by Nancy Moser
The phone rang in her lap. Ellen had it to her ear before the sound completed its tone. “Yes?”
“Is this Mrs. Henry Smith?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith, but this is Sun Fun Airlines, and we regret to inform you that we have confirmation that your husband was on Flight 1382 today and—”
She forced herself to take a breath. “Are they trying to recover the plane?”
“Yes, ma’am. As we speak.”
The harder question. The stupid question. The last-ditch question. “Do you think anyone could still be alive?”
“I … I’m sorry, ma’am. I just don’t know.”
Ellen took down the information about where to go to identify her husband—when he was found. She kept nodding to the phone, feeling silly for having a conversation about flight times, hotels, and taxis when Henry was dead.
She hung up with that thought resounding through her soul.
Henry was dead. Henry was dead. Henry was—
She heaved the phone into the television set, shattering both. Horrified, she scrambled to the floor and began picking up the pieces, trying to fit one to another.
“No, no, no … Fix it, fix it.”
She suddenly realized the absurdity of what she was doing and let the pieces fall from her hands to the carpet. She stared at the broken, jagged fragments and noticed a small stream of blood snake its way down the palm of her hand. The wreckage of a phone and a television set. A little blood. Inconsequential wreckage compared to—
With an expulsion of breath, she fell over on her side and pulled her knees to her chest, the broken pieces crackling beneath her.
She let the sobs come and, with them, felt her heart do its own breaking. Unlike the television or the phone, her heart couldn’t be fixed. Not ever. For all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Henry together again.
Seven
Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility
consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only
to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.
PHILIPPIANS 2:3–4
The next morning, Dora was on the road early. The airline was going to give a statement at nine, and she wanted a front-row seat. But it turned out her early start didn’t matter. The conference room was packed with people waiting for an official to appear. Dora had to settle for a seat halfway back.
“Did I miss any—?”
A door opened near the podium and a group of three men came out. The crowd quieted. The oldest of the three approached the microphone. “Good morning. I am Malcolm Evers, spokesman for Sun Fun Airline, and these two gentlemen are Simon Wallin from the National Transportation Safety Board, and Chad Reese from the Federal Aviation Administration. I have a brief statement to make before we open the floor to questions.”
He cleared his throat, donned reading glasses, and lifted an index card. “We at Sun Fun, wish to express our sincere …”
Dora shook her head at the subtle faux pas. If he couldn’t give a heartfelt show of condolence and regret without notes, he was in trouble. She readied her pad and pen for some real news.
“As of yet, we have not determined what caused yesterday’s crash, and I hazard to speculate. But certainly weather was a possible factor.”
Duh.
He turned to the FAA man. “Mr. Reese?”
They exchanged places. “Although the weather is beyond our control, each pilot has the choice of taking off or not taking off.”
“Are you saying he made a mistake?” asked a reporter.
There was an awkward silence. “That is a possibility.”
Chaos erupted. Questions were hurled across the room. Dora felt sorry for the man, whose head whipped from one question to another, not knowing what to do.
“… pilot error?”
Reese made calming motions with his hands, and the questions stopped. The main question had gotten through. Was it pilot error?
“We don’t know,” Reese said. “But there is a saying: PIC. Pilot in Command. A pilot always has the option to abort a flight until he reaches the point of no return.”
“Had Flight 1382 reached that point?”
“Apparently.”
Mr. Wallin stepped to the mike, sharing it with Mr. Reese. “As you know, the airport was closed for nearly an hour and a half yesterday because of inclement weather.”
“Have you recovered the black box yet?”
“Not yet. We haven’t found the flight data recorder yet, either. Both of them will help us determine what happened to the plane and what was said in the cockpit before the time of the crash. However, preliminary examination of the communication between the cockpit crew and the control tower appears to be normal. There was no distress call.” Mr. Wallin took a deep breath. “Of course our first priority is recovering the victims so accurate identification can be made. As we speak, relatives are arriving and are being taken to area hotels.”
Dora resisted the impulse to run out of the room to head to nearby hotels. Cause of crash first, reaction to crash second.
“Please keep in mind there are many factors to consider, and all these take time to investigate.”
“Such as?”
Wallin held out a hand and began listing them. “Runway conditions; the weight of the plane; the condition of the engines; mechanical failure, since it appears the plane did not receive the thrust it needed for takeoff; pilot error; and, of course, the weather. Visibility when the plane took off yesterday was minimal.”
“Another question, Mr. Wallin. Why did the plane sink so fast? Aren’t they supposed to float so people can be evacuated?”
Wallin opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked to Reese and Evers but got no help. He turned back to the microphone. “They will stay afloat for some time unless the structural integrity of the cabin has been compromised.”
This was all very interesting, but no one was asking the most probing question Dora wanted answered. She took a chance and stood.
“What about the hero?”
Silence. Then murmuring. “Yes, what about the hero?”
“We all witnessed the sacrificial actions of the eighth person in the water and were deeply moved. All efforts will be made to identify this man and give him the honor he is due. We can only wait and see—and hope he is identified.” Mr. Wallin looked to the other two men. It was a good way to end. “Let’s get back to work.”
George woke to find a nurse taking his blood pressure. The Velcro band ripped apart, the sound yanking him from the last remnants of sleep.
“Good morning, Mr. Davanos.”
Morning? He groggily glanced at the blinds.
“You want these open?”
Whatever. He didn’t protest when she opened them and adjusted the light. His eyes skimmed the empty bed beside him.
I’m the lone survivor.
He felt like asking for more drugs. The ones they had given him last night, for the pain had been great. Hours and hours of dreamless sleep—only to be wakened in the morning to the reality of his life and their deaths.
The nurse took his water pitcher and filled it at the sink, chattering in a happy monologue. “We are so glad you slept well last night. Some of the others had a harder time of it. They tossed and—”
He perked up. “Others?”
She set the pitcher on his tray table and turned the handle to his right. “The other survivors.”
He shoved the table aside and sat up. “Survivors? So all the people in the water lived? How many?”
“Hold on a moment, Mr. Davanos.” She moved the table and its water pitcher close again as if a glass of cold water would make everything better.
I’ve had enough cold water, thank you very much.
“Tell me, woman!”
She lifted both eyebrows and let a brief glare escape before couching it in nurse-happy again. “There were originally eight s
urvivors; seven were airlifted to safety. Two of those have died.” She tucked the sheet on the side. “And, of course, the one man in the water who didn’t make it. The one who kept handing the lifeline to the others.”
“What are you talking about?”
She hesitated, then her face lit up with an aha-moment. “Oh, that’s right … you weren’t hanging on to the tail section. You didn’t see, you weren’t there.” She told him about the hero and his sacrifice.
“I’ll take that water now.”
She poured him a glass and he downed it.
“Are you all right, Mr. Davanos? I didn’t mean to upset you.”
He shook his head. As soon as she left, he called her back, but it was too late. He asked the next question to his empty room. “What about the widow and Henry? Were they among the five?”
The phone rang and he answered it. Suzy’s voice flowed through the line like an elixir. “Dad? Is that you? Are you all right?”
For now. At least for now.
“But you need to eat something, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Your body needs fuel to heal.”
With a swipe of her hand, Merry shoved the breakfast tray to the floor. “Don’t you get it, lady? I don’t want to heal. My family is dead! I don’t want to heal.”
The orderly picked up the dishes, then fled the room.
Good riddance.
Merry stared at the mess on the floor. A disheveled blob of green Jell-O looked like mint jelly without the Easter ham. A piece of meat lay dead amongst its brown gravy blood with baby carrots strewn on top as if they were bold strokes from an orange pen writing a special message just for her.
Here’s the message, Merry: Your family’s dead. What would you like for dessert?
Merry sank into the pillows even as the aroma of the meal lured her to climbing off the bed to eat. She turned her head away from it. How dare she think about fulfilling her own desires or needs when her family would never desire or need again? If she could cut off the other aspects of life her body craved—breathing, water, sleep—she would. She’d just lie there and let time swallow her up as if she had never existed.
She saw the light streaming through the blinds. How dare the sun shine. And flowers … her room was full of flowers and cards. Who would do such a thing? She was not allowed to enjoy beauty or a flower’s fragrance or the warmth of the sun. They were offlimits. She glanced at a framed picture on the wall across from her. It was a desert scene, with large-armed cacti dotting a many-layered peach-colored vista. A blue and pink sunset silhouetted the low hills. A desert. Phoenix. She was supposed to be in Phoenix right this minute, enjoying a break.
Serves you right, Merry. You wanted to run away from your life? Now your life has been ripped away from you forever.
Merry looked at the picture a moment longer, then laughed. Why couldn’t she have been placed in a room that offered a mountain scene? Or a French marketplace? Or a still life of perfectly arranged flowers? Why had God placed her in a room with a picture of a desert—her destination that God had cut short?
She desperately looked around the bed for something to throw at it, to banish it from her vision, from her conscience. But there were no more throwables at hand. She’d already swept them to the floor with her food.
It was appropriate. She was stuck with the desert scene mocking her, condemning her. And so she stared at it, letting it do its work. If it made her feel bad, so be it.
She deserved worse.
Merry heard a commotion outside her hospital room. She wrapped her body tighter around her pillow and wished them away. Didn’t people have any manners? Didn’t they realize hospitals were a place to rest and find—
Merry’s eyes shot open as she heard her mother’s voice. The moment she glanced toward the door, it opened wide, and a stream of family filed through. Her mother-in-law, two sisters-in-law, and their spouses, Uncle Jerry, and—
Her mother made a beeline for her bed, her face a puckered mask of sympathy. “Oh, my poor baby, my poor baby.”
Before Merry could protect her injuries from the onslaught of Anna Keenan’s hugs, she had two pudgy arms wrapped around her torso.
“Ouch!”
Her mother jerked back. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.”
Merry pushed the controls to the bed, propelling herself to a more seated position. She scanned the faces of her family and realized they had no idea what to say. The feeling was mutual—especially when Merry glanced in her mother-in-law’s direction. What could she possibly say to Mabel Cavanaugh, who suffered a pain equal to her own?
Mabel’s eyebrows warred against each other as she tried to keep her composure. It was a losing battle. Within seconds, she flanked Merry’s mother on the other side of the bed, her hand clasping Merry’s, her head shaking no with such a furious rhythm that Merry wondered if Mabel would ever be able to stop it without divine intervention.
“Oh, Merry … My boy, my boy. And my little Justin.”
Across the bed, Anna joined in with her own head rhythm. “Oh no, no, you can’t think of them. Merry is alive. She’s only one of five to be a—”
“But my boy is dead. My grandson is dead.”
“He’s my grandson too.”
“But your daughter is alive.”
Merry’s mother leaned toward the center point of the bed. “So you’re saying it would be better if Merry had died too?”
Mabel met her stance, their faces separated by mere inches.
“Certainly not, but you can’t possibly say your grief is deeper than mine. My heart is ripped in two. My—”
“And mine’s not?”
“Not like—”
The other relatives took sides and pulled the two women away from the war zone above Merry’s bed. A nurse suddenly appeared, assessed the situation in one glance, and ordered, “Everybody out. Now!”
As their voices faded down the hall, Merry expelled the breath she’d been holding and took a fresh one. So much for relatives.
Then she turned over on her side and pulled a pillow to her chest. At the moment it was all the comfort she could tolerate.
Sonja hadn’t slept well. She found it ironic that hospitals were supposed to be places of rest and yet they were probably the hardest places to get any rest with nurses in and out and the clattering of trays and carts.
She had breakfast and let herself doze while waiting for the doctor to visit. The half-sleep was the hardest to take, for that was when her mind ran a mental video of the events of the crash and rescue. If only she could reach deep sleep, maybe she’d find some peace there. She would even settle for the hard nothingness of drug-induced sleep. Anything but this laundry list of events that replayed itself on an endless loop.
Suddenly, her eyes shot open with a new memory. Dale! Allen!
She put a hand to her chest, trying to calm her breathing. They were dead. They were lying at the bottom of the river, cold and hurt and dead. She hadn’t thought of them before—why hadn’t she thought of them before? She didn’t want to know what character trait that omission revealed. And Geraldine … Geraldine must be laughing in her Bandolinos right now. Her nemesis was safe and unhurt. Sonja, because of her own finagling, was traumatized and broken.
Then Geraldine’s words returned, clear as if she were in the room. “Just wait, Sonja … some day …”
Some day was here.
Sonja remembered Allen coming back to her seat to check on her while they’d been waiting to take off. What had she told him? She closed her eyes and snickered. “I’m fine. I’ve got everything under control.”
What a joke. If nothing else, the crash had proven she had nothing under control. It was the most out-of-control, violent, drastic thing that had ever hap—
She saw Roscoe’s face in her mind’s eye, heard his voice. “Don’t make God do something drastic to get your attention. Don’t make Him reach down and shake you. Look up, away from the world, for just a moment. That’s when you’ll see Him, waiting there for you.”
&nbs
p; Had God crashed the plane to get her attention?
She shivered and shook her head vigorously. Surely He wouldn’t let dozens of people die just so she would maybe, possibly, by chance, turn to Him?
Look up, away from the world.
Sonja tentatively let her eyes move upward, but when she realized that all she saw was the water-spotted ceiling tiles of a hospital room, she looked away.
Roscoe may have been a nice man, but he was over the top when it came to God. None of this happened because God was thinking about Sonja, wanting her to turn to Him. No way. She couldn’t even fathom such a thing. For to do so would mean that there was a reason she lived—and others died.
She clamped her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep, choosing to face the disturbance of her half-dreams rather than the disturbance of her soul.
Tina let the tendrils of warm tea flow through her body. She would never take warmth for granted again. She set the mug down awkwardly. Her fingers still didn’t work well because of the frostbite.
There was a tap on the door. It was Pastor Rawlins. “May I come in?”
“Sure.”
He pulled a vase with one yellow rose from behind his back. “This came for you.”
“How nice of you.”
He laughed. “Not me. I’m just the flower boy.” He handed her the card.
“Can you take it out? I’m all thumbs.” She read it: They wouldn’t let me see you. I’ll get off work early and try again. I love you, David.
The pastor tucked the card in the envelope. “From someone who cares?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“It isn’t that odd, is it? For me to have a boyfriend?”
“Well, no,” the pastor said, glancing at the door. “I met him earlier. He’s been waiting all night in the relative’s waiting room but had to go home to change before he went to work. He said he was your husband.”
“No way!” She was shocked at her vehement reaction.
“I must have misunderstood.”
Suddenly it became clear. Hospital rules. David had become a relative in order to see her. “You didn’t misunderstand. But he’s not my husband. He’s just being pushy, trying to see—”