The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  The woman pulled George out of his thoughts. “Have you told anyone?”

  “Huh?”

  “Have you told anyone else about knowing the name of the hero?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You should.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I should.”

  The woman looked down and then up again, as if she’d made a decision. “I need to complete my introduction. My name is Dora Roberts, and I’m a reporter with the Chronicle.”

  George clamped his lips together. Oops. “Well, I guess you’re pleased. I just gave you the scoop of the century.”

  “It’s not a scoop until it’s a known fact. Would you like me to get you the number of someone to call?”

  Her nonpiranha-like attitude made George reassess his opinion of her. “I’m not sure. It’s just a feeling.”

  “But if it’s true, they need to know. The family needs to know. And don’t you need to know?”

  “He didn’t hand the lifeline to me. I was separated from the—”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t see the hero. I wasn’t in that group.”

  “But you may have sat next to him. Talked to him. Gotten to know him. Think of the odds of that.”

  A moment of silence sat between them during which George thought about how different things would have been if he had been on the tail section with the others. If he had recognized Henry and seen what he was do—

  He put a hand to his chest.

  “What’s wrong?” Dora asked.

  George stared into space, trying to collect the thought that had nearly knocked the wind out of him.

  “Mr. Davanos? Are you okay?”

  Finally, George was ready to talk. Maybe voicing it out loud would make the seriousness of the implications fade into a perspective that was easier to take. “If I’d been hanging on to the tail section, and if the hero is Henry Smith—” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “You can’t write any of this. Not until we’re sure.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Continue. I want to hear your thoughts.”

  “If I’d seen Henry give the line away, over and over again … since I’d talked to him before, since I knew him.” George looked up, hoping for comfort. “Would I have talked him out of it? Would I have said, ‘Don’t be stupid, Henry. Take the line’?”

  Dora nodded, obviously following his train of thought. “Then he might not have handed the line to others. He might have gone first. And everything might have changed.”

  “We still could have lived …”

  “But maybe not all of you.” Dora put a finger to her mouth, thinking hard. “Your arguing with him could have wasted precious time. There wasn’t time for discussion. There was only time for the hero to make a decision and act on it.”

  “You may be right.” The what-ifs were complicated and staggering.

  Dora touched George’s arm. “Perhaps God knew what He was doing in having you be the only one separated from the others in the tail section.”

  George put a hand to his forehead, the thoughts cumbersome.

  Dora continued. “Only by having the hero—a stranger—help other strangers could the plan have played out.”

  George snapped out of his shock. “The plan? How could there be a plan in all this? Other than the obvious saving of seven—now five—lives, how could Henry’s heroism be a good thing? How could anyone’s death be a part of a—?” He stopped short. You planned to die, George. That was your plan. But you’re alive and Henry is dead. Obviously God had other—

  George snickered. “Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.”

  “What?”

  He’d forgotten Dora was there. “Nothing. Just an observation.”

  Dora left George’s room totally discouraged. Three strikes. She’d interviewed three of the five survivors and still didn’t have any article material. She wouldn’t write Dr. Thorgood’s story, and she couldn’t ever write Sonja’s, or George’s now. Clyde would not be happy.

  But there was hope. Three down, still two to go.

  She made a beeline for Tina McKutcheon’s room and slipped in.

  Tina had a leg in a cast.

  “Who are you?”

  Dora felt herself blush. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make my entrance look so James Bondish.”

  “If you’ve got Sean Connery out in the hall, bring him in.”

  They laughed. Dora took a step toward the bed. “I’m Dora Roberts, Ms. McKutcheon. I’m a reporter for—”

  Tina’s face darkened. “I’m not sure I should talk to you.”

  Dora pulled her hand away. “Why not?”

  “Have the other survivors talked?”

  “Some.” Dora shook her head. “Though in truth, I can’t use what they’ve said.”

  Tina angled her head. “Now that sounds interesting. Care to explain?”

  “I’ll talk if you will.”

  Tina smiled, but there was a sadness behind her eyes, a discontent. “How can I refuse? Have a seat.”

  Dora didn’t have time to wallow in her luck. She was in. Maybe this conversation would be different.

  Maybe she’d get something she could actually use.

  Tina was surprised she felt like talking to a stranger. So far the only visitor she’d had was David. But the fact this reporter had snuck in gave a hint of adventure to her … adventure.

  She adjusted the slant of her bed to a more upright position.

  “Do you need help? A pillow or something?” Dora asked.

  “No, I’m fine.” She smoothed the sheet and clasped her hands in her lap. “So. What do you want to know?”

  The reporter seemed taken aback. Tina had expected her to whip out a notebook of questions. Instead, Dora sat on her hands. “What feelings do you have about Dr. Thorgood?”

  “Who?”

  “Doctor Anthony Thorgood.”

  “My doctor’s name isn’t Thorgood.”

  Dora shook her head. “He was one of the survivors. He’s the one who took the lifeline from one of the other women, forcing her to wait while he went first. She later died.”

  Tina’s mind was blank.

  “Don’t you remember? The hero handed her the line, and it slipped out of her hands, then Thorgood grabbed it and went when she should have gone.”

  Tina put a hand to her head, starting to remember.

  “Haven’t you seen it on the TV reports? They’ve shown the rescue a hundred times.”

  Tina shook her head. “I haven’t wanted to watch. It’s still too fresh.”

  “You don’t remember that he took that woman’s line?”

  Tina didn’t like the direction this interview was going. “Ms. Roberts, are you trying to stir something up? Trying to make me say that I hate this Thorgood fellow, maybe because that woman isn’t here to hate him herself?”

  Dora put a hand over her eyes and sighed. “Oh dear … what am I doing?”

  “Acting like a sleazy reporter?”

  “Ouch. I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Dora pinched her lower lip. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about your ordeal?”

  Tina considered talking about Mallory but decided against it. “No. Actually, there isn’t. At least not yet.”

  Dora nodded and stood. “Then I’ll let you rest. I’m sorry for bothering you, Ms. McKutcheon. My boss wanted a series of interviews with the survivors, and so far I’ve struck out.”

  “Oh yes, you were going to tell me about that, about the interviews you had but couldn’t use. What did they say to you that you can’t repeat?”

  “Private things. Actually, we usually ended up talking about God. My boss may not be a bad guy, but I work for a secular paper, and I’m pretty sure they would have no place for an article about Him.”

  “You never know. Miracles happen.”

  Dora laughed. “Not with my boss.”

  “But they do happen. The five of us are living proof.”

/>   Dora nodded. “Yes, you are.” She turned toward the door, then back to Tina. “I’m sorry I tried to make you angry at Dr. Thorgood when you weren’t.”

  Tina shrugged. “I guess it would be nice for him to apologize for the sake of that woman’s family, but who knows what I would have done if put in the same position?”

  “Actually, I think we both know the answer to that one.”

  Tina felt her throat tighten. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  “You’re welcome. Maybe we’ll talk again.”

  “Maybe you’ll get to write your articles. All of them.”

  “We can only hope.”

  Dora gave a salute and left her. Tina was sorry to see her go.

  One to go …

  Dora stood outside the hospital room of Merry Cavanaugh. She meant to knock and go in, get this last one done with, but then she heard crying. She was torn between running away from the tears and going in to comfort—

  “Miss? May I help you?”

  Dora’s heart flipped as she turned to face a stern nurse. “I … she’s crying.”

  “You family?”

  Dora shook her head. Don’t ask another question about who I am; please don’t ask … “Shouldn’t someone be with her?”

  “Sometimes it’s best they’re left alone. You’d cry too if your family had been killed, especially when your little boy had initially lived.”

  Dora nodded. She feared she’d do more than cry. She’d scream and throw things and—

  The nurse cocked her head, giving Dora the once-over. “If you’re not family, then who—?”

  Dora turned away. “I’ll come back later when she’s feeling better.”

  “But miss …”

  Dora hurried away, turning into the stairwell. The door clanged shut behind her, echoing in her ears. She sank onto the top step and tried to imagine Merry’s pain of gaining her physical life while losing her heart.

  Dora flicked a tear away. Some reporter she was. A blubbery, weak mess.

  It could have been me.

  Why couldn’t that thought leave her alone?

  She ran down the stairs trying to get away from the truth.

  Medical examiner Conrad Tills was weary. He and his team had worked overtime, completing autopsies on the casualties from Flight 1382. There were grieving families waiting, investigators to be appeased, and questions to be answered. Up until now the process had been distressing by its very harrowing quantity, and yet also routine. Cause of death? Blunt trauma. Over and over and over, until.

  “Sally, come here a minute.” His assistant came to the other side of the table. “Look at this.” Dr. Tills spread open the lungs.

  Sally looked at the evidence, then met his eyes. “Water.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He drowned.”

  “Exactly.”

  “None of the others drowned.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He was alive for a while.”

  “Exactly.”

  Dr. Tills turned over the hands of the man. “Look at the fingertips.”

  “Frostbite?” Sally’s eyebrows wrinkled, and Dr. Tills watched as the knowledge of the truth washed over her face. “This is him? This is the hero?”

  Dr. Tills gently placed the man’s hand at his side, lingering a moment, warm skin against cold. “Look on his face, Sal. Look on the face of the hero.”

  “He doesn’t look like a hero.”

  Dr. Tills nodded. “Then maybe there’s hope for us all.”

  Nine

  For you have delivered me from death and my feet from stumbling,

  that I may walk before God in the light of life.

  PSALM 56:13

  But you’ve got to listen to me! I sat next to the man on the plane. I think the hero is Henry Smith.” George ran a hand through his thinning hair and listened as the woman on the other end of the line went on and on about needing to be sure and blahde-blahde-blah. George had already supplied the same information to three different people. It was like repeatedly being shoved back into the starting gate of a race, never getting to finish. Never getting to hear, “That’s wonderful, Mr. Davanos! Thank you so much for your input.”

  Enough of this. The woman could have her own talk show. “Excuse me? Ma’am?”

  Blessed silence.

  George refrained from yelling at her and applied his most sickly sweet tone laced with the subtlest tinge of pain for best effect. “As I told you, I’m one of the five survivors, and I happen to be severely injured and still in the hospital. Yesterday I got your number from a good friend of mine, Dora Roberts, a reporter for the Chronicle.” If the woman found a threat in that piece of information, so be it. “So if you could be so kind as to pass my information on to whoever needs to hear it, I would be forever grateful.”

  The woman gushed nervously, then assured George she would do what he asked. He hung up the phone. “Insipid no-mind!”

  “My, my, a little ol’ plane crash didn’t do anything to pale your opinions, did it, Dad?”

  George looked up. “Suzy.”

  His daughter moved to the side of the bed and kissed her father’s cheek. “What was all that about?”

  George set the phone aside. “I think I know who the hero is, and I was trying to tell the airlines.”

  “Didn’t they want to hear what you had to say?”

  “They think I’m a crank.”

  “You are cranky.”

  “Very funny.”

  “So what’s his name? The hero’s? And how did you figure out what everyone else hasn’t?”

  George waved a hand. “I’ll tell you the details later. For now, get me outta here.”

  “You’re free to go?”

  “Doctor approved my dismissal as of this morning.”

  Suzy looked around the room. “I suppose you don’t have much to take with you.”

  “Just the nifty items they bought to replace my crash clothes. I guess it’s tough getting a decent dry cleaner anymore. Jet fuel can be such a pesky stain …” He swung his good leg off the bed. “Now help me get dressed.”

  As soon as she felt a hand on her wrist, Merry turned it so the nurse could easily take her pulse. She found there was no need to even open her eyes in order for the nurses to do their duties. She didn’t need to be mentally present for them to check on her body’s progress. Her body would heal.

  Traitor.

  “Well, well, you’re doing real fine today, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

  Merry didn’t recognize the voice. Obviously this nurse didn’t realize closed eyes were a nonverbal order for silence—or at least a ban on small talk.

  “The doctor will be checking in soon, and we all hope you’ll be discharged today.”

  Merry’s eyes shot open. “Discharged?”

  The nurse looked confused. “Well, yes. You should be very pleased with your progress.”

  Merry let out a snort. “Pleased? You want me to be pleased that I am well enough to go home? Home to what? An empty house?”

  “I …”

  “You people, with all your cheeriness and smiley faces. You make me sick. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—to be cheery about.”

  The nurse put a hand to her chest. “But … but you’re alive.”

  “And my family is dead! Don’t you get it, lady? My husband and child are dead. My boy who I held in my arms. I couldn’t make him live. I have no life anymore. I have no home to go to. All I have is a house. They were my home.” The nurse extended a comforting hand. Her lips began to form a word that Merry couldn’t bear to hear. “Lady, if you tsk-tsk me, I’ll have you fired.”

  The nurse pursed her lips together.

  “That a girl. Now we’re not talking.”

  She fled to the door. “I’ll send the doctor in as soon as he’s available.”

  “You do that.”

  Merry folded her arms and grimaced as pain slid under her anger. She looked at the clock. It was an hour until they’d give her mor
e medication.

  Boy, am I two-faced. One minute I bemoan the fact my body will heal, and the next I want more painkillers to make my life easier.

  Hypocrite.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d claimed this character trait. Wasn’t it the essence of hypocrisy to go on a trip to get away from her family and then grieve over the fact that God had taken them away for good? Be careful what you wish for.

  Her doctor appeared in the doorway and offered a concerned smile. Obviously the nurse had blabbed. He came to the bed. She noticed he wore a name tag, but she purposely looked away. She didn’t want to know the name of the man who had brought her back from the edge of death. She could only forgive him if she pretended he was an anonymous stranger who didn’t know any better, just a man doing his job.

  The doctor read her chart. “Are you ready to go home? Because we’re ready to let you go. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Which question do you want answered?”

  He tilted his head. “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  “Not at all,” Merry said. “Am I ready to go home? No. I never want to go home again. Do I feel up to it? No. And from all self-examination, I doubt I will ever feel up to anything again.”

  He cleared his throat and avoided her eyes by looking at the chart. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Gillespe come in and speak with you?”

  “And why would we want to do this?”

  “Dr. Gillespe is good at helping patients deal with—”

  “He’s a shrink.”

  “Psychologist.”

  Merry tapped her head. “No thanks, Doc. What I have up here is mine alone.”

  “But I’m sure things are very confusing right—”

  She had to laugh. “Confusing? Confusion equals uncertainty. I am alive. My family is dead. I don’t see anything uncertain or confusing about that.”

  “Yes, well. Unfortunately, there’s more. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but—”

  “Something more than death? Oh my, what further news do you have to brighten my day? Out with it, Doc. I don’t see how anything you have to tell me could be worse than what I already know.”

  He hesitated, and Merry’s stomach grabbed at the possibilities. Maybe it was best that she didn’t know. She pushed such weakness aside. She’d started this thing; it was time to finish it. She lifted her chin. “Out with it. Give me your best shot.”