After another five minutes passed, I looked over at him and smiled. “Again, I will listen to you whenever you are ready to talk. No rush, no worries.”
He kept his eyes on me. His smile was gone and his expression was unreadable. I turned back to my desk.
Another five minutes of silence passed. Finally:
“So this is how you have a conversation?” The irritation in his voice was unmistakable, though his face remained unreadable.
I stopped typing, spun my desk chair around to face him, but stayed silent.
When another minute or two passed and nothing else was said, he got up from his seat and headed toward the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see if you are ready to talk, but I’m not paying you until we have a conversation.” He shoved my office door opened and marched down the hallway.
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t want his money anyway, that I did not have time in my schedule to see him tomorrow, that I wanted him to leave and never come back.
But this man obviously needed some kind of psychiatric help, and one of the first rules I held to as a clinician was to meet the client where he or she was.
He was out of my office and out of the clinic front door before I had a chance to respond.
“Darci.” I turned to my right-hand helper the moment the door closed behind him. “Did he tell you his name?”
“No, I didn’t ask.” She was focused on her computer screen. “I just gave him the usual face sheet we give all newcomers.” She pointed to one of the waiting room chairs. “Looks like he left it over there. Also, he said something about talking to you personally regarding his payment arrangements. Let me know what kind of co-pay you need me to collect from him next time. Is he going to call to schedule his next appointment?”
I missed all she said, focusing only on a paper-packed clipboard that sat in an empty seat next to where the man had been waiting. He hadn’t written down a single word on any of the pages of the registration packet.
But he had drawn a picture.
A window.
Using black ink, a detailed picture of a window with striped curtains filled the corner of the top sheet. He’d also drawn a cat perched on its wide sill.
Odd, but worth keeping, I decided, and I slipped the sheet of paper into a folder along with a note about his “name” and “identity.”
“Do you want me to file that?” Darci looked up from her work and pointed to the folder in my hand.
“No, I’m holding on to this one.”
“Mmmm. Sounds juicy.” Darci giggled. “I’m just kidding. I’m a professional. Just a lonely, semi-desperate professional.” She giggled, but then quickly sobered at my silence. “A professional who has enough sense to not get involved with a client,” she added.
No, especially not this one! I wanted to scream. My head hurt as the beginning of a migraine rapped on the top of my skull. It was nearly five p.m. Though I’d only worked half a day, I felt like I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift. “I’m going home now, Darci, but I’ll be in early tomorrow.”
When I left the building ten minutes later, I felt off-kilter, unbalanced. Very few clients I’d worked with left me with that feeling. In fact, one of the last times I felt like this was when I’d engaged in a couple’s counseling session a few years ago with a man and woman who had more secrets, dead bodies, and high crimes in their past than I cared to know. Got kidnapped and nearly killed because of it, because of them.
That had been the beginning of the end.
Right after dealing with their drama, I’d found out the truth about RiChard, lost Leon for good, and Roman started looking up colleges in San Diego.
Too much to think about on a Monday evening.
I knew as I started the engine of my lost and found Accord where I was heading next. Though I knew I’d face a lecture about my waning church attendance, I also knew I’d get a hot meal with few questions about what was really bothering me.
My mother wasn’t into details and sob stories. She just wanted to make sure I was living right.
Chapter 16
“Jerk chicken. Fried plantains. Curried sweet potato soup.” My mother, Isabel Davis, lifted the lids to each pot on her stove and let me inhale the mouthwatering scented steam. “Your father said he was in a Caribbean mood tonight. I hope that means he is finally giving thought to taking me on that cruise I’ve been hinting about.”
My mother didn’t give hints. Only commands. I chuckled to myself.
True to expectations, she’d had no questions for me when I showed up at her front door. As soon as I was in her living room, she’d pushed me to the kitchen, clanging through pots and pans, showing me herbs, rubs, and spices, and explaining her approach to that night’s dinner. Her questions about my spiritual life would come later, I knew, but at the moment she was making sure my soul and stomach were fed.
“Taste this.” She stuck a spoon of the soup into my mouth before I could object.
“It’s good.” I nodded. “Really good.” It was.
“Go set the table. Yvette’s coming over too.”
I was almost forty years old and my little sister was thirty-seven; and yet, my mother still treated both of us like we were her little girls.
Too tired, weary, and frazzled to challenge her, I quietly obliged.
“These terrorists are something,” she huffed.
The silverware in my hands clattered onto her hardwood floor. “Sorry, Mom,” I mumbled as she gave me a sideways glance before tending to the jerk chicken.
Why was I so jumpy?
I knew why, but I had no rational reason to believe what screamed inside of me.
I don’t believe in belief itself. That man had said those words to me during our first conversation. A perplexing statement, an unsettling proclamation, but not necessarily the words of a cold-hearted terrorist.
A suspect was already in custody, I reminded myself.
“I’m sorry, Sienna.” My mother studied me as she stirred her pot of soup one final time. “I forgot that you were at the airport just before it happened. Roman called here in a panic worrying about you. Your father and I didn’t even know you were flying out to San Diego. Was it a good trip?”
That would be the most she would ask me about RiChard and his other family.
“Good enough.”
That would be the most I would answer.
The television boomed in the basement and my father sat watching it from his favorite armchair. Coverage of the attack at BWI continued. I curled up on their old leather loveseat that faced the same.
“Anything new, Dad?”
“I don’t believe this brother.” My father shook his head. A longtime truck driver for a bakery in Little Italy, he still had on his work uniform. He must have come into the house, marched straight to the basement, and plopped right down in front of CNN. “He had it all,” my father continued, “nice family, great job, lots of money, and a future with even more good things in store. Then he blows it all up, literally, and for what?”
For what? The question echoed in me and something clicked. In all my doubts, confusion, gut feelings, and anxiety, I’d never stopped to ask the question why.
Tragedies of this magnitude rarely ever have a defined reason or explanation, but motives and intentions are usually exposed. I’d assumed, as I was sure the rest of the nation had, that with a name like Jamal Abdul, the motive was one based in religious radicalism. Had something else come to light?
“Are there any reports about . . . the suspect’s motives for the attack?” I asked slowly, not sure why the potential answer worried me. My father’s eyes were glued to the television set.
“Nope. That’s what we’re all trying to figure out.” He spoke like he was part of the investigation team.
“Does it have anything to do with his beliefs?” I didn’t know how else to ask.
My father looked at me for the first time since I’d come into his lair. “Well, considering that his fellow church members at
First Unity Baptist Church have been weeping on television about how good a teens ministry leader he was, I’m not sure that’s the case, but who knows? We make a lot of assumptions about people these days.”
He turned back to the TV, opened a can of soda before continuing. “They say he had recently reconnected with his father, who happens to be an imam in his community, and that he was planning a trip with him to Sudan to visit family members. Not sure what that tells us, but that’s what some of these television networks are focusing on.”
I thought about the woman in the hotel yesterday and the sweeping allegations we all tend to make based on color, ethnicity, and creed. And I felt shame. Can it really be that simple, to peg people into categories without knowing their story, without knowing more than surface facts we pick and choose to discover about their lives?
Can we really make assumptions about others without knowing their true relationship status with The Way, The Truth, and The Life?
“I’m going back upstairs, Dad.” I sighed. “Sounds like Mom is putting the food on the table.”
He dismissed me with a grunt, his eyes still glued to the television.
“Dad?” I paused on the steps. “Do you think they have the right person in custody?” I had to ask to quiet the battle within me.
“Of course.” He didn’t hesitate. “They have the best resources, intelligence, and knowledge to not waste time on the wrong guy. They just have to figure out the why and the how, that’s all.”
The why and the how. I knew right then that until those questions were firmly answered, my doubts were not going to go away.
As far as I was concerned, there was still the possibility, albeit small, that the man I’d met in the airport, and who had sat in my office today speaking gibberish, could be behind the attack.
Listen to what you are telling yourself, Sienna. Gibberish. The man had not been capable of making sense. Of course he wasn’t capable of pulling off one of the few terrorists attacks on this country since 9/11. And what would be his why and how? He was nothing more than a client who had severe delusions and psychiatric needs, I told myself again and again. I was a therapist, and I was going to help him.
But why was convincing myself that he was harmless this much of a fight?
I sat down at the table with my parents: my father’s usual quiet accented by a somberness I knew came from him trying to make sense of the explosion; my mother abuzz with all things Caribbean and dropping more not-so-subtle hints about her cruise dreams; and me trying to pretend, as always, that I was okay.
And then my sister showed up at the door with a bigger smirk on her face than usual. I knew right then my act was going to come to a quick close.
Chapter 17
“We set a date,” she announced as she waved the gaudy, probably fake engagement ring she’d been wearing on her left hand for the past two years.
Her latest “boo,” as she called him, had stuck around longer than most and seemed intent on binding himself to Yvette’s chaotic life. I had nothing against Demari. Indeed, the fact that he held a job and had his own apartment put him head and shoulders above the usual riffraff my sister tended to gravitate to. He even seemed to be the one who’d gotten Yvette more active in church over the past couple of years. However, he was attracted to my sister and all the craziness her life entailed, including the constant drama wrought by her five children and their fathers, the ones who were still alive. His attraction to her alone made him suspicious.
“May third,” she voiced triumphantly as she sat down at the table, but then looked at me with slight concern.
Does she think I’m jealous of her? I noticed that both my parents were eyeing me as well. Though no one questioned me about my love life anymore, I’d noticed that both my parents and my sister seemed to step lightly around me when the subject of relationships and marriage arose.
None of them had ever really asked me about RiChard.
Or exactly what had happened with Leon.
“We’re not doing anything really big,” Yvette stated almost apologetically as she piled her plate high with plantains. “Pastor McKinney agreed to marry us after communion service next First Sunday.”
“That’s in three weeks.” My father raised an eyebrow. “Why the rush? Are you pregnant again?” Each word he said was louder than the next.
“Of course not.” She laughed. “Demari and I committed to celibacy last year and we’ve been true to our promise. We were out at the movies on Saturday when word came about the terrorist attack. We got to talking about it and the brevity of life and decided it didn’t make sense to wait anymore. God gave us each other. Might as well make ‘us’ official.”
Brevity? Since when did Yvette use words like brevity?
I wasn’t jealous that Yvette had found her equal. The part of me that cared was happy for her, though another part of me was hurt for her. It would be just a matter of time before things turned sour between them. Heartbreak was inevitable.
I listened to my line of thinking and realized I needed to do a reality check. Just because my romantic experiences had turned south didn’t mean that hers would too, although I’d made better life choices, had a better education, lived in a better neighborhood, and my son wasn’t in jail.
Listen to me! I heard the checklist of my supposed superiority going off in my mind, as if I deserved better since I’d lived better. But didn’t I deserve better than Yvette? This waging war within me made me feel uncomfortable. And ashamed. Since when had I become so judgmental?
And bitter.
God is no respecter of persons. His mercy covers a multitude of sins. We’re saved by His grace, not our own merits. Faith, not works, is the key that unlocks His generous promises toward us. A sermon I’d listened to online flashed through my head. Instead of comfort, the message made me feel concern. I realized something about myself in that moment. Despite my successes, somewhere on my life’s path, I was failing.
And failing badly.
One look at the joy on my sister’s face told me that loud and clear.
“Congratulations, Yvette,” I heard myself say. I think I even smiled. Whatever act I put on appeared to work. I noted a collective exhale at the table. Yvette had tears in her eyes.
“Thank you, sis.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “It means a lot coming from you. And don’t worry, who knows what will happen with you and . . . Laz.”
Laz!
What did it mean that I had not had a single thought about him or even considered that he had proposed to me just yesterday? What did it mean that I had no pressing desire to share with my family his proposal and his offered opportunity to move with him to Atlanta? It hadn’t crossed my mind even after Yvette mentioned how her wedding date was motivated by the terrorist attack. Laz had quoted the same motivation during his proposal, or whatever that was he offered last night.
I kept the smile on my face but stood up from the table. “Dinner was really good, Mom, but I need to start heading back across town.”
I needed to call Laz, and not even about the proposal, I realized. Remembering him made me recall that he was supposed to talk to his source about my fears that they had the wrong suspect.
I really am not thinking straight. I shook my head. That sounded ridiculous even to me.
“I’ll talk with you later, everyone.” My parents and sister were engrossed in details about wedding plans and barely acknowledged my departure.
I was fine with that.
I didn’t want any questions, comments, or stares.
“So, have you considered my proposal?” Laz answered on the first ring. I’d waited until I was home to call. Nothing like handling difficult conversations from the comfort of your favorite lounger with a heavy comforter wrapped tightly around you.
“I’m not ready to talk about that.”
“Okay, what’s up?” The syrup left his voice and we were all business.
“Did you talk to your person?”
&nb
sp; “Huh?”
“Your source in Homeland Security?”
There was a pause. Then, “Yes.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“No, Laz, I mean, what happened? What did he say? What did you say?” That I have a nutcase of a friend who thinks you have done a completely wrong investigation and she has singlehandedly figured out who is the real bombing suspect. I shut my eyes, realizing that I had never fully thought through what Laz would say about me or my claims.
“Well, I said that I have a friend who was at the airport just before the explosion, and that this friend had a conversation with someone who made them feel uncomfortable and that this friend wondered if any additional people or witnesses needed to be interviewed.”
“And?”
“You can put your mind at ease, Sienna. The government is not looking for any additional suspects. As you can imagine, they have pretty solid evidence that this Jamal Abdul they have in custody is the one who most likely planted the bomb.”
“Most likely?”
“Yes, most likely, Sienna. This is America, remember? Everyone has a right to proclaim their innocence. There’s no guilt until a jury or judge says so.”
“Of course,” I acquiesced. “I guess you think I’m crazy, huh?” I tried to let out a small chuckle but my windpipe felt like it was being squeezed shut.
“You’re not crazy. Traumatized. Worried. Terrorized, really. That’s why I am trying to help you. Let this one go, Sienna. It’s okay to do that now.”
“I talked to him today. That man came to my office for a session.”
There was another pause. “And?”
Sacrifices of Joy Page 9