Sacrifices of Joy

by Leslie J. Sherrod

  Terrorist attack, Laz’s deals, nothing could unsettle me if I had peace within myself, I decided.

  Yes, this would be my peace offering. I was going to fight for my happiness so I could have a clear head to handle the rest of my life. No, I hadn’t prayed, but I felt like God was talking to me anyway. That’s how good He was to this daughter. Even when I wasn’t together, He was.

  I felt good about the day, about my life, even about my ability to finally think through Laz’s propositions.

  I felt real good, that is, until I stepped outside.

  Chapter 13

  “Huh?” My eyes grew wide as I stepped out onto my front steps. I blinked, rubbed them, and tried to make sense out of what I saw. Was I dreaming? Or maybe the weekend had been just a terrible nightmare and I had awakened to an ordinary Monday.

  My car, my black Honda Accord, was parked out front.

  It wasn’t in my usual space. The compact car I’d rented was parked where I’d put it last night. The Accord was on the other side of the lot, in one of the spaces earmarked for visitors of the fairly new townhome community.

  “Where did it come from? What? Who?” I knew I looked like a crazy woman talking to myself on my front steps, but I felt like one at the moment. Had my car been there all night? It was possible. I’d come home in the darkness and, in my exhaustion, I’d gone straight inside. I would not have noticed the car parked across from my house.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

  “What is your emergency?” an operator immediately responded.

  “Um . . .” I had not thought this out. “My car was stolen. But now it appears to have been returned. I am not sure what is going on.”

  “Do you need the police, firefighters, or an ambulance?” The female operator seemed unfazed by my confusion.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I need the police.”

  “Ma’am, are you in current danger? Is someone threatening you? Is your person or property at risk?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know. Can you just send someone here?” I gave her my address.

  “Police are on their way. Call back if anything changes while you are waiting.”

  Seven minutes later, a police cruiser pulled up behind my rental car. As the officer got out of his car, I had a quick vision of Leon. How many times had he come to my house dressed in that same uniform? To talk, to share a meal, to bring one of his home-baked desserts, to take out Roman . . .

  How did I lose him and why?

  “Miss, you have an emergency?” A broad, brawny, overly tanned man with hairy arms approached.

  I pointed to my Honda. “My car was stolen from BWI airport.”

  The officer followed my finger and raised an eyebrow. “That car? The one you’re pointing to? That’s the vehicle you want to report stolen? From the airport?”

  “No, I mean, it was stolen. I went to get it from the parking lot at BWI last night, but it was missing. I was going to file a report today, but when I came out, it was parked right there.”

  The officer looked from me to the car and back. “So, you want me to . . .”

  “Find out what happened. Who took it? Who brought it back? What’s going on?”

  “Miss, your car is back; that is, if it was really ever missing.” He looked at me like I was a nutcase. “You’re saying that it was parked at BWI. Perhaps a concerned friend or family member brought it back for you in light of the tragedy that occurred there to help reduce the obvious strain you are under.”

  I ignored his last comment and the look on his face. “So there is nothing you can do? I just want to know what happened.”

  “There is no stolen vehicle report to file because the location of your car is not unknown. Unless there is something wrong with your car, there is nothing more I can do. Is it damaged? Does it start okay?

  He walked with me over to it. I circled it, inspecting for any marks or bruises, and then got in.

  Nothing was awry, missing, or out of the ordinary. Except that it had magically appeared in front of my house overnight. Even the fast food breakfast sandwich wrapper I had tossed on the passenger seat still sat where it had landed yesterday morning. I put the key in the ignition and it started with its usual smooth purr. I cut it back off.

  “Everything okay?” The officer looked antsy to get to a real emergency to save the day.

  “I . . . I guess.” I got out of the car and shook my head, feeling like a fool.

  “Take care, ma’am.” He fished through his pockets. “And if you ever need to talk to someone, here’s a number to call.” He passed me a card for a mental health crisis hotline. I recognized it immediately because it was the same card I gave to some of my clients.

  I wanted to tell him that I was not having a mental meltdown. I was in my right mind and not teetering on the edge of an emotional collapse.

  I wanted to tell him all of that, but I was beginning to question it myself.

  “Thanks,” was all I said as I accepted the card and then I watched him pull away. I looked at the card and then slipped it into my workbag next to a pile of brochures detailing mental health resources. I kept them handy to pass along to clients.

  Once again, I’d overreacted. There’s always a logical explanation for everything. Maybe the officer was right. As unlikely as it seemed, perhaps Laz had told Yvette or my mom that he was taking care of me, and one of the two had picked up my car to save me the hassle of trying to figure out how to get it back home. I’d given the extra key to my mom when I’d bought my car earlier in the year. I’d call to confirm and thank them later.

  But how would they have known where my car was parked? And why bring it back in the middle of the night without telling me?

  Admittedly, nothing about this version of possible events made sense, but I was determined not to jump to extreme conclusions. I didn’t need to call anyone else right then. I would keep my crazy to myself, now feeling embarrassed about the entire exchange with the police officer.

  And I also needed to start my workday. Something in my life had to be normal. I’d go to the post office another time, I decided, throwing the joy bag in the back seat. Abigail and company were not expecting anything from me anyway.

  Perhaps regaining peace in my life was not going to be as easy as putting a package in the mail.

  I knew that. I was simply desperate for a normalcy that continued to evade me.

  Chapter 14

  “There you are.” My executive assistant/receptionist/ office manager Darci Dudley smiled as I entered my office suite. “You have some new messages, some old messages, and a bunch of other odds and ends I’m taking care of.”

  “Thanks, Darci. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I grinned, feeling more confident that the day was finally heading in the right, and mundane, direction.

  In the three years since I’d opened The Whole Soul Center, the practice had grown from a small single office space with a miniature waiting room in Rosedale in which I sat in by myself, to a four-office suite complete with a full-sized front desk and chart room. I’d hired three other therapists who worked varying hours to keep the clinic open from early morning to late evening, occasional Saturday mornings, too. The arrangement worked well for me; I was able to build more visibility for my center and the financial payoff was more than what I’d anticipated.

  Darci was a young woman in her mid-twenties who was working her way through college to become a nurse. A single mother to three-year-old twins, I understood her plight and allowed her to make the job’s days and hours fit her schedule when I first offered her the position. Somehow, she managed to maintain full-time hours at my office while continuing her studies. This brunette, green-eyed beauty had been a godsend since she’d responded to my job listing on Craigslist last year. Her authenticity and eagerness to help proved that not everyone in this country was hung up on race and cultural differences. From the suburban soccer moms to the foster children to the court-mandated parolees who made up my clinic’s d
iverse clientele, Darci, at the front desk, genuinely accepted and welcomed all of the people who came through the door.

  “Hope you had a great weekend!” Darci, ever the optimist, grinned at me as she shuffled through some papers on her desk.

  “Yes.” I smiled back, not wanting to disappoint. “Any changes in the schedule today?” Darci had access to my online calendar, but I had not checked it prior to entering the office.

  “Nothing major. The usual,” she chirped. “Your one o’clock called to say she is running late. Your two o’clock, Mrs. Groves, called and said that she will be bringing her husband along for her appointment. Your three o’clock cancelled, and I am waiting to hear back from the administrator from juvenile justice to confirm your meeting with him at four-thirty.”

  “Great, sounds like a regular Monday.” I knew Darci would have no idea how significant just saying that was to me.

  And, indeed, the afternoon plugged on at its usual pace. After checking in with a couple of the other therapists who were present, I began my forty-five-minute sessions with my clients. I helped a thirty-three-year-old new client explore the alcoholism that defined her family tree; I sat supportively and quietly as another client bravely confronted her husband about his philandering ways. I caught up on paperwork and work-related e-mails during the hour of my cancellation. I was waiting to get word about the late afternoon meeting when Darci knocked on my door.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I just squeezed in an intake for you. I don’t think Mr. Jackson from DJJ is coming so you have a new client waiting in the waiting room. He’s a walk-in.” Darci knew that I was open to walk-ins as my schedule permitted. My practice had benefitted from being an open door to newcomers in crisis. Just the same, something in me immediately felt uncomfortable, and not just because Darci had come in person to tell me about this intake. She usually merely buzzed me from the front desk.

  “Is everything okay? You don’t normally come back to tell me there’s a newbie in the waiting room.”

  “I know,” Darci looked serious for a moment, and then she let out a mischievous giggle. “I’m trying to stay professional, and coming back here was the only way I could save face. Sienna, forgive me for saying so, and I’m not trying to be inappropriate, but this man is seriously hot. It’s a good thing I’m not a therapist because I’d be in danger of breaking all kinds of ethical rules and regulations. Okay, I’m going back to my desk before you fire me. My game face is back on.” She dropped the grin and managed to take on the expression of a severe schoolteacher.

  “I’ll be right out,” I called after her, the pit in my stomach inexplicably widening.

  No, there was an explanation.

  I bet it’s him. I shut my eyes, seeing those icy blue ones that had bored into mine Saturday morning. He was out there waiting for me, I was sure of it. My nerves were on high alert. Calm down, Sienna, I told myself, taking two deep breaths and tightening and relaxing my shoulder muscles. I had to remain grounded and logical. Too many times over the past couple of days I had jumped into a panic for no good reason and to no good result.

  I got up from my desk and walked toward the waiting room.

  “There she is,” Darci said to someone out of my view as I approached the waiting room filled with plants, paintings, and soft music. “Ms. St. James is coming to get you right now,” she continued, poised and proper, but with an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes.

  “Hello, welcome to The Whole Soul Center.” I smiled and forced myself not to scream or freeze as I rounded the corner.

  It was him.

  Chapter 15

  Muscle tee. Torn skinny jeans. Unbuttoned light denim shirt. Navy blue canvas shoes.

  He looked like a poster boy for a fashion magazine. Today his blond waves were lightly tousled atop his head. He smiled up at me when I entered the room, a small smile, a pensive smile. A harmless smile. Uncertainty filled his eyes, none of the ice, none of the steeliness I must have imagined when we first met.

  If he has mental health problems, then help him. You are a therapist.

  Laz’s words brought a burst of calm and confidence as I extended a hand to the man. He gripped my hand in a dry, firm shake.

  “You sought me out.” I smiled. “Come on back.”

  Without a word, he stood and followed me back to my office. I had a large corner room with floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls. The rolling hills and pastoral views of Northern Baltimore County were my backdrop.

  “Have a seat,” I offered, waving a hand at the large leather couch that faced my armchair. He sat down and I took my seat. Both my armchair and my desk were closer to the door than where my clients sat, a first lesson learned in graduate school.

  “Before we begin, I need to let you know that whatever we talk about in here is confidential, unless you are having suicidal or homicidal thoughts, or you disclose a child, past or present, who has been abused or neglected. These exclusions to privacy are to keep everyone, including yourself, safe. More details about our policies are in the welcome packet I will give you at the end of our session today. If you have questions at any time, please ask.” It was my customary spiel that I said to each client at intake.

  He nodded and his smile widened, showing off perfectly aligned white teeth. Darci was right. He had movie star good looks. Why had I been so unnerved by this man again?

  But good looks meant nothing.

  “Okay,” I continued. “Let’s get started.” I grabbed a blank intake packet, an ink pen, and notepad.

  His smile suddenly weakened some.

  “You don’t like me taking notes.” I said what he had not voiced.

  “You can take notes,” he spoke softly, his smile now fully gone.

  “Let me just get some basic information from you, have you fill out some forms, and then I will put the pen and paper away. How’s that?”

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  The e-mails! “Uh . . .” I tried to think of what to say.

  “I left a phone message for you Saturday.” He studied me as he spoke. “I said that I can pay you myself. You don’t have to worry about any insurance billing paperwork.”

  “Oh, yes, that.” He’s not talking about the e-mails. Exhale, Sienna. “I did get your message.” I managed a weak smile as I continued. “You stated that you wanted to simply meet to have, what was it? Conversations. No insurance forms. No diagnoses. Just talking. We can do that, but I still need to get some basic information from you.”

  He raised an eyebrow. I quickly continued.

  “Like, your name? Your age? Your address? Your contact info? That sort of info helps if we are going to talk.”

  “What does a name tell you?” He crossed a leg over a knee and sat back more comfortably on the sofa.

  “Well, it lets me, and the rest of the world, know how you want to be identified, for one.”

  He stared at me intently for a moment, then cocked his head to one side. “The Non-Exister.”

  “Excuse me?” I tried to avoid blinking my eyes, but my eyelashes fluttered anyway.

  “You asked how I want you and the rest of the world to identify me, and that is who I am. The Non-Exister.” The man continued to stare at me intently.

  “I need your name,” I asserted.

  “No, you said you needed to identify me.”

  “So, you don’t have a name that you answer to?”

  “I have a name. It just doesn’t match my identity. And you asked for my identity.”

  I looked down at my notepad and considered whether I needed to take notes. A personality disorder? Schizophrenia? I was determined to stay a step ahead. A working diagnostic impression, even if I didn’t write it down, would give me a frame in which to base therapeutic treatment. Was therapy what he even wanted?

  “Okay, let’s start this again. Hello, my name is Sienna St. James. I am a therapist and the founder of The Whole Soul Center. And your name is?”

  “Little blessed one,” he responded imme
diately.

  We both sat in silence and stared at each other.

  “You asked for my name and I gave it to you.” He spoke again. “Now you have both my name and my identity. What else do you need to know so we can have our conversation?”

  I narrowed my eyes and studied him as intently as he studied me. “You said on Saturday that I would ‘know your name soon enough.’ What did you mean by that if you aren’t even willing to tell me who you are?”

  “You know who I am.”

  A chill went through me, but I had to stay composed. I could not let this man sense that he was getting to me. I shuffled through the papers in my hand but didn’t break my gaze. “I have no idea who you are.”

  “I just told you my name. I just revealed to you my identity. What else do you need to know?”

  “Okay, how old are you?”

  “Infinity.”

  I let out a loud sigh. “Okay, Mr. Little Blessed One who doesn’t exist.”

  He smiled at my title of him and his blue eyes twinkled.

  “I need you at a minimum to sign a consent form if you want treatment.”

  His smile stopped and his eyes turned icy. “We are not here for treatment. We are here for a conversation.” His voice was flat.

  He said he didn’t want treatment, so I had every right to dismiss him from my office, escort him out of my clinic. But clearly the man was delusional. I had an ethical obligation to at least assess him for safety and ensure that he was not suicidal or homicidal.

  Or worse.

  I shook the thought away as I regrouped, and reframed my approach.

  “Okay, we’ll do things your way.” I put my pad, packet, and pen down. “Let’s talk.” Then I said nothing, waiting to see where he wanted to take the conversation. Ten minutes of uncomfortable, complete silence passed as he sat looking at me, and I looked at him. Then I looked at my wall clock.

  “Looks like you’re not wanting to talk just yet. I’m here to listen when you’re ready. I’m going to finish working on something. Let me know if and when you are ready to talk.” This was what I usually said to belligerent teenagers who were pushed into my office by exasperated moms and dads. I stayed true to my word and walked over to my desk and began typing up a report I’d been working on for weeks. My intention was to check in every few moments with a gentle reassurance that I was open to listening. I’d had some clients in the past who’d sat in silence for two or three entire sessions before the floodgates opened. The silence did not bother me.