“No disrespect taken. I’m not sensitive about my mixed race or my skin tone. I’m proud of it. Proud as an African American and proud as a Navajo. By the way, I didn’t check the box under African American.”
“That figures.”
“So, answer the question. Is there enough room for both care of another and self-care?”
“I’ve been working on that,” Smythe softly replied. “Once my dad died, I thought for a minute about moving back in with my mom. I mean, she has this huge house—you’ve seen it. But it didn’t land well in my spirit. Living alone was a far better self-care option for me.”
“That’s a great start. What else are you doing?”
“Well, as you know, I am working out. Hadn’t done it as much as I wanted to. Ever since Dad started to go downhill, it was work: go to their house, come here, eat, sleep, repeat. Which, by the way, I am late. I gotta hit the treadmill since a certain someone will not allow me the luxury of running outdoors.”
Smythe bounced off the sofa into the direction of her bedroom. It struck her as she stood up that her energy was different. It wasn’t only relief she felt, but also validation. To have someone who cared about her and believe her felt freeing. In that moment, Smythe experienced another truth: the infusion of soulful truth-telling is impactful and releases the soul from its prison.
“Do you want coffee before we go?” Artie called after Smythe.
“Yes, please. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Artie quickly changed into workout attire and running shoes. She then poured two cups of coffee into two small thermoses. As Smythe came out from the bedroom, Artie handed her a thermos.
“Coconut milk and sugar for you.”
“Thank you. Is the team ready?”
“Yep. Let’s go.” Artie opened her com set and informed her teams she and Smythe were on the move.
“Team 1, we’re exiting the apartment.”
Once Smythe, Artie, and her team arrived at the fitness center, the team swept the area. As usual, the gym was empty. Given permission to enter, Smythe walked in and climbed onto her favorite treadmill. She pulled up her favorite running playlist on her phone, a mix of contemporary gospel music with a smattering of Indie Arie, Pharrell Williams and Israel Kamakawiwo’ole thrown in.
“How many miles today?”
“Seven,” replied Smythe. “Easy tempo.”
Artie nodded and spoke into her com. She had devised a numbering system to signal to her team the number of miles Smythe was running and her pace. It allowed them to gauge the time she would be exposed. In this case, “the lucky number times 10.”
“Copy that.”
As Smythe settled into the rhythm of her pace, she allowed her mind to wander between her conversation with Artie and people in general. She thought about how her mother had toed the line, not pursued her career interests; how people in general tended to simply toe the line of societal norms, allowing their dreams to die in order to fit in.
Was that it? Was that what Mom was trying to do when she disowned me because I spoke the truth? Was she afraid that if people found out, she would be ostracized? What had the baker once said?
“When people get to know us, there are some who want us to change in order to be more like them. If we resist, they become belligerent. It is as if they know what is best for us. So many nosies seems to know what is best for us and refuse to give us credit for knowing what is best for ourselves. You cannot allow that to happen along your journey.”
Or maybe she knew the truth and felt guilty herself because she didn’t/couldn’t protect me. If she chose to leave Dad, one could only assume she may have had to struggle economically to build the life she wanted for herself and her kids. Why wasn’t she willing to do that?
Smythe continued to patter through her miles while Artie worked through a weight training routine. She glanced at Artie as she conducted bicep curls.
How could she lift that much weight?
Smythe completed her run, and the team returned to her apartment. Once she was out of the bathroom, it was Artie’s turn. She ran a bath and settled into it to soak away the conversation she held with Smythe.
So much abuse, so much heartache for this woman.
She slid deep into the bathwater. When will we have our fill of it all?
Tears filled Artie’s eyes, and a deep heartache settled into her soul. It was then that her heart burst open and sang. Its melody was one of love for Smythe. It was not a love borne out of pity. Nope. Not out of pity. That would not serve either of them. This love was steady, strong, and enduring. It was a love that had developed over time. It was a love she did not actively seek, but sought after her. She soaked and wondered about the God Smythe loved. Artie did not necessarily believe in God, but she did not believe in coincidences either.
“And the intricacy of the garden that this God she calls her Beloved is tilling,” she said aloud. “If you are real, what are you doing? And why?” She took a gulp of air before submerging herself in the warm water.
Willing herself to remain objective, she continued to remain submerged. Yet, as she slowly rose from the water’s depths, something shifted within her. She could feel a gentle presence around and through her. It was if an outstretched hand reached into her body and pulled out all of the hesitation she held to pursuing a relationship with Smythe. With the outstretched palm holding her hesitation, she sensed the hesitation had dissolved into mist and floated gently away from her. The only feeling that remained… was love.
Smythe sat in the dining room and opened her tablet to study. Time was slipping away from her as the second conference was fast approaching. As she opened up a video module, flashes of her favorite aunt occupied her thoughts.
Why in the world are you in my thoughts, Auntie?
After several minutes of distraction, she closed her laptop, allowing whatever thoughts that wanted to surface to do so.
Artie emerged from the bathroom wearing a white T-shirt and khaki slacks. With much love and admiration, she observed Smythe for just a moment. Yet, as much as she wanted to wrap Smythe in her arms for the rest of the day, she knew now was not the time.
“Having trouble studying?”
“What? Oh, no. I mean, yes. I guess. I was thinking about my aunt. I guess it was all the abuse stuff that brought it up.”
“Was this your dad’s sister?” Artie asked as she walked into the kitchen. “You hungry?”
“Yes, and yes. She was well into her adult years when she discovered that she had dyslexia. Growing up, she had always had trouble learning. Her father used to spank and yell at her because she wasn’t learning at the same pace as her sisters and brother. It was almost as if Grandpa was trying to yell and punish the ‘stupid out of her,’ as my mom recounted to me. It was a phrase my aunt had used.
“Yet Auntie was so smart. She could have been a mechanical engineer. She understood the way things worked so easily, but she never had the opportunity to pursue higher education. By the time she was an adult, she had such low self-esteem. So, instead of college, she married out of high school. It didn’t last, though. She divorced my uncle and found work as a janitor and then a housekeeper to support herself. She remained a housekeeper until her death, about 20 years ago.”
“Wow, she died young.”
“Yeah, she had cancer and didn’t seek medical help until it was too late. But, as I reflect on her life, I am astounded at how we as a people don’t allow the gift of others to emerge. If ‘they’ don’t act like us, walk like us, dress like us, think like us—anything like us, they’re ridiculed, deemed unworthy of the very air they breathe and often summarily dumped into the trash heap!” Smythe yelled, her fury taking her by surprise. She paused for a moment.
“I just don’t understand. We’re all different, Artie. There is not a person on the planet that doesn’t have a gift to offer the world. But so many don’t have the opportunity.
“They’re often traumatized out of living out their full potential.
And let’s not even bring race, privilege, or religion into the mix. Some people make it, but so many do not. She didn’t. Today, people would have called it emotional abuse. Just like spanking. It’s now called child abuse, even. I agree, mind you. There is no reason to hit anyone, nor is there a reason to belittle someone every day. Don’t let me keep going on about this. Thinking about her and others like her—I just become so enraged.” Smythe looked down at her hands. She had unconsciously balled them into fists.
“See what I mean?!” she said, raising a fist in front of her.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Smythe. A great deal of my clients are underprivileged, and they’re up against the advantaged; those of us, and I include myself, as granted benefits and entitlement simply because of the color our skin. Yet, this I also know, that while it’s infuriating—heart-wrenching even—the steps that people like you and I make, those little steps toward loving humanity, those steps over time… they make a difference. I won’t stay mad, but I will stay focused.”
Smythe nodded her head in agreement.
The Expression of God
A FEW GOOD WEEKS TICKED THROUGH THE CALENDAR YEAR FOR Smythe, and she felt more at peace. She continued to write, had secured a couple of corporate clients, and conducted several half-day workshops. After a particularly busy week, Smythe looked forward to Saturday. Like most Saturdays, this was the only day Artie would allow her to drive, albeit with a security detail following her.
After completing their normal workout routine, Artie and Smythe both showered, dressed, and stopped by the baker’s shop where they picked up their usual malasadas and coffee. From the bakery, the caravan traveled the 25 minutes it would take to get to Smythe’s parents’ home. The caravan stopped a block away, allowing Smythe to trade places with the driver of her vehicle. She drove the rest of the way to her mother’s home while the security detail stationed themselves inconspicuously amongst the homes in the neighborhood, yet still within clear eyesight of Smythe’s family residence.
After greeting her mother, Smythe, who was always wired, gave a code word indicating that all was well in the home. She carried on a pleasant conversation with her mom before the two went off for their weekly breakfast outing. From there, she ran errands with her mother before returning to her parent’s home. For the remainder of the afternoon, they sat chatting and watching a movie or two. This was how the normal routine played out, week after week since her father’s death.
However, this Saturday, the day before the six-month anniversary of her father’s death, Smythe’s mother delivered an emotional blow she didn’t see coming.
With their first movie playing, Smythe was peacefully lounging on the family room sofa when her mother walked up behind her.
“Here, I want to give this to you. It is an old letter your father wrote after you accused him of—well, you should read it. I found it when I was cleaning out his armoire. I told you that he had a year’s worth of stuff just piled into it. You just need to know you were the apple of his eye, and he loved you very much.”
Smythe turned around and took the letter from her mother’s outstretched hand. As she held the letter, her vision became tunneled. She could feel her heart pounding through the walls of her chest, cold settling in the pit of her stomach as her hand began to shake. She glanced at the letter and quickly shoved it into her pants pocket before turning around to continue watching the movie they had started. Neither of them spoke.
Smythe’s hands were balled into a fist inside her pants pocket. She could not help but wonder what the letter contained, but the tone of her mother’s voice seemed to hint at an accusation. They both remained silent until the end of the movie.
After the movie ended, Smythe gathered her messenger bag and groceries, hugging her mother goodbye before quickly heading out the door. She met Artie a few houses down and asked if she could simply drive home alone. Artie, although wary of such a request, consented. On the way home, Smythe stopped at a gas station, followed by two of her security detail. She hadn’t smoked in months, yet she purchased a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Once the security detail was back in their car, they spoke to Artie on her com link.
“Boss. I think there’s trouble. She purchased a pack of cigarettes.”
“What!?”
With bone-chilling fear coursing through her slender frame, Smythe returned to her car and drove to the nearest strip mall and parked. There she opened up the pack, took a cigarette out, and with her hands trembling, lit it before shoving her hand into her pants pocket to retrieve the letter.
Artie, seated in the front passenger seat of Team 2’s vehicle, watched Smythe intently. She sensed something was very wrong, and it was clear that the paper Smythe held in her hand was emotional dynamite.
After several minutes and another cigarette, Smythe signaled the team that she was driving and headed home. Once home, she feigned a headache and made a beeline for her bedroom. In her bedroom closet, she opened the second drawer of her clothing chest and reached toward the back of it. Tears in her eyes, her hand—the same hand that held her fathers’ letter—now found what she was looking for.
She held the bottle in one hand and unscrewed the lid with her other, shaking out three pills as she laid the bottle on her bedside table. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed an open bottle of wine. Smythe popped the pills into her mouth and nearly downed the other half the bottle before Artie walked in and gently pulled it from her.
“What’s wrong, baby?”
With tears in her eyes, Smythe said, “Nothing that this bottle won’t solve in the moment.”
“I don’t believe that. C’mon—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Artie, not now. If you don’t mind, I just need time to process a bit.”
In reality, Smythe was well on her way down an emotional rabbit hole. Her inward dialogue started to consume her.
Why would she hand me this letter? Did she need to make a statement?
And why all of this talk about God. He was no saint. Who is he to talk about whether I believe in God or not?! I’ve never even talked to that asshole about that. Maybe—maybe, God’s punishing me. Maybe I’m just as bad as they’ve always said I was. Maybe I am evil. Why would she do this?
Smythe was unreachable; her mind completely cluttered with self-doubt and loathing. It was now late afternoon, and evening was fast approaching. Her heart shattered, she spoke very little, barely mustering up enough energy to keep busy with chores to complete around her apartment. Artie made several attempts toward small talk, but Smythe remained closed-lipped whenever Artie attempted to coax her into talking about the letter.
For Artie, timing could not be worse. She received an unexpected call from her FBI contact Carole, requesting an emergency meeting. The trial was being moved up, and a credible threat had been made against Smythe’s life.
“Can it wait? Something is up with the client here.”
“No, Artie. I need to see you. Now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Artie, just get here as soon as you can. I need to share something with you.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
“I’ll leave now.”
Artie prepared to leave, yet an uneasiness began to settle into her body. She couldn’t pinpoint whether it was Smythe’s unusually solemn disposition or her upcoming conversation with Carole. All she knew for certain was that she felt overwhelming danger and fear—two emotions she wouldn’t have normally allowed herself to entertain. All of the reasoning she offered to herself would not abate a heightened sense of both emotions; therefore, out of an abundance of caution, she chose a security detail to accompany her to the meeting.
This case is too volatile for second-guessing.
Artie notified Dennis of her meeting as well as her concern. He posted teams outside Smythe’s apartment and assigned a third team to escort Artie to the FBI building.
*
* *
I don’t just need to think. I’m sick and tired of thinking. Sick and tired of it all.
With Artie out of the apartment, Smythe downed another four pills and finished the last of the bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen countertop.
Time seemed to pass slowly. Smythe stood motionless in the doorway of her bedroom as her feelings rose like the waves of an angry ocean tossed about, going under and under and under again.
Smythe’s inner voice began to speak. I understand now why people don’t cry out for help. People all around me—friends, colleagues, acquaintances—all of them. They only see a façade. How could they think of me as strong, confident, brave even? It’s the furthest thing from the truth. It’s just time to end this, I think.
I wonder. I wonder about people who take their lives. Those left behind have often said, “If only they could have reached out for help.”
Don’t they know? Don’t they understand the shame we feel? We’re supposed to have it all together. Certainly, I’m not supposed to contemplate taking my own life. I’m supposed to be highly functional. I’ve got everything going for me. Survival of the fittest, right? Top of the evolutionary chain, at least in wisdom. I’m the “why would she take her life” kind of person.
Smythe sneered a chuckle and burst into tears as panic began to overwhelm her.
I really am mentally ill. She was right all along.
I need to leave. I need to leave. Just pack up now. Artie’s not here. I could say to the team I’m going to the store. They would follow, and I could lose them. I could just walk away. Walk away. Walk away, walk away, walk away—
Yet another inner voice spoke. Smythe’s voice of reason. The voice that connected to her Beloved. Please don’t, please. Call Artie. Call anyone—they’re just outside. Tell them what’s happened. Tell them what you’ve done. Artie doesn’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this.
Unable to quell her first inner voice, it quietly berated her. I’m not that strong. I’m not that strong. I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of fighting. I’m so tired. I’m so very tired.
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