by Nancy Moser
Sonja put a hand over the black and blue welt that decorated the right side of her neck. And her skin. She knew her cheeks were still suffering the aftereffects of frostbite. “Nasty, nasty crash. We’ll have to sue.”
Her father nodded. “I’ve already started proceedings.”
Sonja shook her head, incredulous. “I was kidding, Daddy.”
“Being compensated for such a huge misjudgment and failure is no kidding matter. People have to pay for such things.”
Sonja knew he was probably right. A lawsuit by the families of the victims was inevitable. “But I lived. I’m all right.”
He waved a hand the length of her body as if it disgusted him. “You are not all right. You are broken and bruised and—” “I’m damaged goods?”
“Don’t be cute, Sonja. You know what I mean.”
Indeed I do.
Her mother continued giving her the once-over. “Where did you get those clothes, dear? They’re atrocious.”
“My clothes were ruined and reeked of jet fuel. These were a gift from the hospital.” She looked down at herself. Although they weren’t something she’d choose, they were fine—to anyone but her mother. “Perhaps you should have offered to shop for them? Or at least shown them the acceptable stores?”
Her father pulled out his cell phone, checked the display, then obviously seeing no waiting messages, put it away. “It was a simple question, Sonja. No need to treat your mother so unkindly. She—we only want what’s best for you.”
Sonja was suddenly weary and wanted nothing more than to have them leave so she could snuggle under the covers and take a nap until some nice nurse wanted to draw blood or poke and prod. Anything was better than the mental drawing of blood and the emotional poking and prodding that were her parents’ specialties.
She drew on what little energy she had and tried to focus on today’s goal. “Please take me home now.”
“Of course, dear.”
As her father commandeered some nurses to help her into a wheelchair, Sonja realized she was the victim all right—and had been for twenty-six years.
Tina heard the whir of wheels in the hall and an odd thump-thump sound. Her curiosity was answered when David pushed a balloon-bedecked wheelchair into her room. The balloons took a moment to adjust to the sudden stop.
“Ta-da!”
“David, what are you doing?”
He put the brakes on the chair. “I’ve come to take you home.”
“They said it was all right?”
“You have been cleared and are ready for takeoff.” He suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oops, sorry. Bad choice of words.”
She waved his concerns away. “If you think I’m going to break down every time someone mentions flying, you’re wrong. How weak do you think I am?”
“It wouldn’t be a sign of weakness, Teen. It would be totally understandable.”
“Not to me.” She threw the covers off her legs and carefully maneuvered her cast to the floor. David rushed to help, but she shook her head. “I can do it. I have to do it.”
“Actually, you don’t have to. The world won’t disown you if you admit you need help.”
She adjusted her crutch and hobbled to the closet where the nurse had hung the new clothes donated for her trip home. “That’s all very dandy, but I’m not going to admit to something that isn’t true. I am very—”
“Rude.”
She turned to look at him. His cheeks were mottled pink. “I was going to say I am very capable of handling things for myself.”
“Maybe so, but you’re also very rude. Did it ever occur to you that people take pleasure in helping other people? That by being so disgustingly self-sufficient, you are denying other people—denying me—of a feeling of worth and the feeling that my actions can do some good?”
She handed him the hanger so she could close the closet door. “So I’m supposed to act weak and weary just to make you feel strong and macho?” He looked at her without speaking. “David, don’t look at me like that.”
He extended the hanger and dropped the clothing to the floor. “Your wish is my command.” He left the room, the sound of his footsteps fading fast.
What have I done? Why did she fight a constant battle between mind and mouth? What Tina thought, Tina said—right or wrong, loving or hurtful.
She remembered a proverb: “Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.” She snickered, remembering a down-home quote: “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.” Two quotes from two great men: King Solomon, the wisest man to ever live, and Mark Twain, the wittiest. Against wisdom such as this, she had no defense.
There was no doubt. She was a fool. The empty room was proof.
Lord, help me only say things You approve of.
It was a tall order.
Since David had walked out, Tina was forced to get dressed and into the wheelchair by herself. A heart-shaped Mylar balloon proclaiming “I Love You!” kissed the top of her head. David loved her. Past tense?
She wouldn’t blame him. How could she be so rude as to shove away the one person who’d been at her side through this entire ordeal—and everything that had come before?
And everything that would come after? That was less certain.
She looked at her watch. It had been twenty-five minutes since David walked out of her hospital room, dropping her clothes on the floor. All during the process of getting dressed—when she could have used some help—she kept expecting to hear his knock on the door. He’d come in and apologize for leaving. He would apologize, and his willing act of regret would spur her own reluctant apology. Then things would be normal again until the next time David got in the way as she battled her own private demons of insecurity and pride.
It was disturbing to realize that most of the arguments between them were arguments between Tina and Tina, two sides of herself duking it out with poor David, the innocent witness. How could he still profess to love her when she repeatedly put him through such turmoil? It was beyond—
“Hi.” David stood in the door, his hands in his pockets.
Tina nearly cried at the sight of him. She avoided his eyes but held out a hand. He bent to kiss it. Then he moved to the back of the wheelchair.
“Let’s get you home.”
Anthony listened to the television newscasts with a pad of paper in hand. There had to be someone to blame, and he intended to be first in line.
He’d already called his lawyer and flipped past his polite questions of concern. The point was this: “How much can we get?”
He had not received a satisfactory answer, and Anthony came to the conclusion that he might need a special kind of lawyer to handle such a lawsuit. Or maybe they would go the class-action route and file jointly with the other survivors and the families of the deceased.
He was not going to let this go. It was his duty, his responsibility, to make people pay for their mistakes, and from what he’d heard on the news so far, some whopping human errors had been made. The bottom line was that Flight 1382 should never have taken off. And who knew what errors had contributed to this fatal lapse of judgment?
Anthony heard a commotion in the hall and turned up the volume on his set to cover it. He saw a hoard of people file by, their eyes searching for a room number. Pesky visitors. Probably relatives of one of the other survivors coming to hug and cry and listen to the stories of rescue and fear.
Showing their love and concern.
Anthony shook such weak interpretations away. Although it was true no one had come to visit him in the hospital, the office did send a vase of flowers. And strangers had filled his room with other floral offerings.
He had no family. He supposed there were some distant cousins, but any contact now would be construed as an act of desperation or a desire to share in his notoriety. Yes, I’m Tony’s third cousin on his mother’s side, and he was always such a good
boy …
And he wouldn’t let himself be disappointed that one of his lady friends—Sarah, Bridget, or especially long-legged Marta with her intoxicating scent—hadn’t stopped by to fawn all over him and kiss his owies. Marta had called and informed him she didn’t do hospitals. So much for her. He didn’t need commiseration. He needed action. Legal action.
A candy striper peeked in his door, then pulled her head away when their eyes met. He waited a moment for her to fully emerge, but she didn’t.
“Come in, girl. Do you have my paper?”
She appeared, newspaper in hand. “Sorry you had to wait, Dr. Thorgood, but I was late getting to work because my alarm—”
Anthony raised a hand. “I don’t accept such excuses from the people in my office, and I won’t accept them here.”
“Yes, sir.” She stopped far short of the bed, which forced her to lean awkwardly in order to extend the paper within his reach.
He grabbed the paper. “I don’t bite.”
She blushed but did not move closer.
He flicked a hand, dismissing her. She escaped into the hall. Why was it so impossible to get decent help anymore? Either they acted like frightened peasants or they had a cocky attitude that no amount of discipline would break through.
Anthony removed the want ads and fluffy social sections from the Chronicle and concentrated on the real news. He scanned the first few pages quickly for articles about the crash and its aftermath. There were other articles by Dora Roberts, updating the progress of the retrieval, but not the one he was looking for. Not the one about him.
He went back to the front page, scanning again. It’s not here! He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. He reached for the phone and drilled his finger into the number zero.
“Get me the Chronicle.”
“The who?”
“The Chronicle, the newspaper.”
“Just a moment, sir.”
Anthony watched TV while he waited. Twenty more bodies had been recovered. It was exasperating how slow the retrieval was. The experts weren’t able to concentrate on recovering the majority of the wreckage until the bodies were out of the way. And until they recovered the wreckage, they wouldn’t know whom to blame.
“The Chronicle. May I help you?”
“Dora Roberts.”
“One moment, please.”
The operator returned. “I’m sorry, sir. She’s out of the office. Can I give you her cell number?”
Perfect. “Do it.”
He memorized the number and dialed it immediately.
“Roberts here.”
“This is Dr. Anthony Thorgood—”
“Yes, Dr. Thorgood. What can I do for you?”
Her voice was flat and Anthony noticed a slight emphasis on his title. “What can you do for me? You can write the article you promised. The one written from our interview. I just got the paper and it’s not there.”
“And it won’t be.”
“Excuse me?”
She cleared her throat. “I know you’re a survivor, Dr. Thorgood. And I know you’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”
“You bet I have.”
“But the truth is, I’m just not interested in your story.”
“And why not?”
There was a pause. “Because there are better stories to be had.”
“You mean the stories from the other survivors?”
“That’s really none of your business, but the truth is, the other survivors do have interesting stories to tell. Plus the stories of the rescuers, the airline personnel, the people working on the salvage of the plane …”
“But not me?”
Another pause. “But not you.”
“You’re singling me out?”
“I’m singling you out.”
“Why?” She didn’t respond. Anthony muted the television. “I didn’t hear your answer.”
“That’s because I didn’t give you one.”
“And why is that?”
“Because my mama taught me to be polite.”
“Dora …”
“Ms. Roberts.”
Touché. “Ms. Roberts. I really don’t have time to play games. I am a man of facts, so tell me the facts. I insist.”
She let out a small laugh. “Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
“The truth is, Dr. Thorgood, I chose not to write an article about you because I found you to be an arrogant, egotistical man with a skewed opinion of yourself and your position in the world.”
“You have no right to judge—”
“But you judged. You judged all those people who died in the crash. You said you lived because you were better than they were, because your life had more meaning, because you were more important. You took the lifeline of another because of that belief.”
And your point is?
Anthony had to admit his philosophy of “I deserve it” sounded brash coming from another person’s mouth. And though he still believed it was true, he suddenly had a stab of insight. To believe a truth was one thing, but to share a truth with people who were not able to comprehend it was foolish. Especially when the said truth was proof of their own mediocrity. He’d have to be more careful.
“Will there be anything else, Doctor?”
Anthony shook his head, then realized the reporter couldn’t see through the phone. “No, I’d say I’ve had quite enough from you.”
“My dear doctor, the feeling is definitely mutual.”
Anthony pressed the call button two more times. What was taking them so long?
Finally a nurse appeared, though by the nonchalance of her entrance, she should be fired.
“Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling and—”
She appeared unimpressed. “What can we do for you, Dr. Thorgood?”
“We can speed up the paperwork so I can go home like the others.”
She let a grin escape. “I’m sorry, but the doctor has determined that, unlike the other survivors, you need to stay another day.”
“I what?”
“You have a temperature—which as you know, Doctor, indicates infection. Unless your temperature is normal you can’t go home.”
This is unbelievable.
“Is there anything I can get for you?”
“Everyone else gets to go home, and I have to stay?”
She didn’t respond.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Her smug look vanished, and her eyebrows dropped. “I assure you, we’d like nothing better than to see you discharged.”
“You are a whiz at the double entendre, aren’t you, nurse?”
She pivoted on one foot, then spoke over her shoulder. “Why, Doctor, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What do you mean you can’t do the articles?”
Standing in front of her boss, Dora wished she had called in the bad news. But that would have been the chicken’s way out. Since Clyde trusted her for the articles on the survivors, he deserved the chance to yell at her face-to-face.
“I interviewed four of the five and—”
“Which one wouldn’t give you an interview?”
“Not wouldn’t,” Dora said. “I never even approached Merry Cavanaugh, the woman who lost her husband and child. I didn’t want to bother her. I thought it would be in bad taste.”
He stared at her incredulously. The veins in his nose rose to attention, looking like a map of a river delta. “I’ll take bad taste over reading about her ordeal in some other paper.”
Dora’s stomach clenched. “Have you seen anything?”
“No. But if I do.” He shook his head. “So that explains the one. What about the four you did get?”
“They considered me their friend, just like you wanted.”
“Good. Then write the—”
“They spoke off the record a lot. They confided in me. I can’t betray that.”
“What’s so hard about getting a fe
w lines like, ‘I was petrified’ or ‘I thought I was going to die’?”
Dora was stunned that she had never asked any questions of the survivors that would have elicited such quotes. “We never talked about that kind of thing.”
Clyde snickered. “You never …? What did you talk about? Their favorite dessert? The Super Bowl game?”
He wasn’t going to like this. “Mostly we talked about God.”
Clyde rolled his eyes. “I’ve been very tolerant and patient with all your God-talk, Dora. Hey, I believe in Him too. But you take it too far. When your faith starts to affect your work …”
“But it’s natural for people who’ve faced death to think about God, to talk about Him.”
“But it’s not natural for a secular newspaper to print testimonials, and it sounds like that’s all you got.”
What could she say? “I’m sorry, Clyde.”
“Yeah? Well, me too.” He turned back to his computer screen. She was obviously dismissed. “Why don’t you go talk to Jean. Maybe she has a dog show you could cover. Or a sewing circle. Those seem to be more your speed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. But if you don’t give me any news fit to print, then you don’t give me much choice, do you?”
“I’m working on the article about the hero.”
“Oh, really? I’ll believe it when I see it.” He flipped a hand at her. “Now go on. I have work to do.”
Floyd and Hugh approached the building that housed the remains of the crash victims. They walked shoulder to shoulder, their hands in their pockets, their eyes on the sidewalk.
“I don’t want to do this,” Floyd said.
“It shouldn’t be that bad,” Hugh said. “They use TV cameras now. It’s not like they lift up the sheet and make you look.”
“But why do we need to be involved? If they think they’ve found the hero, they must have their own clues. Besides, I’m not sure we can help. During the rescue we were busy and conditions were lousy. It would be terrible to identify the wrong man.”
“We can only give it a shot, Floyd. If we’re not sure, we’re not sure. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
They reached the front door and the helicopter crew proceeded to the viewing area. They checked in and waited in a small room with a television overhead. A white-coated man joined them.