No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  Several of her classmate raised their hands, and, one by one, they went forward and shared. Eventually, Smythe hesitantly raised her hand. Her mentor made eye contact with her and called her to the stage. As Smythe stood up from her chair, she could feel her body begin to chill, and her palms began to sweat.

  Why did I raise my hand? What will I say?

  She slowed her breathing as she made her way toward the stage, walking up to a staff assistant who handed her a microphone. Holding the microphone, she suddenly felt breathless. This would be the first time she shared such a heart-wrenching part of her story in public. She watched as each foot landed on the steps leading up to the stage.

  Don’t trip. Whatever you do, don’t trip.

  Once on stage, she looked toward her mentor, who sat on a stool next to her, and then out to her classmates. She paused for a moment, taking in a long breath before beginning. Through tears, she recounted her experience of sexual abuse and her recent attempted suicide, as well as the reasons that drove her there. Her classmates sat in rapt attention, remaining quiet and occasionally reaching for tissues to dry their eyes. At the back of the room, every single staff member stopped what they were doing and listened in stunned silence. She understood the energy of the silence. After all, during this conference, she had portrayed an air of confidence, and during her presentations, she demonstrated her ability to teach. She appeared to have it all together. But then again, you never know the story behind the veil.

  As she finished up her story, she handed off her microphone and allowed her hands to fall to her side. Her classmates rose to their feet and began to chant in unison with the help of her mentor, “We believe you, we believe you, we believe you, we believe you!”

  Their thunderous voices reverberated in Smythe’s chest as each syllable shook the very air of the room. The walls of Jericho indeed came tumbling down, and something within Smythe broke loose at that precise moment. She could not describe the physical sensation, but something… something unhinged from her body and fell to the floor. Her tears continued to flow as she hugged her mentor and left the stage.

  Behind the curtain stood Artie. And, with every clap of thunderous applause, tears rolled down Artie’s cheeks.

  You’ve come so far, baby. So far. God, I don’t know if you are real or not. But if you are… thank you for her.

  Artie wiped away her tears and quietly cleared her throat. After an hour, the session ended. It was time to prepare for graduation. Smythe rose from her table and left for the restroom, but was intercepted by many of her peers who voiced similar stories.

  “Me too, Smythe. Thank you for sharing.”

  “So powerful, Smythe. Me, too. Thank you for bravery.”

  “I love you, Smythe. Thank you for your courage.”

  Finally making it to the bathroom, Smythe took in a long breath as she sat in silence in the stall. It was a lot of emotion to take in, but she realized she could not dawdle for too long. A graduation celebration was next up, and she had to make her way to her room to change.

  Artie met Smythe outside the bathroom, their eyes locking. Together they quickly but silently walked toward the elevator. Artie walked into their room. Slowly, she meticulously searched the room for any signs of intrusion. After a few minutes, Artie called Smythe in, and as Smythe stepped over the threshold, Artie reached for her and held her tightly in her arms.

  “I know you have to get ready, baby. But I just want you to know how moved I was by your courage. As I hold you, I’m just in awe. It took a massive amount of courage to be that vulnerable. You are so much stronger than you could ever possibly know, and I love you. I love all of you.”

  Smythe leaned back from Artie’s embrace, looking deeply into her eyes before kissing her tenderly. “I love you too, Artie. You are right. You’ve always said it—that I was stronger than I knew. Today, in some way, I finally understood that about myself. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share, but I felt this urging to raise my hand. To be honest, I fought it for at least forty-five minutes before I just gave in—I just wasn’t sure I had anything to share.”

  “You had your story.”

  Smythe nodded. “Yeah. I did. I just wish I didn’t—have my story, I mean.”

  “I know.” Artie slowly released Smythe from her embrace. “You should get ready.” She took a step back and searched Smythe’s eyes. The frightened woman she had come to know was not staring back at her. Instead, someone new had emerged. Someone she was looking forward to knowing.

  After a quick shower and change of clothes, Smythe returned to the conference room and participated in the rest of the evening’s festivities. The next morning, Smythe, Artie, and her teams returned to the airport. It was bustling with activity and seemed a bit more congested than usual.

  Yet, Smythe experienced a spiritual event sitting in the middle of the airport. She realized her demeanor was different since sharing her story. As she sat in the airport lounge, watching the myriad of people rushing to and from gates, she felt relaxed and at peace. She no longer held fear in her body, nor did she surround herself with an invisible shield.

  She watched the throng of people move past her and began to think about them all with great concern and compassion. She recognized, or perhaps understood for the first time that everyone had a story to tell. She now experientially understood that the mask of a well-put-together life was only that—a mask. It was suddenly clear that those masks only hid fear, vulnerability, and the ache for genuine connection.

  As she sat reflecting on her week, she recognized that telling her story on stage in front of people, many of whom she only slightly knew, shifted her perspective. Connecting the dots, she surmised that the telling of one’s story is the opportunity to become free from the chains of the limiting beliefs that would keep her hidden from the world. It seemed to her that as she continued to let go and speak up, her fear abated, and her sense of connection with others increased. The shackles of shame had been broken, and she felt not only connected to her cohort group, but to all of humanity—including her own biological family. She began to see through to a place of compassion for all of humanity. At once, the grime of her mirror was a little bit clearer, and she sat in peace for what felt like the first time in her life.

  Forgiveness

  OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, SMYTHE RETURNED TO HER WRITING. The trial loomed ahead, and she felt an urgency to complete as much of her writing as she could so she could devote whatever energy was required for her participation in court. What seemed to surprise Smythe the most since her return from the conference was a shift in her emotional relationship with her mother. She found she wanted to spend more time with her than usual. When she needed a break from the monotony of her everyday tasks, she would ask to visit her. She reflected on this new behavior and recognized she no longer held the energy that had emotionally separated her from her mother.

  But, for Artie, the increased visits to Smythe’s mother alarmed her. She secretly feared her mother would erode the emerging self-confidence that Smythe now demonstrated, but Artie granted her requests without ever voicing the concern.

  One morning, while lying in bed with Artie, Smythe decided to broach the subject of her visitations, sensing the negative vibes from the other side of the mattress.

  “Honey, can we talk?”

  “Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

  “First, I need you to know that I fear what I am about to say may change our relationship, yet I love you enough to want to discuss this.”

  “Ok.”

  “You’ve watched and been very accommodating in allowing me to visit my mom more than usual over the past couple of weeks. To be honest, those visits were, in many ways, an unconscious decision that I made. It felt as if somehow, something deep down inside of me needed to see her. I wasn’t thinking about it; I just did it. What was weird was I always walked away from our visits feeling better. At first, I surmised that I was just doing my daughterly duty. But yesterday, I had an epiphany of sorts. So m
uch shifted for me once I told my story to you, and then when I shared with my cohort training group, another layer unraveled. I don’t know a whole lot about what has been happening, but what I do know is that I no longer hold fear in my body anymore. No more angst. It’s rather shocking, really.”

  “How so?” Artie asked.

  “Well, for one, I didn’t know I held that much negative energy inside of me until it went away. Once I told my story out loud in front of all those people… something just… shifted. It happened almost immediately. I felt a release of pent-up emotion, and something similar to dark energy simply dissipated.”

  Smythe took in a breath and let it out slowly, feeling the freedom that came from the deep work she had been doing, including the acceptance of her abuse.

  “There has to be a certain level of trust with this group. Actually, a lot of trust has to be fostered within the group to be that kind of vulnerable. That said, I experienced what it was like to tell my story and be truly heard. Now I understand how stories connect us to one another. The ability to be vulnerable to others has a healing effect not only for the person telling the story, but for those who hear them.

  “I remember when I first told you. I felt better, but it was only you that I told. I felt like we shared this secret that was great. And you held it so beautifully. I didn’t feel alone anymore. I felt as if you had given me this gift of not only acceptance but a different perspective. It didn’t ever occur to me that I wasn’t mentally ill. Artie, that was such a gift of revelation.

  “Then, I had the chance to sit in that conference room. We all had an opportunity to share whatever was on our heart, and to share deeply. There was such a jagged calm that washed over me. Eventually, I settled into a deepening sea of peace. Afterward, as you witnessed, so many people came up and shared their stories with me. It was both heartbreaking and life-affirming. I didn’t feel alone anymore, and I don’t think they did either. And honestly, I think it drew us closer to one another, Artie.

  “I say all of that because, in releasing that negative energy, I found myself living from a place of compassion for others, which includes both my mother and my father. I could suddenly imagine their own lives, childhood trauma, limiting beliefs, and the challenges they faced, especially living in a racist society. Out of that compassion, I could finally forgive. I mean, I thought I already had, but this was a deeper level of forgiveness.

  “I can only surmise I have unconsciously been drawn to want to spend more time with my mom. There have been times I’ve needed to feel a sense of protection from her. I guess what I really needed was the emotional protection of a parent. Being in her presence gave me that. I realized that as a kid, emotional protection was what I had always wanted and needed but didn’t get. It has been comforting that I can now allow myself to feel that from her. She has been so worried about how well my new business is progressing. I can now accept her words of concern as love without all of the chattering negative thoughts that were buzzing about in my head. I just thought you should hear why I’ve spent just a tad more time with her. It was mostly unconscious until yesterday.”

  “That’s pretty powerful, baby. I must confess, I was annoyed when you asked to spend an unscheduled afternoon with her. In part, I was worried she would somehow snuff the life out of you. I now realize I hadn’t given you enough credit to work out your own emotional wellbeing.” She slowly sat up, still nursing an ache from her bruised ribs.

  “I’m sorry for doubting you, and I’m grateful that you shared your epiphany with me. It makes perfect sense. I’ll stand down from my own angst about your visits.”

  Smythe looked into Artie’s eyes.

  “I could tell there was an energy that you were holding about the visits. I could have told myself all kinds of stories about it. I could have just brushed it off, but then along with the epiphany came the realization that I was brushing aside your feelings, and that wasn’t fair. Even if I didn’t know why I felt a ‘want’ to go and visit instead of an obligation, you deserve for me to at least acknowledge that I felt your energy. After all, why wouldn’t you have feelings around visitations with her? In some ways, you have a stake in the outcome.”

  “Thank you for the conversation, baby. My only stake in the visitations is your wellbeing, and that, my love, is really in your hands. I’m… let’s just say I’m an interested bystander.”

  You Have What You Need

  IT’S TIME.

  Those two words replayed over and over in the minds of both Smythe and Artie.

  Smythe lay awake from a fitful sleep. A chill filled the early morning air in the apartment, and in her bedroom, a low-level tension was palpable. It was the first time since inviting Artie into her bed that she rolled in and out of wakefulness. With her back to Artie, she knew she would not be able to remain in bed much longer before growing increasingly restless and waking her up.

  Lying beside Smythe, Artie remained perfectly still but awake, her senses heightened. Her neck was tight, a slight headache beginning to surface and her body stiff. What have I overlooked? she wondered to herself.

  She thought about her FBI training. Her training had been a year-long mental and physical challenge. But, in the end, combined with her attorney background, she developed into one of the best FBI agents, bar none. She was doggedly methodical, with a knack for consolidating large quantities of information to identify threats and vulnerabilities.

  Not knowing what the day would bring, she mentally reviewed her security plans over and over again, considering every possible threat to Smythe and her team. She questioned what she had yet to consider in her security plans, but more importantly, she wondered if she would be able to successfully shift them once she discovered the gap.

  Unable to return to sleep, Smythe gently rose from her bed.

  Without saying a word, Artie watched as Smythe changed into sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Artie smiled, watching her tiptoe into the kitchen, turning on the light before moving to the pantry door. Smythe reached up for the coffee maker and placed it on the countertop and proceeded to take down all of the coffee cups she had in the house, including all of her to-go thermoses.

  Consideration for my teams, Artie thought.

  Artie rolled over toward the bedside steamer trunk to find her phone and check for messages. Finding nothing of interest, she climbed out of bed and wandered into the dining room to check the thermostat. It wasn’t quite cold enough to turn on the heat, but the temperature in the apartment did require warmer clothes than the boxers and T-shirt she was wearing. She returned to the bedroom to find her own sweatshirt and pants. After dressing, she headed to the kitchen to assist Smythe with the coffee.

  “Good morning, baby,” Artie said softly.

  “Hey, love. You sleep ok?”

  “I slept fair. Well enough to feel rested. You, however, did not.”

  Moving about the kitchen, Smythe stopped and faced Artie.

  “It’s going to be a big couple of days. I’m a bit apprehensive,” Smythe confessed.

  Artie poured grounds into the coffee machine and turned it on before placing her hand on the countertop.

  “Just tell the court what you witnessed. Keep calm and remain grounded in your truth. A couple of days of testimony can be really draining.”

  Smythe gently nibbled the inside of her cheek and furrowed her brow.

  “It’s not so much about what I witnessed, or the amount of time on the witness stand that concerns me, it’s the chance of a character assassination in the process.”

  “This may or may not help, but the defense wouldn’t be doing their job if they didn’t try to besmirch your character. They have to create doubt, even if what they do feels like character assassination.”

  “But there’s security footage, Artie! Security footage.” Smythe thought about that cold February morning. She remembered looking at the victim under the street lamp. She remembered his pleas. She also remembered the growl of the murderer as he spit at the victim bef
ore—

  “I know, baby, but if I were the defense, I would place doubt on that footage. I haven’t seen it, but I might surmise that it could have been anyone on the tape, especially given the hour of the morning and the amount of light beaming across the suspect’s face. It comes down to you corroborating what the footage will show. From there, I would work to discredit you. You heard his voice, Smythe. You identified him not only by sight but by his voice pattern. The defense has to try.”

  Smythe glanced at Artie. Her eyes pained as she recalled her life mistakes—silly hurtful things she said about people, not so stellar job performances as she grew into her positions. Even though anyone could chalk up her life as one of growth—something that happens for everyone—from a myopic view, she wandered into feelings of regret.

  “I feel like there are things I should tell you that perhaps, might come out—”

  “Baby, let me stop you right there. The FBI and the DA’s office already have a file on you. I’ve seen the FBI’s version. I’ve read every word. I had to. I had to know who I was dealing with—who it was I was protecting. Remember, I don’t take every assignment that comes across my path. I then conducted preliminary surveillance on you and your family, which created an overall profile of who you are and what you care about. Before I ever met you face to face, I gave that profile to Carole. It pretty much sums up what I know about you now. I don’t need to know any more than I already do, and I certainly don’t need the defense attorney for the accused to tell me who you are. I already know.”

  Smythe sighed. She busied herself by putting out heavy cream, non-dairy creamer, raw sugar, and honey for the team, storing washed dishes from the night before into her cupboards and re-washing her countertops.

  “Coffee is almost ready. Why don’t you start calling the teams in.”