Chapter 20
Christmas Morning
“Sienna, I completely agree that Roman is making a huge mistake, but this is not the way to fix it. You're only going to drive him away.”
Five o'clock in the morning and Leon and I had not yet stopped arguing from the night before.
“I'm his mother. I gave birth to him. I know him. And I know that he is out of his mind. This is the only way to stop this foolishness.”
“This is not it, Sienna. You're going to lose him. What you are planning to do is not going to do anything but backfire.”
Christmas Eve dinner sat cold in the kitchen, uneaten. The plates and utensils remained untouched on the table. Our Christmas tree, our very first Christmas tree, twinkled and blinked in the corner of the living room. White lights were the only things on the branches as trays of glass ornaments, including a specially ordered hand-painted cherub bulb to commemorate our baby announcement, sat on the floor to the side.
Our original plan was to wait for Roman to help us decorate our new family tree.
New traditions.
Big announcements.
Merry Christmas.
“How dare you try to tell me what to do or not do for my son? What kind of mother would I be if I didn't keep him from running off with that woman?”
“Sienna, he has to walk, run, fail, and get back up on his own two feet. You cannot protect him from living life and learning lessons on his own.”
“This is too costly of a lesson for him to learn, Leon. Why aren't you on my side right now? I need you!” We'd circled our condo several times, back and forth, yelling, pleading, glaring at each other. “I need my husband to be on my side right now.” My voice came out in a whisper, but the pain I felt thundered through me louder than a thousand train engines.
My son had lost his mind.
Was it something I'd done? Something I hadn't done? I shut my eyes, but I could not shut out Leon's nagging, borderline threatening voice.
“Sienna, you are going to lose Roman. If you go forward with this plan, he will not talk to you. For what he is about to do, he needs to be able to talk to you. This is not the time to burn pathways of communication with Roman, and if you make that call, that's exactly what you'll be doing. Burning down to ashes the pathway for him to come back home.”
My cell phone was still in hand. I'd already talked to my contact at a mental health hospital. Dr. Mansley, a psychiatrist at the facility where I often referred patients needing medication management, agreed to assist me with obtaining an emergency petition, a seventy-two-hour hold.
Any court would agree, I was certain, that my son was a danger to himself. Out of his mind. Delusional. There was no way he would be getting on that plane to India in two hours, even if it meant that he would be forced into a mental health facility against his will. Based on the little information he'd provided, I'd managed to figure out his flight time and number. Whether Leon joined me or not, I was about to drive down to BWI to meet the officers who would assist with this petition. My car keys were in my other hand. I marched out the door. Leon followed.
No sleep. Still vomiting. Broken and angry at the nerve of my son. Worried and afraid for the safety and sanity of my son.
“It has to be the hormones.” Leon threw up his hands as I got in the car. “It has to be. I've never seen you be this irrational. Stop, Sienna, I beg you. Let's . . . let's figure this out. There's got to be another way to deal with this.” His voice echoed in the parking garage. His hands held the car door open, preventing me from closing it.
“There is no time. There is no other way. Get off the door, Leon.”
He let it go and I slammed it shut, starting the engine. As I pulled out of my parking space, I could see in my rearview mirror that he was heading for his own truck. By the time I'd exited the garage and reached the first stoplight, he'd caught up with me.
On a typical day, the drive from Canton to Baltimore/ Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport would take about twenty minutes. However, it was five-thirty on Christmas morning. Lights twinkled on every corner, in every window as I shot through the quiet streets and deserted highways. Leon's Pathfinder was the only other vehicle near mine for most of the way. I got there in thirteen minutes.
Leon had called my cell phone five times.
I didn't answer.
I circled around the departure gates and knew where Roman was immediately.
Two police cars. An ambulance. Airport security cars and personnel.
“Ma'am, you cannot leave your car parked here,” a TSA officer barked as I shut my engine and jumped out of my sedan. “Ma'am!”
“That's my son.” I pointed.
Roman.
In the middle of the lights, the sirens, the Christmas morning chaos, he sat on the curb, his hands handcuffed behind him, his eyes cast down on the street.
“Wait,” I yelled, running toward the scene. I slowed down then stopped as I remembered these men and women were armed. Running and hooting and hollering toward them could not possibly have a good outcome. “Wait,” I said again to the officers who stood at the perimeter. “That's my son. He's not a criminal. Why is he in handcuffs?”
“Are you the family member who requested an emergency psychiatric evaluation of Roman St. James?”
“Yes, but why is he in handcuffs?” I asked again. Leon joined me, both of our cars left unattended in the departures drop-off lane.
“Precautionary measure, that's all,” the officer responded. “He initially showed some resistance when we approached him, but everything is under control right now.”
Under control.
I looked at the dizzying flashes of patrol lights, heard the murmurs of arriving passengers who skirted around the scene to enter the terminal; listened to the static-filled radios and handsets of the emergency responders. Saw Changuna standing to the side, eyes wide, arms and fingers shaking.
Saw my son look up. Our eyes met.
Defeat. Anger.
Passionate anger.
I stepped back although he was maybe fifty feet away. I stepped back and landed against Leon's chest. I waited for Leon's arms to wrap around me.
They didn't.
“Ms. St. James?” Another officer approached, shook my hand. “Listen, one of our crisis response units evaluated your son to determine if he is a danger to himself or anyone else. We have no current concerns as he is presenting as fully competent. There are no legal or medical reasons to place a psychiatric hold on him. We're letting him go.” He turned to leave and I noticed that the responders on the scene had relaxed. Small talk. Slight chuckles. “Overprotective,” “mothers,” “crazy.” Words I heard tossed around.
Roman was uncuffed, his bags handed to him. I watched as he shook himself off, put on a backpack, picked up a duffel bag, nodded at Changuna, entered the terminal.
He never looked back.
“Our cars . . .” Leon had turned around to face the street, just realizing that our vehicles had been towed.
A shuttle bus circling the loop stopped in front of us and the driver opened the door. “You need a ride to one of the parking lots?” His voice sounded like gravel filled his throat. A gray golf cap sat low on his forehead. I stared at him. Said nothing. Leon looked away and mumbled inaudible words under his breath. The driver shrugged.
“Merry Christmas.” He shut the door and resumed his route.
Chapter 21
“Baltimore City police are investigating the sudden death of the lead prosecutor overseeing the Delmon Frank case. She died of unknown causes just before entering the Clarence Mitchell Courthouse late this afternoon. The trial has been temporarily suspended in light of her death. Star witness Sienna St. James Sanderson was by Billy's side and attempted to render first aid before first responders arrived.
“Investigators at this point are not certain whether fifty-four-year-old Alisa Billy's untimely demise was due to natural causes or even overdose. A toxicology report, which will take several weeks, will be completed to rule out foul play, though sources report that several prescription drugs were found on Ms. Billy's person. Stay tuned to First Witness News for an updated report at eleven. This is Simon Joyce, live in front of the courthouse. Back to you in the studio, Don.”
I snapped off the television in the waiting room as a bitter taste filled my mouth.
They're not sure that it was foul play?
I shook my head, wondering why I seemed to be the only person on the planet who thought something sinister was going on.
First my son gets attacked. Random robbery. Then Alisa passes on, God rest her soul. Possible drug overdose?
Was I thinking too hard about this? Nobody else was considering that something more was going on here?
Nobody else knew about Sweet Violet.
I made a decision. Whether Leon agreed or not, whether I was simply going crazy or not, I needed to tell someone about her.
And say what?
I asked myself.
That I had several bizarre conversations with a homeless woman who frequented the downtown area? That she seemed to surface not long before someone died, or was attacked, or overdosed?
Wait. I didn't see her around when Roman was assaulted
. Listen to me.
I shook my head. I was grasping at straws, trying to make an issue where there was none.
I didn't even know her real name. In my conversations with her, she only answered to Sweet Violet a couple of times, insisting to me at other times that her name was Frankie Jean.
And Frankie Jean what? Without a last name, an address, or a clear indication of her past, I had little to share with anyone, let alone share my suspicions that she, in her seemingly delusional, probably drunken, state, was some kind of mastermind behind unrelated death and destruction.
The possibility seemed silly and farfetched even as I thought it. How many times had Leon accused me of being too paranoid for my own good? And, yet, following my paranoia had helped save lives from further terror attacks last year.
“Sienna, are you okay?” Leon eyed me from a nearby couch. We were right back at the hospital and my entire family sat scattered around the waiting room, waiting for Roman's imminent discharge. “We just want to make sure he doesn't have any additional head swelling,” a nurse had explained the delay.
“I'm about as okay as I'm going to be.” I rubbed my eyes as the weight of exhaustion mixed with grief settled into my eyelids and dug into my muscles and bones.
Alisa Billy was dead.
I didn't know much about her. I knew that she was a recent divorcee and she had a pet Pomeranian named Daisy that she enjoyed dressing in cheerleading and princess dress costumes. I only knew this because she showed me pictures of her pooch on one of the few occasions she'd let her guard down.
“The stress of the case.” Leon still eyed me. “That's probably why she was taking all of those pills.”
I started to say something, but what was the point? Leon would not get my concerns. I doubted that anyone would.
“The stress is too much for anyone.” My mother nodded from across the room. Sitting next to my father who had his nose buried in a newspaper, I felt like we were sitting in their family room in their home in Randallstown, and not on the fourteenth floor of Metro Community. Yvette had slipped away to a vending machine with Fiona. Demari had returned home to be with their other children. My son was still asleep.
“Have you talked to Roman yet?” My father didn't budge from behind the paper, seeming to read my mind. I was glad he could not see my face.
That was a loaded question.
As angry as Roman had been about the events of Christmas Day, I knew that my parents were plenty upset as well.
At both of us.
We never talked about it.
“He's been asleep for most of the day, Dad. I decided to let him rest so he won't be in too much pain. I'll talk to him once we leave. They are still talking about discharging him this evening.”
My father sighed, grumbled, made some inaudible noise in response.
“That cop keeps circling the hallway.” My mother pointed to a man in uniform just outside the waiting area.
“He's not a cop. Just hospital security.” Leon rubbed his eyes. “And before you think more of it, Sienna, he's most likely posted by us to protect us from the media. Just the media.”
“Why do you keep doing that, Leon?”
“Doing what?”
“Talking to me like I'm crazy for thinking that we may need a cop to protect us from more than the media.”
“It's called PTSD.” My mother beamed at her assertion. “I learned about it watching a YouTube video on mental health diagnoses.” This she said as if I didn't have a master's in social work, as if I did not work as a therapist who had knowledge of illnesses, treatments, and theories. “They used to only diagnose soldiers returning from battle with it,” she continued, “but now they say anybody who's been through a traumatic situation can be jumpy and on edge. Sienna's been through a lot lately.”
“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.