No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  As Smythe shifted in Artie’s arms, wondering how they laid in that position for most of the night, she became aware of a growing strength that only wavered if she gazed backward in time. Smythe knew she could no longer live in the past. She knew she could only control her present, and she knew she could only imagine and work toward a different future. Quite unexpectedly, a vision with a pail of water with a plastic cup bobbing in the water danced across her mind.

  Smythe sat up slowly, untangling herself from Artie’s embrace. She thought about Eckhart Tolle and his definition of God as the Power of Life itself. You see, life itself played out in all things. It played out in the messy things, the beautiful things, the hurtful things. He had written that, “As soon as you turn away from it, God ceases to be a reality in your life, and all we are left with is a mental construct of God.” A belief in God. Of all that he had written, what held in her spirit this morning was the one sentence that sang to her heart: “A belief in God is a poor substitute for the living reality of God.”

  She sat in silence, pondering her understanding of her relationship with her Beloved. She remembered keeping God on the edges of her life and recalled her ego expressing to her all of its pain that had separated her from her one true love—the Power of Life itself—her Beloved. She realized she had become paralyzed by a fear of her Beloved, remembering all of the untruths about hell, damnation, and retribution.

  Yet, brick by brick, step by step, her Beloved showed Itself to her. It was the Power of Life itself that loved her enough to allow her to choose to discard what she had been taught and more deeply develop a meaningful relationship with that Power.

  Her Beloved broke into her thoughts and spoke. “My child, you have followed the breadcrumbs and stepped away from what others told you Who I Am and have become fearless as you dared to enter into a relationship of Who I AM. Fear-less is key.”

  With deliberate intention, she inhaled a cleansing breath and exhaled the grime of yesterday. She knew that the Power of Life itself was contained within her, always expressing itself through her and holding a deep love for her. Her compassion, kindness, intelligence, curiosity, love—even the love of the woman who lay next to her—all of it was the expression of Life itself. Smythe slowly propped herself upright against her headboard, but her movement stirred a wakefulness within Artie.

  For the first time since coming onto the case, Artie slept deeply through the night, and the more she became conscious, the more she remembered. She remembered she held her heart’s desire in her arms throughout the night. She remembered the fight in the FBI’s office. And she remembered the death of her best friend. Knowing it was still very early, she thought of the rising of the day and all that it held. A renewed fiery determination was lit within her bruised body to be by the side of this woman to the end and erode the tyranny of the crime ring.

  Artie attempted to shift her body position, but all of the previous day’s events came flooding into her body, and she was met with excruciating pain from her ribcage.

  “Where are you going, baby?” Artie groaned. “I seem to be asking that a lot, huh?”

  Without saying a word, Smythe stretched her arms toward the ceiling. She turned her torso toward Artie and leaned down to kiss her. Artie’s lips were soft and wanting. Smythe allowed herself the pleasure of the lingering kiss, her heart singing with every soft touch of their lips.

  Their first kiss. As Artie reached to pull Smythe on top of her, Smythe resisted and moved slowly away, sitting up next to Artie. She looked down at her protector.

  “Not yet. I need to talk with you.” Smythe reached toward her side table and turned on her lamp.

  “Umph, ok.” Artie’s body ached as she gingerly pushed herself up against the headboard. Smythe watched the way Artie moved and saw, for the first time, her physical condition. Artie had a red and blue-black bruise on the side of her left jaw, and her right arm had hints of black and blue bruises. Artie’s T-shirt was lifted slightly, revealing the elastic wrap around her ribcage.

  “What happened, Artie?” Smythe asked as she scanned her up and down.

  “Nothing important for now. Tell me what you were going to say.”

  “In a minute. Did I do that? I don’t remember doing that,” Smythe said, as though trying to remember an altercation.

  “No, baby, you didn’t do this,” Artie chuckled. She wondered how much she should tell Smythe, yet she also knew keeping the truth from her may diminish Smythe’s trust in her. She looked toward the far wall and then back to Smythe.

  “Last evening, after I left you, I was supposed to meet with the FBI agent in charge of your case. When I arrived at her office, she was not there. Who was there, however, was someone who tried to kill me. I’m guessing it was a representative from the crime ring the agent had been investigating. He and I got into a fight and he lost, thanks to my team. Police and the response team for the FBI took him into custody.”

  Smythe listened intently. Her heart raced, and her stomach began to feel queasy. She then asked the questions she sensed she already knew the answers to. “Where was Carole in all of this? That is who you’re talking about, right? Is she alright?”

  “No, baby, she’s not alright,” Artie said softly. Looking into Smythe’s eyes, she continued. “She was shot at point-blank range. We found her body in her car in the employee parking garage. I can only assume that the guy I tussled with is responsible, or perhaps he had help. The ensuing investigation will uncover the facts.”

  Artie thought about the timeline of events. She had been exactly ten minutes away from the FBI building when Carole called. It took her and her team roughly three minutes to walk from the visitor parking lot, check in at the lobby, grab a visitor’s badge, and take the elevator up to Carole’s floor. Her office had been tossed, and Carole sat murdered in her car. It seemed obvious to Artie—the suspect in custody did not have time to murder Carole and then toss her office. Not in ten minutes. There were two assailants, she thought.

  Smythe shifted in bed to face Artie.

  Artie’s expression betrayed her emotions. A single tear trickled down the right side of her bruised face. Smythe reached over, and with a single touch of her index finger, gently wiped away the tear. She slowly pulled back the sheet that covered Artie’s body and surveyed the damage. Artie’s right hand was slightly swollen, and her knuckles had begun to take on a blue-black hue. She had a small cut to her right forearm, and her Ace bandage-wrapped ribcage belied a much deeper injury. Smythe gently rose from her bed and padded into the kitchen. When she returned, she held a large ice pack in her hand.

  “This is going to feel really cold, especially at this hour of the morning.”

  She gently placed the ice pack on Artie’s side, taking her hand as if to signal to her to hold it in place. As she returned to her bed, a single word floated to the surface of Smythe’s consciousness.

  Power.

  Power, outside-external power. That was what this syndicate wanted. A power to control the external world. It was using our own fears to gain control of our internal world and maintain that power. It sought, like so many who are steeped into the story of the world, to amplify our own fears of loss. Whether jobs, cars, homes, health, or safety… My safety. The safety of Artie, of Carole. The power of the external world was a thing to be fought over.

  Smythe brought her knees up to her chest.

  What if this crime ring was there to show us our own vulnerability? We tend to believe the lies that teach us that vulnerability is weakness, especially if we display it. We hide it and hide from it because we fear we will lose our advantage or be taken advantage of. We participate in the survival of the fittest story, so steeped in the language of the world. Yet, our vulnerability is our strongest asset. It can bind us to one another, expand our understanding of one another, and connect us in courage, kindness, compassion, and love.

  She turned her head to survey Artie. “I’m so sorry, Artie.”

  “This was not your fault. To kil
l an FBI agent—it’s a reminder of the extreme lengths this group and those they work for will go to maintain control over the city. We’re simply in the way. Carole was in the way.”

  Smythe and Artie spoke about Carole at length, allowing Smythe to learn just how connected Artie and Carole had been. In Artie’s darkest moments, Smythe learned Carole never wavered in her support of her friend. Carole and Artie grew up together in the same neighborhood, attended the same elementary and high schools, were college roommates, and attended the FBI training academy at the same time.

  As she listened to Artie’s stories of Carole, Smythe began to consider the importance of Carole’s role in the city’s local FBI office. She began to understand what a badass Carole had been throughout her career in law enforcement, and it was this mighty stalwart who had been in charge of her case.

  “I remember we were going after this guy. I thought I worked nonstop, but Carole was relentless. She worked this case until she had so much on him, all we had to do was arrest him, put a bow tie on his head, and hand him to the prosecutors. She was meticulous in ensuring there was enough evidence to not just warrant an arrest, but a conviction. The day we arrested him, Carole was up front, leading the charge. He tried to run out the back door, but she was on him so fast! This was her community, and she would do anything to protect it.”

  Smythe saw the work of the Universe—which had always been watching over her, placing the perfect person in charge of the case—with new eyes and appreciation. She surmised that it was Carole who had referred Artie to her case with an unknown benefactor who financed her protection. With rapt interest, she listened with both sadness and gratitude as Artie revealed more and more of her life. She realized she hadn’t taken the time to get to know Artie. She hadn’t asked about who her friends were, what her likes and dislikes were, or what kept her up at night. Her relationship with Artie, she reflected, had been only one-sided.

  Perhaps the way it was supposed to be, until now.

  “Artie, I can’t bring Carole back, but I can tell you that I am more determined than ever to testify. All this time, I thought of this case as just a simple annoyance in my way. I’ve been so self-absorbed that I didn’t put all of the pieces together. I didn’t consider that people like Carole were in danger as well. It’s more than just a case that I stumbled into, and I can see that now.”

  “It is, baby, and to be honest, it’s become more complicated than I could have imagined. I can’t tell you the specifics of the case as Carole shared them with me, but it’s big. I also know there are some pieces to this case that I am unaware of at this time. We all have our blind spots. I say that because I’ve come to know you, Smythe. Do not take responsibility for things beyond your control. Carole’s death was not your fault, nor was it mine,” Artie whispered. Clearing her throat a bit, she continued. “What were you going to tell me? I would really like to know.”

  Smythe thought for a moment. This wasn’t the time to talk to her about her revelations. She wanted to be supportive of Artie. Sensing her hesitation, Artie gently nudged Smythe’s hand. “We can’t change the past, Smythe. But we can look toward the future by discussing the present.”

  Smythe offered a half-smile and positioned herself so she could look into Artie’s eyes.

  “Well,” Smythe started, “first, I need to offer you an apology. Instead of telling you what was in the letter, I allowed myself to wander down a rabbit hole of sorts. Once I was there, I lost my way back to the surface. The stories that I told myself… they just collapsed inward on me. To be honest, at some point, I just didn’t want to scream for help, even though I knew I needed to. This morning’s hangover is a terrible reminder of last night.”

  “Baby—”

  “No, Artie, please, let me finish,” Smythe quietly interrupted. Artie nodded.

  “But I’m different. I’m just unsure of what’s different. Looking at what happened on my side of the events which took place yesterday and reflecting on the past 24 hours, circumstances haven’t really changed. My life is still at risk. My relationship with my mother feels fractured. I’m still writing endlessly, the business is just puttering along, and, of course, I didn’t click my heels, so we’re still living in the valley. Yet, somehow, I’ve shifted, and even more so now. I woke up different, which is just plain weird.

  “Before the news about Carole, a new perspective emerged. It was if I saw myself as a child, then as an adolescent, and finally, as an adult, carrying around this incredible weight. And that weight seemed to absorb any light that would come into my life.” Smythe paused to take in a breath.

  “It wasn’t the assault that was the weight. I mean, there’s that; but the true weight was the belief in my parents, who said I had simply made up the story all to get attention and that I was mentally ill. Now, I find myself asking, ‘How did they make that leap?’ How did she make the leap from abuse, to mental illness?

  “As a kid, I didn’t realize how naïve my thinking was. I didn’t know that other kids had gone through any type of abuse, but more importantly, I didn’t understand using the weapon of ill mental health was a way of keeping me quiet. I realize now that I grew up somehow connecting that limiting belief and stigma of mental illness with another limiting belief—that my Beloved didn’t care about me, didn’t really love me. I had convinced myself that somehow, I was defective—and that hurt the most, Artie. Because I really love God. We’ve talked about it. I’m crazy in love,” Smythe whispered.

  Artie smiled and nodded, remembering their earlier conversation.

  “I believed that childhood lie and walked through the world with a deep sense of shame. Shame of being ‘found out.’” Smythe closed her eyes momentarily, shaking her head.

  “I wonder if those with mental illness feel that way. Shame, I mean. As though mental illness is something to be ashamed of, when it really isn’t. But for me, it was shame, Artie. I couldn’t believe in myself, couldn’t stand up for myself because I seemed to be carrying around so much shame. All because I believed their lie and the stereotypes around mental illness.”

  Smythe took a breath and thought about stereotypes in general. As a diversity instructor, she could recite the definition. Considered social, stereotypes represent an agreement or notion about a group of people. Those stereotypes then become highly efficient because people often quickly generate impressions and expectations of people who belong to a particular group.

  She remembered the most glaring stereotypes were that people with mental health issues are violent and dangerous and completely out of touch with reality, often making up outlandish stories about themselves or others. She noted that media often exacerbates the stereotypes of mental illness by linking it with violence—portraying people as dangerous, criminal, evil, or somehow disabled, with an inability to live a fulfilled life.

  Smythe unconsciously turned around and sat up next to Artie, her head resting against the headboard. She couldn’t bear the pain of looking into her eyes any longer. After all that Artie went through outside her presence, only to return “home” and find Smythe crumpled on the floor of her own apartment? She could only stare across the room to the opposite wall.

  “Artie, with what you went through, it’s just not important anymore.”

  “No, baby, it’s just as important. Everything seems to be coalescing at this moment. Please tell me more.”

  “You were right when you said it was up to me. I replayed all of the people in my life, and I questioned why it was they saw me as this giant of a person, so strong and independent. I kept thinking, No, you’ve got it wrong. You don’t know me. If you knew me, you’d see that I really am mentally ill, make up stories, and I’m just trying to act normal. I just act a good game. But something shifted. I woke up knowing and believing in my own truth.

  “There have been some extraordinary circumstances that seemed to have brought us together, and I worked hard to keep you at bay with my behavior. I really like you, Artie. In fact, I’m falling in love with you
. I didn’t want you to see the real me. Yet, I needed you to. The fear I held was, if you really saw me, you would withdraw and eventually just leave. I feared that I would be just another case to be solved, and then you would move on. And in the past few months, with my dad’s death, the new business, and all of the angst around it, I was embarrassed, too. In some ways, perhaps my Beloved conspired my feelings for you to surface all this yucky stuff. I dunno, it’s just a theory. A theory that I may not know the answer to until the end of my life.”

  Artie quietly sighed, taking Smythe’s hand into her own. “I’ve always seen the real you, Smythe. You have far more courage, far more compassion, far more love than you think you have. You are what people have said about you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thank—” Smythe began.

  “My turn. Remember our conversation about moving out of the country, the endless evenings of daydreaming about where we would go and why? I just needed to know where you were going so I could follow. I’m not going anywhere. I want to spend a lifetime getting to know you outside of this mess.”

  Smythe wiped away tears of joy from her eyes. “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “I’m still just slightly confused. How did you come to this revelation? I mean, did you just wake up with it?”

  With Smythe’s assistance, Artie shifted into a more upright position, leaning her head, shoulders, and torso upright against the slatted headboard.

  Holding tears in her eyes and a smile on her face, Smythe continued.

  “The only way I can explain it is that I just let it all go. I had this ‘everything be damned’ moment as I woke. I thought, If God didn’t love me, tough. If I never see my mom again, too bad. It was this kind of strength that seemed to emerge out of nowhere. For so long, I held not so much a reverence, but a fear of God and my parents. I saw myself as less important, less valuable than either of those two. Yet, somehow, I now know that all along, God was trying to show me that I was God’s most valuable and beloved soul. Not so much in a competitive way, for all of God’s creation is just as valuable and beloved. Yet, in my own uniqueness, as a thought of God, I was valuable.