loud.

“Yeah, that's a little weird, but, honestly, Sienna, all of that information could be learned from your Facebook or Twitter accounts. Don't you have a red velvet cupcake as one of your profile pictures somewhere?”

“Okay, that makes sense, but who sent this, and how did he get my e-mail address?” I heard myself say “he.”

“Don't you have your e-mail address on your Web site for your practice?” Laz sounded bored. “Look, it's probably from one of your clients acting like a goofball, or maybe even your sister messing with you. Shoot, how do you know it's not from me? Maybe I could just be trying to show you that I pay attention to the little details of your life.”

“But it's not from you.”

“No, but the point I'm trying to make is that your mind seems set on instant extreme scenarios. Calm down. Look at this rationally. Somebody looked you up online and sent you a message. There was no threat or request or even a stated purpose. They have a suspect in custody, and even if they didn't, I seriously doubt that Homeland Security would come running because someone e-mailed you that you like the color purple.” Laz took another bite of whatever he was eating. I tried to process his words.

“And, Sienna, if by some random chance these e-mails are coming from the man you met yesterday, just help him. He might be a little unbalanced, but that doesn't mean he's a terrorist. He's not sending you e-mails talking about body parts and death. You're a therapist. You're the right person for the job. You can give him the help that he needs.”

“Oh, so now you are applauding my career choices.”

“I never said you weren't good at what you do. I just said that I'm not convinced it's what you want to do.”

“Laz—”

“Look, we're not going to get into that right now. For whatever it's worth, I really think those e-mails are from someone you know playing a game with you. You know how these dumb games and trends get passed around the Internet. Shoot, I'll probably have a ‘Five Fascinating Things About Me' e-mail in my inbox before the week is over. I wouldn't worry that someone is stalking you. It's been a tough weekend. You're paranoid. Relax, Sienna.” He chewed again.

“What are you eating?”

“A red velvet cupcake.”

“That's not even close to funny.”

“Just kidding, Sienna, but I do need to go.” As was his custom of late, he hung up to announce the end of the call. No good-bye, nothing.

Maybe I
was
overreacting.

It hadn't just been a tough weekend. It was traumatic. I knew from my professional training that enduring trauma could make one feel hypersensitive and jumpy, on constant alert, and fearful that something bad was about to happen.

I talked myself through a progressive muscle relaxation exercise, something I did with my clients who felt overly anxious or stressed or who were diagnosed with PTSD. I did feel better when I finished.

“Relax, Sienna. Think logically,” I told myself.
Pray,
a quiet voice within me whispered. I reached again for my phone instead. Not that I didn't want to pray, but thinking about my relationship with God seemed to stir up my nerves again. I felt too far away. He felt too far away. And acknowledging that out loud to Him and to me felt uncomforting.

Calm enough to go through my messages, I sent text messages to Roman, my mother, and my sister, Yvette, to let them know I was home and okay. I'd make actual calls later. I sent an e-mail to Ava Diggs to thank her for the link about the upcoming conference. I still was not sure what to do about my car, who to call, what to say. Perhaps I could look up the non-emergency phone number for a police station near BWI. I checked the time. I had to leave soon to meet with my first client of the day. I could look up a contact number when I had a break this afternoon, I decided. Finally, I tackled the last voice mail message, the one from the Baltimore-based phone number I didn't recognize.

I could feel my heart pick up a few extra beats as the message began. “Calm down, Sienna, be logical.” And then I smiled. The message was from my pharmacist, reminding me to pick up a prescription.

Pills for my recurring migraines.

I shut my eyes and exhaled, and then laughed at myself. I'd become an expert at working myself up unnecessarily. I shook my head. Was I on the edge of a breakdown?

A text buzzed on my phone.

The message warmed me, made me smile, and gave me enough of a reason to get up from the table and move forward like it was an ordinary Monday and not the start to a terrible week. As I plodded about my house, getting ready for my full afternoon schedule of appointments, I stopped at the joy bag I had tossed on my sofa in exhaustion last night.

I picked it up, ran my fingers over the yarn that spelled out “joy,” rubbed the buttons in the centers of the flowers, squeezed the whole thing to my chest. Perhaps I would mail the bag to Abigail anyway. I still had the Christmas card from Mbali with their address.

Yes, that's what I would do. Today. Before I headed into work.

This would be my peace offering in a war we hadn't asked for, in a fight none of us had started. Mbali, Abigail, Croix, none of them were my enemies. RiChard wasn't even my enemy, I realized.

My feelings about him threatened more than anything to rob me of my peace, to kill my joy. Maybe the reason I had not been able to move forward was because I had let pain paralyze me and leave me in a place of ineffectiveness.

Terrorist attack, Laz's deals, nothing could unsettle me if I had peace within myself, I decided.

Yes, this would be my peace offering. I was going to fight for my happiness so I could have a clear head to handle the rest of my life. No, I hadn't prayed, but I felt like God was talking to me anyway. That's how good He was to this daughter. Even when I wasn't together, He was.

I felt good about the day, about my life, even about my ability to finally think through Laz's propositions.

I felt real good, that is, until I stepped outside.

“Huh?” My eyes grew wide as I stepped out onto my front steps. I blinked, rubbed them, and tried to make sense out of what I saw. Was I dreaming? Or maybe the weekend had been just a terrible nightmare and I had awakened to an ordinary Monday.

My car, my black Honda Accord, was parked out front.

It wasn't in my usual space. The compact car I'd rented was parked where I'd put it last night. The Accord was on the other side of the lot, in one of the spaces earmarked for visitors of the fairly new townhome community.

“Where did it come from? What? Who?” I knew I looked like a crazy woman talking to myself on my front steps, but I felt like one at the moment. Had my car been there all night? It was possible. I'd come home in the darkness and, in my exhaustion, I'd gone straight inside. I would not have noticed the car parked across from my house.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

“What is your emergency?” an operator immediately responded.

“Um . . .” I had not thought this out. “My car was stolen. But now it appears to have been returned. I am not sure what is going on.”

“Do you need the police, firefighters, or an ambulance?” The female operator seemed unfazed by my confusion.

“I don't know. I mean, I need the police.”

“Ma'am, are you in current danger? Is someone threatening you? Is your person or property at risk?”

“No. Maybe. I don't know. Can you just send someone here?” I gave her my address.

“Police are on their way. Call back if anything changes while you are waiting.”

Seven minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up behind my rental car. As the officer got out of his car, I had a quick vision of Leon. How many times had he come to my house dressed in that same uniform? To talk, to share a meal, to bring one of his home-baked desserts, to take out Roman . . .

How did I lose him and why?

“Miss, you have an emergency?” A broad, brawny, overly tanned man with hairy arms approached.

I pointed to my Honda. “My car was stolen from BWI airport.”

The officer followed my finger and raised an eyebrow. “That car? The one you're pointing to? That's the vehicle you want to report stolen? From the airport?”

“No, I mean, it
was
stolen. I went to get it from the parking lot at BWI last night, but it was missing. I was going to file a report today, but when I came out, it was parked right there.”

The officer looked from me to the car and back. “So, you want me to . . .”

“Find out what happened. Who took it? Who brought it back? What's going on?”

“Miss, your car is back; that is, if it was really ever missing.” He looked at me like I was a nutcase. “You're saying that it was parked at BWI. Perhaps a concerned friend or family member brought it back for you in light of the tragedy that occurred there to help reduce the obvious strain you are under.”

I ignored his last comment and the look on his face. “So there is nothing you can do? I just want to know what happened.”

“There is no stolen vehicle report to file because the location of your car is not unknown. Unless there is something wrong with your car, there is nothing more I can do. Is it damaged? Does it start okay?

He walked with me over to it. I circled it, inspecting for any marks or bruises, and then got in.

Nothing was awry, missing, or out of the ordinary. Except that it had magically appeared in front of my house overnight. Even the fast food breakfast sandwich wrapper I had tossed on the passenger seat still sat where it had landed yesterday morning. I put the key in the ignition and it started with its usual smooth purr. I cut it back off.

“Everything okay?” The officer looked antsy to get to a real emergency to save the day.

“I . . . I guess.” I got out of the car and shook my head, feeling like a fool.

“Take care, ma'am.” He fished through his pockets. “And if you ever need to talk to someone, here's a number to call.” He passed me a card for a mental health crisis hotline. I recognized it immediately because it was the same card I gave to some of my clients.

I wanted to tell him that I was not having a mental meltdown. I was in my right mind and not teetering on the edge of an emotional collapse.

I wanted to tell him all of that, but I was beginning to question it myself.

“Thanks,” was all I said as I accepted the card and then I watched him pull away. I looked at the card and then slipped it into my workbag next to a pile of brochures detailing mental health resources. I kept them handy to pass along to clients.

Once again, I'd overreacted. There's always a logical explanation for everything. Maybe the officer was right. As unlikely as it seemed, perhaps Laz had told Yvette or my mom that he was taking care of me, and one of the two had picked up my car to save me the hassle of trying to figure out how to get it back home. I'd given the extra key to my mom when I'd bought my car earlier in the year. I'd call to confirm and thank them later.

Admittedly, nothing about this version of possible events made sense, but I was determined not to jump to extreme conclusions. I didn't need to call anyone else right then. I would keep my crazy to myself, now feeling embarrassed about the entire exchange with the police officer.

And I also needed to start my workday. Something in my life had to be normal. I'd go to the post office another time, I decided, throwing the joy bag in the back seat. Abigail and company were not expecting anything from me anyway.

Perhaps regaining peace in my life was not going to be as easy as putting a package in the mail.

I knew that. I was simply desperate for a normalcy that continued to evade me.