The Seat Beside Me (20 page)

Sally looked at the evidence, then met his eyes. “Water.”

“Exactly.”

“He drowned.”

“Exactly.”

“None of the others drowned.”

“Exactly.”

“He was alive for a while.”

“Exactly.”

Dr. Tills turned over the hands of the man. “Look at the fingertips.”

“Frostbite?” Sally’s eyebrows wrinkled, and Dr. Tills watched as the knowledge of the truth washed over her face. “This is
him?
This is the hero?”

Dr. Tills gently placed the man’s hand at his side, lingering a moment, warm skin against cold. “Look on his face, Sal. Look on the face of the hero.”

“He doesn’t look like a hero.”

Dr. Tills nodded. “Then maybe there’s hope for us all.”

Nine

For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling
,
that I may walk before God in the light of life
.
P
SALM
56:13

B
ut you’ve got to listen to me! I sat next to the man on the plane. I think the hero is Henry Smith.” George ran a hand through his thinning hair and listened as the woman on the other end of the line went on and on about needing to be sure and blahde-blahde-blah. George had already supplied the same information to three different people. It was like repeatedly being shoved back into the starting gate of a race, never getting to finish. Never getting to hear, “That’s wonderful, Mr. Davanos! Thank you so much for your input.”

Enough of this. The woman could have her own talk show. “Excuse me? Ma’am?”

Blessed silence.

George refrained from yelling at her and applied his most sickly sweet tone laced with the subtlest tinge of pain for best effect. “As I told you, I’m one of the five survivors, and I happen to be severely injured and still in the hospital. Yesterday I got your number from a good friend of mine, Dora Roberts, a reporter for the
Chronicle
.” If the woman found a threat in that piece of information, so be it. “So if you could be so kind as to pass my information on to whoever needs to hear it, I would be forever grateful.”

The woman gushed nervously, then assured George she would do what he asked. He hung up the phone. “Insipid no-mind!”

“My, my, a little ol’ plane crash didn’t do anything to pale your opinions, did it, Dad?”

George looked up. “Suzy.”

His daughter moved to the side of the bed and kissed her father’s cheek. “What was all that about?”

George set the phone aside. “I think I know who the hero is, and I was trying to tell the airlines.”

“Didn’t they want to hear what you had to say?”

“They think I’m a crank.”

“You
are
cranky.”

“Very funny.”

“So what’s his name? The hero’s? And how did
you
figure out what everyone else hasn’t?”

George waved a hand. “I’ll tell you the details later. For now, get me outta here.”

“You’re free to go?”

“Doctor approved my dismissal as of this morning.”

Suzy looked around the room. “I suppose you don’t have much to take with you.”

“Just the nifty items they bought to replace my crash clothes. I guess it’s tough getting a decent dry cleaner anymore. Jet fuel can be such a pesky stain …” He swung his good leg off the bed. “Now help me get dressed.”

As soon as she felt a hand on her wrist, Merry turned it so the nurse could easily take her pulse. She found there was no need to even open her eyes in order for the nurses to do their duties. She didn’t need to be mentally present for them to check on her body’s progress. Her body would heal.

Traitor
.

“Well, well, you’re doing real fine today, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

Merry didn’t recognize the voice. Obviously this nurse didn’t
realize closed eyes were a nonverbal order for silence—or at least a ban on small talk.

“The doctor will be checking in soon, and we all hope you’ll be discharged today.”

Merry’s eyes shot open. “Discharged?”

The nurse looked confused. “Well, yes. You should be very pleased with your progress.”

Merry let out a snort. “Pleased? You want me to be pleased that I am well enough to go home? Home to what? An empty house?”

“I …”

“You people, with all your cheeriness and smiley faces. You make me sick. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—to be cheery about.”

The nurse put a hand to her chest. “But … but you’re alive.”

“And my family is dead! Don’t you get it, lady? My husband and child are dead. My boy who I held in my arms. I couldn’t make him live. I have no life anymore. I have no home to go to. All I have is a house.
They
were my home.” The nurse extended a comforting hand. Her lips began to form a word that Merry couldn’t bear to hear. “Lady, if you tsk-tsk me, I’ll have you fired.”

The nurse pursed her lips together.

“That a girl. Now we’re
not
talking.”

She fled to the door. “I’ll send the doctor in as soon as he’s available.”

“You do that.”

Merry folded her arms and grimaced as pain slid under her anger. She looked at the clock. It was an hour until they’d give her more medication.

Boy, am I two-faced. One minute I bemoan the fact my body will heal, and the next I want more painkillers to make my life easier
.

Hypocrite
.

It wasn’t the first time she’d claimed this character trait. Wasn’t
it the essence of hypocrisy to go on a trip to get away from her family and then grieve over the fact that God had taken them away for good?
Be careful what you wish for
.

Her doctor appeared in the doorway and offered a concerned smile. Obviously the nurse had blabbed. He came to the bed. She noticed he wore a name tag, but she purposely looked away. She didn’t want to know the name of the man who had brought her back from the edge of death. She could only forgive him if she pretended he was an anonymous stranger who didn’t know any better, just a man doing his job.

The doctor read her chart. “Are you ready to go home? Because we’re ready to let you go. Do you feel up to it?”

“Which question do you want answered?”

He tilted his head. “Aren’t they one and the same?”

“Not at all,” Merry said. “Am I ready to go home? No. I never want to go home again. Do I feel up to it? No. And from all self-examination, I doubt I will ever feel up to anything again.”

He cleared his throat and avoided her eyes by looking at the chart. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Gillespe come in and speak with you?”

“And why would
we
want to do this?”

“Dr. Gillespe is good at helping patients deal with—”

“He’s a shrink.”

“Psychologist.”

Merry tapped her head. “No thanks, Doc. What I have up here is mine alone.”

“But I’m sure things are very confusing right—”

She had to laugh. “Confusing? Confusion equals uncertainty. I am alive. My family is dead. I don’t see anything uncertain or confusing about that.”

“Yes, well. Unfortunately, there’s more. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but—”

“Something more than death? Oh my, what further news do you
have to brighten my day? Out with it, Doc. I don’t see how anything you have to tell me could be worse than what I already know.”

He hesitated, and Merry’s stomach grabbed at the possibilities. Maybe it was best that she didn’t know. She pushed such weakness aside. She’d started this thing; it was time to finish it. She lifted her chin. “Out with it. Give me your best shot.”

The doctor replaced her chart in its slot. He faced her. “The body of your husband has been pulled from the wreckage.”

All breathing stopped. Merry hung in limbo until her body took emergency action and jump-started by sucking in fresh air.

“They found him yesterday. Your mother identified him. And also your son, whom you, of course, brought in.”

Brought in only to die. Some mother I was. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t keep him warm. Keep him safe
. And the visualization of her mother looking at a lifeless Lou and Justin. Cold Lou. Cold Justin. Wet from the depths of the river Lou and Justin.

Merry jerked her head back and forth, denying such a picture could be reality. Her lips closed tight, her chin hardened.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I know this is hard.”

Hard?
That word was no representation of how she felt. Falling from the sky was hard. Waking up under water was hard. Holding on to the metal of the plane was hard. Holding on to Justin as they flew through the air was hard. But the vision of her mother seeing in death the two people who were her life? That wasn’t hard.

Was there a hell?

Absolutely.

“Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

Merry stopped brushing her hair. A man in a suit stood at her door. “Yes?”

He came in, his hand extended. “I’m Dr. Gillespe, a psychologist on staff. Your doctor asked me to stop by.”

Merry didn’t answer. Nor did she shake his hand. The last thing she wanted was to have her head shrunk by a shrink.

“I hear you’re upset.”

Merry had never heard a more idiotic understatement. This guy called himself a doctor? She resumed brushing. “No, not a bit.”

He blinked twice, and in his confusion, Merry found strength.
Maybe if I act as if I’m all right, he’ll leave me alone
. She slapped the brush against the palm of her hand. “Will there be anything else, Doctor? Otherwise, I’d like to finish getting ready to leave.”

“You don’t want to talk?”

She cocked her head. “Well, let’s see, since I’m not into basketball, and baseball hasn’t started yet … no. I don’t think so.”

He smiled. “Your humor is a good sign.”

“Glad to hear it. If you care to wait, I bet I could think of a doctor joke.”

He locked his hands in front of himself. “Nice wall you’re building.”

“Excuse me?”

“Nice wall you’re building around yourself, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Before you can work through this, you’ll need to knock it down.”

“I don’t know about any wall, but you know what might make me feel good?”

“What?”

“Knocking
you
down.”

She watched him put on his tolerant face. “There’s no reason for you to get violent—”

“No reason?” Her voiced edged into its shriek mode. “No
reason?
”

He glanced toward the door. “I think it’s best if you calm down. If you would like a tranquilizer to help you—”

“No!” Being drugged out of her pain was the last thing she wanted right now. What she
did
want was to be rid of this man.

Then be calm. Tell him what he wants to hear
.

Merry ran her hands over her face, pressing sanity into place. When she removed them, her panic was absent—at least in her outer appearance. She even managed a smile. “Well, that was quite a fit I had there, wasn’t it?”

The doctor blinked a few times, gauging her new persona. “It
is
understandable.”

You bet it is, Doc
.

“I want to apologize for my outburst.” She sighed for effect. “I just want to get home so I can begin to deal with my loss.”

“But your doctor said you didn’t want to go home.”

Caught in the truth
. She forced an apologetic smile. “That was then, this is now.” She clasped her hands in her lap like a teacher’s pet vying to get her way. “May I please go home now?”

The doctor studied her face intently, and Merry nearly lost it under his gaze. She felt her right cheek twitch at the effort, but luckily, the doctor looked away and didn’t see it.

He fished a business card from his pocket. “If you want to talk.” He nodded a good-bye and left.

Merry stared at the card.
That was easy—and telling
. A few witty comments, a confident facade, and people left her alone. The doctor had been eager to accept her normal mode over her panic. Interesting.

But maybe it made sense. In spite of their good intentions, people didn’t want to talk about bad things, be reminded of bad things, or be around people who were suffering through bad things. Perhaps because it made
them
feel bad and vulnerable and inept.

If Merry wanted to be left alone in her grief and pain, then the best course of action was to pretend she was fine. Act strong. Put on a face of acceptance, tinted with a blush of regret for good effect. People would be so relieved they would flee to escape even the shadow of what she’d been through. Truth be told, they didn’t want to know how it felt. And they didn’t want to witness it, either. Ignorance was bliss.

But if she was going to pull this off. Merry held a mirror to her face. She looked awful, her face scarred from cuts, bruises, and the aftereffects of frostbite. She’d lucked out with the doctor. Fooling her extended family would take more effort. She lifted her chin and immediately noticed a change for the better. With difficulty she relaxed her forehead until the lines went away, and she pressed a finger against the crease between her brows until it dissipated.

Her smile needed work. Actually, it wasn’t her mouth’s problem but her eyes. For even when her lips were curled in the right direction, her eyes betrayed the mask.

With a deep sigh, Merry took one last look at the reflection of her facade. It was doable. She’d work on it.

“You wait right there, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Your mother called and said she’d be here momentarily to take you home.”

The nurse left Merry sitting in a wheelchair in her room. There were no belongings to collect. She wore a complete set of new clothing, a gift from the hospital or airline or some Good Samaritan. She had no purse, no money, no nothing. And that was fine with her.

If only she could proceed with her life without its other encumbrances. There was no picking up where she left off, either in terms of her activities, her possessions, or her home. Maybe if she worked hard on her “I’m okay” face, she could somehow con her mother into dropping her off in the middle of nowhere and driving away, leaving Merry to fend for herself. If that involved crawling off in a wilderness corner to curl up and die like a wounded animal, so be it.