by Nancy Moser
“You don’t sound pleased.”
“He’s a complication.”
“That’s an odd term.”
“He wants to get married.”
“And you don’t.”
She shrugged, realizing it was an imperfect gesture. Her feelings were more complex than she could express. And she wasn’t being fair. David’s attempts to see her were good. He was concerned. That was normal. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m confused; I don’t know what I think about anything right now.”
He put a hand on her arm. “Going through a disaster such as this does complicate things. Perhaps that’s what you meant?” He looked hopeful.
Was that what she’d meant with her rude comments about David? “There was a lot to think about before, much less now.” She shook her head, wishing she didn’t have to think about anything for a while.
The phone rang and he handed it to her.
“Tina! My little girl. Are you all right?”
At the sound of the voice, Tina started to cry. She was suddenly a child again, a child who only wanted to hear one voice when she was hurt or scared.
“Oh, Mom …”
Pastor Rawlins nodded with understanding, handed her a tissue, and slipped out of the room.
“We love you, sweetie.”
“I love you too.”
Tina sank into the pillows, letting them surround her like her parents’ hug.
After talking with her parents, Tina sat in silence trying to hang on to the glow of their concern. They’d apologized for not coming to visit, but their health wasn’t good, and neither were their finances. She understood and accepted their voices as comfort enough. She’d always been able to depend on them.
But something her father said stuck with her. He asked if she’d met the other survivors, or the men who flew the helicopter. She hadn’t, and the trouble was, she wasn’t sure she could. Was it healthy to relive such a crisis? She wanted to say hello and thanks, but she wasn’t ready. Not yet. It was obvious she had some healing to do first, and she feared a few days in the hospital was only the beginning. Bodies heal more quickly than bruised memories.
As Tina let her eyes fall shut, she reconciled herself to the fact that there was only one man she really wanted to meet—and he was dead.
Perhaps it was better to leave the rest alone.
Tina felt someone stroking her hand. The nurses sure go overboard on the personal atten—
“I love you, Tina.”
Huh?
Tina opened her eyes, and David smiled down at her. “Hi there.”
She adjusted her shoulders against the pillows. “So … I hear we’re married. You shouldn’t have said we were married.”
He took a step back. “Nice to see you too.” He shoved a vase of yellow roses into her arms. “Here’s the other eleven.” He pointed to the bud vase on the windowsill. “I see you got the one I sent with the pastor.” He eyed the other huge arrangements and cards from strangers. “Do I have competition?”
“Maybe.”
He turned toward the door. “I’ll see you la—”
Tina sighed. “David … come back. I’m sorry. Those flowers are from my parents, friends, work, and complete strangers. There’s no competition.”
After a moment’s hesitation he returned to the bed, and Tina could tell she was forgiven. That was just like him. He never held a grudge. Unlike some people they both knew.
She extended her hand, and he took it, scanning her body. “You broke a leg?”
She nodded.
“I was at work when I saw everyone watching the news. I saw the tail section with the logo, and then, when I heard the flight number.” His forehead ruffled. “Oh, Teen. It’s such a miracle you survived.”
“I know.”
“I tried to see you last night and this morning, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“Pastor Rawlins said my ‘husband’ was here.”
He blushed. “Sorry about that. But I wouldn’t have had any chance without lying.”
“Thou shalt not lie.”
“Even if I hope it will be true someday?”
“David …”
He nodded. “I know. Now’s not the time. You have to concentrate on getting better and getting out of here.”
“The doctor said soon. But I want to go home now.” She handed him the flowers and he put them on the bed tray.
“You’re so matter-of-fact about all this, Tina. Shouldn’t you be going through some post-traumatic stress something or other?”
For some reason this incensed her. “No one has a right to tell me how I should or shouldn’t feel. I’m the one who went through it. I’m the one who’s dealing with it the best I can. I’m—”
She suddenly realized the core of her anger. It had nothing to do with David or their possible engagement or even her physical condition. I’m the one who had the chance to tell a searching girl about God and didn’t. And now she’s dead. There are no more chances. No more opportunities.
She covered her face with her hands.
“What’s wrong? I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She shook her head against his apologies. It wasn’t his fault. She was the one who was out of whack. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t acting like a person who’d been snatched from death. She was acting as nonchalant as someone who’d broken a leg while running after a missed bus.
You certainly missed this bus, Tina. You had a chance and blew it, but good. She clamped her jaw. It was time to face this, one way or the other.
“I need you to do something for me, David.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to find the parents of the girl I sat next to on the plane. Her first name was Mallory. I don’t know her last name, but she had a grandfather Carpello, Carpelli, something like that. He lives in town. She was from Phoenix.”
“But how will I find them?”
“I’m sure her parents have to come to town to identify the body.”
He pushed the hair away from her eyes. “Why do you need to find them? And what do you want me to say to them when I do?”
She hadn’t thought that far. What did she want to say to the family of a dead girl she’d only known a few hours? What comfort could she give them?
What comfort can they give me?
The selfishness of the thought shocked her like a bolt of electricity.
“You’re getting that look again.”
She wanted to turn away but held fast. She needed to face this—all of it. The truth was, she didn’t want to talk to Mallory’s parents to offer them comfort or to tell them about their daughter’s last hours. Tina wanted to be assured that what she hadn’t done—what she hadn’t said—wouldn’t matter.
She reached for her water, but David had it in her hands before she could even complete the movement. I don’t deserve him.
He pulled a chair close and looked at her with concerned eyes. “You can tell me, Teen. You can tell me, whatever it is.”
She wondered if that was true. Would he still profess his love when he found out what a slacker she’d been—a slacker for God? A coward? An arrogant, selfish woman who’d only thought of herself and the small discomfort of Mallory’s possible rejection of her words?
Her thoughts got sidetracked by a new one. “I only talked about myself.”
“What?”
She replayed the conversation she’d had in the plane with Mallory. The girl talked about herself, but not because Tina had shown any interest. Most of the conversation revolved around Tina—Tina’s thoughts, Tina’s hates, Tina’s needs. Even when Mallory did talk, Tina managed to turn the conversation around to me, myself, and I. It was pitiful. It was disgusting.
“I am the most selfish, arrogant, insecure, insolent, selfish—”
“You said selfish twice.”
“Don’t stop me; I’m on a roll.”
He sat back in the chair, crossed his arms, and grinned.
“And don�
��t laugh at me. This is serious.”
He erased the grin and touched her arm. “I’m not laughing, but I’ve heard this before.”
“No, you haven’t. I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Oh, yes you have. Remember six months ago when you nominated yourself for that church office and then felt bad for doing it? You recited a similar list then. But I think prideful was included on that one.”
She closed her eyes, hating the memory of the past humiliation. She had withdrawn her name from the selection process more out of a fear of not receiving any votes than contrition, though she’d been through that too. Hadn’t she dealt with all those nasty character traits back then? Then why did she have to deal with them again?
“What weaknesses do you deal with, David?”
“You tell me.”
“Not fair. I recited my list; now it’s your turn.”
It only took him a moment to begin. “I’m too passive, non-confrontational to a fault; I procrastinate, daydream far too much, and I don’t like surprises.”
“That’s pitiful.”
He hung his head. “I know—”
“No, I mean your list is pitiful. I’m sorry, but daydreaming and not liking to argue does not measure equally with being insolent and selfish.”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll work on it.”
“You do that.”
He traced a finger around a bruise on her forearm. “You still haven’t told me why you want me to track down Mallory’s parents. I assume it’s linked to your tirade against yourself?”
She nodded and together they watched his tracings. It felt good, and with little effort, she knew she could slip away into sleep. Not have to deal with it. Escape.
No. She pulled her arm away and lifted her chin. “Have you ever witnessed to anyone before, David? Told them about God?”
“Not as often as I should—”
“But you have done it?”
“Sure.”
He said it so casually, as if sharing God to a stranger should come easily. Maybe it should. Maybe that was the root of the problem. Maybe if she were a godlier woman, then talk of faith would simply flow out of her, without effort.
“Did you talk to Mallory about Jesus?”
Tears followed a puff of air and the word No! She grabbed a tissue. “No, I didn’t. Don’t you get it? Mallory, this sweet, open girl, asked me about God, and I didn’t answer her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wasn’t sure how to say the right thing, didn’t feel like trying to figure it out, and basically was afraid she’d reject what I did say.”
She sniffed loudly. “Ah, David … I had a chance to make sure a fellow human being was on her way to heaven for all eternity, and I blew it off. And now she’s dead. Who would have thought that God would depend on me in that way? I mean … me.”
“And you want to meet her parents to do what?”
“To find out if she already knew the Lord; maybe she was just searching for more information. Maybe her soul wasn’t hanging on that one question.”
“What question?”
Tina looked at him, the aches of her body nothing compared to the ache within her soul. “She asked me—and these are her words—‘Does God know about … does He care about …?’ ”
“Her?”
“Her. She was searching. She wanted to know if He loved her. If He cared about her plans. She wanted to know if she was important. And I didn’t tell her.” Tina sobbed, shaking her head. Guilty, as charged.
David wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll find them, Tina. I’ll find Mallory’s parents.”
Anthony flipped the channels, devouring the reports about the crash. As each video clip replayed the rescue, he kept thinking, I lived through that?
It was a miracle. His miracle. He was a celebri—
A spasm of pain ripped through his torso and lingered, bringing a tear to his eye. A nurse happened in and rushed to his side. “Are you all right?”
He nodded and looked back to the screen. A reporter was doing a gig about the hero and the search for his identity.
The nurse nodded knowingly. “Oh, I get it. You shouldn’t feel bad about that.”
Anthony expelled a breath, relaxing as the spasm retreated. “About what?”
She nodded to the screen. “About living when he … you know … You shouldn’t feel bad.”
He blinked at the absurdity of the idea. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
She gaped at him, looking very much like a codfish. Why couldn’t he get a pretty nurse?
She pointed to the screen. “But the hero—”
“Died. I know. We all know. It’s plastered all over the news, the media’s latest baby to burp. He died, and that’s too bad, but five of us lived. I haven’t seen a single interview with any of us. We have a story to tell too.”
“The hospital won’t allow—”
So that was it. “The hospital has kept the reporters away? Whatever for?”
“So you can rest. Recover. And forget.”
He leaned against his pillows, nodding. “No doubt the airline’s lawyers have influenced the hospital administration, wanting us to lie dormant—or maybe waiting for us to die too—so there’ll be one less lawsuit, one less report of wrongdoing, mechanical failure, or culpability. I’m a doctor; I know how lawsuits go. I know the psychology of lawyers and the guilty.”
The nurse’s jaw was set. She glared at him. “I bet you do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked to the door, as if checking to see if they were alone. “I wouldn’t think you’d want to see reporters.”
“Whyever not?”
She nodded toward the television. “You were on the news this morning. Didn’t you see it?”
Anthony tried to sit up straighter. “What are you talking about?”
The nurse hesitated. “They had video of the rescue.”
Talking to her was like extracting a splinter from a finger. “And?”
“People saw what you did … what you did to get the line.”
Anthony rolled his eyes. “Not that again.”
The nurse’s jaw dropped ever so slightly. “That was grabbing the line when it wasn’t your turn.”
“I didn’t grab anything. The woman next to me—”
“Belinda Miller.”
“Whatever. She couldn’t hold on to the line. It came to me. I didn’t rip it out of her hands. There hardly was time for a polite ‘no, you go first’ discussion.”
“She died.”
He paused.
“Don’t you have anything to say about that?”
“That’s too bad.”
“You took her place. She might have lived if she’d gone when she was supposed to.”
Anthony had had just about enough. “If you’re waiting for me to feel bad for living, take a seat and get comfortable, because it isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”
The nurse shook her head. “You’re hopeless, aren’t you?”
“Indeed not. I am full of hope. I lived because I was supposed to live. And that’s why I insist on seeing a reporter. Now. I want to tell my story.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible, Mr. Thorgood.”
“Doctor Thorgood.”
She didn’t correct herself.
“I’m sure it is possible. What’s the name of the man in charge?”
“I don’t want you bothering, Mr.—”
“It’s his job to have people bother him. What’s his name?”
She gave it to him and he made the call. Less than sixty seconds later, Anthony was assured by a very accommodating administrator that the floodgates holding back the media would be opened immediately.
He could hardly wait. It was time the world heard from Dr. Anthony Thorgood.
Eight
Help, LORD, for the godly are no more;
the faithful have vanished from among men.
PSALM 12:1
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br /> Dora couldn’t believe her luck. After attending the press conference from the airlines, she dropped by the hospital on a whim, hoping against hope that the ban on interviewing the survivors had been lifted, and she could follow her boss’s instructions. She was just walking in the door when the excitement started. A crowd of reporters swarmed a suited man wearing a hospital ID badge. They raised their arms, vying to be chosen like kids choosing up sides for a kick-soccer game. Me! Me! Choose me!
Dora rushed forward, vying for her own spot. The hospital administrator held up his hands, trying to calm the ruckus. “One television, one newspaper.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s that or nothing,” he said. “Only one patient has expressed any interest in talking with the press, and even with his permission, we are wary and mindful of his ordeal.” He looked right at Dora. She’d interviewed him once for an article about the new trauma unit. He was some assistant to the administrator. Aaron? Arnold? Arnie, that was it. She smiled at him, waggled the tips of her fingers, and mouthed, Please, Arnie …
He smiled back. “Dora? Let’s have you and.” He looked to a TV reporter Dora didn’t recognize. “And you. Let’s go.” He hustled the two reporters and one cameraman through the crowd toward the elevator.
“But when will we have a turn?” asked one of the less fortunate.
Arnie called over his shoulder. “When I say so.” They got in the elevator, and as the doors closed, he laughed. “I’ve been wanting to say that my whole life.”
Dora and the others laughed dutifully. She held out her hand. “Dora Roberts. We talked a few months—”
His smile flirted. “I remember.” He seemed reluctant to break eye contact but was forced to when the TV reporter made his introductions. “Stephen Brady, WDIU. And this is Wayne.” The cameraman nodded, obviously not offended that his last name wasn’t given. “Who are we getting to see?”
“Anthony Thorgood—Doctor Anthony Thorgood, as you will soon find out if you dare call him otherwise.”
“Whoa,” Stephen said. “This should be interesting.”
“I think that’s a given.”