There were moments where concern threatened to upend her. It had been roughly two weeks since her meeting with the FBI. Since that raucous meeting, Smythe noticed when she was out and about a black SUV seemed to always drive in close proximity to her vehicle. It kept its distance, but it appeared to follow her wherever she went. On one occasion, she made a sudden left-hand turn and believed she lost the vehicle. Within minutes, however, the same SUV was two or three car lengths behind her.
One morning, Smythe sat in the baker’s shop, feeling a bit rattled that someone may be following her. She searched her memory and recalled her earlier conversation with the FBI agent. At that moment, she chose to assume the SUV’s driver was an agent assigned to protect her. The assumption, in a measured way, provided a certain level of comfort.
At least I’m safe.
The assumption bolstered her to move more freely about her community, and her fear, over time, abated. Funny thing about assumptions, though. Without the necessary confirming data, assumptions are often nothing more than the empty stories we tell ourselves.
*
* *
The following morning, a morning like any other, Smythe awoke, made her bed, walked to the gym, and ran eight miles. After showering, she decided to complete a few errands prior to delving into her studies, choosing to complete them at a locals’ favorite shopping area on Birch Avenue.
The Avenue, as it was aptly nicknamed, boasted several shops, including organic grocers, kitschy bookstores, outdoor cafes, clothing stores, and home décor outlets, providing the community with an eclectic shopping experience. Today, Smythe found it easy to check off her shopping list and lose herself for a few hours. She walked along a sidewalk in the developing urban district, located on the outskirts of the city’s downtown area, which sat nestled among river birch and oak trees. Although not in bloom during the winter months, the abundance of birch trees provides the passerby a leafy green canopy during the warmer months of the summer, and a spectacular show of burnished yellow foliage in the fall. This morning, as she trotted along the winding walkways, she smiled at the emerging wildflowers as they sat basking in the warmth of the morning sun’s rays.
Inside her favorite organic grocer, she meandered through the aisles. Unable to choose between two distinctly different bottles of red wine, she sprung for both. She paused to chat with a couple of store employees she had come to befriend. Both offered food recommendations, which were enough to satisfy her palate for an entire week.
After storing her groceries in her car, she ambled toward a sports clothier to find a couple of replacement running tops. Always in search of a deal, she found three tees for the price of two. Satisfied with the purchase, she returned to her car. She checked the time—11:00 a.m. It was fairly quiet for a weekday, which suited her. She raised her head to the sun. It took the chill from the air and was bright enough to beckon her to throw caution to the wind.
Play hooky for a few more hours…
Yet, in the next breath, she felt a low-level sense of fear develop. Something felt different. She stopped and peered around The Avenue. She watched as sparrows flew overhead, landing a few feet from her car, pecking at the newly planted ferns along the walkway. Billowy clouds drifted overhead, and a couple passed her. Young love, she thought as they strode away, giggling while holding hands. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary, yet the feeling persisted. She took in a deep breath and focused on a slow exhalation. Nothing shifted. Unable to shake a growing sense of dread, she nudged herself to return home.
Time to go. You’ll have plenty of time this weekend to goof off.
Smythe entered her car, pulled out of her parking space, and drove to the stoplight. She paired her phone to her car’s audio system while she sat waiting in the left turn lane and began to listen to a podcast she had started earlier.
This’ll do.
Seated in the passenger seat of a black SUV idling behind Smythe, Artie surveyed the area. Dressed in black khakis and a short sleeve black T-shirt covered by a windbreaker, she and one of her team members had walked a distance behind Smythe while she shopped. Yet, now, sitting in her vehicle, her central focus concerned Smythe’s vulnerability, unnerved that Smythe took so many risks moving about the city alone.
Artie scanned the area slowly from left to right. Two-story stores flanked either side of the street. A few pedestrians walked the sidewalk, entering and exiting department stores. What few vehicles there were on the road moved easily down The Avenue. Still, her senses were on high alert. Without warning, her intuition was confirmed. A gray SUV accelerated at a high speed, approaching the intersection from the opposite direction. As the red light turned green, she watched in astonishment as Smythe proceeded through the intersection and into harm’s way.
“What the hell is she doing, Dennis?!” Artie yelled. “Swing around her! Get between her and that truck!”
This is going to hurt, Artie thought.
The driver of the gray SUV approached the intersection and aimed his vehicle toward Smythe’s car. The driver rolled his window down, allowing his passenger an unobstructed view. Raising a gun, she pointed it in Smythe’s direction.
Unaware of the danger, Smythe quickly glanced to her right and continued to make her turn. She swept her eyes forward without seeing the present danger and entered the intersection. Then it registered.
Oh shit! I…
She gripped her steering wheel and jerked it hard to the left. With her foot still on the gas pedal, as if in slow motion, she felt herself losing control of her car, feeling it now beginning to balance on only its left wheels. Her shoulders stiffened, and she held her breath, closed her eyes, and braced for impact. The internal sensor control system warned her to brake. When she did not respond, it took over. Her car—now upright—came to an abrupt halt, causing her to slam her head against the top of the steering wheel. She heard the sickening wail of screeching tires and the grinding thump of fender against fender… yet she felt no impact.
Smythe lifted her head and glanced around. She watched as a woman opened the door of a black SUV—an SUV which now sat angled a few feet from her own, its back passenger side pushed in.
How did I not see that vehicle?
“I’m checking on her now!” Artie said. She jumped out of her SUV, both concern and fury etched across her face as she ran to the driver’s side of Smythe’s car.
Smythe pulled over to the right lane of a cross street, parking her car parallel to a fire hydrant. She unlocked her door and opened it. Attempting to compose herself, she reached across her console for her messenger bag. She became vaguely aware of the sound of running footsteps, and they sounded as if they were approaching her car. Her hands began to tremble, and her body grew cold. Beneath her growing panic, a single thought crept into her consciousness.
“You’re safe!”
Smythe turned her body toward the stranger before gently placing her fingertips over her temple. “What? What happened? Where did you come from? Didn’t I have the right of way?”
Artie pointed ahead to an SUV that had long sped away from the intersection. “That car attempted to ram you. I cut him off, and they hit the backside of my vehicle instead.” She eyed Smythe.
Out and about with a bounty on her head! Is she crazy?
“Are you hurt? What’s your name?”
One too many questions. “Smythe. My-my name is Smythe.”
“Smythe, are you hurt?”
“No, I don’t think so. I have my driver’s license as identification.”
“I don’t need your ID. Remain in your car for a minute.”
“What? No, I’m ok,” Smythe mumbled. She struggled to maintain focus. Her head began to throb, and she fought nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. Did this really just happen?
“Don’t tell me no!” Artie retorted. “Stay. In. The. Car!”
“Who are you?” Smythe barked. She winced in pain at the sound and tone of her voice.
“Now the gloves are off,” s
he grumbled. Don’t tell me no? Who does she think she is?
Without a word, Artie quickly and methodically inspected the exterior of Smythe’s car. She glowered from the SUV to the surrounding intersection. She bent low, inspecting the undercarriage of the car. She reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out a small handheld telescopic mirror, and continued her inspection. Reaching her hand under the rear bumper, she found what she was searching for.
She pried the object loose and eyed the small, flat piece of metal that lay in the palm of her hand. Her eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaw, quietly growling. She allowed the object to tumble from her fingertips, crushing it beneath her black boot.
Smythe watched as vehicles moved around the intersection.
Who the hell is she? What is she looking for? Whoever tried to hit me is long gone…
Return to Your Breath
“YOU’RE SAFE!”
Safe? The agent warned me of an impending threat. “Yet, I’m not safe,” Smythe mumbled, shuddering at the thought of the near accident.
Artie quickly approached the driver’s side of Smythe’s vehicle.
Her eyes narrowed and pierced those of her new client. “You’re safe now. We need to get you home and secured.”
Smythe’s trembling voice betrayed her. “Who-who are you?”
“My name is Artie.”
“I think—I think someone tried to kill me!”
“I know!” Artie snapped, her New York accent becoming more pronounced.
“I’ve been hired to keep you safe, which is no easy feat since you don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Running around town without a care in the world! Are you nuts?”
What?!
Moving around to the passenger side, Artie spoke into an unseen com unit.
“Team 1, I’m jumping into the client’s car. Move my vehicle and handle the police. Team 2, tuck in behind the client and stay close. We’ll meet at the client’s residence.”
“Wait. What? I don’t know you!”
Panicked at the thought of a complete stranger entering her car, Smythe reached to press her automatic door locks. Even so, Artie jumped into the passenger seat much too quickly for Smythe to react.
“Don’t worry. Just drive. I’ll explain along the way.”
“No, wait. I need—”
“Just. Drive. Look, I know you’re scared, but ya gotta trust me. I am not here to hurt you, nor am I going to take you to a safe house. Drive home. Just drive home. Now!”
Smythe stared blankly at the stranger. Ok. She’s obviously FBI. She’s not going to force me into a safe house. I can go home. Just breathe, Smythe, just breathe.
“Drive home,” Smythe muttered.
“Yeah, just drive home.”
Reluctant toward any forward movement, Smythe slowly turned her wheels. She glanced through her rearview mirror, assessing the damage of the stranger’s dented vehicle. She wondered what damage had occurred to her own—a new pearl white, mid-sized, all-wheel-drive SUV. It was her baby. Coming directly from the manufacturer’s assembly line, with just nine miles on the odometer, she waited two months until the dealer found the vehicle matching her request.
“Is there any damage to my car?”
“No damage, but mine is pretty banged up—thank you for asking.”
Embarrassed she hadn’t asked out of concern for the stranger’s vehicle, Smythe glanced sheepishly toward Artie, gently nodding her head.
“Relax. My team’ll take care of it. Keep driving.”
“P-please. Who… who are you? You’re with the FBI, ri-right?”
Stop it; she’s friendly, Smythe reminded herself, as she worked to quell her stutter, which happened when she felt extreme fear.
“My name is Artie. We kinda met in the FBI building a few weeks back. I’ve been hired to protect you so that you can testify.”
Similar to the narrow focus of her everyday life, Smythe missed the grander dance of the world around her. And she missed the Universe’s direction. Go, stop, pause. If she would only but pay attention to its melody. But in the here-now moment, a moment where all are called to remain in the present without the internal chatter of one’s thoughts, she became too narrowly focused on every word from this stranger, barely avoiding cross-traffic as she drove through a red light.
“Hey! Hey! Pay attention to the road, Smythe.”
“I’m sorry. I-I’m more shaken than I thought. I’m not sure I want to go home. I don’t know… I don’t know you or that I can trust you. I-I want to, but maybe we should go to the FBI?”
Maybe I should pull over and run the hell out of my car.
“You’re still too exposed.” Artie gritted her teeth, taking in a deep breath before looking over at her new client. She watched as Smythe sat grimacing and squinting her eyes at the sunlight, her hands tightly squeezing the steering wheel.
“Do you have sunglasses in the car?”
“No, I left them at home, I think.”
“Ok. Listen and try to relax,” Artie gently encouraged her. “You live at 15 South Greenhurst Drive, Unit 552 on the ground floor. You park your car in front of your unit, which faces out to the parking lot. I know this because once you refused WitSec, I was hired to protect you. I get that you want freedom in your life, but right now, that life of freedom may cost you your life.
“I’ve been tailing you for the last two and a half weeks. You seem somewhat aloof—reclusive even, but when out and about, you’re charismatic, funny, and thoughtful. You seem to have a lot of peoples’ backs, and a lot of people seem to have yours. And right now, I’m going to need you to have mine.”
Smythe heard the compliment but dismissed it. She did that thing she does, always does—she felt sorry for herself. Instead of receiving the kind words, all she felt was shame. Shame because she did not listen to the FBI agent who warned of a threat to her life. And shame because she sat in the parking lot alone at such a dangerous hour.
It was a ghost of a similar feeling she held in high school so many years ago. The African American group of kids at school would not accept her—they considered her skin too light and her hair too straight. For the white kids, her skin was too brown and her hair too curly. Besides, her perfectly round-looking glasses were just too nerdy, her grades too good, her voice too quiet and unsteady. Over time, she developed an intensely flawed belief she was something to be ashamed of and that her decision-making skills were just as flawed as she was. Shame.
Smythe blinked away the tears. She settled into her driving and thought about the signals that caused her to make the decisions she had made up until now. The first step in changing anything is to know and accept that you have chosen it to be what it is. I have to accept what’s in this moment.
God, what’s causing all of this mess?
I caused this. I can’t blame this on anyone. I cannot even complain about it. I didn’t go into witness protection like the agent said. God, Smythe. What were you thinking?!
Smythe took in a breath.
Not helpful. Stop blaming.
Why? Why didn’t you listen to the agent? Now, look. A complete stranger is sitting in your car!
Smythe clenched her jaw and continued to drive. She looked out at the rolling hillside and wondered at the beauty of nature. The trees seem to stand majestically in place, reaching up toward the heavens. Are they without a care?
A deep knowing floated to the surface of her consciousness.
“Trust.”
She caught the gentle thought in her heart and leaned forward as if to listen more clearly. It was hard for her to explain to anyone her understanding of the thought and where it came. So, she didn’t try. It was too personal. But in her heart of hearts, she knew it came from her Beloved.
Raised as a Methodist, Smythe’s early experience of God—or Beloved, as she’d now grown to know—had only added to her experience with shame. The God she was raised to believe in was a God to be feared. It was a God of judgment and retribution. God,
to her, was a Being who hated anything that wasn’t white, male, Christian, and heterosexual.
While attending university, her fear of God continued. In order to gather a more rounded understanding of this God she feared so much, she attended a variety of diverse religious gatherings, interviewing leaders and laypeople of many faiths. In the end, she realized many of them knew of God, but few had an experience with God. Smythe desperately wanted an experience. And so, quite simply, she started to ask questions of the grumpy God in the sky. Out loud.
Some would call it serendipity, but Smythe knew better. Her Beloved came through and answered her questions. It was hard for her to express how she knew it was the Spirit of God, but she had an inner knowing. At first, she would hear and feel the answer deep within her spirit. Yet, she wanted and needed outside confirmation without any forced effort on her part. So, her Beloved met her where she was. Through a book she by “happenstance” came across, or perhaps a comment someone would offer, she would often hear an internal comment, saying, “Here is the answer to your question.” Her questions were constantly answered without her ever revealing aloud to anyone what her initial, private question had been. And it was life-changing.
“Learn to trust.”
Yet, the egoic part of herself that loves to blame, complain, and shame her roared its voice and highjacked her thinking.
Think, Smythe. Think.
A frown formed around the corners of her mouth.
What did you think would happen? We’re you just going to pretend everything was normal—that everything was going to be ok?! Whether you like it or not, you are a part of this murder mess now. Stop denying your responsibility!
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