“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 would
n’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?”
“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.
Chapter 12
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.
1. You enjoy eating red velvet cupcakes.
2. Your mother works as a top administrator for the Baltimore City Public School System.
3. You celebrated your son’s eighteenth birthday last year by taking him on a Harbor Cruise.
4. Your favorite color is purple.
5. You enjoy creating artwork and frequenting museums and galleries.
“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 nea
r 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.
Glad you made it home safely, Mom. I’m sorry about the weekend. I love you. I WILL talk to you soon. Love, Roman
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.
Sacrifices of Joy Page 7