Wreckage (6 page)

We are crashing. Numbly, I wrestle into a neon yellow life preserver, knowing it might never even be used because I’ll be blown into a million pieces on impact. I will never see my family again.

What did I say to them that last time we spoke? Did I tell Jerry how much I love him and that he’s my absolute best friend? Why did I waste so much time fighting with him about this trip? Oh God, he’s going to feel so guilty.

Josh, my first baby. I didn’t put him down for a whole month after he came home from the hospital, even when he was sleeping. I used to form myself around his little body in bed each night making a cradle with my legs and arms, watching his tiny chest move up and down with each breath. Now I won’t see him grow up. And little Daniel, with the perpetual layer of dirt under his fingernails, the first to laugh at my stupid jokes. Will he even remember me?

Buckling the last strap on my life jacket I’m careful to leave the dangling white cord undisturbed. Then I remember—Margaret. God, I was so caught up with talking to Dave Hall, I forgot about my sleeping mother-in-law. I try to turn my head but g-forces hold me down, pushing my tears backward into my hair in angry streams. Why am I fighting? Maybe I should say my last prayers, make peace with the inevitability of my destruction. Maybe this is the best way for Margaret too, to die after a full life and a fantastic vacation.

Then rebellion swells inside of me, pushing out all that fear and doubt. I won’t give in. I will fight for myself and for Margaret. Tensing my neck, I force my head to turn toward the rear of the plane.

“Margaret! Margaret!” I yell. She’s awake but disoriented. “MOM! Over here.”

Her eyes roll around aimlessly until finally they meet mine. Her fingers twitch toward me, frozen in place by the same forces I’m fighting. “Lillian! What’s happening?”

“We’re landing in the ocean. Listen carefully. You need to get your life jacket on. It’s under your seat.”

“I can’t.” She wrestles feebly. “I can’t . . . please God, please, take me home.” She shuts her eyes. “Take me home to Charlie.”

“NO, Margaret, NO! You’re not giving up. I won’t let you. Get the life vest on. Do it. NOW!”

Her face is wet with tears. “I love you. Tell Jerry. Tell the kids.”

The world explodes around me. A metallic flash whizzes past my head and crashes into the far side of the plane. Silver slivers fill the air like confetti, all that’s left of my camera and a precursor to the much larger destruction to come. The wall of force holding me in place dissolves into nothingness. Theresa told us how to brace for impact but I can’t remember.

Something solid hits me in the shoulder, shoving all air out of my lungs. Taking stuttering breaths, I duck lower in my seat, looping my arms behind my thighs.

It’s like we’re going over giant speed bumps and my arms have a hard time holding on. The second engine, the only running one, whines as it fills with water and eventually falls silent. Then with one final jerk, the plane comes to a stop.

Water seeps into my gym shoes letting me know I’m still alive. I glance around in sweeping semicircles, but all is blackness.

Unclasping the seat belt, I push up to standing, my legs wobbling beneath me. I hold on to my headrest and slosh through the water, already several inches deep. A voice breaks the deafening silence.

“Lillian? Is that you?”

Dave. It sounds like he’s still in his seat. I’m not alone. Being alone right now is almost as scary as the idea of being dead.

“Dave, thank God! You have to get out of here. The plane is sinking.” Somehow, I sound calm. “Margaret. Did you hear that? We have to get out,” I shout into the darkness behind me.

“Wait,” Dave calls, “I think I need your help. I . . . I can’t get my belt off.”

“Okay, hold on.” In two steps I crash into him, my hand landing on his face. His forehead is wet and sticky. Blood. Ignoring the metallic odor, I trace my hand down the front of his polo shirt, strangely guilty about getting it dirty. The water is up to my calves when I finally unlatch his seat belt and step back, but he doesn’t move. I’m growing impatient. Margaret hasn’t made a sound since the crash. I should be helping her right now.

“I can’t get up, I’m so dizzy.”

“Here.” I grab both of his arms and throw them around my neck. “You’ve gotta get up.”

I pull till my muscles burn. Once Dave is finally on his feet, he teeters and then lays his head down on top of mine, crunching my chin into my throat. “Dave, wake up! Come on, please, get up!” I shout, shaking him gently. The plane rocks side to side with each wave, hard rain pounding loudly against its steel body. Eerie blue emergency lights begin to flicker on and off adding confusion instead of clarity.

He coughs. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“Can you stand on your own? I need to get Margaret.”

Lifting his head off mine he steps away, sways but doesn’t fall. “I’m okay. Go ahead,” he says, leaning against the wall. “Just hurry.”

When my eyes adjust to the flashing staccato of the emergency lights, I can make out the outline of chairs behind me but still no Margaret. The water now splashes around my knees.

“Mom, Mom!” I shout. Stumbling forward, I find the top of Margaret’s empty headrest and trace down the grooves in the pliable leather until my hand lands on her back. She’s nearly submerged, slumped over the armrest.

I kneel down beside her, shivering as the ocean water soaks into my clothes. I can’t see her clearly but I hear her breathing. Shoving her up with one hand, I reach for her seat belt with the other but something hard and rectangular is in my way. I push it into the water and yank off her belt, anger propelling me more than fear now.

Margaret’s body is like a sack of skin filled with sand. I struggle to gather her in my arms like a sleeping child, one arm under her legs and another behind her shoulders. Squatting low, I push against the seat behind me for leverage and try to stand. She only lifts an inch off of the seat.

Oh God, no. How am I going to get her out? It’s not enough that our plane crashed or that I watched Theresa die right in front of me, but now I have to choose between saving my life and attempting to save Margaret’s?

I take the anger and use it as fuel. Digging my fingers into her doughy skin, I try lifting her again, my arms shaking from exhaustion, or cold, or anger. She doesn’t move at all this time. The convulsions in my arms continue, spreading to my torso and thighs, making me vibrate like when the plane was skipping across the water.

Then, as I’m trying to lift her yet again, pressure registers between my shoulder blades. It’s Dave. He’s standing above me. “I opened the escape door,” he says, his dark polo plastered to his body. “I pulled the lever for the lifeboat, it should be inflating right now. We have to get out fast before the water covers the door.”

“I can’t . . .” My voice breaks. “I can’t lift her. I can’t get her out.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be but let me try.”

Dave crouches down to my level till the water reaches his shoulders. Putting his arms under Margaret, he leans against me with his shoulder and I readjust my feet to get balanced.

Dave Hall’s eyes shine in the darkness and when they lock onto mine, full of confidence that we’ll succeed, I believe it too. “Are you ready, Lillian?” I nod weakly. “On three, then. One, two, three.” With barely any effort we stand up, lifting Margaret as though there’s nothing in our arms but a baby. I’ve stopped shaking.

CHAPTER 7

DAVE

Present

That night on the plane was the first time Dave ever saw death. When he was ten his grandfather died, but his only memories of the funeral were of sitting around on hard chairs while his father talked with lots of people Dave didn’t know. Mostly he remembered staying in a hotel with cable and a pool and that his Dad let him stay up with his cousin till almost midnight watching HBO.

A kid in high school was killed by a drunk driver, though. Dave walked past the open casket, glancing briefly at the boy “sleeping” inside. Dave was a sophomore, the kid a senior, but he was more like a child inside the satin-lined coffin, his hands crossed solemnly on his chest. The makeup on his face gave him a waxy appearance, more like a department store mannequin than a human being.

Everyone kept saying how peaceful he seemed; all Dave saw was the outline of gashes down his face carefully camouflaged for an open casket. But what he remembers the most was how quiet he looked, no furrowed brow or cocky grin, nothing.

Then Dave saw Theresa and finally understood that he only knew
of
death. It wasn’t until the cacophony of fear—objects flashing past his face, screams echoing in his head—that he was properly introduced to Death and his horrific talents.

As they became better acquainted, Dave learned that Death is the opposite of peace: it’s struggle, it’s ugly, it’s horrific, it’s dirty. And ultimately, Death is emptiness. Like the way Theresa’s body floated limply in the water as he and Lily pushed past her to safety, carrying Margaret in their arms. The way he knew that whatever made “Theresa” was gone forever.

How could he jam all of that into a succinct answer? His mind went blank, and Genevieve Randall let out a loud, irritated sigh. “CUT!”

The strong scent of expensive perfume wafted past him. Clenching her boney knees together, Genevieve Randall eased herself onto the couch beside him, their legs almost touching. She leaned forward, trying to force him to focus on her.

“David,” she crooned, “I’m sorry, did I say something wrong? It seems like you checked out on me.”

He blinked a few times trying to clear the fog from his brain. He’d almost forgotten how exhausting these interviews were. Genevieve Randall had been asking Dave questions in the middle of his living room for the past hour, and he was already tempted to tear off his mic and head upstairs for a nap.

“David. Hello?” She waved her hand in front of his face. That name yanked him to reality.

“It’s Dave,” he corrected. No one ever called him David. No one except Lily.

“I’m sorry,
Dave
, but we have a deadline and it’s extremely important we get this interview done, so is there anything I can do to make this better for you?
Dave
?”

Ralph ran up holding a frosty glass in his stubby fingers and shoved it into Dave’s hands. Dave mumbled a thanks and took a polite sip. The clinking ice settled when he lowered the cup. Mmm, ice in water. Sometimes he forgot those little things.

“No, I understand,” he mumbled tracing his index finger around the rim of the glass. “I’m ready to continue when you are.”

“Well, I’m ready
now
,” Genevieve sighed. Her warm breath smelled of mint and tobacco.

“So I’ll have Jasmine come and touch us up.” Her voice shot to the side, causing Jasmine to appear from thin air. “Let’s say we’ll start rolling tape again in five.” She held up a hand’s worth of fingers before stomping across the room and out the front door. Maybe a cigarette would take her down a notch.

As Jasmine fussed with her makeup brush, Dave snuck a look at Beth sitting across the room beyond the ring of crew members, sound equipment, and cameras. Their eyes caught and her face flashed with something like concern. Then she glanced away, checking her phone casually. Dave knew what that look meant. They’d gone five months without cameras and reporters and were happier than ever. Beth couldn’t understand why he’d agreed to another interview. She hated listening to this story as much as he hated telling it.

Genevieve’s voice sliced through his thoughts. “David. I’m sorry, I mean Dave. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Dave said, as casually as possible, readjusting on the fluffy couch, ready to try again. Ralph ran in to retrieve his water and within seconds the questions started again.

“How much time would you approximate passed between the crash and when you and Lillian and Margaret Linden exited the plane?”

“I’m not completely sure. It felt like forever but it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two. We pulled out Margaret, and Kent came out on his own soon after. It only took a few more minutes for the plane to completely submerge. If we’d been in there, if we’d all passed out like Margaret or, or were stuck in our seats, we all would’ve been trapped inside and dragged down to the ocean floor.”

“Mmmm, yes, terrifying. But none of that happened did it, because you escaped? How did you escape the sinking plane?”

“I think it was a combination of luck and cooperation. I inflated the lifeboat while Lillian tried to retrieve Margaret. Kent worked on trying to contact help with the radio, but the water was rising too fast and it shorted out before he could get a signal. Then he grabbed the first aid kit on the way out.” Now to give Kent his props. “That kit made the difference between life and death a number of times. We wouldn’t have survived without it.”

Genevieve paused dramatically, staring at her notecards. “What about Theresa Sampson? Did anyone help her out of the plane?”

He thought they’d covered this already. “No, she was already dead. We had to leave her behind.”

Ms. Randall opened her mouth wide in exaggerated surprise. “You mean no one went back?”

Dave cocked his head to the side. “No, ma’am. It was clear she was dead.”

“Did you check her pulse on the plane? See if she was breathing?”

“No. But you could tell, you know?” Of course she didn’t know. How could she know what it was like to look at that empty vessel shattered on the ground?

He was beginning to remember why they decided to start their lies in the first place. Everyone is so judgmental.

“Hmmm, I see.” She sneered in an eerily familiar way, just like Kent did when he’d found out about Theresa’s fate two and a half years ago. Seeing that look again, the accusations that simmered beneath the surface, made Dave’s blood boil. He scowled at Genevieve, hoping she hadn’t tried these dramatics on Lily.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Ms. Randall, but we did our best in a horrific situation. You, none of you,” Dave swept his eyes around the room ignoring the camera’s intrusive stare, “have been through what we have.” Leaning forward he said forcefully, “I’d appreciate a little deference in the future.”