Return to Your Breath

“YOU’RE SAFE!”

Safe? The agent warned me of an impending threat. “Yet, I’m not safe,” Smythe mumbled, shuddering at the thought of the near accident.

Artie quickly approached the driver’s side of Smythe’s vehicle.

Her eyes narrowed and pierced those of her new client. “You’re safe now. We need to get you home and secured.”

Smythe’s trembling voice betrayed her. “Who-who are you?”

“My name is Artie.”

“I think—I think someone tried to kill me!”

“I know!” Artie snapped, her New York accent becoming more pronounced.

“I’ve been hired to keep you safe, which is no easy feat since you don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. Running around town without a care in the world! Are you nuts?”

What?!

Moving around to the passenger side, Artie spoke into an unseen com unit.

“Team 1, I’m jumping into the client’s car. Move my vehicle and handle the police. Team 2, tuck in behind the client and stay close. We’ll meet at the client’s residence.”

“Wait. What? I don’t know you!”

Panicked at the thought of a complete stranger entering her car, Smythe reached to press her automatic door locks. Even so, Artie jumped into the passenger seat much too quickly for Smythe to react.

“Don’t worry. Just drive. I’ll explain along the way.”

“No, wait. I need—”

“Just. Drive. Look, I know you’re scared, but ya gotta trust me. I am not here to hurt you, nor am I going to take you to a safe house. Drive home. Just drive home. Now!”

Smythe stared blankly at the stranger. Ok. She’s obviously FBI. She’s not going to force me into a safe house. I can go home. Just breathe, Smythe, just breathe.

“Drive home,” Smythe muttered.

“Yeah, just drive home.”

Reluctant toward any forward movement, Smythe slowly turned her wheels. She glanced through her rearview mirror, assessing the damage of the stranger’s dented vehicle. She wondered what damage had occurred to her own—a new pearl white, mid-sized, all-wheel-drive SUV. It was her baby. Coming directly from the manufacturer’s assembly line, with just nine miles on the odometer, she waited two months until the dealer found the vehicle matching her request.

“Is there any damage to my car?”

“No damage, but mine is pretty banged up—thank you for asking.”

Embarrassed she hadn’t asked out of concern for the stranger’s vehicle, Smythe glanced sheepishly toward Artie, gently nodding her head.

“Relax. My team’ll take care of it. Keep driving.”

“P-please. Who… who are you? You’re with the FBI, ri-right?”

Stop it; she’s friendly, Smythe reminded herself, as she worked to quell her stutter, which happened when she felt extreme fear.

“My name is Artie. We kinda met in the FBI building a few weeks back. I’ve been hired to protect you so that you can testify.”

Similar to the narrow focus of her everyday life, Smythe missed the grander dance of the world around her. And she missed the Universe’s direction. Go, stop, pause. If she would only but pay attention to its melody. But in the here-now moment, a moment where all are called to remain in the present without the internal chatter of one’s thoughts, she became too narrowly focused on every word from this stranger, barely avoiding cross-traffic as she drove through a red light.

“Hey! Hey! Pay attention to the road, Smythe.”

“I’m sorry. I-I’m more shaken than I thought. I’m not sure I want to go home. I don’t know… I don’t know you or that I can trust you. I-I want to, but maybe we should go to the FBI?”

Maybe I should pull over and run the hell out of my car.

“You’re still too exposed.” Artie gritted her teeth, taking in a deep breath before looking over at her new client. She watched as Smythe sat grimacing and squinting her eyes at the sunlight, her hands tightly squeezing the steering wheel.

“Do you have sunglasses in the car?”

“No, I left them at home, I think.”

“Ok. Listen and try to relax,” Artie gently encouraged her. “You live at 15 South Greenhurst Drive, Unit 552 on the ground floor. You park your car in front of your unit, which faces out to the parking lot. I know this because once you refused WitSec, I was hired to protect you. I get that you want freedom in your life, but right now, that life of freedom may cost you your life.

“I’ve been tailing you for the last two and a half weeks. You seem somewhat aloof—reclusive even, but when out and about, you’re charismatic, funny, and thoughtful. You seem to have a lot of peoples’ backs, and a lot of people seem to have yours. And right now, I’m going to need you to have mine.”

Smythe heard the compliment but dismissed it. She did that thing she does, always does—she felt sorry for herself. Instead of receiving the kind words, all she felt was shame. Shame because she did not listen to the FBI agent who warned of a threat to her life. And shame because she sat in the parking lot alone at such a dangerous hour.

It was a ghost of a similar feeling she held in high school so many years ago. The African American group of kids at school would not accept her—they considered her skin too light and her hair too straight. For the white kids, her skin was too brown and her hair too curly. Besides, her perfectly round-looking glasses were just too nerdy, her grades too good, her voice too quiet and unsteady. Over time, she developed an intensely flawed belief she was something to be ashamed of and that her decision-making skills were just as flawed as she was. Shame.

Smythe blinked away the tears. She settled into her driving and thought about the signals that caused her to make the decisions she had made up until now. The first step in changing anything is to know and accept that you have chosen it to be what it is. I have to accept what’s in this moment.

God, what’s causing all of this mess?

I caused this. I can’t blame this on anyone. I cannot even complain about it. I didn’t go into witness protection like the agent said. God, Smythe. What were you thinking?!

Smythe took in a breath.

Not helpful. Stop blaming.

Why? Why didn’t you listen to the agent? Now, look. A complete stranger is sitting in your car!

Smythe clenched her jaw and continued to drive. She looked out at the rolling hillside and wondered at the beauty of nature. The trees seem to stand majestically in place, reaching up toward the heavens. Are they without a care?

A deep knowing floated to the surface of her consciousness.

“Trust.”

She caught the gentle thought in her heart and leaned forward as if to listen more clearly. It was hard for her to explain to anyone her understanding of the thought and where it came. So, she didn’t try. It was too personal. But in her heart of hearts, she knew it came from her Beloved.

Raised as a Methodist, Smythe’s early experience of God—or Beloved, as she’d now grown to know—had only added to her experience with shame. The God she was raised to believe in was a God to be feared. It was a God of judgment and retribution. God, to her, was a Being who hated anything that wasn’t white, male, Christian, and heterosexual.

While attending university, her fear of God continued. In order to gather a more rounded understanding of this God she feared so much, she attended a variety of diverse religious gatherings, interviewing leaders and laypeople of many faiths. In the end, she realized many of them knew of God, but few had an experience with God. Smythe desperately wanted an experience. And so, quite simply, she started to ask questions of the grumpy God in the sky. Out loud.

Some would call it serendipity, but Smythe knew better. Her Beloved came through and answered her questions. It was hard for her to express how she knew it was the Spirit of God, but she had an inner knowing. At first, she would hear and feel the answer deep within her spirit. Yet, she wanted and needed outside confirmation without any forced effort on her part. So, her Beloved met her where she was. Through a book she by “happenstance” came across, or perhaps a comment someone would offer, she would often hear an internal comment, saying, “Here is the answer to your question.” Her questions were constantly answered without her ever revealing aloud to anyone what her initial, private question had been. And it was life-changing.

“Learn to trust.”

Yet, the egoic part of herself that loves to blame, complain, and shame her roared its voice and highjacked her thinking.

Think, Smythe. Think.

A frown formed around the corners of her mouth.

What did you think would happen? We’re you just going to pretend everything was normal—that everything was going to be ok?! Whether you like it or not, you are a part of this murder mess now. Stop denying your responsibility!

Her internal flogging in full force, Smythe tightened her grip on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

Artie, on the other hand, made no further attempt to talk with her new client. Instead, she held a clipped conversation with a team member following behind them. To ease her internal angst, Smythe chose to return home using a two-lane back road. It was still a bit early in the year, and the hard cold that swept into the area was slowly beginning to release its grip upon the valley. Although the leaves had yet to bloom on the elm and birch trees that lined her route, Smythe began to understand that in their apparent slumber and stress, they were nonetheless preparing for new growth.

New growth, she sighed. It has an annoying way of occurring under stress.

“Once home take positions around her building. We won’t know if the client’s address is known until we get to the unit.” The ominous tone of Artie’s words drew Smythe to her present task—driving home.

The two-lane back road expanded into a bustling thoroughfare the closer Smythe advanced toward her home. She flipped her right turn signal on and glanced into her rearview mirror to ensure the trailing SUV would follow her. Winding her way through her neighborhood, a mixture of relief and trepidation washed over her as she neared her complex. The updated Spanish revival buildings sat unassumingly at the far end of a row of upscale homes. For Artie, the location of the complex was a plus. Unless someone knew the area well, it was quite possible to miss the complex entirely.

Smythe slowly drove onto a newly paved two-lane road leading to the property grounds. While flora and palm trees welcomed residents and visitors alike, signs also politely warned the driver their speed should not exceed a leisurely 10 mph. The caravan approached the leasing office, which sat at the end of the road with two remote-controlled gates located on either side of the building—the only drivable access points into and out of the complex.

Surrounded by lush green belts and walking paths, eight two-story buildings comprised the small community. Awash in light gray stucco, accented with dark brown trim and Spanish roofing tiles, each unit offered the latest in apartment design, giving residents a sense they entered into a standalone home. Built with nine-foot ceilings and custom finishes, including stainless steel appliances and quartz countertops, each unit seemed to whisper “welcome home” to its resident.

Artie spoke quietly into her com unit and began choreographing the movement of cars as Smythe used her remote to open one of the gates. She opened her window, motioning to her team to move forward while instructing Smythe to wait before proceeding to her unit. Team 2 slowly drove past her, adhering to the 10-mph sign. Artie scanned the parking areas as the caravan approached her building.

“Grab this spot on the end,” Artie said.

Smythe spotted the open parking space near the corner of her building and headed for it, her tires slipping a bit as she rolled over the newly painted parking lines.

“Keep your car idling for a minute,” Artie said.

Smythe parked her vehicle and followed Artie’s instructions, watching the occupants of Team 2’s car with rapt interest. They pulled into Smythe’s assigned parking spot and kept their engine idling. Artie’s second in charge, Dennis, exited the vehicle, scanning the rooftops in front of him before quickly striding to Smythe’s apartment. His long legs covered the ground in just a few steps. The scene all but took Smythe’s breath away.

They have been watching me.

She noted Dennis drew his weapon, the barrel of the gun pointing to the ground as he approached her apartment. Fear churned her stomach, and for a moment, she felt she would vomit. She could not help but think a lethal weapon was now drawn on her behalf. Every part of her begged to flee—her hands repeatedly releasing and contracting as she gripped her steering wheel.

Smythe glanced at her protector. A cold, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach threatened to drown her in panic. She wondered if this woman would also draw a weapon. She frantically searched her memory for a lifeline, and in searching, she found her breath. She simply inhaled deeply, willing herself to focus on the life that breath now offered her.

“I’ll need the keys to your unit,” Artie said, breaking into Smythe’s thoughts.

“They’re in my green bag on the floor,” Smythe gulped.

Artie reached behind her, handing Smythe’s messenger bag to her. She watched as Smythe’s trembling hands rummaged through it. Smythe’s skin further paled, and tiny beads of sweat formed around her forehead. Artie’s eyes softened, and she extended her hand, lightly touching the top of Smythe’s forearm to offer reassurance.

“Hey, Smythe. It’s going to be ok. It’s why I’m here. Just breathe and follow my instructions.”

Smythe nodded, handing over her keys. As she glanced up, she was startled to find a second member from Team 2 had arrived. He stood with his back to her door, providing a protective shield, sweeping his head from left to right and searching for any additional threat.

With keys in hand, Artie exited the vehicle and headed toward the apartment. As she stepped onto the patio, she unknowingly answered Smythe’s silent question. She drew her weapon from a holster hidden beneath her windbreaker in the small of her back. At the front door, she nodded to Dennis. Her eyes scanned the door frame before placing the key into the lock, slowly turning the handle to open the door.

She stood standing on the threshold and listened. No sound. She cautiously stepped inside, her eyes scanning the living room. A dark brown, vinyl faux hardwood covered the main living space, giving the unit a cohesive feel. The living room was framed by a large picture window nearly filling all of the front wall space. She noted Smythe furnished the room with a flair for the eclectic. With furniture ranging from mid-century modern to farmhouse, Smythe added a touch of traditional and boho pieces to add interest. She glanced at the collection of indigenous paintings and handcrafted pottery, nodding her head. A former FBI profiler, her interest in what her client surrounded herself with offered Artie additional information to her client’s psycho-social makeup.

Knees bent, her hands pointing the weapon down her line of sight, Artie moved forward from the living room through a large archway into the dining room. A small, circular cherrywood dining table with matching fire engine red chairs sat in the middle of the space. A cherrywood cabinet stood against the far wall. The top shelf served as a bar with wine and whiskey glasses gathered on one side of the shelf, a variety of red wines and whiskey bottles placed on the opposite side. The remainder of the shelves Smythe used as a library, full of fiction and non-fiction works by some of her favorite authors.

Artie motioned to Dennis. With his weapon drawn down his sightline, he moved toward a closed closet on the opposite wall in the dining room. He checked the door frame for wiring, finding none. The closet was deep and served as the internal structure to a set of stairs for an upstairs unit. Very little was contained within it except for cleaning supplies, a small file cabinet, and several suitcases of varying sizes.

A breakfast bar divided the dining room from the galley kitchen. A well-used nook to the right of the breakfast bar held a countertop printer, pencil box stuffed with pens and pencils, an empty stationary holder, a variety of glue sticks, erasers, scissors, and a calculator.

The kitchen ended at the far side of the apartment. Dennis moved through the kitchen and opened the door to a compact laundry room, complete with a full-size washer and dryer with shelving above both.

While Dennis searched the kitchen, Artie continued into a small hallway. To her left was Smythe’s bedroom. She peered in. At the center of the room sat a craftsman style sleigh bed. She bent low, checking the space underneath it. With her back against the wall, Artie swung open the door to a walk-in closet. Three hanging shoe caddies holding mostly running shoes of various colors and styles hung among her clothing. She noticed a large eighteenth-century steamer trunk sat opposite the bed, with a row of books displayed across the top. Two smaller, mismatched steamer trunks served as side tables. The room offered a small sitting area at the far end. Unlike the rest of the apartment, very little wall art was present in this room, save a sizeable multi-colored piece of canvas pop art, which hung above her bed.

Dennis checked the adjoining bathroom before meeting Artie in the hallway. She spoke into her com unit, confirming the safety of the unit to team members holding vigilance outside the apartment.

Artie holstered her weapon. She returned to the dining room cabinet and scanned the library of books. Paulo Coehlo, Oriah Mountain Dreamer, and Jack Canfield were all heavily represented in the library with a number of additional works on topics including race, politics, spirituality, and psychology. Artie squinted her eyes, surveying the living room.

“Peaceful,” Artie mumbled under her breath.

Satisfied with no present danger in the apartment, Artie left with Dennis following behind her. She stood outside the unit and surveyed the rooflines of the surrounding buildings before returning to Smythe’s car. She motioned for Smythe to exit.

Eyes wide with fear, Smythe opened her car door and pointed to the trunk space. “I have packages in the car I need to grab. Some of them are perishable.”

“I’ll move your car and retrieve your packages for you, Ms. Daniels. Go inside now,” Dennis replied.

Perspiration began to dampen Smythe’s T-shirt. She hesitated momentarily before removing herself from her car. With Artie at her side, she swiftly crossed the sidewalk to her apartment. She could feel her shoulders relax and let out a slow sigh as she opened her door. As her foot stepped across the threshold, Smythe remembered the meaning of the word north again. North—the liminal space that offers us the ability to release the lessons we have learned from the past into our conscious moments of the present. The representation of wisdom; insight which allows for a deepening of our contemplative moments.

What have I learned? she thought as she slipped onto her sofa. She looked around, grinning at the sight of her humble abode.

She continued to scan her living room, becoming increasingly aware she was both mentally and physically exhausted. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply from her diaphragm. With each exhalation, she silently spoke the word “relax.”

Artie stood in front of the picture window with her back to Smythe and surveyed the all but empty parking lot. She opened the front door for Dennis, who arrived carrying Smythe’s packages. He placed them on the countertop in the kitchen and turned toward Artie. After confirming her security team’s assignments, Artie closed and locked the door behind him. She butted a security bar Smythe had purchased at the local hardware store shortly after the murder and secured it against the door. She then coded a verbal message to her team.

Artie turned toward her client. As though listening to a melody, Smythe’s head was tilted to the side, and her eyes were closed. Artie watched the slow rise and fall of her client’s torso and quietly remarked, “You’re safe, Smythe. You’re home, just as I promised you.”

Smythe opened her eyes. She stared down at her hands resting upon her lap.

“How could I have allowed this to happen?”

“You can still go into witness—”

“No. I’m sorry, I’ve made my decision. I won’t, but thank you for the offer,” she retorted, stroking her hand along the top of her stubbly shaved head, her eyes piercing Artie’s.

“Look, I’m on a really tight budget. I’m living off of my savings. I can’t allocate the kind of money necessary for whatever this is.”

“You won’t have to allocate anything to me. It’s been handled. And whatever this is, it’s for your protection. You just need to stay alive.”

Always one to hear the unspoken word and notice things unseen, Artie paused momentarily. Her intuition whispered that something much deeper than the attempted murder was at play in her new client.

“Whatever you are going through, Smythe, know that I have your back. You’re not alone.”

“Alone. That pretty much sums it up. I’ve come to know my neighbors’ routine if that helps. On either side of me, they leave for work every morning between 7:00 and 7:30. They won’t be home until after 5:30 this evening. I just thought you sh-should know.”

Artie smiled and nodded her head.

Not exactly the life confession I was hoping for, but she’s talking. “I’m sure it must feel weird,” Artie replied.

Before Smythe could respond, a loud bang filled the air. Smythe dropped to her knees and crouched low, her shaking arms covering her head. Artie took a defensive stance in front of Smythe and drew her weapon from its holster. The sound repeated. Artie’s shoulders relaxed, and she slowly pointed her weapon to the floor.

“Team 2?”

“Team 2,” came the response. “A passing moving truck backfired. Team 3 has arrived and is checking it out.”

Artie acknowledged the information and turned toward Smythe. “Smythe, it’s ok. We’re all just a little jumpy. It was a moving truck. My team’s gone to check it out.”

Smythe slowly rose from the floor and entered her dining room. She paused as if a thought caught her attention. Darkness enveloped her internal sight. And slowly, she began to pace in circles.

Unaware of Artie’s presence, Smythe continued to pace. Help me, help me, help me, she pleaded silently. Artie watched with curiosity as Smythe aimlessly walked around her dining room. She could see a vacancy in Smythe’s eyes and quietly approached her. She reached out her hand to touch to Smythe’s elbow. Smythe recoiled at the touch— lost in a memory she attempted to suppress.

“Don’t scare me like that! Always—always tell me when you are approaching!”

Smythe lowered her head and grimaced. A headache had returned with a roar, and her ears were beginning to ring.

Return to your breath. Just breathe.

Alarmed at Smythe’s reaction, Artie took a step closer to her client. “Hey. Hey. It’s alright, Smythe. Look at me. C’mon, look at me.” Artie gently said.

Smythe glanced up and into Artie’s direction.

“I give you my word. You are safe. No bad guys.”

“O-ok. I-I’m fine.” Smythe was anything but fine. Cold beads of sweat began to form around her temples. Flashes of darkness continued to flood her consciousness as she struggled to suppress the panicked energy of an old acquaintance.

“Why don’t you come into the living room and sit down. Catch your breath.”

Smythe nodded her head slightly. She took Artie’s advice and walked to the sofa, taking a seat on the far end of it. Artie followed behind her and crouched to the side of Smythe, resting her hand upon the armrest.

“Do you have a headache?”

“Yes, a bit.”

“How about nausea or dizziness?”

“Initially, yes, but not as much. Just a headache. And my ears are ringing.”

Smythe opened her mouth wide several times in an attempt to stop the ringing. Artie asked a few more questions before concluding her client probably had developed a concussion.

“So, I have a suggestion. Just for today, let’s restrict your movements. Rest for a bit.”

As Artie moved onto the sofa next to her, Smythe detected an aromatic scent of lavender. She smiled slightly, recalling the lavender fields of her youth while living in Europe. She remembered the calming effect the fragrance had upon her. Inhaling deeply, she allowed the scent to infuse her soul, providing reassurance to an otherwise chaotic day.