Sacrifices of Joy Page 3

  But they weren’t family to me.

  I hated RiChard and everything attached to him. Everything he did, everything he stood for was like daggers, dungeons, and death to me. Like the blast that happened in Baltimore, RiChard’s crimes had innocent victims. My feelings toward Mbali and her children were not my fault.

  How could I ever be healed from this pain?

  Roman talked about moving forward, and I was glad that he had found a path to do so for himself. I needed to find my own way.

  And I just didn’t think a sweet sixteen party was it. Roman would simply have to understand.

  The waitress set another teacup in front of me and I threw down a second shot of it, hoping the warm liquid that had hints of chamomile and lemon would wash away the growing pangs of guilt I felt.

  I was disappointing my son.

  A series of pings, dings, buzzes, and beeps sounded from deep inside my bag. My phone was fully on, updated, and informing me of various notifications. Before I reached for the lifeline that connected me to the rest of the world, I motioned for Skyye to come back to my table one more time.

  “Do you sell anything here that a sixteen-year-old girl would like?” I had to at least make an attempt to assuage my guilt, placate my son. I had no idea what a café would offer other than food, but the ambiance of the place gave the impression that they wanted their customers to leave with more than a full stomach.

  “I know just the thing.” Skyye beamed and then disappeared behind a doorway covered with strands of orange beads.

  I took a deep breath and took out my phone.

  I’d missed six calls, five of them from Laz Tyson. There were two messages waiting, one from Laz and the other from a phone number I did not recognize, my visual voice mail app informed me. I didn’t even recognize the area code of the second message. Is that a Houston exchange? I forced myself to breathe, and knew that I would be checking that message last.

  What did it mean, this constant hope upon hope that Leon was somewhere thinking about me? That he would suddenly call me? It had been three years since we last talked. Three years of complete silence from him. What exactly was I hoping for?

  He’d moved on.

  And I’d given him the green light to do so. I had not moved fast enough to get the answers, the truth about RiChard.

  I would come back to the message from the unknown caller. I listened to Laz’s message first as planned.

  “Sienna, please call me and tell me you are okay. I know you were flying out of BWI this morning and I haven’t heard from you all day. I’m in DC covering the story with the help of one of my sources in Homeland Security. Please call me as soon as you get this message!”

  Laz Tyson. An outspoken, controversial journalist who’d found his way back into the national spotlight following his coverage of my son’s disappearance a few years ago. He was a member of my old church and, after Leon left for Houston, a frequent attendee of my mother’s Sunday dinners. Somewhere along the line, he started introducing me to his friends and colleagues as his girlfriend, a term I hated, but never corrected. For one, calling me his girlfriend made both my mother and Ava stop asking me painful questions about Leon, and, two, I don’t think Laz would have heard my protests anyway.

  Our “relationship” consisted mainly of him filling me in on his latest news stories; me showing him my latest art project, which he would critique; and us spending time at museums and cultural events on the increasingly fewer weekends he was actually in Baltimore.

  It was a courtship of convenience more so than comfort. He needed a constant audience and I needed a continual noisemaker that could drown out the deep moaning of my heart.

  Admittedly, I was kind of touched that he cared enough to leave me a message on a day of breaking news, the kind of day he lived for. But then again, I guess a man should at a minimum check to make sure that his “girlfriend” was alive following a terrorist attack that occurred at her last known location.

  I dialed him right back. I had my own reasons to check in with him. With all of his DC connections, perhaps he had some knowledge about the suspect in custody. It was time to put my paranoia to rest.

  He answered on the first ring. “Sienna?” he asked, sounding out of breath.

  “Laz.”

  “Good, you’re alive. I gotta go. The press conference is starting.”

  Silence. He’d hung up.

  I could have gotten offended by the brevity of our conversation, but I accepted him for who he was and what had his focus. That’s probably why we had made it together for so long. I didn’t care that I didn’t have his heart and he didn’t notice that he didn’t have mine.

  I took a bite of the ginger-apricot scone. Warm, buttery, sweet, and spicy, it was just enough of a kick to help me do what I had to do next. I pulled up my CNN app. Laz’s words had been few, but just enough to let me know that it was time to view the suspect. Finally. I felt faint, woozy. I took another bite of the scone to settle my stomach. The press conference was beginning; the breaking news alert on my phone buzzed.

  “Here it is, the perfect gift.”

  “Huh?” My head swung up, confused.

  “For a teenage girl? You asked?” The waitress, Skyye, was at my table, a huge smile on her face, and a masterfully crafted crocheted purse in her outstretched hand. Bright orange, it had a couple of crocheted flowers in a cheery shade of yellow attached to it with wooden buttons. The word “Joy” was woven into the front and the letters J and Y also served as elaborate swirling stems for the woven buds.

  “That’s beautiful. You made that?” I noticed anew her crocheted name tag. A few years ago, when I worked with a treatment foster care agency, I’d been forced to find something nice to say about a foster mother’s faceless crocheted dolls. They were downright creepy. What Skyye had in her hand was the complete opposite. I was awed by the simple beauty of her complex craftsmanship.

  “If you don’t like this, I have other crocheted items you can view. Earrings, hats, maxi dresses, trinket boxes—but this is my favorite. I’ve been waiting to show it to the right person. It’s—”

  “Perfect. I’ll get it. How much?” I interrupted, not just because I wanted to get to the news conference, but because I really did not need further convincing.

  “I can’t price it. Give me what you want, okay? I will wrap it for you. I have a pretty gift bag and tissue paper in the back that goes with it.” She disappeared again.

  Her presence was one of pureness, I realized as I sat at the table alone again. Strength, love, authenticity, and, yes, joy. Though I only knew her first name and her present occupation, the essence of her personality and character had shown through immediately.

  I guess everyone has their own aura that can’t be hidden. We call it first impressions, but what we really pick up when we meet someone is their distinct impact on the atmosphere. As I started tinkering with the buttons and notifications on my phone again, I thought of the man at the airport, understanding better now my suspicions.

  I’d only been around him for a few minutes, but the aura he’d given off was that of an intense and secretive darkness.

  What impact do I have on the atmosphere around me? A fleeting thought. I blocked it out as I imagined Roman and his siblings sitting in a cupcake bakery without me, left to wonder about who I really was, how I really felt. One’s presence can carry an aura, but so too can one’s absence, I concluded, thinking of RiChard, of Leon.

  AUTHORITIES HAVE IDENTIFIED THE SUSPECT.

  I clicked immediately on the headline that chirped on my phone and read the short article that followed.

  Officials are reporting that one of the injured in the blast is also the instigator. A thirty-two-year-old biomedical engineer from the Northern Virginia area, Jamal Abdul, is being held at an undisclosed hospital in the DC corridor as he recovers from extensive injuries. We are told that he is in serious but stable condition in a medically induced coma and will face multiple charges upon his return to consc
iousness. Authorities are now holding him on undisclosed charges, and are also interviewing his wife and two young daughters, who were also at the airport at the time of the blast.

  “Huh?” Something did not register with me as I tried to reconcile the man I’d met at my gate with the description of the suspect being held. I didn’t get the feeling that the man I’d talked to was there with family.

  PICTURE RELEASED.

  The press conference was actively being held, I realized as another headline popped up on my phone. I clicked on it immediately and gasped at the picture of the man authorities were calling the sole suspect.

  He was the color of polished bronze, wearing a charcoal gray suit in the file photo. I couldn’t tell where the formal picture had been taken—other faces surrounding him had been blurred out—but he looked like he was having a good time wherever he was. A huge smile took up half of his face and his eyes nearly sparkled at the camera.

  Wide nose, full lips, closely cropped hair.

  A black man with an Islamic name.

  “No, this can’t be right.” Everything in me felt unsettled. My heart, which had already been racing, picked up a few extra beats as I tried to make sense out of the photo and my gut feelings.

  “Here you go.” Skyye was back at the table, a calming presence in my current chaos. “I wrapped it up and put it in this gift bag,” she announced with pride as she passed me a yellow paper bag adorned with a copper sunburst made out of rhinestones and glitter. “Here’s my business card if you need any more gift ideas in the future, and here’s a brochure with more info about our café, including upcoming events we’re hosting.”

  She laid the card for Skyye is the Limit Crafts and the brochure for La Bohemia Café on the table and then headed toward the small crowd that was transfixed by the guitar player. He was playing a number that made me think of brightly colored flamenco dancers, though the words to his melody spoke to the sorrow, the tragedy that enveloped the nation. “This is a celebration of light,” he sang into the microphone. “Light is always stronger than darkness. Life and light will always win.”

  I looked back down at my phone, wondering why I felt more disturbed after seeing the photo of the held suspect than I’d felt before I’d viewed it.

  My gut was rarely wrong.

  But the authorities know what they are doing. I shook my head at myself, remembering that I had to be logical in my thoughts, regardless of what my emotions shouted. I was just a woman at the airport, a passenger waiting for a plane, who had a brief conversation with a complete stranger who’d rubbed me the wrong way. The authorities of Homeland Security, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, or whoever handled such matters had the expertise and the knowledge to know that they had the right man.

  But the feeling in the pit of my stomach wasn’t an emotion; it felt more like a knowing.

  “Enough, Sienna,” I whispered to myself. They had the man who did it. All I could do now was pray for the families, pray for the country, and be on the side of healing. What could I do otherwise?

  As I reached for the off button on my phone and considered what I would have done if the picture of the suspect had been different, I thought of Leon.

  There had been a second voice mail message, I recalled.

  I pulled up the message from the unknown area code and held my breath as I pressed play.

  “Hello, Sienna St. James.”

  It wasn’t Leon. My heart deflated, but then nearly stopped as I listened to the rest of the message.

  “I met you in the airport a couple of hours ago. I want to set up an appointment to talk with you about some matters that are important to me. I know you take great pride in calling yourself a therapist, and that as a therapist you will have to come up with some trivial diagnosis to bill my insurance company to justify the time of our meeting. Well, I am not interested in a diagnosis. I only want a conversation, and I will pay you the going rate of a conversation so that you will not have to submit any billing claims to my insurance company, but still have the necessary funds you require. I noticed on the printed travel itinerary that you had sticking out of your tote bag that you are returning to Baltimore Sunday evening. I will call you back at that time to schedule our conversation. I hope you are enjoying San Diego.”

  That man saw my travel itinerary? I recalled the snapshot he’d seemed to have taken with his phone when he’d stood by the window. My bags and I had been in the corner of his camera screen and I knew that it was easy to zoom in on digital images. How else would he have seen the tiny print of my travel itinerary in my bag?

  It was a scary thought. My face on his phone. My card in his pocket. The chill that his eyes carried. Had he left the message before or after the blast, I wondered. And what would it mean either way?

  My imagination was getting the best of me.

  Delete? Save? My thumb hung over the two options on my phone as I debated what to do with his message. I wanted no part of this man. Didn’t want him in my office. Didn’t even want him in my voice mailbox. Did I have to call him back? Was I obligated to answer if he called again?

  What area code was his phone calling from anyway?

  740.

  A quick Internet search on my smart phone revealed the number had roots in a large swath of Ohio.

  I need to write this down, I decided, feeling a sudden compulsion to note any- and everything that this man said or did. I grabbed a pen from a side pocket of my purse and turned over the brochure that Skyye had left on the table so I could write on it.

  I prepared to write, “740= southeastern and central Ohio,” but my pen froze midsentence.

  The back of the La Bohemia Café brochure featured an event calendar. On the evening of April 16, five days from now, the Monthly Lecture Series of La Bohemia Café had a special guest coming to talk about “The Political Meaning of Identity, War, and Revolution.” It wasn’t the name of the seminar that stopped me in my tracks. It was the presenter.

  The speaker’s name was Kisu Felokwakhe.

  Chapter 5

  For years, I could not recall his last name, but I had no doubts, no questions, no confusion when I saw it on the event list.

  Felokwakhe.

  RiChard and Kisu used to chuckle at my vain attempts to pronounce it, and let me settle with calling him Kisu “O” as that was the only syllable I could ever remember. They had been friends long before I met RiChard, having been roommates in a study abroad program they both attended in England as undergrads.

  Kisu had been from the KwaZulu-Natal region of South Africa, and when he and RiChard returned to his homeland to preach a message of social justice and revolution in the waning days of apartheid, Kisu was attacked and killed.

  At least that’s what RiChard had said when he returned to Kisu’s village with blood on his hands.

  Blood, he’d said, that came from him avenging Kisu’s death.

  Blood that forever tainted my innocent view of RiChard as I had given up my full college ride and my common sense to marry him and follow him around the world for his so-called mission.

  Yes, I was bitter, but didn’t I have the right to be, considering all the lies it turned out he was living?

  I was there the day RiChard returned to Kisu’s village and talked of killing men in retaliation for his best friend’s murder. I watched in silence as Kisu’s father gave RiChard the lion’s head ring that would eventually become the symbol of RiChard’s double life and his lies to me, to Roman; yes, even to Mbali, Kisu’s “widowed fiancée,” if that was such a phrase, whom RiChard would eventually marry without telling each of us the truth about each other.

  Felokwakhe.

  I remembered now that Kisu did not have a last name in the way the Western world dictated. In his community, names held special meaning, related to the circumstances of a child’s birth, or prayers, hopes, wishes, or blessings. “Kisu” had not been a traditional name as such in his culture, but rather was the wish of his mother who had gotten the name from only who knows w
here. Kisu’s father, the village chief, acquiesced to her demands, but, upon the admonition of one of his advisors who was supposedly keen to dreams and visions, uneasily gave Kisu an additional name, the traditional name of Felokwakhe. Kisu simply used Felokwakhe as his surname during his studies as he did not have any other name to use.

  “One who dies for his own,” RiChard had reminded the small village of Felokwakhe’s meaning when he returned with blood on his hands. “The son, the warrior, the noble intellect has died for the cause of righteousness,” RiChard asserted as the villagers came to terms with their grief over the loss of their prized son. Kisu was a martyr for the cause and the village was moved to action.

  Unsettled and uncertain about what was going on, I moved back to the States, unknowingly pregnant with RiChard’s first child, Roman.

  Years would pass before I would learn that Kisu was not dead.

  When Roman was fourteen, I received a package in the mail, supposedly of RiChard’s ashes; but instead the lion’s head ring was inside. A whirlwind search for answers revealed that Kisu was behind the delivery.

  I’d had many questions, but I had never gotten all the answers. As a result, I’d lost chances at love and healing, and, I conceded, the loss of my son’s respect along the way.

  No more.

  Kisu Felokwakhe was going to be at the La Bohemia Café in five days. I was going to be there too.

  I did not know what that meant for my work week, my scheduled appointments, my return to Baltimore—that man from the airport—but this was one seminar I was not going to miss.

  I’d spent years learning lessons about myself, failing lessons on love, reliving lessons on moving forward. Here was a final exam on finding answers, and this test I would not fail, come hell or high water.

  Something told me I was in for both.

  Chapter 6

  Mom, are you coming?

  Roman’s text buzzed me back to the moment. I’d been in San Diego less than two hours. From the airport, to Roman’s car, to this café hosted by the sunny Skyye, I had not covered much physical ground; and yet my life felt like it had moved to a whole other internal location over the past ninety-seven minutes.