The Seat Beside Me (21 page)

She maneuvered her wheelchair into the doorway and looked down the hall she’d avoided in spite of numerous attempts by the nurses to get her to take a walk. All the noise and hubbub were disturbing,
and she pulled the wheels back, making sure she wasn’t sticking out into the fray. Her domain since the crash had been so small. Safe. Isolated. To venture into the world.

An old man in a wheelchair was pushed past. “Whoa! Back up there, girl.”

His wheelchair reappeared in her sight line, and he looked at her. “You one of the five?”

“The five?”

“The five survivors? One of us?”

There were others? Why have I never wondered if there were others?
“I guess I am.”

“Me too.” He extended a hand, then turned it into a salute when the doorway and their chairs prevented contact. “George Davanos. And you’re … Sonja?”

“Merry. Merry Cavanaugh.”

“That’s right. Taken first.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve been watching the news reports.” He did a double take. “Haven’t you?”

Merry shook her head. It had never occurred to her to watch coverage of the crash. Why would anyone want to see it again and again and—

“You’ll have to take a look sometime. It’s a weird experience seeing yourself in the water and then being rescued. Obviously at the time I was pretty focused and had no clue what was going on around me. Did you?”

She shook her head again. He studied her a moment, reminding Merry of the questioning looks her father used to give her when he knew she was keeping something from him. George must be a father himself.

“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to compare notes, Miss Merry, but the hospital was pretty tight with visiting privileges. Protective as a mama hen covering her brood.” He leaned closer.
“Speaking of chickens … I bet they thought our meeting would cause more emotional trauma than they were ready to deal with. Or maybe they’re worried about lawsuits or something.” His eyes twinkled. “Or maybe they’re in cahoots with the airlines. Now there’s a company that would rather not see
us
again.” He took a deep breath. “But maybe we can get together once we’re mended. You think?”

She didn’t answer. The last thing she wanted was to rehash the destruction of her family with strangers.

He swatted the arm of the woman pushing his chair. “Well then, I guess we’d best be going, Suze.” He looked at Merry. “This is my daughter, Suzy. You got family coming to get you?”

Don’t mention family to me, old man
. But as soon as Merry felt the anger threaten, she remembered her new resolve and tried out her happy mask. It took a little effort … but … 
Yes, there it was
. She grinned a moment, letting the muscles find their places. “Of course they are,” she said. Her voice broke a little, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He noticed. “Oh, shoot … you’re the one who lost her husband and son, aren’t you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip about things. Don’t take no nevermind about me. I’m just an old coot who should know better but doesn’t.”

The daughter spoke. “But do you have a way home, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

So much for my acting abilities
. Merry nodded. “My mom’s coming.”

“Well, that’s good anyway,” George said.

Merry shrugged. George kept looking at her. It made her squirm.
My face green, old man?

Finally he pulled his eyes away. “Home, Suze.”

As he moved on, Merry turned her chair inward toward the room. Why hadn’t her cover-up worked with George? She was so sure it was the answer to dealing with people. But maybe it didn’t
work because he wasn’t an outsider like the rest. George and Merry shared something unique, and that made the mask unnecessary—almost an act of bad manners.

And yet, as nice as George had been, Merry didn’t want to meet any of the other survivors. Although they had this shared experience, there was no way they could ever bond. They were not the same. The others had lived and were eager to go on with their lives.

Merry had lived only to want to die.

As they waited for the elevator, George looked over his shoulder toward Merry’s room.

“What?” Suzy asked.

“I’m worried about that girl.”

“You don’t even know her.”

Suzy was right. There was no reason for George to worry about a woman he’d met for thirty seconds, a woman who had spoken less than a dozen words. And yet there was something about Merry’s eyes, something about the way she shrugged when George had mentioned how good it was that her mother was picking her up. As if her mother was not enough, as if what she had to go home to wasn’t worth leaving the hospital for.

She’s just lost her husband
and
her child. You lost Irma. You know how that feels. You know—

George tossed his hand backward and whacked Suzy’s arm. “Go back!”

“What?”

“Go back to Merry’s room. I have to talk to her. There’s something wrong.” He tried to turn the wheelchair on his own, but his hands wouldn’t prevail against Suzy’s solid stance.

“Dad. Enough. Leave the woman alone. You could tell she didn’t want to talk—”

“But that’s the point. She’s depressed. I could see it. And I can help.”

“How can you help?”

“I … I know …”

“She’s probably just tired and hurting from her loss. You know how you felt when Mom died. She doesn’t want a stranger butting in.”

“But—”

The elevator dinged. “We’ll get her phone number. You can call her later, okay?”

George was pushed inside the elevator. His stomach grabbed when the doors closed between him and Merry Cavanaugh.

The doctor standing beside her wielded the ultimate power over her immediate future. With this knowledge, Sonja was on her best behavior. She was
willing
herself to be pronounced well.

“What’s the verdict, Doctor? Can I go home?”

The doctor peered over the top of the chart. “Do you want to go home?”

“Where’s the door?”

“I see no reason—”

“Super.” Sonja flipped back the covers.

The doctor stopped her. “I don’t want you driving. Can someone come and pick you up?”

“My parents are flying in.”

“Then you need to wait until they get here.”

“I can get a cab.”

“You could, but I’d rather you have more personal help.” She patted Sonja’s hand. “You deserve a little pampering, Ms. Grafton. There are so few times in life when one gets it. I’d enjoy it if I were you.”

Sonja wasn’t sure her parents were the pampering types.
Although she wanted some attention, the thought of having them with her, in her apartment, was not restful. Especially since she hadn’t cleaned up before she left for her trip. Her kitchen was full of dirty dishes, there was laundry to do, and newspapers were strewn all over the floor—

“I’ll tell the nurses you can go as soon as your parents get here. Agreed?”

Do I have a choice?
“Agreed.”

The doctor adjusted her stethoscope around her neck. “Have a nice life, Ms. Grafton. You’re a very lucky woman.”

“I know.”

A candy striper came to the door with magazines and newspapers. The doctor nodded a good-bye and let the girl in.

“You want something to read?”

Sonja looked at the clock. It was two hours before her parents’ flight got in. “Sure. Give me a newspaper.” She thought of her new friend, Dora. “The
Chronicle
if you have it.”

Sonja’s attention was immediately drawn to a front-page picture of a crane lifting a twisted piece of fuselage from the river. It was a ghastly reminder. It’s a miracle any of them had survived. If the crash could do that to metal, what chance did a frail body have?

She found a story about the helicopter rescuers, Floyd Calbert and Hugh Johnson. It was a wonderfully written piece, but more than that, Sonja found she could not take her eyes off the two men. Her saviors. Two men propelled into heroic action by circumstances beyond their control.
All logic told them not to go, and yet they did. And saved us. Saved me
.

Sonja pulled the paper to her chest and closed her eyes.
If I haven’t said this before, and I know we haven’t talked much, but thank You, God. Thank You for giving me this second chance. Thank You for men like Floyd and Hugh
.

She ended the prayer feeling better—and more than a little
shocked that just a few words to God would have such an instant effect on her. Maybe this God-stuff wasn’t all bad.

She turned to page two. A headline caught her attention:
Funerals Set for Sanford Industries Crash Victims
. She held the page close. Allen and Dale were being buried tomorrow. To think she nearly missed it. If she hadn’t read about it in the paper.

Which brought to mind something that irked her more as each hour passed: Why hadn’t anyone from work called her? Not just to tell her about the funeral, but to check on her? On the plane, Roscoe had spoken of her reputation. Apparently things were worse than she thought. Did people resent her for living when Allen and Dale died? Did they think she’d done something shifty to bring about their deaths?

That’s absurd
.

Perhaps. Yet why hadn’t anyone called? Why was she being treated like a persona non grata? Was she being punished for living?

With a sudden burst of energy, Sonja crumpled the newspaper into a wad and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It fell short.

Join the club.

If Sonja’s body hadn’t been so sore, she would have paced. What was taking her parents so long? They’d called from the airport to tell her they arrived and were renting a car. But maybe her father didn’t like the car they’d gotten and was arguing about getting a better one—while his daughter was going crazy in a hospital room, waiting to go home.

She’d seen him do such a thing many times. No transaction was easy when Sheffield D. Grafton II was involved. Dinners were sent back, hotel rooms refused, traffic tickets disputed. When she still lived at home, Sonja had made it a habit to go to the rest room or wait in the car when such confrontations loomed. And it wasn’t that he had the power of money on his side. No, her parents were
definitely middle class, but her father’s name
sounded
like money, so he played the part.

Sonja found comfort in knowing she wasn’t like him. Not in this respect anyway. Or was she?

She heard a commotion outside and recognized its source immediately. The booming bass of her father’s voice demanded attention as he asked where his daughter’s room was located.

Sonja put a hand to her chest. Why had her heartbeat suddenly shifted from a livable two-step to a polka rhythm?

They’re here to help you, Sonja. You have nothing to apologize for or feel bad about. You’re the victim
.

Her parents swept into her room, her father in the lead. He took the power position at the foot of the bed. “Well there you are.”

Where did you expect me to be? In the lobby, waiting so you wouldn’t have to bother finding a parking space?

Her mother made a beeline for her side, studying her, assessing the damage. She lifted a hand to touch the forehead bandage but withdrew it before it could be contaminated by the wound’s imperfection. “My, my, you
are
worse for the wear, aren’t you, dear?”

“I just went through a plane crash, Mother.”

The woman cocked her head, making further assessments. “No need to be rude, Sonja. Is that a bruise on your neck there? And your skin …”

Sonja put a hand over the black and blue welt that decorated the right side of her neck. And her skin. She knew her cheeks were still suffering the aftereffects of frostbite. “Nasty, nasty crash. We’ll have to sue.”

Her father nodded. “I’ve already started proceedings.”

Sonja shook her head, incredulous. “I was kidding, Daddy.”

“Being compensated for such a huge misjudgment and failure is no kidding matter. People have to pay for such things.”

Sonja knew he was probably right. A lawsuit by the families of the victims was inevitable. “But I lived. I’m all right.”

He waved a hand the length of her body as if it disgusted him. “You are not all right. You are broken and bruised and—” “I’m damaged goods?”

“Don’t be cute, Sonja. You know what I mean.”

Indeed I do
.

Her mother continued giving her the once-over. “Where
did
you get those clothes, dear? They’re atrocious.”

“
My
clothes were ruined and reeked of jet fuel. These were a gift from the hospital.” She looked down at herself. Although they weren’t something she’d choose, they were fine—to anyone but her mother. “Perhaps you should have offered to shop for them? Or at least shown them the acceptable stores?”

Her father pulled out his cell phone, checked the display, then obviously seeing no waiting messages, put it away. “It was a simple question, Sonja. No need to treat your mother so unkindly. She—
we
only want what’s best for you.”

Sonja was suddenly weary and wanted nothing more than to have them leave so she could snuggle under the covers and take a nap until some nice nurse wanted to draw blood or poke and prod. Anything was better than the mental drawing of blood and the emotional poking and prodding that were her parents’ specialties.

She drew on what little energy she had and tried to focus on today’s goal. “Please take me home now.”

“Of course, dear.”

As her father commandeered some nurses to help her into a wheelchair, Sonja realized she was the victim all right—and had been for twenty-six years.

Tina heard the whir of wheels in the hall and an odd thump-thump sound. Her curiosity was answered when David pushed a balloon-bedecked wheelchair into her room. The balloons took a moment to adjust to the sudden stop.

“Ta-da!”

“David, what are you doing?”

He put the brakes on the chair. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“They said it was all right?”

“You have been cleared and are ready for takeoff.” He suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oops, sorry. Bad choice of words.”