The Seat Beside Me (19 page)

A brief stab of pain sliced into Sonja’s confidence.

Dora waved a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a judgmental way, as much as to say that I understand what you’re talking about. And let me assure you, all successful people have probably done a bit of … whatever you’ve done.”

“But I did a lot.”

Dora smiled. “Well, that certainly makes it interesting.”

“You want to hear the whole thing?”

“If you want to tell me.”

Sonja did. So Sonja did. When she was through, she waited for the reporter’s reaction.

“Well then.” Dora took a moment and reversed her legs. “You know what I would think if I were you?”

“What?”

“I would think I was getting another chance. The very fact you see the error of your past is significant. I know some …” She looked to the hall again. “Some who don’t seem to be changed by this whole ordeal. And yet you have allowed it to move you. To open your eyes. To get your attention.”

Sonja sucked in a breath. “That’s what my seatmate said! Roscoe said sometimes God has to do something drastic to get our attention.”

“And so it appears He has.” Sonja nodded, and Dora put a hand on hers. “I’m going to let you rest now.” She retrieved a business card from her purse and scribbled a number on the back of it. “This is my card with my number at work and at home. Please feel free to call if you want to talk more. About anything. Off the record or on.”

Sonja suddenly realized something. “But I didn’t give you anything you could use for an article. I—”

Dora shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes the story has to take second place to just being there. I like you, Sonja. We can talk more whenever you like.”

Sonja studied the business card and found herself smiling. Things were definitely looking up.

“The identity of the hero is still unknown. Channel 5 news has blown up the video images of the hero as he clung to the wreckage,
but the blinding snow and the dimness of dusk prevent us from seeing his face clearly. All that can be seen of the man in his forties is his black hair and beard and a gold watch on his right wrist.”

The fork full of green beans stopped midway to George’s mouth.
Henry had a gold watch
.

He put the beans in his mouth and chewed. So what? Most people wore watches. Just because the man wore a watch didn’t mean he was Henry.
But most don’t wear it on their right wrists
.

Black hair. Beard. Forties
. Two, three, four matches for Henry Smith.

George squinted at the newscast image. Could that blurry man be his seatmate? Or, more importantly, did he think Henry Smith was the sort of man to give his life for others? George hadn’t known Henry well enough to make such a determination. And yet maybe it wasn’t something a person could predict of others, or even of himself. Who knew what well of strength might be tapped into during a time of crisis? Some people revealed cowardice or selfishness, so why not heroism?

A woman with lovely eyes knocked, then came in his room. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Davanos. My name is Dora—”

George jumped at the audience. He pointed his fork at the screen. “I think I know that man!”

The woman looked at the TV. “That man?”

The video of the hero was over. The camera focused on a reporter. “No, not him. The hero. The eighth person in the water.”

The woman stepped to the foot of his bed. “Really? Everyone’s talking about him, about what he did. But nobody knows who he is.”

“But maybe I do.” George counted off on his fingers. “The man I sat next to on the plane was about forty, had a beard, black hair, and wore a gold watch on his right wrist.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Henry Smith.”

The woman shook her head. “Sounds too ordinary.”

George was amazed that such a stupid statement made an odd sort of sense. Shouldn’t a hero’s name be Alexander or Solomon or something grand? Not Henry. And not Smith,
the
most ordinary of surnames.

The woman pulled George out of his thoughts. “Have you told anyone?”

“Huh?”

“Have you told anyone else about knowing the name of the hero?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You should.”

“Yeah, I suppose I should.”

The woman looked down and then up again, as if she’d made a decision. “I need to complete my introduction. My name is Dora Roberts, and I’m a reporter with the
Chronicle
.”

George clamped his lips together.
Oops
. “Well, I guess you’re pleased. I just gave you the scoop of the century.”

“It’s not a scoop until it’s a known fact. Would you like me to get you the number of someone to call?”

Her nonpiranha-like attitude made George reassess his opinion of her. “I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling.”

“But if it’s true, they need to know. The family needs to know. And don’t
you
need to know?”

“He didn’t hand the lifeline to me. I was separated from the—”

She nodded.

“I didn’t see the hero. I wasn’t in that group.”

“But you may have sat next to him. Talked to him. Gotten to know him. Think of the odds of that.”

A moment of silence sat between them during which George thought about how different things would have been if he had been on the tail section with the others. If he had recognized Henry and seen what he was do—

He put a hand to his chest.

“What’s wrong?” Dora asked.

George stared into space, trying to collect the thought that had nearly knocked the wind out of him.

“Mr. Davanos? Are you okay?”

Finally, George was ready to talk. Maybe voicing it out loud would make the seriousness of the implications fade into a perspective that was easier to take. “If I’d been hanging on to the tail section, and if the hero
is
Henry Smith—” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “You can’t write any of this. Not until we’re sure.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Continue. I want to hear your thoughts.”

“If I’d seen Henry give the line away, over and over again … since I’d talked to him before, since I knew him.” George looked up, hoping for comfort. “Would I have talked him out of it? Would I have said, ‘Don’t be stupid, Henry. Take the line’?”

Dora nodded, obviously following his train of thought. “Then he might not have handed the line to others. He might have gone first. And everything might have changed.”

“We still could have lived …”

“But maybe not all of you.” Dora put a finger to her mouth, thinking hard. “Your arguing with him could have wasted precious time. There wasn’t time for discussion. There was only time for the hero to make a decision and act on it.”

“You may be right.” The what-ifs were complicated and staggering.

Dora touched George’s arm. “Perhaps God knew what He was doing in having you be the only one separated from the others in the tail section.”

George put a hand to his forehead, the thoughts cumbersome.

Dora continued. “Only by having the hero—a stranger—help other strangers could the plan have played out.”

George snapped out of his shock. “The plan? How could there be a plan in all this? Other than the obvious saving of seven—now
five—lives, how could Henry’s heroism be a good thing? How could anyone’s death be a part of a—?” He stopped short.
You planned to die, George. That was
your
plan. But you’re alive and Henry is dead. Obviously God had other—

George snickered. “Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.”

“What?”

He’d forgotten Dora was there. “Nothing. Just an observation.”

Dora left George’s room totally discouraged. Three strikes. She’d interviewed three of the five survivors and still didn’t have any article material. She
wouldn’t
write Dr. Thorgood’s story, and she
couldn’t
ever write Sonja’s, or George’s now. Clyde would not be happy.

But there was hope. Three down, still two to go.

She made a beeline for Tina McKutcheon’s room and slipped in.

Tina had a leg in a cast.

“Who are you?”

Dora felt herself blush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make my entrance look so James Bondish.”

“If you’ve got Sean Connery out in the hall, bring him in.”

They laughed. Dora took a step toward the bed. “I’m Dora Roberts, Ms. McKutcheon. I’m a reporter for—”

Tina’s face darkened. “I’m not sure I should talk to you.”

Dora pulled her hand away. “Why not?”

“Have the other survivors talked?”

“Some.” Dora shook her head. “Though in truth, I can’t use what they’ve said.”

Tina angled her head. “Now that sounds interesting. Care to explain?”

“I’ll talk if you will.”

Tina smiled, but there was a sadness behind her eyes, a discontent. “How can I refuse? Have a seat.”

Dora didn’t have time to wallow in her luck. She was in. Maybe this conversation would be different.

Maybe she’d get something she could actually use.

Tina was surprised she felt like talking to a stranger. So far the only visitor she’d had was David. But the fact this reporter had snuck in gave a hint of adventure to her … adventure.

She adjusted the slant of her bed to a more upright position.

“Do you need help? A pillow or something?” Dora asked.

“No, I’m fine.” She smoothed the sheet and clasped her hands in her lap. “So. What do you want to know?”

The reporter seemed taken aback. Tina had expected her to whip out a notebook of questions. Instead, Dora sat on her hands. “What feelings do you have about Dr. Thorgood?”

“Who?”

“Doctor Anthony Thorgood.”

“My doctor’s name isn’t Thorgood.”

Dora shook her head. “He was one of the survivors. He’s the one who took the lifeline from one of the other women, forcing her to wait while he went first. She later died.”

Tina’s mind was blank.

“Don’t you remember? The hero handed her the line, and it slipped out of her hands, then Thorgood grabbed it and went when she should have gone.”

Tina put a hand to her head, starting to remember.

“Haven’t you seen it on the TV reports? They’ve shown the rescue a hundred times.”

Tina shook her head. “I haven’t wanted to watch. It’s still too fresh.”

“You don’t remember that he took that woman’s line?”

Tina didn’t like the direction this interview was going. “Ms. Roberts, are you trying to stir something up? Trying to make me
say that I hate this Thorgood fellow, maybe because that woman isn’t here to hate him herself?”

Dora put a hand over her eyes and sighed. “Oh dear … what
am
I doing?”

“Acting like a sleazy reporter?”

“Ouch. I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did.”

Dora pinched her lower lip. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about
your
ordeal?”

Tina considered talking about Mallory but decided against it. “No. Actually, there isn’t. At least not yet.”

Dora nodded and stood. “Then I’ll let you rest. I’m sorry for bothering you, Ms. McKutcheon. My boss wanted a series of interviews with the survivors, and so far I’ve struck out.”

“Oh yes, you were going to tell me about that, about the interviews you had but couldn’t use. What did they say to you that you can’t repeat?”

“Private things. Actually, we usually ended up talking about God. My boss may not be a bad guy, but I work for a secular paper, and I’m pretty sure they would have no place for an article about Him.”

“You never know. Miracles happen.”

Dora laughed. “Not with my boss.”

“But they do happen. The five of us are living proof.”

Dora nodded. “Yes, you are.” She turned toward the door, then back to Tina. “I’m sorry I tried to make you angry at Dr. Thorgood when you weren’t.”

Tina shrugged. “I guess it
would
be nice for him to apologize for the sake of that woman’s family, but who knows what I would have done if put in the same position?”

“Actually, I think we both know the answer to that one.”

Tina felt her throat tighten. “Thanks. I needed that.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe we’ll talk again.”

“Maybe you’ll get to write your articles. All of them.”

“We can only hope.”

Dora gave a salute and left her. Tina was sorry to see her go.

One to go
 …

Dora stood outside the hospital room of Merry Cavanaugh. She meant to knock and go in, get this last one done with, but then she heard crying. She was torn between running away from the tears and going in to comfort—

“Miss? May I help you?”

Dora’s heart flipped as she turned to face a stern nurse. “I … she’s crying.”

“You family?”

Dora shook her head.
Don’t ask another question about who I am; please don’t ask …
“Shouldn’t someone be with her?”

“Sometimes it’s best they’re left alone. You’d cry too if your family had been killed, especially when your little boy had initially lived.”

Dora nodded. She feared she’d do more than cry. She’d scream and throw things and—

The nurse cocked her head, giving Dora the once-over. “If you’re not family, then who—?”

Dora turned away. “I’ll come back later when she’s feeling better.”

“But miss …”

Dora hurried away, turning into the stairwell. The door clanged shut behind her, echoing in her ears. She sank onto the top step and tried to imagine Merry’s pain of gaining her physical life while losing her heart.

Dora flicked a tear away. Some reporter she was. A blubbery, weak mess.

It could have been me
.

Why couldn’t that thought leave her alone?

She ran down the stairs trying to get away from the truth.

Medical examiner Conrad Tills was weary. He and his team had worked overtime, completing autopsies on the casualties from Flight 1382. There were grieving families waiting, investigators to be appeased, and questions to be answered. Up until now the process had been distressing by its very harrowing quantity, and yet also routine. Cause of death? Blunt trauma. Over and over and over, until.

“Sally, come here a minute.” His assistant came to the other side of the table. “Look at this.” Dr. Tills spread open the lungs.