“Had to change things up for a moment.”
“What is going on, Laz” I asked again. He sped deeper into Northern Virginia, signs for DC pointing the other way. “Where are we going?” The car bumped and jostled along.
“How was your trip?”
“Excuse me?” I looked at the side of his face and noticed his clenched jaw.
“Your trip to San Diego? How was it?” He cut me a look and my mouth fell open. “Well,” he continued, “aren’t you going to ask me how I know that you’re just coming back from San Diego?” He glared at me.
“Why should I ask you anything seeing that you haven’t answered a single one of my questions yet?” I kept a sharp edge in my tone, though something in my confidence suddenly felt disabled. How did he know where I had been?
“They’re following you.”
“What?” I looked over at him like he was crazy. His eyes were on the road. I still didn’t know where we were going, but wherever it was we were getting there in a hurry. “Who is ‘they?’”
“Homeland Security.”
“As in the whole department? Or just Camille.”
“Yeah, her. I mean, I don’t know what’s going on. She just told me that your phone is being tracked and your whereabouts are being monitored.”
“So she thinks there is something to my concerns about that man?”
“No, Sienna, she thinks you’re crazy.”
“That’s what she’s telling you?”
“No, actually she’s not telling me anything, but I don’t know why else she would have such a sudden interest in having your constant whereabouts monitored.” He stared intensely at his rearview mirror and changed lanes.
“And you call me the paranoid one,” I joked, but my heart began beating faster. What was going on? And why was Camille interested in the details of my life? I had my suspicions. Was she that intent on making me look like a fool to Laz? “I’m surprised you’re getting involved.” I studied him as his jaw clenched tighter. “Why did you pick me up and whisk me away? Are you sure my phone’s really being tracked, or is she just pulling your leg?”
“This isn’t a joke, Sienna. Your phone and everything you’ve done and accessed on it are now at full disclosure for the government to see. You’re my fiancée and you have my best source at Homeland Security sniffing your tail for unknown reasons. I just got offered a national news show—to host, not to be the headline story. This is not the way I’m trying start my new job.”
“Huh? Oh.” His scooping me up and away had nothing to do with me, I realized. This was about him, his reputation. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that; how to interpret that. “Well, do you even want to know why I was in San Diego?”
“I’m sure you have your reasons.” He rushed through his words. “Is my home number on your phone? Of course it is,” he muttered.
“Laz?” My lips, my heart tried to form a question. “Where are we going?” My voice shook as I whispered the only question I could ask out loud.
“There’s a place I stay not too far away from here when I need an escape. It’s nice, private. Away from it all. I need you to stay there until I smooth everything out. And I will. We don’t need all this attention on you. I can’t afford to have any confusion at this point in my career.”
“Of course. That wouldn’t be good for you.” I resisted rolling my eyes.
“For us.” He gave me a half smile and patted my hand, then stared intently at the highway in front of him. I looked out of the window, trying to remember what it was I’d wanted Laz to help me with, what it was I’d wanted to say.
“Can you get an interview with the wife?”
“What?”
“Jamal Abdul’s wife, Keisha. Can you interview her? Doesn’t she live here in Northern Virginia? I have some questions I need her to answer.”
“Sienna, did you hear anything I said just now? Are you paying attention to what is going on? I’m trying to get you off grid and out of the attention of authorities, but you seem determined to keep playing detective. Leave it alone, please, Sienna. It’s not cute anymore.”
“Cute? You think I’m aiming for cute?”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not what I meant. Poor word choice. Heroism. That’s what you’re aiming for. You have a hero complex. You need to feel like you are saving somebody. It’s a lovely quality, but right now it’s getting in the way of your common sense. They have a suspect in custody. There is nobody else you can save from the terror attack.”
“Hero complex?” Heroism. The word struck me. “Are you serious? Does this go back to your whole belief that I made the wrong career choice?”
“We’re not getting into that right now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. We’re only focused on your job and your dreams. I’m just a lost woman who got sidetracked onto a career path—a successful career path, mind you—all because I chased some man around the world. And the answer to that mistake is now to drop everything I’ve worked for and achieved and chase another man all the way down to Atlanta.”
“You are completely taking my words out of context.”
“Well, I don’t know how else to take them.”
“We’re not talking about this right now.”
“So, you not only decide what I’m going to do with my own life, you even decide when I can talk about it.”
“Sienna, there is a lot going on. This is not the time.”
“Then I guess it’s not the time to tell you that I saw RiChard.”
“Nope, this isn’t the time. We will talk about your trip to San Diego later. We’re here now.” He screeched to a stop in front of a small ranch house that sat back on about a half acre of land.
“Did you even hear what I said? I saw RiChard.”
“And we’ll talk about it later. Let’s go.” He got out of the car and then opened my car door. Without waiting for me, he headed down a crumbling cement walkway to the front door of the home.
Was this man serious? I wanted to scream, holler, protest, tell Laz a thing or two; but instead I got out of the truck behind him.
Dated and worn, the small ranch house looked to be a far cry from the usual glitz and glamour that defined everything Laz bothered with. I was in a state of numb shock as I neared the home, but my emotions did not keep me from noticing the peeling green paint on the doorway and shutters, the rust around the porch’s red mailbox, the scuff marks on the metal screen door.
“I thought you said you were bringing me to a nice place.”
“It’s nice enough,” he murmured as he took out a key and opened the door. He checked to make sure the shades were drawn before he clicked on some lights.
The house was warm and stuffy but clean. Formal floral furniture filled the living room and the tiny kitchen had a chrome table and red vinyl chairs.
“And where exactly are we?” I looked at the walls covered with decorative plates. The end tables were covered with doilies. I searched for photos, portraits, but there were none.
“This is my family’s house. It was my grandmother’s, then my mother’s. Now I own the deed.”
“So this is where you came from?” I ran my hand over the dusty keys of an upright piano that sat in the dining room, looked at a framed quilt that hung on the foyer wall. “Let me find out that the urbane, professional Laz Tyson is really just a country boy from rural Virginia at heart. You’ve never talked much about your family. I know you spent your teen years in Baltimore with your father. What’s the story behind this house, your grandmother, your mother? Where are they? Who are they?”
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 t
o 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.
Chapter 38
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.
In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
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.
And now shall mine head be lifted up above mine enemies round about me: therefore will I offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; I will sing, yea, I will sing praises unto the Lord.
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.
Thou wilt shew me the path of life: in thy presence is fulness of joy; at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.
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.
Sacrifices of Joy Page 21