The Expression of God

A FEW GOOD WEEKS TICKED THROUGH THE CALENDAR YEAR FOR Smythe, and she felt more at peace. She continued to write, had secured a couple of corporate clients, and conducted several half-day workshops. After a particularly busy week, Smythe looked forward to Saturday. Like most Saturdays, this was the only day Artie would allow her to drive, albeit with a security detail following her.

After completing their normal workout routine, Artie and Smythe both showered, dressed, and stopped by the baker’s shop where they picked up their usual malasadas and coffee. From the bakery, the caravan traveled the 25 minutes it would take to get to Smythe’s parents’ home. The caravan stopped a block away, allowing Smythe to trade places with the driver of her vehicle. She drove the rest of the way to her mother’s home while the security detail stationed themselves inconspicuously amongst the homes in the neighborhood, yet still within clear eyesight of Smythe’s family residence.

After greeting her mother, Smythe, who was always wired, gave a code word indicating that all was well in the home. She carried on a pleasant conversation with her mom before the two went off for their weekly breakfast outing. From there, she ran errands with her mother before returning to her parent’s home. For the remainder of the afternoon, they sat chatting and watching a movie or two. This was how the normal routine played out, week after week since her father’s death.

However, this Saturday, the day before the six-month anniversary of her father’s death, Smythe’s mother delivered an emotional blow she didn’t see coming.

With their first movie playing, Smythe was peacefully lounging on the family room sofa when her mother walked up behind her.

“Here, I want to give this to you. It is an old letter your father wrote after you accused him of—well, you should read it. I found it when I was cleaning out his armoire. I told you that he had a year’s worth of stuff just piled into it. You just need to know you were the apple of his eye, and he loved you very much.”

Smythe turned around and took the letter from her mother’s outstretched hand. As she held the letter, her vision became tunneled. She could feel her heart pounding through the walls of her chest, cold settling in the pit of her stomach as her hand began to shake. She glanced at the letter and quickly shoved it into her pants pocket before turning around to continue watching the movie they had started. Neither of them spoke.

Smythe’s hands were balled into a fist inside her pants pocket. She could not help but wonder what the letter contained, but the tone of her mother’s voice seemed to hint at an accusation. They both remained silent until the end of the movie.

After the movie ended, Smythe gathered her messenger bag and groceries, hugging her mother goodbye before quickly heading out the door. She met Artie a few houses down and asked if she could simply drive home alone. Artie, although wary of such a request, consented. On the way home, Smythe stopped at a gas station, followed by two of her security detail. She hadn’t smoked in months, yet she purchased a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Once the security detail was back in their car, they spoke to Artie on her com link.

“Boss. I think there’s trouble. She purchased a pack of cigarettes.”

“What!?”

With bone-chilling fear coursing through her slender frame, Smythe returned to her car and drove to the nearest strip mall and parked. There she opened up the pack, took a cigarette out, and with her hands trembling, lit it before shoving her hand into her pants pocket to retrieve the letter.

Artie, seated in the front passenger seat of Team 2’s vehicle, watched Smythe intently. She sensed something was very wrong, and it was clear that the paper Smythe held in her hand was emotional dynamite.

After several minutes and another cigarette, Smythe signaled the team that she was driving and headed home. Once home, she feigned a headache and made a beeline for her bedroom. In her bedroom closet, she opened the second drawer of her clothing chest and reached toward the back of it. Tears in her eyes, her hand—the same hand that held her fathers’ letter—now found what she was looking for.

She held the bottle in one hand and unscrewed the lid with her other, shaking out three pills as she laid the bottle on her bedside table. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed an open bottle of wine. Smythe popped the pills into her mouth and nearly downed the other half the bottle before Artie walked in and gently pulled it from her.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

With tears in her eyes, Smythe said, “Nothing that this bottle won’t solve in the moment.”

“I don’t believe that. C’mon—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Artie, not now. If you don’t mind, I just need time to process a bit.”

In reality, Smythe was well on her way down an emotional rabbit hole. Her inward dialogue started to consume her.

Why would she hand me this letter? Did she need to make a statement?

And why all of this talk about God. He was no saint. Who is he to talk about whether I believe in God or not?! I’ve never even talked to that asshole about that. Maybe—maybe, God’s punishing me. Maybe I’m just as bad as they’ve always said I was. Maybe I am evil. Why would she do this?

Smythe was unreachable; her mind completely cluttered with self-doubt and loathing. It was now late afternoon, and evening was fast approaching. Her heart shattered, she spoke very little, barely mustering up enough energy to keep busy with chores to complete around her apartment. Artie made several attempts toward small talk, but Smythe remained closed-lipped whenever Artie attempted to coax her into talking about the letter.

For Artie, timing could not be worse. She received an unexpected call from her FBI contact Carole, requesting an emergency meeting. The trial was being moved up, and a credible threat had been made against Smythe’s life.

“Can it wait? Something is up with the client here.”

“No, Artie. I need to see you. Now.”

“What’s going on?”

“Artie, just get here as soon as you can. I need to share something with you.”

“Where?”

“My office.”

“I’ll leave now.”

Artie prepared to leave, yet an uneasiness began to settle into her body. She couldn’t pinpoint whether it was Smythe’s unusually solemn disposition or her upcoming conversation with Carole. All she knew for certain was that she felt overwhelming danger and fear—two emotions she wouldn’t have normally allowed herself to entertain. All of the reasoning she offered to herself would not abate a heightened sense of both emotions; therefore, out of an abundance of caution, she chose a security detail to accompany her to the meeting.

This case is too volatile for second-guessing.

Artie notified Dennis of her meeting as well as her concern. He posted teams outside Smythe’s apartment and assigned a third team to escort Artie to the FBI building.

*
*     *

I don’t just need to think. I’m sick and tired of thinking. Sick and tired of it all.

With Artie out of the apartment, Smythe downed another four pills and finished the last of the bottle of wine sitting on the kitchen countertop.

Time seemed to pass slowly. Smythe stood motionless in the doorway of her bedroom as her feelings rose like the waves of an angry ocean tossed about, going under and under and under again.

Smythe’s inner voice began to speak. I understand now why people don’t cry out for help. People all around me—friends, colleagues, acquaintances—all of them. They only see a façade. How could they think of me as strong, confident, brave even? It’s the furthest thing from the truth. It’s just time to end this, I think.

I wonder. I wonder about people who take their lives. Those left behind have often said, “If only they could have reached out for help.”

Don’t they know? Don’t they understand the shame we feel? We’re supposed to have it all together. Certainly, I’m not supposed to contemplate taking my own life. I’m supposed to be highly functional. I’ve got everything going for me. Survival of the fittest, right? Top of the evolutionary chain, at least in wisdom. I’m the “why would she take her life” kind of person.

Smythe sneered a chuckle and burst into tears as panic began to overwhelm her.

I really am mentally ill. She was right all along.

I need to leave. I need to leave. Just pack up now. Artie’s not here. I could say to the team I’m going to the store. They would follow, and I could lose them. I could just walk away. Walk away. Walk away, walk away, walk away—

Yet another inner voice spoke. Smythe’s voice of reason. The voice that connected to her Beloved. Please don’t, please. Call Artie. Call anyone—they’re just outside. Tell them what’s happened. Tell them what you’ve done. Artie doesn’t deserve this. You don’t deserve this.

Unable to quell her first inner voice, it quietly berated her. I’m not that strong. I’m not that strong. I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of fighting. I’m so tired. I’m so very tired.

Her voice of reason spoke again, begging for help. Please, God, help me. Please help me, please dear God help me. I can’t hold on any longer. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t know what end is up. Please help me.

Read, just read.

Smythe stumbled into the dining room and picked up a book off her dining room table, knocking one of her notebooks onto the floor. As she reached down to pick it up, the notebook opened onto a page with a note from someone’s handwriting she did not recognize. It read:

“The seed of God which lives in everyone merits recognition. For in a specified way, we express the creation of our God. You, my daughter, embody the creative expression of our God.”

She began to sob.

Ok, this is a sign. Take a shower, get into bed, and just read. Don’t think. Just read. Don’t think about tomorrow. Just read. Can you do that much? Please, Smythe. Your life depends on it. Please.

Artie will be back soon. Do you really want her to find you like this? C’mon, pull it together. Go throw up. Before it’s too late, just throw up.

“—the expression of God,” was Smythe’s last conscious thought as she stood rocking to and fro at the entrance to her bedroom.