The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  “How about the other survivors?” Dora asked.

  “Soon.”

  “Are they that badly injured?”

  “Not any worse—”

  “Then why is he—?”

  He smiled and winked. “I’ll leave that for you to discover.”

  They exited the elevator, and Arnie led them to Dr. Thorgood’s room. He knocked on the door. “May we come in?”

  “Enter.”

  Dora and Stephen exchanged a look. Yes, your majesty.

  Dr. Thorgood sat in bed wearing a blue hospital robe. The top of a torso bandage could be seen. He clasped his hands on his lap and lifted his chin as if sizing them up. “Who’s who?” he finally said.

  Dora and Stephen introduced themselves.

  “Hmm.”

  Was that a good hmm or a bad hmm?

  Wayne set up the camera and nodded to Stephen that he was ready. Stephen cleared his throat and spoke into the mike. “So, Mr.—Dr.—Thorgood, how do you feel—?”

  “How do I feel?” Thorgood laughed. “Now that has got to be the most inane question I’ve ever heard.” He pointed to Arnie. “If these are the best reporters …”

  Stephen interrupted. “I was saying, how do you feel about being one of only five survivors out of a plane carrying one hundred?”

  Dora expected to hear the word lucky or even blessed—

  “Vindicated.”

  She did not expect that. Her initial mental reaction was not kind. And the answer took Stephen by surprise so much that he didn’t know what to say. Dora stepped in. “Would you care to explain yourself, Doctor?”

  “Of course.” Thorgood took a cleansing breath. “It’s obvious since I was chosen to live, there must be more for me to accomplish in my life. My survival is vindication that my life is worthwhile.”

  Stephen pounced. “So all those people who died … are you implying their lives were not worthwhile? They died because they had nothing more to—as you say—‘accomplish’ in their lives?”

  Thorgood thought a moment, then shrugged. “The facts speak for themselves.”

  “But—”

  He waved the question away. “But the reason I called you here is that I feel it is my responsibility to bring to light the appalling disregard for life by Sun Fun Airlines. They should never have taken off in such horrendous conditions. By doing so, they sealed the fate of—” He looked to Stephen. “What’s the death count?”

  “Ninety-five.”

  “The deaths of ninety-five people, not to mention causing the rest of us extreme pain and suffering. I for one intend to sue, and if I have my way, Sun Fun Airlines will never see the sun again.”

  Dora was in shock. She had never witnessed such arrogance. She decided to go ahead and ask the question she’d tucked away out of sympathy for the survivors’ ordeals. This man doesn’t deserve any sympathy. “Back to the rescue, Dr. Thorgood. The entire world saw you grab the lifeline away from Belinda Miller, who later died. How do you account for your—?”

  He threw his hands in the air. “For the umpteenth time, I did not grab anything. It virtually fell into my hands. I merely took it, as anyone would have done.”

  “Not everyone,” Dora said.

  “Yeah, yeah. The hero. If he were here I’d thank him. But I bet his family isn’t putting him on a pedestal like you reporters are doing. They’d much rather have him alive than canonized.”

  “But if he were alive, you might not be,” Stephen said.

  “Oh, I would have survived, one way or the other.”

  Thorgood’s last statement said it all. Dora felt further questions die. Apparently so did Stephen. And Wayne. For with only a slight glance at each other, Wayne shut the camera off, and Stephen put away the mike. Dora agreed completely. The three of them started to leave.

  “Hey! What about my story?”

  They were desperate for a story but not that desperate. Get yourself another pawn, bucko.

  Anthony felt his blood pressure rise. How dare they leave like that? They had no idea—

  The administrator—Arnie something or other—returned to his room and entered without knocking.

  “You sure know how to pick losers,” Anthony said. “What did you do, take a poll on which reporters were the most inept?”

  Arnie slowly closed the door, and Anthony had an odd notion he was going to get slugged. Just try it, peon. Speaking of lawsuits …

  But the administrator did not hit him. The man deliberately leaned against the doorjamb with his hands cushioning his tail-bone. He looked down and was silent, which was almost more disturbing.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  Arnie looked up and smiled. The last time Anthony had seen such a smile was when he’d just been handed a speeding ticket by a quota-hungry cop who loved his job a bit too much.

  Anthony sighed. “Either say something or leave me alone.”

  “I just have one thing to say to you, Mr. Thorgood. And if you repeat it to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

  “Ooh, this sounds good.”

  Arnie sniffed a laugh. “It is good. But you are not. Good, that is.”

  “You know very well it’s Doctor Thorgood, and you have no right—”

  Arnie raised a hand and nodded. “I’ve digressed. Let me say my piece and leave you to … yourself.”

  Anthony crossed his arms, ignoring the pain in his ribs in order to gain the effect. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “I may not be an extraordinary man, or worthy, or wise. But I do have an opinion and that counts for something.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. This was taking forever. “And …?”

  The little man stood upright and squared his shoulders. “You were one of five chosen to be saved. And yet … all things considered, I think God made a mistake.”

  With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

  After traveling down the elevator to the lobby, Dora excused herself from the TV crew and slipped into the rest room. Her heart pumped double time. Although her interview with Thorgood was a wash, Dora’s appetite for talking with the survivors was whetted. Big time. She had to get back up there, and now that she knew the layout.

  They’ll stop me. They know I’m not a relative.

  It didn’t matter. She had to try. She checked the mirror and attempted to remove the frenzy from her face and replace it with calm assurance, but she could not rid her eyes of their fire. Oh well, it would have to do.

  Dora left the rest room, walked around the throng of reporters still in the lobby, and headed down a long hall. She found an obscure stairway.

  Six flights. It would be good exercise.

  Dora paused on the sixth floor landing and caught her breath. Now came the hard part. If only she could make herself invisible long enough to get into one of the survivor’s rooms.

  She bit the top of her notebook, thinking. Then she had an idea. She stuck her reporter’s notebook in her purse and passed through the door into the sixth floor ward.

  As expected, a nurse walked by and did a double take. “I thought you were through with Dr. Thorgood.”

  Dora kept walking, hoping she looked more confident—and innocent—than she felt. “I forgot my notebook in his room. I’ll just be a minute.” She felt a twinge of guilt at the lie.

  The nurse gave a nod that indicated Dora had better be telling the truth.

  Dora walked faster.

  Sonja listened as visitors talked in the hall. She perked up and arranged the blankets over her lap. How wonderful to have people from work stop by. She’d even take a visit from Geraldine rather than this convicting silence.

  Her mother and father had called to say they would be down tomorrow when she was scheduled to be released. And they sent a beautiful philodendron plant, which Sonja was sure she’d manage to kill within weeks. She tried to take joy in the gesture, and yet … her mother knew she was terrible with plants, so why hadn’t she sent fresh flowers that weren’t supposed to live instead of shoving another of
Sonja’s inadequacies in her face by sending her a plant to kill?

  Sonja closed her eyes and thought happy thoughts. She was being too sensitive. She had survived a plane crash. It was a time of second chances, and because of that, it was wrong to harp on past slights—or new perceived ones. Besides, there were visitors in the hall. Certainly she could claim a few of them?

  But the visitors passed by. No visitors for Sonja. Uh-uh. No visitors for a conniving woman who didn’t care about the feelings of other people before the crash. No, sir, she didn’t deserve to have visitors. She didn’t even deserve to be living at all, not when so many good people died.

  “Excuse me?” A woman stood in the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  The woman took a step into the room. She was more handsome than pretty and wore an air of kind confidence like a well-worn but classic coat. “I’m Dora Roberts. I’m a reporter for the Chronicle.” She glanced outside as if expecting some administrator to pull her away. “I know I should have made an appointment, but with the media mob downstairs.” She shrugged. “I snuck in here.”

  “You want to talk to me?”

  “If you’re up to it.”

  I’d be up to talk to a bedpan man if it would mean company. “Come in.”

  Dora motioned to a chair. “May I?”

  “Sure.”

  Dora settled in, removing a notepad from her purse. “We can make this as long or short as you like. You’re the boss. I don’t want to wear you out.”

  Sonja smoothed the blanket. “I want to talk. I could use a friendly ear.”

  “Funny you should say friend. My boss.” Dora shook her head as if she hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Maybe we can help each other,” she said. “I mean that.”

  Sonja looked at Dora with new eyes. This was more than a reporter; this seemed like a genuinely nice person. Sonja had met so few nice people in her life.

  “Is there anything you’d like to talk about?” Dora asked.

  Sonja thought of her high school journalism class. When, where, who, why, and how. Odd how only two of the five were known. “Actually, I’d like to know why.”

  “Why it happened? What went wrong? That sort of—?”

  Sonja shook her head and stroked the word. “Why?”

  To her credit, Dora hesitated only a second. “You mean the deeper, philosophical, purpose-of-life why.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Her honesty made Sonja smile. It felt good to smile. “I guess if you could answer that one, you’d win the Pulitzer or something, huh?”

  “At the very least.” Dora clicked her pen on, then off, then on. “The why question interests me too because it’s something the rest of us—those of us who didn’t go through the crash—don’t completely fathom.” She looked down as if she had to get her emotions under control. “Actually, I was supposed to be on that flight. Your plight could have been mine.”

  Sonja raised an eyebrow. “What kept you off?”

  “God.”

  Sonja raised the other eyebrow. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. My mother, who lives in Phoenix, needed an operation; then suddenly she didn’t.”

  “Could be good medicine.”

  Dora shook her head. “It was God. He didn’t want me on that flight.”

  “Then does it follow that He did want me on that flight?”

  Dora sucked in a breath. “Oh dear … I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Sonja waved her concern away. It all made sense. It’s just like Roscoe had said. She was on that flight because God wanted to get her attention.

  Dora poised her pen above her pad, all business again. “Let’s get back to you. How do you, Sonja Grafton, handle the why question?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Dora laughed. “It appears we’re even up on the ‘I don’t know’ answers, one apiece.”

  Sonja rubbed her face, avoiding the cut on her forehead. “I lost two of my coworkers on the plane. They were sitting up front. I was alone in the back. Was it luck? Or was it fate?”

  Dora made a face that hinted of disapproval. “You don’t think you deserved to live more than—”

  “Oh no, no. I don’t think that at all.”

  Dora let out a breath. “Good.”

  “But living when so many others have died does make me wonder.” She shook her head. It was hard to explain. “I’m not expressing this very well.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  Sonja thought of the real question she wanted answered, yet it wasn’t a question she could ask anyone else—especially not a reporter who might use it against her.

  “You have some regrets?”

  Sonja stared at her, incredulous that two strangers—Dora and Roscoe—had both sensed Sonja’s unease. Was she that obvious? “You’re very intuitive.”

  Dora shrugged. “It’s part of my job.”

  “I have the feeling it’s more than that. Beyond the job, perhaps?”

  “Maybe. I’d like to think so.”

  I hope so. I don’t need a reporter right now.

  As if sensing Sonja’s thoughts, Dora put her pad and pen away. She crossed her legs and gave Sonja her full attention. “What’s eating at you, Ms. Grafton? Off the record. I know you don’t know me from Eve, and if you don’t feel comfortable confiding such a thing to me, then don’t. I don’t want to pressure you. But I know if I went through what you went through, I’d need someone to talk to.” She looked around the room. “And since I appear to be the only one here at the moment … It’s your call.”

  More than anything, Sonja wanted to spill it. And yet she wasn’t an open heart-on-her-sleeve person. At least not usually. Yet she had confided to Roscoe on the plane. Maybe Dora could be trusted too.

  Dora waited patiently, her foot making figure eights in the air.

  Why not? Sonja took a deep breath. “I’m not a very good person—and yet I lived.”

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m too ambitious, conniving, and selfish. I’ve gotten where I am in my career by taking every advantage—some deserved and some not deserved.”

  “Ah, you’re one of those.”

  A brief stab of pain sliced into Sonja’s confidence.

  Dora waved a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that in a judgmental way, as much as to say that I understand what you’re talking about. And let me assure you, all successful people have probably done a bit of … whatever you’ve done.”

  “But I did a lot.”

  Dora smiled. “Well, that certainly makes it interesting.”

  “You want to hear the whole thing?”

  “If you want to tell me.”

  Sonja did. So Sonja did. When she was through, she waited for the reporter’s reaction.

  “Well then.” Dora took a moment and reversed her legs. “You know what I would think if I were you?”

  “What?”

  “I would think I was getting another chance. The very fact you see the error of your past is significant. I know some …” She looked to the hall again. “Some who don’t seem to be changed by this whole ordeal. And yet you have allowed it to move you. To open your eyes. To get your attention.”

  Sonja sucked in a breath. “That’s what my seatmate said! Roscoe said sometimes God has to do something drastic to get our attention.”

  “And so it appears He has.” Sonja nodded, and Dora put a hand on hers. “I’m going to let you rest now.” She retrieved a business card from her purse and scribbled a number on the back of it. “This is my card with my number at work and at home. Please feel free to call if you want to talk more. About anything. Off the record or on.”

  Sonja suddenly realized something. “But I didn’t give you anything you could use for an article. I—”

  Dora shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Sometimes the story has to take second place to just being there. I like you, Sonja. We can talk
more whenever you like.”

  Sonja studied the business card and found herself smiling. Things were definitely looking up.

  “The identity of the hero is still unknown. Channel 5 news has blown up the video images of the hero as he clung to the wreckage, but the blinding snow and the dimness of dusk prevent us from seeing his face clearly. All that can be seen of the man in his forties is his black hair and beard and a gold watch on his right wrist.”

  The fork full of green beans stopped midway to George’s mouth. Henry had a gold watch.

  He put the beans in his mouth and chewed. So what? Most people wore watches. Just because the man wore a watch didn’t mean he was Henry. But most don’t wear it on their right wrists.

  Black hair. Beard. Forties. Two, three, four matches for Henry Smith.

  George squinted at the newscast image. Could that blurry man be his seatmate? Or, more importantly, did he think Henry Smith was the sort of man to give his life for others? George hadn’t known Henry well enough to make such a determination. And yet maybe it wasn’t something a person could predict of others, or even of himself. Who knew what well of strength might be tapped into during a time of crisis? Some people revealed cowardice or selfishness, so why not heroism?

  A woman with lovely eyes knocked, then came in his room. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Davanos. My name is Dora—”

  George jumped at the audience. He pointed his fork at the screen. “I think I know that man!”

  The woman looked at the TV. “That man?”

  The video of the hero was over. The camera focused on a reporter. “No, not him. The hero. The eighth person in the water.”

  The woman stepped to the foot of his bed. “Really? Everyone’s talking about him, about what he did. But nobody knows who he is.”

  “But maybe I do.” George counted off on his fingers. “The man I sat next to on the plane was about forty, had a beard, black hair, and wore a gold watch on his right wrist.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Henry Smith.”

  The woman shook her head. “Sounds too ordinary.”

  George was amazed that such a stupid statement made an odd sort of sense. Shouldn’t a hero’s name be Alexander or Solomon or something grand? Not Henry. And not Smith, the most ordinary of surnames.