Sweet Violet and a Time for Love

by Leslie J. Sherrod

  “Yeah, most of it brought on by herself.”

  I raised my eyebrow at Leon as my mother raised an eyebrow at me. My father peeked over the paper at all of us.

  For just a second.

  Leon rarely let anyone, especially my family, witness the growing tension between us. Tension moved like waves between us, ebbs and flows. Sometimes we were smooth waters. Other times, riptides cut through, almost unseen above the surface.

  I searched for something to say to melt the ice that had taken over the room. A loud squeal from the hallway warmed our ears instead.

  “Sienna and Leon, I brought some food because you need to eat. It’s been a rough day, but we gotta keep that oven at a good temperature for those baking buns. Girl, you look bigger since this afternoon.”

  Shavona and Mike Grant.

  Had it only been a few hours since we’d eaten lunch with them? The two pulled paper plates and food containers out of a large paper bag, started spooning mounds of leftovers onto them and began passing them around.

  “They are going to kick us out of this hospital.” I nodded at the NO FOOD OR DRINK sign that sat on nearly every side table in the waiting room.

  “No, girl, they are going to understand that this has been a long, trying day for you and your family. This is a medical facility. They should understand that stress and hunger ain’t good for a pregnant woman.”

  And being belittled for my worries was not either, I started to add, but my father had just disappeared again behind his paper after peeking out at me and Leon.

  No need to re-stir the pot.

  “God is still on the throne. Even now, in this confusion and difficulty, He’s not lost one ounce of control.” Shavona seemed to be talking more to herself than to us.

  “Who is that?” my mother mouthed and pointed as Shavona spooned food onto another paper plate and passed it to my father.

  I thought about it for a moment and then I answered. No whisper necessary.

  “Mom, Dad, this is Mike and Shavona Grant, Leon’s . . . our friends. And our child’s godparents.”

  The smiles that accompanied the handshakes, hugs, and greetings were a bright spot in an otherwise dark day.

  “Girlfriend,” Shavona stopped in front of me after speaking to my parents and Yvette, who’d reentered the room, “forget about all the foolishness going on right now. We’ve got a lot of planning to do to get ready for this baby.”

  My life hurt.

  I still had not spoken to my son. Alisa Billy was dead. And uncomfortable suspicions about the murders, deaths, and beatings still gnawed at my consciousness.

  But at that moment, at a little after 4:00 p.m., standing in the fourteenth floor waiting room at Metropolitan Community Hospital, I felt something that I had not felt the entire near eight months and counting that I had been pregnant.

  Reality. And excitement. At the same time.

  Leon took his plate from Shavona, a soda can from Mike, and then sat next to me, his knees touching mine. We exchanged glances, then exchanged smiles.

  This was as perfect a moment I would get for a while, my gut told me. I sat back and enjoyed it, and took pleasure and comfort in the kicks and flutters that filled my stomach.

  My baby.

  My baby and my man, my parents and my friends.

  My support, my rocks, my prayer partners.

  I looked up to the heavens and smiled. I looked back down and stopped.

  Mike Grant, Leon’s friend, stared directly at me, winking.

  Chapter 22

  Christmas Evening

  He paid to get his own car from the tow lot and left.

  Our first Christmas together and all we’d done was argue, watch Roman get manhandled by the police because of me, and then get our cars towed.

  Leon paid for his own car and left.

  It took me two hours to finally get up from the bench in front of the international departure gate at BWI. Two hours to stop looking up at the sky, guessing which plane had my son. Two hours to stop waiting for Leon to call me, to check to see where I was, if I’d calmed down, if I was okay.

  I left him some messages. Rage. Grief. Guilt. Despair.

  All in two hours.

  “How are you going to leave your pregnant wife at the airport on Christmas morning without making sure she is okay?”

  Hang up. Redial. Leave another message.

  “My son left, and then you leave me out here too? Don’t you even care how I feel? Don’t you even want to know where I am?

  Hang up. Redial. Leave another message.

  I felt horrible. Low. I heard myself. I hated myself. I felt out of control. Could this all be from hormones running amuck through my system from the little tadpole-shaped being the size of a sesame seed planted deep in my womb?

  It had to be. I did not recall pregnancy being so emotionally violent, but I prayed that my current with-child state somehow explained my erratic behavior, my ill-advised decisions, and the fact that I kept leaving weep-filled, rant-filled messages on Leon’s phone. I’m surprised no one called the police to come pick me up and take me where the white coats roam; but maybe the guards and skycaps knew I was just a mother coming to terms with a broken relationship and a wayward son.

  Two hours of sobs and shock and then I finally got up to retrieve my car.

  “Sienna St. James.” A passerby smiled. “I recognize you from TV. Marvelous work you did with that terrorist last year. Can’t wait to read the book I heard you’re writing.”

  I gave a weak smile and hid a groan as I boarded a shuttle to where my car had been towed. I had to get it together. Lord, please don’t let the scene I just caused end up on YouTube.

  I thought of Roman sitting on a plane to some city I couldn’t even remember the name of and felt a new wave of crazy come over me.

  What could I do?

  Nothing.

  Christmas morning. I shook my head, eyes filling with tears as I wished for a do-over.

  As I started my car, I remembered what I had put in my trunk. That bag with the dirty housecoat and slippers. The purse with the broken pocket watch.

  Our first major argument as husband and wife had been over this bag. That had been only a few weeks ago. I’d stuffed the bag in the trunk with the idea that if I ever saw that woman walking the streets of Baltimore I would give her her things. Leon thought I was crazy for caring. Maybe I was.

  My Christmas morning took new shape, new meaning as I turned off of 295 into downtown Baltimore. I was going to get rid of the bag once and for all, I decided. The last thought, the last mention I’d had of that woman was standing in the foyer of our condo several Sundays ago, the bag dangling from my hand as Leon slammed his way off to church. We hadn’t talked about it or her ever since, and I was certain that woman and that bag were far removed from Leon’s mind.

  Driving through downtown toward my home in Canton, that woman and that bag were all I could think about. Thinking of her singing and dancing in the hospital emergency room, thinking of Ms. Marta and the residents of the shelter who would be celebrating this day without their beloved worker, I knew I had to get at least one good deed in, do one thing right.

  I had not planned on looking for Sweet Violet. Out of respect for my husband’s requests and wishes, I was going to leave the whole thing alone.

  Except that I wanted to give back the purse to the girl who had given it to me for safekeeping. I wanted to let her deal with finding Sweet Violet, or whoever she was.

  That’s how I found Amber’s body.

  Looking for the young girl.

  To be free of Sweet Violet.

  Before I went home that Christmas morning, I turned toward the women’s shelter where remnants of yellow tape still stuck to the surrounding overgrown greenery. I drove the block beyond the shelter, remembering precisely the “abandominium” Amber had walked into. I rapped on the basement window and waited for a response while the plastic bag of belongings hung from one hand. I had a fifty dollar bill sq
ueezed tight in my other palm.

  “Merry Christmas,” I shouted through a small crack, determined to give the girl back the purse and to also give her money.

  A horrid smell wafted out of the window, seeped through the scarf I’d wrapped around my nose and mouth, burned my eyes. Perhaps a dead stray or rat, I considered as my eyes watered. I bent down farther, looked through the dirty pane.

  The sight scarred me.

  A blue frayed blanket wrapped around decaying flesh.

  I called the police. I called Leon. He still didn’t answer. The bag with the purse went back in my trunk and after pointing out the scene to the cops, I went home. I was a social worker there trying to help a pregnant and homeless young girl who had been staying in the vacant home.

  It was Christmas. The cops never questioned my story so there was no need to mention the old woman and her bag of dirty clothes.

  When I got home, I threw up in the bathroom, and then got in my bed. Leon heated up a plate of the uneaten leftovers from Christmas Eve, served it on a tray with a single rose, rubbed my shoulders, and massaged my feet.

  But we never talked about any of it, anything.

  A therapist. I called myself one and even had degrees and letters behind my name and a pretty office space where I met with young clients to address trauma and pain, brokenness, anger, and sorrow.

  And yet talking to my husband had been anything but child’s play for me.

  I was failing as a wife, and apparently as a mother, and I didn’t know how to stop the nosedive.

  “Mom, I have to ask you something.” Roman’s voice was barely above a whisper as our family troop took over the hallways of Metro Community. It was just a little after 4:00 p.m. and he’d finally been given the green light for discharge. Despite his bandages, swollen cheeks, and scattered bruises, he was finally awake, moving, ready to go home.

  “What is it, Roman?” I held my breath as he walked down the hallway next to me. My mother, father, sister, and niece straggled behind us, chatting and laughing along with Shavona. Leon and Mike were farther ahead, which was fine with me; I didn’t want to be anywhere near that winking eye.

  Roman got quiet again and I didn’t push. These were the first words in ages he’d directed toward me that didn’t have a harsh tone or a hurt look.

  I didn’t want to ruin the moment even though I felt a little unnerved that Roman seemed intent on talking so quietly to me.

  His question could be about anything. I braced myself.

  We were stepping out of the garage elevator when he finally spoke again.

  “Mom, I don’t want you to think I’m crazy for asking this.”

  “What is it, Roman?”

  A sudden screech of tires squealed right by us as we walked away from the elevator and began walking in the underground parking facility.

  “Watch out.” Roman nudged me back as a black car with tinted windows sped by.

  Looked familiar.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Leon and Mike, who were still ahead of us, both paused, both looked back. I could feel that my eyes were as big as my belly.

  “It’s nothing, Sienna. Probably someone from the media trying to get a picture. See?” Leon pointed to a group of uniformed police officers who stood near an exit. They had parted to let the car zoom past them. Didn’t look the least bit concerned.

  It bothered me, feeling like I’d just seen something familiar and not figuring out exactly what it was.

  “Dad thinks you’re being paranoid.” Roman’s tone was matter-of-fact, an observation. “I won’t bother you with my question.” He pulled away from me just as we neared Leon’s car. My parents’ car was parked nearby; they would drop Yvette and Fiona home. I had no idea where the Grants were parked.

  I also had no idea what Roman’s last statement meant. Paranoid? Question?

  “What question?” I tried to catch up with him before he reached for the back door handle. “Is this about that girl . . . woman?” I couldn’t hold back any longer.

  Roman’s hand froze for a second on the car door handle. Then he pulled it up and swung the door open with enough force to nearly hit the car beside us. I had to take two steps back to get out of the way.

  “I’m not talking to you about that.” His voice reeked of pain. I took another step back, my heart breaking at the sorrow that pierced his vocals.

  “What is your question?” I pleaded. Leon looked at both of us as he finished shaking hands with Mike and headed toward the driver’s side.

  “I’m not going to add to your paranoia. I trust Leon’s judgment. Let’s just go, please.” He got in, shut the door behind him.

  There was that word again. Paranoia. What is that supposed to mean? Did Roman have something to ask me that Leon had told him not to? And if it wasn’t about Changuna, then was it related to the events of the day? To the case? To what happened to him? To Alisa?

  I was in a near panic as I got into the passenger’s seat. My heart raced, my head felt dizzy. Why did I feel so afraid all of a sudden? Was I really just being paranoid?

  That car.

  That car that sped by had aroused a distant memory, I conceded, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was for sure, or why it bothered me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked as Leon turned toward an exit for 83 North, the opposite direction of our condo in Canton.

  “Roman wanted me to drop him off somewhere.”

  “Your flight,” I remembered, turning to face my son in the back seat. “You are going to miss your flight. Are you still . . . planning to leave town? You aren’t in any shape to be flying off somewhere.”

  “I’m not leaving. Not yet.”

  I exhaled. I still had questions, fears; but “not yet” was good enough. I didn’t think any airline would be comfortable with him getting on covered with so many bandages, anyway.

  “I’m dropping Roman off, and then we are going out, Mrs. Sanderson.” Leon looked over at me. “It’s been a tough day. I know you are tired, but we’re going to go out and eat something nice. You deserve it. You’re a trooper.”

  I gave him a smile, reached for his hand. He let me squeeze it before returning his attention back to the steering wheel.

  “I’ll go anywhere with you tonight, Mr. Sanderson, as long as it doesn’t involve potatoes.” We both chuckled. “I mean, really, Leon, you told the Grants I’ve been craving potatoes?”

  Leon shook his head. “I never said such a thing. I have no idea where they got that idea from.”

  Moments like this.

  Why couldn’t we have more of them?

  We continued to laugh. Roman looked preoccupied in the back seat, his head turned toward the window. “Not yet” was good enough, I reminded myself, feeling a bit of ease that I should have another chance to talk to my son before he disappeared God only knew where again.

  He took me to his bakery.

  After dropping Roman off at an unfamiliar row home in Charles Village, Leon hopped back on 83 and headed back south to downtown, to his bake shop near the Inner Harbor. I kept myself from asking any questions about where we’d just dropped off my son; it was enough just having him near me, alive, and reasonably well. We’d talk later. I was sure of it.

  My heart sank at the CLOSED sign that hung just above the deadbolt on Leon’s shop door. The trial and his determination to shield me from the media frenzy had necessitated him to leave his bakery closed for several weeks. With no reliable, consistent help or crew to keep things running, the extended closure could not have come at a worse time as he had been struggling as it was.

  The striped shades were down and the lights were off, but when he flicked them on, I gasped. The entire interior had been filled with flower petals. Pastel shades of blue, pink, yellow, and purple petals covered the red booths, white tables, tiled floor. A single table in the center of the room was set with porcelain plates, cloth napkins, and sterling silver forks and a slender candle served as the centerpiece. Leon lit the
candle and dimmed the lights. After pulling out one of the two chairs at the table for me to sit in, he disappeared into the kitchen and then brought out a raspberry chocolate mint Bundt cake.

  “Shavona and Mike were kind enough to serve us dinner at the hospital. I’ve got dessert.” He sat in the chair across from me. “I made a cake especially for you, to celebrate our first anniversary. I’ve had it ready all day as I thought we’d be done with the trial and free to do nothing but love on each other. I had planned that we would eat our cake and then grab the suitcases that I’ve got hidden in the back of the kitchen. I had a limo on standby to take us straight to the airport. Looks like all of that won’t be happening, but we can still eat our cake, my love.”

  “I’m so sorry, Leon.”

  “No, no. I didn’t tell you all of that to make you feel bad. I just wanted you to know my extensive plan and efforts to earn bonus points with you. I’m trying to cash all my points in for a jackpot tonight, wherever we end up spending it.”

  I looked at his brown face, smiled at the flame that flickered in his eyes. “So you have no problems spending the night with an eight-month pregnant woman? I’m almost fifty pounds heavier than I was this time last year.”

  “And a hundred times more beautiful.” Leon’s lips curled. “It’s been a bumpy first year, we both know that, but I could not imagine us not being together. I waited a long time to get you, Sienna St. James. I’ve got you now, and I ain’t letting go.”

  He slid the cake pan to the side, moved the candle over, and reached his palm to my face. “About the only thing sweeter than this cake here is that we made it through our first year, and we made a baby. I don’t know what the future holds, Sienna, but I know we’re in it together. I’m one hundred percent committed to you and our family.”