No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  “I had this image where I watched myself take off all of this protective armor and walked away only in my boxers and a T-shirt. It was as if I made a choice and gave myself permission to live my life the way I was intended to, because in so doing, it was being lived for the good of everyone. Just living a normal life in whatever I did was good enough. And something just burst wide open in me.”

  “In your boxers?” Artie smirked.

  “In. My. Boxers!” Smythe said, as she burst out in laughter.

  As if she were pondering Smythe’s personal revelation, Artie said, “All kidding aside, I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that. You have been shouldering this burden rather than facing your unimaginable grief. I’m relieved you’ve removed it.”

  “Me too. I think I’ll still need to continue to remind myself of this conversation until it firmly takes hold.” Smythe turned her body to face Artie again.

  “Artie, I know that I know that the power of the Universe, the power of life, is on our side. I know that power was with me when I downed the pills and alcohol and was still there when you found me. It was even there with Carole until she took her last breath, and was there through every tear you shed last night. I can see that power in everything. I don’t pretend to understand it all, and I am uncertain I have the language for it, but this seems to ultimately be about love and care. I couldn’t cross the divide between the story that I was told and the true story of love with that line tied around my waist. The rope had to be cut, and I was the only one with a knife.”

  Stretching long and coming up short with a deep ache, Artie gazed at Smythe. Her heart pounded at the thought of how close she was to losing both her and Carole. It was unimaginable. Given Carole’s death, it was a thought she shoved from her consciousness. Smythe glanced over at Artie and caught her gaze.

  “Is there something in my teeth?” Smythe asked teasingly.

  “Let me see, come closer,” Artie said, reaching out her hand toward her. Smythe took her hand, knowing that Artie would pull her towards her. She leaned in and kissed Artie tenderly before moving slowly up and away.

  Again, a pang of remorse washed over her. While she had deep feelings for Artie, she wondered if she had fractured a deeper connection with her by attempting to take her own life. She sat perfectly still.

  Guilt.

  She remembered the writing of Neale Donald Walsh. He wrote that it was guilt that kept people stuck. That as humans, we do not grow through guilt, but through awareness. She could not change what she had done, but she also believed that her journey down the rabbit hole allowed for an expansion of her soul. Still, she knew she had to name the accompanying feeling.

  Choking back tears, she said, “Artie, can you forgive me? I’m feeling both guilt and shame about my behavior.”

  “Baby, there’s nothing to forgive. We all do things which seem in the moment as though it was our only option, but sometimes we are given the opportunity to later figure out that it wasn’t the best choice for us. You once told me there are no mistakes, nor failures, only learning opportunities. You spoke about learning to pause between an event and one’s response. One of your long-distance friends, Katie, taught you that if I recall correctly. Sometimes, we need to practice that pause in order to get it right. As she suggested, stop and question the story you tell yourself. It’s nothing more than an awareness. You’ve now become aware and have the opportunity to make a different choice.

  “Smythe, I’m just grateful I didn’t lose you last night—that it turned out to be a learning opportunity for you and a personal revelation that can set the course for your future. With that said, I am going to need something from you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to need a promise. I’ve watched how you interact with people, especially your cohort people. You’ve demonstrated that you are a woman of your word, so I need a promise.”

  “Ok.”

  “Don’t agree until you hear it. I need you to promise to go deep with me, just like you’re doing now. I may not understand all of this God/Universe stuff. To be honest, it scares me. If I can’t explain it, I’m out of my element, but I am open to it. You understand what I don’t, and it has given you a strength that I can almost physically feel. I need you to go as deep with me in expressing what’s going on with you as you do with God. I’m not asking you to share your most intimate conversations with God, but at some point, you need to let me in enough to love you deeply, because I want to. I really—”

  Smythe leaned in and kissed Artie hard, interrupting Artie’s request.

  “I promise,” Smythe said as she parted from Artie’s mouth. Artie smiled and nodded.

  “I’m also going to need time to process Carole’s death. Not only did I lose my best friend, but the implications of her death are far more grave than I think even she knew. There are some questions that I’ve got to find answers for, beyond just the normal protection of a client. And, to be honest, I’m really angry. Carole’s dead, I was forced to defend myself, and your life was threatened—and will be threatened again, of this I am sure.”

  “I know,” Smythe said, equally concerned.

  “Are you strong enough to fight with me to get you to trial?”

  “Yeah, I am. If you had asked me a month ago, or even a week ago, I’m not sure I would have been. But today, it’s as if there is nothing more important to me right now—other than the truth,” Smythe said with a slight smile.

  Artie sighed. They sat in silence, allowing the heaviness of their conversation to alight upon their shoulders and determine their next steps. Finally, Smythe’s stomach began to growl loudly. She chuckled.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need to eat,” Smythe said.

  “I’ll order in. What do you wa— Crap!” Artie exclaimed as she suddenly remembered ordering food last night. She could only hope her team had intercepted it.

  “Can I have a moment alone to talk to them?”

  “Of course,” Smythe said, turning around to head toward the bathroom. When she returned, Artie was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you up for malasadas?” Smythe asked.

  “Sure, but I’m not showering. Can we go as is and shower later?”

  “I guess I can forgo a shower,” Smythe smirked. “But when we get back, I’m going to need to jump in.”

  “You and your shower fetish.”

  “It’s not a fetish. I am just a bit of a germ-a-phobe. I like being clean at all times.”

  “Then I won’t tell you what you did to yourself last night.”

  Smythe’s eyes widened.

  Artie smiled, shaking her head while attempting to stand. Smythe helped her as she gently rose from the bed. While dressing, Artie noticed her slacks from yesterday lay crumpled on Smythe’s bedroom chair. She picked them up, placed her hand into one of the front pockets and pulled out a blood-stained piece of torn notebook paper. She held the paper in her hands, her fingertips hovering over the stain of Carole’s blood. Her eyes scanned the words and a bolt of lightning traveled the length of her body, sending a cold shiver down her spine. She clenched her jaw, narrowing her eyes as she stared at the only two words on the paper.

  A Cup in a Pail of Water

  ARTIE SAT IN THE PASSENGER SEAT OF TEAM 2’S VEHICLE. SHE stared out the window at Smythe, who stood standing just outside the baker’s shop. Filled with grief for her friend Carole, and for Smythe, Artie thought about the conversation Smythe held with her just a little while ago. She thought about the leap Smythe’s mother had made from hearing about the abuse to concluding that her daughter was mentally ill.

  She did not pretend to understand how a parent would deny a child’s truth. After all, she thought, had Davey come to me with an unimaginable truth, as hard as it might be to accept my son’s story, I would get to the bottom of it. And then it hit her.

  “It is an unimaginable truth. Too awful to put into words,” Artie mumbled to herself.

  Perhaps, her mother used the a
ccusation of mental illness not as a weapon but as a defense. A defense to deflect an awful, unimaginable truth that she could not bear to hear, much less deal with. Maybe it was much easier to make the leap into mental illness—chalk it up to a child’s vivid imagination.

  Not one to let anyone off the hook so easily, Artie grit her teeth, determining the accusation of mental illness wreaked havoc on the life of the woman she loved. Not only did Smythe live with the abuse and the denial of it, but she also held the added burden of being labeled mentally ill.

  Several customers were mingling in the baker’s shop when Smythe and her caravan arrived. Surprised at the number of people, she looked behind her to find the sun had only recently crested the mountain range. She checked her watch. 6:30 a.m. She wondered if it had always been busy in the shop at that time of morning, or perhaps she had never noticed. She looked toward Artie, who sat resting in one of her team vehicles, bent over slightly. Smythe surmised Artie’s ribs were voicing their injury.

  Stubborn, Smythe thought. We should have gone to the twenty-four-hour pharmacy, but nooo. She said she would “deal with it later.”

  Smythe watched as Artie scanned the area, fully understanding of her concern. She was standing in the doorway waiting to enter, because Dennis had held her back until the last of the customers left.

  The baker smiled broadly as Dennis and Smythe entered and welcomed them into the shop.

  “Welcome, welcome, my friends. What may I offer you?”

  Smythe approached the counter and ordered her usual malasadas and coffee. Dennis ordered the same.

  “I’ve come to appreciate the pastry,” he said as he side-eyed Smythe. “If you ever meet my wife, don’t tell her. She’s on me enough about what I eat.” Lost in thought, Smythe smiled politely.

  The baker watched them both closely, his own heart suddenly heavy. He sensed something was grieving them. He separated their orders, offering them each their own plate as an additional customer walked in. Smythe took her usual seat at the back of the shop, and Dennis walked to a table in front of Smythe’s and took a seat. He was closely watching the customer with his hand on the weapon concealed under his windbreaker. Only when the baker bid the customer a good day before making his way to Smythe’s table did he remove his hand.

  “Hello, my friend. You look tired. Are you alright?” the baker asked with an abundance of concern in his voice. “Where is your other friend? Is she treating you well?”

  Smythe smiled warmly. “Quite literally, Joao, she’s been a saving grace.”

  She sighed and recounted the prior 24 hours to him, tears trickling down her cheeks. At one point, the baker held up his hand, grieved by what she shared. With tears in his eyes, he walked to the front of the shop. Artie watched in alarm as the baker placed a closed sign into his shop door and a time he would reopen. Knowing Artie as he did, Dennis quietly spoke to Artie over his com set.

  “All is well, boss. It’s just us in the shop.”

  Wiping his eyes with a handkerchief and shoving it into his pants pocket, the baker returned to his seat across from Smythe and asked her to continue.

  “I’m trying to find my footing with the release of that old belief—that I was mentally ill. I can only now recognize how it had been a ribbon throughout my life. It reminds me of computer programming, silently running in the background in almost everything I’ve ever done.”

  “How do you mean, my daughter?”

  “Well, rarely are there positive descriptors about mental illness. Growing up, I remember hearing about all of the stereotypes around mental illness, and I believed them. It bore out my own thinking. Then, if someone offered me a positive description about me, I would discount it. It’s a kind of an imposter syndrome.”

  “What is this ‘imposter syndrome?’” the baker asked, his eyebrow furrowed.

  “Well, it’s feeling like an imposter in your own life. Being a fake. For example, if people saw Artie as strong, confident, intelligent, powerful, and kind, but she didn’t believe that about herself. Instead, let’s say she secretly thought the opposite was true. That, in a nutshell, is imposter syndrome.”

  “You forgot compassion. She has compassion in her heart, just like you.”

  “See what I mean? And what happens is that a lot of people only align themselves with whatever negative programming they have in their heads. For example, someone says you are emotionally strong—”

  “But I am,” interjected the baker.

  “As I said, someone might say you are strong. You, however, qualify that statement and think, If you knew me, you would know I am really weak. I’m only pretending to be strong.”

  “It’s not uncommon for people who yield to the imposter syndrome to feel as though they are not participating fully in deep, meaningful relationships. I wasn’t until recently…” Smythe trailed off, caught in her own thoughts. “That’s what imposter syndrome means.”

  “That is very sad,” the baker quietly said. “To say that I am weak lessens the power of the great I AM. My daughter, listen carefully. You have gone through a great ache of the soul. No one should have to endure such things as you have all of your life. Yet, many do. It breaks my heart wide open. And now, with Artie’s FBI friend losing her life…” the baker trailed off. He stopped to wipe his eyes with a napkin from the napkin holder sitting at the far edge of the table.

  “As I listened, I heard everything that was spoken in your mind which poisoned your soul. Your mind wandered to great depths of despair and gave you only a brief respite. It caused you such agony. Yet, even though I am a mere baker, I know about the mind. It is also capable of many good thoughts as well.

  “We have a mind,” the baker continued, pointing at this head, “and it has many thoughts. It chatters at us all day and night, my daughter, even in our dreams. This mind of ours, it is capable of thinking many things, both good and bad. It tries to make us feel things; happiness, sorrow, worry, fear, anger—many feelings attached to our thoughts. But we have power, my daughter. Great power over ourselves. We can choose to push away an unhappy thought and think a better thought.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that now, Joao.”

  “Yes, that is good. Also, if you cannot quiet your mind by thinking a better thought, which can be quite difficult at times, focus your mind on feeling the energy in your foot or your hand. It will help quiet the mind.”

  “I actually do that, because honestly, my mind is a chatterbox,” Smythe said with a slight smile.

  “Yes, yes. Everyone. It pains me to know that I would lose you, my daughter. You have such a kind spirit. But you must understand,” the baker said as he gently gathered Smythe’s hands into his own.

  “You must know who you are and why you are here. We have spoken of this many times. You must now, right now, have a new understanding of who you are. The Christian Bible says to be renewed of the mind,” the baker exclaimed with a wide grin. “Take on the new truths of a higher you, my daughter. Plop those old ways in the toilet.”

  “That was a great visual,” Smythe said as she giggled.

  “Haha! Such poison should be flushed away. Reject bad thoughts. This may take you some time and practice, but it can be done. It must be done,” the baker said with voracity.

  “If a bad thought comes in, catch it and replace it immediately with a good thought. Even the thought of the energy of your body. Do you understand this, my daughter?” the baker said earnestly.

  “Yes, Joao, I understand.”

  “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ, who being in the form of God, did not consider it robbery to be equal with God.”

  “Bible verse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joao, you should know that I am not Christian. There is just too much baggage around that faith.”

  “Nor am I, my daughter. But you must even read the Bible with a renewed mind. Now that you understand the lies of the many that would preach from it, read it again, for it contains many universal truths,
the greatest of which is love. I might also suggest, only a suggestion, that you read from the original work. The Bible has many interpretations based upon selfish power.”

  Smythe nodded. “Do you read works from other forms of faith?”

  “Yes, of course. I only recite the Bible because many of your people were raised Christian. Am I mistaken?”

  “No, not entirely. I just so reject the venom of the Christian faith—it’s an unconscious knee-jerk response.”

  “See with a new understanding, my daughter. See what your parents did not see,” the baker implored.

  “You and I and all of creation come from God the Source.” The baker then stood up and hurried to the kitchen. When he returned, he held a small bucket with water in it.

  “Think of a pail of water. You take this cup and fill the cup from the pail and then allow it to float in the pail like this.” He scooped water from the pail into a plastic cup. He then placed the plastic cup into the pail and allowed it to precariously bob in the water.

  “The bucket and the pail of water are the Source. If the cup, which has the water from the Source, could think, it might consider itself as a lone entity. It thinks this because it is confined by the cup. It is only through contemplation and awareness that eventually it comes to understand that there is something beyond what it can see. It senses this new truth as it bobs within the Source of its water. And it must consider itself as from this unknown Source. Yet, also notice, the Source surrounds the cup. Do you see it?” The baker asked as he gazed at Smythe, who was looking into the pail.

  “That is what we all are. Yet so many do not know this.”

  “It’s funny that you said all of that. I was laying in Artie’s arms this morning, and I had a sudden image of a pail with water in it, and I was dipping my hand into it.”