Sacrifices of Joy

by Leslie J. Sherrod

  Ava Diggs. My career coach and life mentor. A legendary figure in the world of Baltimore social work who had picked me up late in my graduate school years and offered me my first job when I finished. A woman who’d helped me celebrate my son’s successes and encouraged me to manage my stress. She was a former, formidable foster care agency owner who now took naps surrounded by the flowers she’d planted, sitting in chairs and lounging in old furniture she’d found and refinished.

  Even in retirement, she dedicated the use of her faculties to restore, grow, and renew.

  And deal with me.

  “Mmm, child. I sat out there way too long. I’m going to feel that chilly air in my joints tomorrow.” She shook her head as we walked into her foyer.

  The inside of her house was as carefully tended as her flowerbeds that surrounded it. Artwork, throw pillows, and soothing wall colors and tones made her small bungalow grand in character, endless in warmth and charm. As we headed in silence to the kitchen, I noticed that Ava had lost even more weight since I’d last seen her a couple of months ago. Once morbidly obese, she’d changed her diet and exercise habits since leaving her agency; but the pounds that clung to her now almost seemed too loose, like a thick blanket covering frail bones.

  “You eat?” she asked as she opened and began rummaging through her fridge.

  “Yeah, I just came . . . from dinner.” It occurred to me that I hadn’t even thought to immediately tell her I was officially engaged.

  What does that mean?

  I swallowed hard and accepted the bowl of banana pudding she offered. We sat down at her table.

  There was a time when my middle-of-the-night visits to Ava’s were drenched in tears, drowned in sobs. I had not had one of those loud, sloppy sessions in years. Now our late-night talks were characterized by laughs, sighs, and silence, with the occasional single tear, patted shoulder.

  How long had I been such a needy person? I wondered, as I reflected on my performance with Ava over the years. And yet, most of the people in my life who tried to meet my needs in healthy ways, I’d successfully pushed away, to distanced myself from. Run from.

  Not so with Laz, I consoled myself, feeling slightly more confident that I’d made the right decision.

  At some point, you have to accept what’s offered to you, right?

  “I made a big decision today,” I announced. Ava’s attention was on her plate. She picked with her pudding with her spoon, pushing the banana slices around like a toddler playing with peas.

  She didn’t look up, said nothing.

  “And tomorrow, I’m making a trip to tie up loose ends once and for all.”

  “Sounds like you are having a mirror moment.” She looked up at me.

  I raised an eyebrow. “A mirror moment?

  Ava chuckled as she finally pushed a spoonful of pudding into her mouth. “Remember many years ago when you told me that Roman was going through what you called a ‘self-reflection obsession’ stage? He’d be going about his business, doing whatever he was doing, but every time he passed a mirror, or even simply his reflection in a window or storefront, he’d freeze, stare at and study himself, and start primping and fixing whatever he saw wrong. Do you remember telling me about that?”

  I nodded, recalling that Roman was twelve when he began noticing himself and caring about how he looked to the world. He even asked for cologne that Christmas. Where was Ava going with this?

  “Sienna, life can be like that. We go about our days minding our business; then something happens to make us stop and stare and see who we really are, what we really look like, what we’re really made of. Mirror moments tend to be rare, but life changing. Once we see ourselves for who we are, we have to make decisions on what to do with the image we see. Fix it, smile at it. Carry on with or without changes. We are forced to take ownership of the person we’re facing in the mirror.”

  “I don’t know if these are mirror moments or me just on the verge of losing it, Ava.” I paused, absorbing her words, reflecting on my current state. “I’m second-guessing myself with everything. One moment I feel confident, the next confused. One second I feel close to the Lord, the next far away. Personally, professionally . . .” I looked up at her and she stared intently at me. “I have a new client, or whatever you want to call him, who is really throwing me for a loop, challenging everything I know about myself, what I believe, how much I can trust my gut feelings. I feel lost, Ava. And tired.”

  She put her spoon down. “When you look in a mirror, believe what you see in it. Believe who you see in it. We haven’t talked in a while about your faith, Sienna, but I know you are one of His. That means Christ is in you, reflecting on you. Have confidence in His image in you. Doesn’t the Bible say to trust in the Lord with all your heart and not lean on your own understanding? Sometimes confusion comes because we are trying so hard to make sense out of tangible facts with our minds instead of believing what the Spirit Himself is speaking to our souls.”

  “So, there are times when we need to go with what is screaming inside of us even if what we see doesn’t make sense on an intellectual level?

  “What is faith, Sienna? The substance of things hoped for and”—she leaned forward—“the evidence of things not seen.”

  We sat in silence for a while as I ate more of my pudding and Ava stared at hers. Finally, she looked up at me.

  “You finished with your plate?” Ava began gathering the dishes on the table.

  “I can clean these dishes for you,” I offered as I stood.

  “Oh hush, honey. I’m tired and all I’ve done is sit on my porch all day. You sound like you’ve been having the adventure of a lifetime so I know you are way past drained. The universe won’t collapse if these plates don’t get washed ’til tomorrow. Go home, Sienna. Pray, keep seeking Him, and stop fighting against your heart. Settle yourself and the confusion will go away.” She let out a long yawn followed by a series of hacking coughs. I grabbed a bottle of water for her out of her refrigerator and waited for her to compose herself before I headed to the door.

  A small clock that sat over top of the door frame ticked furiously ahead, as if it too wanted the day to be over.

  It was nearing midnight.

  “Thanks for coming to see me.” Ava smiled as I stepped out on to the porch.

  “I promise to get myself together so I don’t keep coming by here in the middle of the night,” I offered, though admittedly, my trips to Ava’s home had greatly diminished over the past few years.

  When I did come, she knew I was desperate.

  “My home is open to you as long as you think I still have some sense left to offer you. I’m getting old, Sienna. I feel it in my bones, in my lungs, and in my head. I’m telling you to stop fighting against what your heart is telling you, and I need to do the same thing myself.”

  I gave her a smile and fished for my keys.

  “Sienna,” she called after me as I got into my car. “I want you to be happy. I want you to love your life.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for being a second mother to me.”

  We’d never talked about the nature of our relationship, only lived it out. As I started my engine and began pulling away, I looked back at her thinning figure as she disappeared in the distance.

  Because of her words, her wisdom, her legacy, and her love, Ava Diggs would always be a giant in my eyes. But I knew she was also a mortal. She’d spent not just years of her time, but years of herself pouring into me to help me be a better social worker, a better mother, a better person.

  I needed her to see that her investment was well spent.

  I needed her to see that not only would her wishes for me come true, but that I was capable of being the full woman God had crafted me to be, and able to help reproduce that concept of wholeness and well-being in other women after me.

  That is one thing my heart told me, and she’d taught me to listen to my heart. To believe it.

  As I headed home, I had the makings of a plan for action
to address my suspicions about the man named Bennett, who I didn’t know if I’d ever see again. I also had inklings of what I had to accomplishment in what I wanted to be my last trip ever to San Diego.

  My therapy skills, my civil responsibilities, my son, my family relationships . . . I had a forming vision of what to do about it all.

  I’d given no thought to my wedding plans.

  That felt less important than the immediate tasks I needed to complete. Besides, my heart, for the moment, remained silent on the issue, and I refused to fight against the silence.

  Chapter 27

  One hour, twelve minutes, and a cup of gourmet hot cocoa.

  That was how long it took for me to drive home, take a shower, and enjoy a few moments of quiet reflection before I got down to business in front of my computer.

  I had to do all I could to assuage the feeling that authorities were missing something with the terror case. I had to learn all I could about that man. I pulled out the license plate number I’d written down yesterday, deciding that the forty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents charged by an online investigative company was worth the price of my peace, and possibly national security. Was getting some answers about this mysterious man really going to be as simple as paying some money for a couple of Internet searches?

  A sense of urgency overtook me as I came to rest with the idea that I had to find out as much as I could about him. Why had I not felt this same urgency before? The question nagged me, because if I really believed this man was a threat to our country, wouldn’t I have been doing all I could, sharing my concerns with whomever would listen? If my heart truly believed he was a terrorist, would I really have been willing to sit alone in my office with him?

  But if I didn’t really believe it, why was I going through the trouble of digging up info on him?

  “Sometimes confusion comes because we are trying so hard to make sense out of tangible facts with our minds instead of believing what the Spirit Himself is speaking to our souls.” I could hear Ava’s voice, and decided to not fall into the trap of confusion that came with trying to make sense of the details. My heart was telling me to get more info and this sense of urgency had just surfaced; that’s all I had to work with.

  I used my credit card to pay the fee for the search and entered the license plate number I’d jotted down after seeing Bennett get into a yellow Jeep from West Virginia the other day. I wished I had the tags from the rusty green truck from Pennsylvania he’d shown up in today; or, rather, yesterday, I realized as it was now one-thirty Thursday morning. (Was it really that late?) But I was pleased that I had a beginning point.

  Within minutes, the reverse license plate search yielded results.

  Carlos Dean Jessup

  423 Lilydale Street

  Martinsburg, West Virginia 25404

  I stared at the name and address listed for the plate number, wondering what it meant, what to do.

  Was this “Bennett’s” real name? Or a family member or friend whose car he borrowed?

  I immediately did an Internet search, and the first result that came up was a Facebook page.

  Carlos Dean Jessup had not set any privacy settings, it appeared. His Facebook profile was open, completely accessible, and quickly viewed by me. As I scrolled down his page and viewed his profile, I felt like I knew everything there was to know about him. The profile picture was not that of the man I’d met in the airport; indeed, Carlos had dark black hair, green eyes, and a wife named Nina who looked of Indian descent.

  Carlos was a marketing professional with a major pharmaceutical company, a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, and a wannabe chef who took cooking classes every Thursday night. I looked through his wedding pictures and snapshots from fishing trips and read through his ruminations on everything from politics to his pet Pomeranian’s daily mischief.

  “What am I missing? What am I missing?” The question ate at me as I looked through picture after picture. I looked through his friend list, searching for blond hair, chilling blue eyes. But Carlos Dean Jessup had over 2,000 friends on his page.

  Do I look through each one? Do I read through his status updates?

  The questions became more complicated, more difficult as the sense of urgency I felt increased.

  “God, what am I looking for?” I threw my hands up. It was now going on two in the morning. I had two sessions scheduled to start in just over five hours and I still had to pack for my return to San Diego.

  And mentally and spiritually prepare.

  “What am I looking for?” I asked aloud again.

  And then I saw it.

  It had been right in front of me the entire time.

  The current status updates were comments and photos of Carlos and his wife Nina enjoying a Mediterranean cruise. The pictures began on Monday and the last update had been posted just seven minutes earlier. Updates about his vacation plans had started two weeks ago.

  And he had checked in at BWI airport on Sunday evening.

  It did not matter if the man who’d shown up at my office, who’d first talked to me at the airport knew Carlos. Carlos’s life and schedule were posted like headline news online. Anyone who had access to Facebook would have known not only that Carlos was out of town, but also would have known where he was on the globe in real time.

  And would have known that Carlos would not be missing his car.

  Martinsburg, West Virginia was only an hour-and-a-half drive away from BWI. Two hours from my office in Towson. Perhaps Carlos’s car had been stolen as it would be obvious that he was out of town.

  I thought about my own car. Missing from the parking lot at BWI. Sitting in front of my house, most likely at the time that I would have been expected back home. I had come back a day early, though nobody but Roman and Laz would have known that my plans were changed. I realized then that I was never supposed to know that my car had been stolen. But that didn’t explain why it was returned if my suspicions weren’t supposed to be raised.

  Unless the expectation was that my suspicions would be alerted.

  Was I being set up?

  I realized then that I hadn’t sought more answers about my car’s disappearance and subsequent reappearance for that reason. I guess some subconscious part of me wanted to dig for more information before I dug too deeply into the mysteries surrounding my car. Was there a particular response someone had expected me to make? I shook the thought from my head and focused again on the Facebook profile on my computer screen.

  I was certain that Carlos’s car was probably sitting in front of his home right then.

  If what I was thinking was right, that man, Bennett, was a criminal of opportunity. Perhaps he used the Internet, or more specifically social media, to plan out who to target.

  But I didn’t post personal details about my life as openly as Carlos Dean Jessup did. And I had no way of proving that any of my conclusions were right.

  My eyelids were beginning to feel like weights over my eyeballs. Sleep was unavoidable. The urgency to dig for more answers was still present, but what else could I do?

  I thought about the wad of paper I’d picked up from the gutter. Even if I remembered where I’d put it, what was I supposed to do with it? Call Laz, ask him to tell his contact to investigate the piece of trash I could offer? A contact who by Laz’s admission already thought I was on a fame-seeking mission?

  I shut my computer down, deciding to give up my search for answers for the moment.

  What else could I do?

  Chapter 28

  “Akiyoshi Nakamura of Tokyo had flown into BWI on a business trip. His colleagues state that he was excited about forming a new relationship with a nonprofit in Silver Spring, Maryland, which was going to partner with his marketing company in Tokyo. His childhood village in Southern Japan was to receive over fifty classroom computers through the generous deal he had initiated.” The reporter spoke in a hushed voice before another news snippet played.

  “This is exactly the type of thing my son would
do. He was compassionate and always felt that the world was bigger than him,” a pretty, senior woman named Ayuki said into a camera. “In a bittersweet blessing, the nonprofit has announced that they are doubling their gift to be one hundred computers and the school district is starting a memorial scholarship fund in my son’s name.” The woman wiped tears from her eyes, but gave the camera a full smile.

  Continuing coverage from the terror attack aired on the television in my clinic’s waiting room. Usually, I kept the news off, not wanting to upset some of the more fragile, traumatized clients who frequented my practice; but it was early in the day and I still had about fifteen minutes before my seven-thirty appointment was due. I was the only one there.

  “All who knew Bart and Madison Taylor said they were inseparable. He was an entrepreneur and proud self-made multimillionaire whose high-end car collection and luxury villas have been featured in magazines and cable television networks. His wife was the PTA president at their eight-year-old son Aaron’s elementary school. Other parents at the school talked about Madison’s exquisite baking skills. She was known to make everything—bread, pies, cakes, and brownies—not only from scratch, but also with her own home-ground flour. She reportedly raised her own chickens and two cows on one of their pastoral properties to always have fresh eggs and milk on hand.”

  Now that’s different for a cosmopolitan couple. I studied the photo of the brown-haired gentleman with bushy sideburns and his blond bombshell wife who looked like a beauty pageant contestant. The boy Aaron had confident eyes and a playful smirk on his face.

  “The family was headed to their vacation home on a remote Bahamian island for a quick weekend getaway. All three perished in the attack.”

  The camera focused in on the eight-year-old and I snapped off the television.

  “Every TV station has story after story about Jamal Abdul, but what do we really know about the victims?” The words of the man who’d come to my practice daily echoed in my mind.

  “Hey, Sienna!” The front door slammed open and Darci burst in.