My groaning is witness that I am displeased with myself.

Saint Augustine

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sabina

I ponder Miles’s words about putting himself on the same plane as God. Is that what I’ve done with Ashley’s death? By allowing the burden of her choice to rest on my shoulders, have I put myself in God’s place?

No.

I put myself in God’s place long before Ashley’s death . . .

It was after Jazzy died.

I stand up—a sudden flourish of movement. I look down at Miles. “I’m sorry. I don’t wait well. I’m going to walk around. May I bring you something? Coffee or a soda?”

“No, thank you.”

“May I give you my cell phone number, that way if you hear something you could let me know?”

“Sure.”

We exchange numbers, and then I turn and walk back toward the doors that lead to the parking lot—the ones I came in not long ago. I need the slap of the cold wind against my face, but as I exit the building I see the sun is still shining.

How dare it.

I walk through the parking lot to the street and then through the neighborhood surrounding the hospital. If You let anything happen to Ellyn, I swear . . . I leave my threat dangling. What good would it do? You do what You want, regardless of my prayers.

A lump of emotion lodges in my throat. I wish I’d brought my iPod with me so I could listen to music as I walk. I need a distraction.

I do not want to consider God.

Nor do I want to think about Ashley.

I slow my pace.

And Jazzy. A tear slips down my cheek. Oh, Jazzy.

No. I can’t—I won’t let those memories control me. I turn back toward the hospital, but then I stop. A scream rises in my chest. I want to shake my fist at God and demand answers. Jazzy, Ashley, and now possibly Ellyn?

Why?

Ellyn. The first friend I’ve allowed myself in years. And now she’s lying in a hospital.

Hot tears fall. I reach in my purse for a tissue and wipe my eyes and nose. As I do, a car passes by. How must I look walking down the street, crying? I look like the fool I am. A fool who’s demanding answers from a God she no longer believes in.

Antwone, Ellyn, and Miles can have their God.

But something nags. Antwone, Ellyn, and Miles are intelligent people—people I respect. And my mama believed in God more than in the air she breathed. She was a woman to reckon with. If she’d ever heard me denounce my belief in God, she’d . . . well, she’d have walloped me. Such a choice from me would have wounded her in the deepest part of her soul.

So how do I reconcile my respect for others who believe? Maybe they just don’t get it. But my mama? Oh, she got it. And Miles? He seemed to understand. Why is it they’ve moved on with their lives and I’m stuck?

The answer seems obvious.

And that makes me even more angry.