Sacrifices of Joy Read online

  I shut my eyes, but refused to let the tears that burned the back of my eyelids fall. Everything in me burned. A flurry of emotions, none of them positive, whirled uneasily inside of me.

  Exhaustion. Disappointment.

  With myself. With my life. Okay, even with God.

  In His omnipotence, He’d allowed everything that happened to me happen. I thought briefly of a conversation I’d had once a couple of years ago with a hurting young woman named Silver. She’d been angry, hurting, and bitter about the atrocities that she’d undergone in her childhood and young adult life. She couldn’t understand why bad things had happened to her, and I’d tried to assure her that God cared. I thought of my words to her back then:

  Maybe the situations that hurt us the most are the perfect situations that make us seek God the most. Sometimes things happen that force us to seek Him.

  It was early morning. I had much to accomplish today; but I knew that nothing could be started or finished without me first making amends with the one who held my life and times in His hands.

  Who loved me like no man on this earth ever could.

  Like no man on this earth ever did.

  It was time to draw close to Him, to draw from Him.

  With my eyes still closed, I tried to pray, I mean, really pray. I opened my mouth, waited for words to come, waited for something, anything. But my voice felt lodged somewhere in my throat. When words did come, they felt the way I imagined a rusty door must feel when someone forces it open after years of disuse.

  Loud. Squeaky. Unpleasant.

  I got out only two words.

  “I’m hurting.”

  I opened my eyes and all I could see were the pieces of my life, the shards left over from the men I’d loved and lost. Anger. Grief. These were the jagged, sharp slivers of my shattered heart.

  Was I really that messed up because of men? Really? What is wrong with you, Sienna? I fussed at myself, debased myself.

  Shame, guilt, embarrassment mixed in with the rest of the stew of feelings that simmered inside of me. With no other way of fighting what I felt, I stood, walked over to my cookbook shelf, and took off my grandmother’s Bible.

  I had no specific scripture in mind, no expectation that all of a sudden I would feel better just by flipping through the thin, gold-trimmed pages. I opened it where a postcard stuck out.

  God is always near.

  Love you,

  Ernestine Jefferson

  I smiled at the memory of the spry church mother from a local mega church. I’d had some dealings with her and some other members from Second Zion Tabernacle years ago when I tried to locate the whereabouts of a girl named Hope, a child nobody was certain even existed. Mother Jefferson’s notes of encouragement always showed up in my mailbox just when I needed them.

  I put the postcard to the side and looked at the page that it had held. Matthew 6. My grandmother must have come to this chapter often, for the crease was deep and many of the verses, written in red, were underlined.

  The Lord’s Prayer.

  A familiar passage I’d memorized in childhood.

  Our Father which art in heaven, I began reading, and I kept reading until one line jumped out at me like it never had before:

  And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.

  Forgiveness.

  I talked about it all the time with my clients, but wasn’t sure that I’d examined it truly for myself.

  I wasn’t, I realized, really sure how.

  Zing! Zing! An alarm on my phone went off, the time that I usually set to wake up, and I knew I had to get moving if I expected to get everything on my lengthy to-do list completed for the morning.

  For one, if I was truly heading back to San Diego tomorrow, I needed to book a flight, find a room, and set my plans. I’d have to let Darci know to free my schedule, though it helped that Baltimore was three hours ahead of California.

  I shut the Bible and logged on to my laptop. I’d avoided planning this trip the entire week, and I knew it wasn’t just because I was anxious.

  The idea that I would actually see Kisu in person left me feeling numb. What would I say to him? What would he say to me? Did he know the truth and extent of RiChard’s lies? Why had he sent the lion’s head ring to me years ago? Why not call and talk to me? Was that his way of letting me know the truth? Was there more that I did not know, had not considered?

  Once the questions started, I could not make them stop. What I did know was that Kisu had to have answers. He had to. At a minimum, I hoped that he would be able to give me an idea of where RiChard might be, that is, if RiChard was even alive.

  Not that I wanted to see him. I absolutely did not! But the little bit of research I’d previously done about divorcing an absent spouse informed me that I’d have to prove that I’d done my best to look for him.

  A quick check of flight information let me know that thanks to the time difference between the East and West Coasts, a nonstop flight that left midday tomorrow would get me to San Diego by the evening time. The seminar was scheduled to start at 7:30. The only nonstop flight I could find still available was out of Dulles. To get there in time, I’d probably only be able to see one or two of my early morning appointments tomorrow.

  Hey Darci, I typed in an e-mail, I have to go out of town again tomorrow so I can only see my 7:30 and 8:30 appointments in the morning. Please clear my schedule for the rest of Thursday until Friday afternoon. You can offer the cancelled clients times on Saturday, if any still want to come in this week. If there are any new intakes, let Kierra know she can have them if her schedule permits. Thanks!

  Kierra was the newest therapist I’d hired and she was actively building her caseload. I read through the e-mail and pressed send. Although it was only a little before six in the morning, Darci’s reply was immediate.

  Count it done. Have a nice trip!

  She never asked questions about my life and I rarely asked questions about hers. She kept pictures of her three-year-old twins, a boy and a girl, on her desk, and occasionally updated me on her nursing studies. Outside of that, I knew little else about her, except that she was a dependable, hardworking employee whose commitment to excellence had helped my practice grow.

  After booking a flight, a rental car, and a hotel room by San Diego’s airport, I realized I had really nothing else I needed to do before leaving for work. My schedule was in good hands with Darci. I’d already done my morning workout. I looked at my grandmother’s Bible and knew the one sentence from the Lord’s Prayer would have me chewing on it for a while.

  Why had I woken up so early again? The feelings I’d had about the tasks I’d just completed had made them feel like they would take longer than they did. And now I had an hour of free time.

  As I put the Bible back on my cookbook rack, a folded piece of paper fluttered out. I smiled when I opened it and knew exactly what I was going to do for the next hour.

  It was a recipe.

  From Leon.

  A no-nonsense cop, he’d gotten his tender touch with food from his own grandmother, who had raised him. During our two-year friendship that should have grown into more, but didn’t because of me, we spent more time in kitchens, mine or his or my mother’s, than we did dining out.

  My smile widened as I ran a finger down the crease of the paper, remembering the story behind the one recipe he’d given to me.

  “My grandmother made me promise not to share her secret recipes, but this one I’ve tweaked enough that I don’t think she’d be too mad.”

  Mint chocolate raspberry cookie bars.

  The first time we tried to make it together, the sugar spilled, the eggs splattered, and my favorite glass baking pan shattered.

  “I don’t think Granny is pleased.” He’d chuckled, and we reworked the recipe together to make it all our own.

  I realized that I had never laughed as much with anyone as I had with Leon.

  I was giving Laz Tyson an answer to his marriage proposal tonight.
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  Fifty-three minutes, the clock on my microwave told me.

  I had time.

  I took out my mixing bowl, grabbed the brown sugar I kept in the pantry, bubbled with excitement once I’d confirmed that I had all the ingredients I needed.

  As the bars baked in the oven and the sweet, intoxicating scent of chocolate, mint, and berry filled my nostrils, I recalled memories of other moments I’d spent with Leon: long walks around the Inner Harbor; short jogs around Lake Montebello; lively discussions with Roman around the dinner table; quiet reflection after church.

  While Laz’s sharp tongue and wit challenged my intellect and kept me on my toes, Leon had been like the worn comforter I kept on my bed.

  Someone I could curl up with, exhale, relax, and just be.

  I was giving Laz my answer tonight.

  I was at a different place in my life than where I was before Leon left town to help his long-lost niece get back on her feet in Houston.

  I was in a far different place than where I was when I’d left everything behind to follow RiChard blindly around the world.

  Cooking the bars felt like a celebration for me, a nod to where I was now, to the decision I’d made about Laz, a decision I was determined to hold fast to. No longer would the man in my life have to wonder about my intentions or guess at my desires. No longer would I have to feel like a feather in the wind when it came to love and marriage.

  My mind was made up.

  I would even bring some bars to give to Laz when I saw him.

  Chapter 22

  “So, Ms. St. James, you’re saying that I need to look real closely at my thoughts, and see what it is that I’m telling myself about my husband’s infidelity.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Shanay. However, it’s not just listening to your self-talk, but examining your thoughts to see if the messages you are telling yourself are true, helpful, or logical. For example”—I looked down at the thought log journal my twenty-seven-year-old client had brought in as directed—“you wrote down that you had the following thoughts last night: ‘If I were prettier, Caleb would have never cheated.’ ‘I deserve what happened because of all the bad choices I made when I was younger.’ ‘I can never trust another man again.’ ‘I am unlovable.’”

  I looked up at my 4:30 client whose light brown eyes filled with tears. “Remember, like we talked about last time,” I continued as she grabbed another tissue, “your thoughts lead directly to what you feel. If you are feeling depressed and devastated, look again at the thoughts you are having. Examine them. Challenge them. Separate truth from fiction. Change your inner dialogue to one that speaks to healing, wholeness, and moving forward. It’s never about what happens to you; it’s about how you respond, what you tell yourself about your circumstance. Your feelings are going to match the messages you play in your mind. You can’t control what others do to you, but you can control how you respond.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes. “That’s true,” she whispered before reopening them and looking back at me. A small smile tugged on her lips. “Thank you. You have been very helpful through all of this.”

  I smiled back at her as she gathered her things.

  “Same time, same place next week, Shanay, but not the same thoughts,” I gently chided.

  “I’m working on it.” She laughed as she left the office.

  I checked my calendar. I’d seen seven of my scheduled clients today. There had been only one no-show and one cancellation.

  And no sign of Mr. Bennett, or whoever he was.

  I exhaled, realizing that my body had been holding tension all day as I’d wondered constantly if he would reappear. Taking two deep breaths, I tightened and loosened the muscles in my shoulders to relax, a quick tip I offered to my stressed-out clients.

  I needed to take more of my own advice, I concluded as I began packing up my things for the day. I’d said all the right things to my last client, Shanay, but how much of what I said did I really listen to myself?

  “Don’t you worry about a thing for tomorrow. I’ve already taken care of your clients and a few of them have already rescheduled for Saturday afternoon.” Darci stood in the doorway, flipping through some charts.

  “Thanks, Darci. I don’t know what I would do without you.” My things in hand, I followed her to the reception area and waiting room.

  “Oh.” She froze at her desk and used her free hand to run through part of her brunette hair. “Ms. St. James is done for the day. Did you have an appointment?” I heard her speak to someone just out of my view.

  Him.

  I inhaled and held my breath as Darci knocked over her pencil cup. “Oops.” She giggled and then quickly sobered and turned around to face me. “Sienna, your client from the other day is back. I know you were about to leave. Would you like for me to give him one of your Saturday openings? The morning times are still available.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I spoke before thinking. My heart started beating faster. “I can see him now.”

  I checked my watch. Laz and I had agreed to meet at a restaurant at 8:00 p.m. in Columbia, Maryland, a quasi-halfway point between Baltimore and DC, where he was still covering the terror attack. I’d been planning to go to a library to catch up on paperwork and look through some psych books and magazines until then. However, I knew there was no way I’d be able to get any work done knowing that I’d turned down an opportunity to figure out this man.

  “Oh, you’re leaving, Darci?” I noticed my assistant packing her bags and shutting down her computer.

  “Yes. I have to pick up my . . .” She glanced over at the man, who stared back at her. “I mean”—she cleared her throat—“I have to leave a little early today to run an errand. Kierra and Soo Yun both called and said their evening clients cancelled, which is unusual, so I thought I’d take advantage of this rare free Wednesday evening to, well . . .” Her eyelids blinked rapidly as she looked from me to the man, who stared at her from his seat.

  Was she trying to keep him from knowing that she had children, as if that would scare him away? I would definitely have to talk to her, the sooner the better. I knew Darci was professional enough not to cross any inappropriate lines with our clients, but just the same, I would speak to her privately the moment that I could.

  “I was planning to make up this time on Saturday morning since you’ll be in that day anyway.” She bit her lip and I realized that my silence was discomforting to her.

  “Darci, that’s fine. I’m not worried about your hours. I just want you to have a nice evening.”

  “I’ll be here Saturday.” She breathed out as she scurried to the door. She pushed a lock of hair off her face and gave both the man and me a slight smile. She exited with her head down.

  “Well.” The Bennett man spoke for the first time. “Looks like it’s just you and me.”

  Today he wore a brown suit with a yellow dress shirt. The shirt collar was loosened and a tie hung limply from his neck. Was he coming from work? What did he do for a living? I remembered the list of questions I had about him that I’d written down the other night.

  I also remembered that I had no desire to be alone in my office with him.

  “Hungry?” I gave an easy smile. “We can go back to that café and talk again like we did yesterday. Continue our conversation?”

  “No.” His reply was immediate and certain. “I wanted to talk to you privately today. That’s why I came late to make sure that I was your last client.”

  Everything in me screamed, yelled, quivered, and collapsed, and yet the easy smile on my face would not leave.

  “Okay, Mr. Bennett. We don’t have a lot of time to talk, but I can see you for a few minutes. Come on back to my office.”

  What kind of fool crazy state was I in? I swallowed hard and sent up a quick prayer for continuous protection.

  Chapter 23

  There had only been a few clients over the years who rattled me down to my ankle bones since I’d started my social wo
rk career. Aside from a couple I’d engaged in couples counseling a few years ago who turned out to have secrets that threatened my safety, I’d been disturbed once as a graduate student intern by a late teen who confided to me vague details about being a hit man for a dangerous, well-organized gang; and another time as a newly licensed practitioner by an older, snaggletoothed woman who claimed to see the souls of the living and the dead, and kept squinting at an empty space beside me.

  However, the feelings of fright and unsettledness that I’d felt on those occasions did not compare to the paralyzing anxiety I was having watching the man quietly flip through the textbooks and manuals I kept on my bookshelves.

  He’s not a terrorist. He is a man who needs help, and I am here to help him. My thoughts troubled me even more as I realized I still felt unsettled about what he had been doing at the airport on Saturday.

  Stay logical, Sienna. I had no sound reason to continue mulling those disturbing thoughts. I also realized that I had no desire to ask him about his trip on Saturday. I did not feel prepared to hear any of his potential answers.

  As had been my approach, I stayed quiet, allowing him the chance to take the lead of our conversation. After about ten minutes of walking around my office, picking up thick books and studying the various knickknacks I’d set out, he finally sat down on the leather couch farthest from my office door.

  Which I’d kept open.

  I felt good about doing that, just like I felt good that I’d followed some advice from Ava, my life and career mentor, about another aspect of my office layout.

  “Never have personal mementos out in your office where you do therapy. Some pictures and personal artifacts clients do not need to see, for their protection, and yours.” I could hear Ava’s warning.

  I needed to call her. Hadn’t spoken to her in a while. I made a mental note to do so. This would be a good case for peer supervision.

  “So.” The man possibly named Bennett finally broke the silence. “You choose to practice an eclectic form of therapy. I see books from many schools of psychological thought, competing theories, even the Bible.” He pointed to the small, green book I kept behind a plant on my windowsill. I was surprised he’d seen it. Most clients never noticed the pocket-sized New Testament I stored within my arm’s reach for when I needed a quick boost. It had been awhile since I’d picked it up. Its sun-faded leather cover was evidence that I’d nearly forgotten it was there.