The Seat Beside Me (24 page)

“If you must know, I
was
holding Mallory’s hand when we knew things weren’t right. But there is no way I could have saved her as the plane ripped apart. If I could have, I would have. Perhaps your accusation comes from the question of whether or not I would have given my life to save hers—like the hero did for the rest of us.” She shook her head. “And the answer to that is, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows the full extent of the heart in regard to sacrifice until the time comes.”

Tina felt the sting of tears and was strengthened by David’s hand on her shoulder. “Speaking of the hero … should I have refused the lifeline from him? Should I have insisted he go first?” She sniffed loudly, knowing this was a question that would haunt her like a shadow. She lifted her chin and gained strength with her next breath. “Though you might want to condemn me for that
too, I won’t let you. That’s between me and God.”

She saw tears in Mrs. Carpelli’s eyes. Her husband stared straight ahead, but Tina could see the tendons in his neck tighten as he struggled for control.

Suddenly, Tina remembered why she wanted to meet them. Had her blown chance to tell Mallory about Christ resulted in eternal consequences? This was going to be delicate. How could she segue from yelling at Mallory’s parents to asking them about their relationship with God?

Tina decided to emphasize the positive. “Mallory was an interesting girl, Mr. and Mrs. Carpelli. As you mentioned, I’m a high school teacher so I know the kind of kids who are out there. To be truthful, I suffer through teaching them. But your daughter.” Tina remembered the thought-provoking discussions they’d had on the plane. They were extraordinary. If only she’d realized it at the time. “Mallory mentioned wanting to go into the military?”

“A stupid idea,” Mr. Carpelli said.

Couldn’t the man say
anything
positive? “I don’t think a person’s desire to serve her country is ever stupid. She was very inspired by her Grandpa Carpelli.”

“My father brainwashed that girl.”

Mrs. Carpelli squeezed her husband’s knee indicating she did not have so harsh an opinion.
Doesn’t the woman talk?

“From what I could tell, your father had a good influence on Mallory. He made her interested in history, in honor, and …”
Here goes
. “And in God.”

Mr. Carpelli stood, drawing his wife up with him. “Don’t you dare speak that word again. It was God who made me lose my job, it was God who made my wife lose her breast to cancer, and it was God who took our only child. My father’s opinions of a loving God go against every bad thing that’s ever happened to us. If Mallory was such a good girl, where was God when she needed Him?”

“I—”

He pulled his wife to the door. “Thanks for nothing, Miss McKutcheon. I hope you enjoy this life our daughter
won’t
be living.”

The slam of the door echoed. Tina stared straight ahead, incredulous. “What just happened?”

David knelt by her side. “They didn’t mean it, Teen. None of it. They’re upset. You shouldn’t feel responsible for Mallory’s death.”

“Oh, I don’t,” she said. “I know there was nothing I could have done differently. At least not in saving her life. But the God-stuff, David. If what they said is any indication, Mallory didn’t know about God or Jesus or heaven or anything. When she asked me about Him, it was from a sincere need to know—a sincere need to balance out the anti-God sentiment she got her whole life. And I didn’t tell her. I missed my chance—and there were no others.”

David wrapped his arms around her, but she noticed he didn’t offer any words of comfort.

Because there weren’t any.

Tina had insisted that David go home. For the first time since the crash, she was completely and positively alone. Alone with her thoughts, her pain, and her guilt.

Her apartment assaulted her with a cloak of normalcy. Rows of stuffed bookshelves looming against the walls, framed photos of places she hoped to visit someday: Rome, the Alps, Paris. A three-tiered stack of vanilla-scented candles that made the apartment smell homey and warm even in the coldest weather. A glass jar stocked with wrapped candy from peppermints to butterscotch to root beer barrels. Her apartment was a place of comfort, fulfillment, and hope for the future.

And yet, suddenly she felt like an alien. How could she take a book off the shelf and read it? How could she dream of faraway places or light a candle just for the sheer deliciousness of the smell?
And how could she indulge in sweets, choosing a flavor to suit her mood?

Mallory Carpelli was dead. If her soul was in heaven, Tina had lucked out. But if her soul was in hell …

There was hell to pay.

Merry watched her mother scoop coffee into a filter, then empty it back into the can, then scoop it out again, only to repeat the process a third time.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

Her mother blushed. “I can’t seem to concentrate. I can’t count.”

“You want me to do it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

“It’s just coffee, Mom.”

And yet Merry knew it was much more. Making coffee, doing dishes, getting the mail … these were the trivia of life. How many thousands of trivial acts did a person perform throughout the day without thinking? And what was the sum of those parts? Mere existence? Or true meaning?

Her mother switched the coffeepot on. She sighed as if she’d just accomplished a milestone. “There. That’s done.”

Whoopee. Should we have a celebration?
Merry put a hand to her head, trying to block further sarcastic thoughts. Her mother was only trying to help.

“Would you like me to press your navy dress, baby?”

Merry was lost. “What?”

“Your navy dress? Would you like me to press it for the … you know …”

The funeral! The funeral was tomorrow
. The thought of seeing Justin and Lou in their coffins, of standing emotionally naked before hundreds of family and friends. She would rather go
through the plane crash again than do such a thing. “I can’t go.”

Her mother’s widened eyes betrayed her shock. Merry braced herself for the requisite hug, which soon engulfed her.

“There, there. I know it’s hard—it will be hard for all of us. But funerals are an important part of grieving. They help us let go. When your father died, I—”

“It’s not the same, Mom. Dad was old. He died of lung cancer because he chose to smoke.”

Her mother stepped away from the words. “Are you saying your father deserved to die?”

What
was
she saying? “He died because of a choice he made—a bad choice. What did Lou and Justin ever do wrong? Tell me that.”

Her mother looked to the coffeepot as if wanting it to be through so she’d have some other busywork to attend to. “Don’t ask me hard questions, Merry.”

“Then who should I ask? Dad is gone. Lou is gone. You’re all I’ve got.”

Her mother sat on the couch and picked up a magazine. Merry stared at her. “That’s it? Where are the words of comfort, Mom? The ‘I’ll always be here for you, Merry’ line?”

Anna Keenan’s page flipping stopped at an ad for Valentine’s Day. Merry’s mind registered the fact that there would be no more Valentines in her life.

Her mother looked up. “I’m hurting too, baby.”

You could have fooled me
. Merry fell into the recliner, beaten. “Why did God let this happen?”

“Don’t ask me about God-things. You know I’ve never known much about Him.”

Merry laughed bitterly, thinking of her childhood that had been devoid of God. “No, you’re right. God was Lou’s department. Everything I know about Him is because of Lou.”

Her mother raised an arm and dropped it, as if the subject were taken care of. “Well then …”

“Well then, what, Mom?”

“Lou taught you all about God.”

It was a ridiculous statement. With Lou gone, Merry realized how little she knew. She even remembered tuning Lou out on occasion. How many times had she pretended to be sick on a Sunday morning so she could sleep instead of go to church? How many times had her mind drifted when Lou took her hand and prayed with her, while Merry—in her selfish stubbornness—chose to be a pious bystander instead of a sincere participant? Why hadn’t she paid more attention? Why hadn’t she jumped into Lou’s faith and made it her own?

“Things will work out, baby. They always do.”

Merry shook her head. That was the best she could do? Her mother wasn’t getting it at all. And her blasé attitude confirmed Merry’s previous decision not to share her precrash discontent with her mom. Yet maybe if she had, she and her family wouldn’t have been on Flight 1382 at all.

No. Don’t think that
.

Sitting in her mother’s kitchen and spilling her messy troubles on her mother’s Pledge-shined table wasn’t an option. Merry had never been able to confide in Anna Keenan. She always had to keep up the front of the perfect daughter.
Is everybody happy?
And so Merry kept her restlessness to herself, not wanting a lecture about accepting life as it came.

Funny … her previous suffering was nothing compared to now. A scratch compared to a gaping wound.

Merry placed her hands around her middle, feeling her bruised muscles ache. It was time for another pain pill. Maybe it would alleviate another kind of pain. “I’m tired, Mom. I need to take a nap.”

Luckily, Anna was never one to make a nuisance of herself. Although she had offered to stay over instead of going home to her own house, Merry had refused. There was only so much mothering she could take.

“I’ll be going then,” Anna said. “But I thought of a God-thing.”

Oh, dear
. “I’m really tired, Mom.”

“No, you asked for God-stuff from me, and I just realized I do know something I can share with you.”

“Mom …”

She looked like a pouty child who wasn’t being allowed to share what she did at school that day.

Anything to get her gone
. “Fine. Shoot.”

The older woman straightened her spine. “All this must be God’s will.” She smiled tentatively at her daughter.

Merry wanted to scream.
God’s will? The death of my family is God’s will?

“Well? Does that help?”

Just leave me alone. Please. Go
. “Sure, Mom. Thanks.”

Apparently satisfied she’d done her duty, Anna gathered her things and left.

Merry escaped to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her mother was either amazing or pitiful—she wasn’t sure which.

Without warning, Merry shouted to the empty room, shaking her fists at the ceiling. “Lou! How dare you leave me! Tell me what to do. Tell me why.”

Her words fell away, and the silence of her empty house pressed against her. She looked at the two prescription bottles by her bed. Both were for pain, but one made her sleep.

Sleep. That was the ticket.

She took two, wrapped herself in the scent of Lou’s pillow, and prayed for oblivion.

George let Suzy use the key on the front door and swing it open.

“Dad? Come on. It’s cold out here.”

George froze on the front sidewalk—and it had nothing to do
with the cold weather. The sight of his home assailed him in a way he had not anticipated. The home he had left, just a few mornings before … He had not expected to return. Ever.

“Dad? What’s wrong? Do you need help with your crutches?”

Don’t blow it, George. Don’t let your daughter know what you intended to do
. He made himself move and hobbled through the door. The sights and smells swept over him like a wind. A distinct smell of oak and aftershave and past meals cooked in the microwave.
His
distinct smell? Why had he never noticed it before?

Because you’ve never forfeited your life only to regain it
.

Suzy moved into the kitchen. “You want some coffee? I’ll make a—”

She came out of the kitchen flipping through a pack of papers. “What are these doing out? Your will, your insurance policies, your—”

George thought fast and tried to act nonchalant. He maneuvered his crutches close to his daughter, balanced on one, took the papers, and tossed them on a chair. “Your mother and I always did that when we traveled. Got the important papers together so if anything happened to us—”

“I don’t remember seeing them out when I used to water your plants.”

“Your mother was better at putting them neatly in the desk. I was running late so I never got them that far. Where’s that coffee?”

Suzy filled the coffeemaker while George lowered himself onto the couch. He was glad he’d decided to stash the $68,392 he’d withdrawn from his account in a desk drawer instead of leaving it out in plain sight. He never would have been able to explain that one away.

“How about a snack, Dad? You got any crackers and cheese?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to—” Then he remembered. He’d emptied out most of the food in preparation for his suicide trip. “Actually, I’m not hungry, Suzy. I don’t want—”

George heard the refrigerator open and braced himself.

Suzy appeared in the doorway. “Where’s all your food, Dad? The fridge is practically empty.”

“I eat out a lot.”

“Now you make me feel bad. If we’d known you weren’t eating decent, Stan and I would have had you over for dinner more often.”

“I’ve been eating fine. It’s my choice. I’m not helpless, you know. I make a mean meat loaf.”

“You
know
how to make a mean meat loaf, but do you do it?”

Actually, no
. What was the use of it? Cooking for one was a bore. George managed to get the remote from the coffee table. He flipped on the television in time to see the opening announcement for a special report.

A reporter looked seriously at the camera. “We have just received news that the hero of Flight 1382 has been identified. Henry Smith, age forty, was the man who handed off the lifelines.”

“Suzy, come here! That’s him. That’s Henry. That’s my seatmate. I was right.”

Suzy ran from the kitchen. “They confirmed—?”

“Shh.”

“A visual confirmation of the identity of Henry Smith was made by the two helicopter rescuers, Floyd Calbert and Hugh Johnson. Added to that identification are the unique autopsy results that revealed only one victim of Flight 1382 died from drowning. All others died from blunt trauma—injuries caused by the impact of the plane crashing into the river.” The reporter looked behind his own shoulder, then turned back to the camera excitedly. “We are here at the airport to greet Mrs. Henry Smith, who has just arrived. Only minutes ago she was notified that her husband was the brave man who gave his life for others.”