Without Faith (25 page)

Sunday dinner.

My mother insisted that we have a good old-fashioned soul food spread. Barbecued ribs. Fried chicken. Collard greens with smoked turkey. Corn on the cob. Red potato salad. Brown sugar baked beans.

I sat on a loveseat in front of a muted television, watching my mother and sister work together in my kitchen, listened to them argue over my late grandmother's yeast rolls recipe. Roman and Skee-Gee were in my son's bedroom heavily debating video game scores, my other nieces and nephews engaged in a pillow fight in the guest room. My father was stretched out in my recliner, struggling to sleep, throwing out random threats to everyone who was keeping him up.

So much fighting and so much love in my full little home.

“Ah, here it comes now.” Laz was sitting next to me, the remote in his hand as he unmuted the follow-up story he'd taped of Roman and me walking into our front door and into the arms and kisses of our family and friends. Laz's smile stretched farther as he pulled up the YouTube Web site on my laptop.

“Over 123,000 hits and counting.” He grinned at me as he watched the segment again on the Internet video site.

I'd had enough of the news. Had already watched it earlier when the incident at La Chambre Rouge was detailed. Only one fatality—an unfortunate chef who came early to prepare for a “fantasy date that didn't happen” and was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I closed my eyes, and winced at the horrid memory of the man lying there on the kitchen floor . . .

The news had gone on to detail that a Jenellis Walker, Brayden Moore, and David King all received minor injuries while resisting arrest. Apparently, and fortunately, Jenellis had not completed her plan with the men who regained consciousness sooner than expected and had closed in on her. The detective had come just in time. Jenellis, for her part, was being investigated for the mysterious trail of abuse, money, and death littered with the bodies of her former husbands and lovers.

Noticeably missing from the news reports were any mention of the twins, Anastasia and Contessa Simmons, or as they were better known, Silver and Gold. I figured it was safe to assume that they had probably accepted a deal to witness against the woman who had only added to their life of terror and they were now both living a hidden life of obscurity for their protection.

“You are a strong, amazing woman.”

I did not realize that Laz was watching me as I sat on the sofa, dazed, numb, waiting for a sense of normalcy to return to my life.

“You are going to get through this, and you will be an even better, stronger person because of it. You and Roman will recover from RiChard.”

The mere thought of that man's name had always brought a sting of pain. Now, a new sensation was trying to take root in me.

Bitterness.

Bitterness so sour, so strong I could taste it in my mouth, feel it in my breath, feel it snaking through my veins with every beat of my broken heart.

Not broken over him. Broken over the years of my life I had wasted believing him, believing in him.

A knock at the door forced me to move.

“I can get it,” Laz offered.

I shook my head no as I stood and headed for the front door. I needed to get up, feel myself move. Begin steps toward healing.

Leon was at the door.

And he was not alone.

I looked at him, the young woman standing next to him, the baby in her arms. Up close and personal, she was more stunning than when I'd seen her in the diner booth with Leon. Hair, long and smooth like golden corn silk; a smile that looked like it belonged on a toothpaste commercial. I guess the baby carrier had been on the other side of her seat at the diner, out of my view.

Breathe,
I told myself

It didn't work.

“Sienna.” Leon gave a shaky smile. “I wanted to . . . There hasn't been a good time to talk.”

I tried to speak, but could only sit down on the carpeted stairs beside me.

“This is, uh, Sha'mya. My niece.”

“Your . . . what?”

“My niece,” he repeated. “My little brother, you know the one who was gunned down years ago? The one I told you about who inspired me to start working for the PAL center? Well, this is his daughter. I lost contact with her when she was only, like, three months old, when her mother moved away to Houston. She found me just last month.”

I tried to stand, felt my feet stumble, sat back down.

“Sha'mya, this is Sienna, my . . . well, a good friend of mine,” he continued.

“Hi, Ms. St. James.” She grinned. “I've heard so much about you, been watching your son's story on TV. I'm so glad he's okay.”

“Thank you.” I smiled, weakly, trying to figure out what else I had left in me to say. “Um, we're having dinner.”

“Oh, look, a baby!” My mother screamed over me. I had not heard her come down the steps behind me. “Come here, young lady. Let me hold that beautiful child.”

I had to stand up to get out of my mother's way. My mother embraced Sha'mya and the two began a spirited discussion of all things baby.

“We can't stay, Sienna,” Leon said after smiling at them.

“You're leaving? Where are you off to?” I gave a light laugh, though my heart told me there was more to what he was saying.

“I've been trying to tell you, but too much has been going on.” He smiled a warm smile. “You know my grandmother raised me. She and my brother were the only family I had and knew. Sha'mya, she has no one. Her mother passed away last year. No sisters, no brothers. I'm the only family
she
has.” He bit his lip, looked down, then continued. “Sienna, you and your son have helped heal me, prepared me, over the past two years; gave me a place to be a man. I love you, both of you.”

“I know. Thank you. I love you too.”

My mother and Sha'mya were still laughing, talking, and sharing. The baby gurgled and cooed and reached out to touch the collage that hung in my foyer. The collage Laz had complimented me on during his first visit to my home, I recalled.

Leon and I stared at each other.

“I wanted to be so much more for you, to you,” he whispered.

“You've been more than I even knew I needed. And, now I . . . We . . .” I tried to smile.

“My niece just enrolled in school. Houston Community College.”

I nodded.

“She's had a rough life. This is major for her. She's got college and a new part-time job that took her despite her record.” He nodded. “I want her to succeed. She's the only family I have left.” There was a long pause. “I'm going back to Houston with her. For support. Help. 'Til she gets on her feet. Sha'mya is only nineteen, has a baby, and another child, a three-year-old she's trying to get out of foster care. I have to be there for my family, Sienna. My grandmother would expect that of me. My grandmother was there for me, and my brother.”

“Yeah.” I couldn't stop nodding. “I understand. We . . . I. . .”

“Of course Roman can call me anytime.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

I could hear my mother inviting Sha'mya to come upstairs, to eat, to at least fix a plate to take with her. They disappeared and I heard Yvette squealing over the baby.

“It's been good,” Leon whispered. “It's been a good season for both of us.”

“A season?” I took in a deep breath. “A season.” I nodded, trying to be strong, feel strong.

He looked at me a few seconds more, and brushed away the single tear that I didn't realize was coming down my face. He cupped my cheek with his hand. Pulled me close to him.

His lips touched mine. Soft. Then certain. I held his hand against my cheek, not wanting him to go, to let go.

But he did.

He was on his way up the steps to grab a plate behind Sha'mya before I could even open my eyes.

Gone.

I could hear Laz laughing loudly at some sitcom rerun Roman had turned on. My mother joined in the laughter and Skee-Gee said something I could not make out. Everyone was laughing.

I was alone in the foyer.

Season.
I let the word sink in.

We had grown, tremendously grown, over the past couple of years. All of us. My son was taller. My mother and sister were closer.

I had my answers.

And that was just the beginning.

I opened the front door, looked up at the sky where the sun was beginning another descent, the day coming to an end. A chilly breeze blew over me, sending goose bumps up and down my bare arms.

Season.
Though the air was cool, I knew spring was right around the corner, a new time of planting.

I could not let seeds of hurt, pain, or bitterness find fertile soil in my soul.

I did not want that. I wanted to believe that I could fight it, that I could stand my ground against the numbing sorrow that threatened to overtake me. I felt it—anger—trying to burrow a home deep in me. I did not know if or how I could fight it.

“Jesus, help me.”

The way I felt, I did not know if it was possible to ever fully let go of the hurt, to feel anything again.

To forgive.

The breeze outside my door grew stronger. I heard a flapping sound, looked down at one of the evergreen bushes that framed my entry.

An envelope peeked out.

I picked it up, flipped it over, wondered where it came from. There was no address, no words written across it. I opened it anyway.

Inside were two silver necklaces. They were joined by their charms, two butterfly halves that were each broken down the center. I put the two halves together, turned them over, read the back.

WITH FAITH ALL THINGS ARE POSSIBLE.

“Sienna!” my mother blasted from upstairs. I could tell from my father's heavy, plodding footsteps toward the dining room that grace was about to be said.

I looked at the chains in my hand, looked at the one empty corner of my collage, the corner that was supposed to represent me, the one place I'd never filled. I grabbed a push pin from a nearby drawer, centered it in the empty spot of my collage, and hung the chains off of it. I watched the broken butterfly flutter in the breeze that still wafted through my open door and I smiled.

“Mom?” Roman was standing on the steps.

“I'm coming.”

He returned a smile before running back up the steps, trying to beat Skee-Gee to the buffet table.

I had not missed the sadness in his eyes.

We would be okay. I had to believe that.
With faith all things are possible,
I struggled to remember the inscription; struggled to believe it was true
.

I exhaled and took one last look outside, examining the edges of some clouds that lingered in the now purple and blue evening sky. I closed my eyes, felt the chill of the mounting wind; inhaled it, the scent of both honeysuckle blossoms and dead leaves filling my nostrils.

Barren winter, the promise of spring. Intersecting. Competing.

Then I shut the door.

Many themes emerge in Sienna St. James's story as she searches for her son, digs up answers about her estranged husband, and manages new clients whose interpersonal problems threaten her life and well-being. Consider some of these themes as you work through the following questions individually or with other readers.