The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  “It’s just coffee, Mom.”

  And yet Merry knew it was much more. Making coffee, doing dishes, getting the mail … these were the trivia of life. How many thousands of trivial acts did a person perform throughout the day without thinking? And what was the sum of those parts? Mere existence? Or true meaning?

  Her mother switched the coffeepot on. She sighed as if she’d just accomplished a milestone. “There. That’s done.”

  Whoopee. Should we have a celebration? Merry put a hand to her head, trying to block further sarcastic thoughts. Her mother was only trying to help.

  “Would you like me to press your navy dress, baby?”

  Merry was lost. “What?”

  “Your navy dress? Would you like me to press it for the … you know …”

  The funeral! The funeral was tomorrow. The thought of seeing Justin and Lou in their coffins, of standing emotionally naked before hundreds of family and friends. She would rather go through the plane crash again than do such a thing. “I can’t go.”

  Her mother’s widened eyes betrayed her shock. Merry braced herself for the requisite hug, which soon engulfed her.

  “There, there. I know it’s hard—it will be hard for all of us. But funerals are an important part of grieving. They help us let go. When your father died, I—”

  “It’s not the same, Mom. Dad was old. He died of lung cancer because he chose to smoke.”

  Her mother stepped away from the words. “Are you saying your father deserved to die?”

  What was she saying? “He died because of a choice he made—a bad choice. What did Lou and Justin ever do wrong? Tell me that.”

  Her mother looked to the coffeepot as if wanting it to be through so she’d have some other busywork to attend to. “Don’t ask me hard questions, Merry.”

  “Then who should I ask? Dad is gone. Lou is gone. You’re all I’ve got.”

  Her mother sat on the couch and picked up a magazine. Merry stared at her. “That’s it? Where are the words of comfort, Mom? The ‘I’ll always be here for you, Merry’ line?”

  Anna Keenan’s page flipping stopped at an ad for Valentine’s Day. Merry’s mind registered the fact that there would be no more Valentines in her life.

  Her mother looked up. “I’m hurting too, baby.”

  You could have fooled me. Merry fell into the recliner, beaten. “Why did God let this happen?”

  “Don’t ask me about God-things. You know I’ve never known much about Him.”

  Merry laughed bitterly, thinking of her childhood that had been devoid of God. “No, you’re right. God was Lou’s department. Everything I know about Him is because of Lou.”

  Her mother raised an arm and dropped it, as if the subject were taken care of. “Well then …”

  “Well then, what, Mom?”

  “Lou taught you all about God.”

  It was a ridiculous statement. With Lou gone, Merry realized how little she knew. She even remembered tuning Lou out on occasion. How many times had she pretended to be sick on a Sunday morning so she could sleep instead of go to church? How many times had her mind drifted when Lou took her hand and prayed with her, while Merry—in her selfish stubbornness—chose to be a pious bystander instead of a sincere participant? Why hadn’t she paid more attention? Why hadn’t she jumped into Lou’s faith and made it her own?

  “Things will work out, baby. They always do.”

  Merry shook her head. That was the best she could do? Her mother wasn’t getting it at all. And her blasé attitude confirmed Merry’s previous decision not to share her precrash discontent with her mom. Yet maybe if she had, she and her family wouldn’t have been on Flight 1382 at all.

  No. Don’t think that.

  Sitting in her mother’s kitchen and spilling her messy troubles on her mother’s Pledge-shined table wasn’t an option. Merry had never been able to confide in Anna Keenan. She always had to keep up the front of the perfect daughter. Is everybody happy? And so Merry kept her restlessness to herself, not wanting a lecture about accepting life as it came.

  Funny … her previous suffering was nothing compared to now. A scratch compared to a gaping wound.

  Merry placed her hands around her middle, feeling her bruised muscles ache. It was time for another pain pill. Maybe it would alleviate another kind of pain. “I’m tired, Mom. I need to take a nap.”

  Luckily, Anna was never one to make a nuisance of herself. Although she had offered to stay over instead of going home to her own house, Merry had refused. There was only so much mothering she could take.

  “I’ll be going then,” Anna said. “But I thought of a God-thing.”

  Oh, dear. “I’m really tired, Mom.”

  “No, you asked for God-stuff from me, and I just realized I do know something I can share with you.”

  “Mom …”

  She looked like a pouty child who wasn’t being allowed to share what she did at school that day.

  Anything to get her gone. “Fine. Shoot.”

  The older woman straightened her spine. “All this must be God’s will.” She smiled tentatively at her daughter.

  Merry wanted to scream. God’s will? The death of my family is God’s will?

  “Well? Does that help?”

  Just leave me alone. Please. Go. “Sure, Mom. Thanks.”

  Apparently satisfied she’d done her duty, Anna gathered her things and left.

  Merry escaped to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her mother was either amazing or pitiful—she wasn’t sure which.

  Without warning, Merry shouted to the empty room, shaking her fists at the ceiling. “Lou! How dare you leave me! Tell me what to do. Tell me why.”

  Her words fell away, and the silence of her empty house pressed against her. She looked at the two prescription bottles by her bed. Both were for pain, but one made her sleep.

  Sleep. That was the ticket.

  She took two, wrapped herself in the scent of Lou’s pillow, and prayed for oblivion.

  George let Suzy use the key on the front door and swing it open.

  “Dad? Come on. It’s cold out here.”

  George froze on the front sidewalk—and it had nothing to do with the cold weather. The sight of his home assailed him in a way he had not anticipated. The home he had left, just a few mornings before … He had not expected to return. Ever.

  “Dad? What’s wrong? Do you need help with your crutches?”

  Don’t blow it, George. Don’t let your daughter know what you intended to do. He made himself move and hobbled through the door. The sights and smells swept over him like a wind. A distinct smell of oak and aftershave and past meals cooked in the microwave. His distinct smell? Why had he never noticed it before?

  Because you’ve never forfeited your life only to regain it.

  Suzy moved into the kitchen. “You want some coffee? I’ll make a—”

  She came out of the kitchen flipping through a pack of papers. “What are these doing out? Your will, your insurance policies, your—”

  George thought fast and tried to act nonchalant. He maneuvered his crutches close to his daughter, balanced on one, took the papers, and tossed them on a chair. “Your mother and I always did that when we traveled. Got the important papers together so if anything happened to us—”

  “I don’t remember seeing them out when I used to water your plants.”

  “Your mother was better at putting them neatly in the desk. I was running late so I never got them that far. Where’s that coffee?”

  Suzy filled the coffeemaker while George lowered himself onto the couch. He was glad he’d decided to stash the $68,392 he’d withdrawn from his account in a desk drawer instead of leaving it out in plain sight. He never would have been able to explain that one away.

  “How about a snack, Dad? You got any crackers and cheese?”

  “I don’t know, you’ll have to—” Then he remembered. He’d emptied out most of the food in preparation for his suicide trip. “Actually, I’m
not hungry, Suzy. I don’t want—”

  George heard the refrigerator open and braced himself.

  Suzy appeared in the doorway. “Where’s all your food, Dad? The fridge is practically empty.”

  “I eat out a lot.”

  “Now you make me feel bad. If we’d known you weren’t eating decent, Stan and I would have had you over for dinner more often.”

  “I’ve been eating fine. It’s my choice. I’m not helpless, you know. I make a mean meat loaf.”

  “You know how to make a mean meat loaf, but do you do it?”

  Actually, no. What was the use of it? Cooking for one was a bore. George managed to get the remote from the coffee table. He flipped on the television in time to see the opening announcement for a special report.

  A reporter looked seriously at the camera. “We have just received news that the hero of Flight 1382 has been identified. Henry Smith, age forty, was the man who handed off the lifelines.”

  “Suzy, come here! That’s him. That’s Henry. That’s my seatmate. I was right.”

  Suzy ran from the kitchen. “They confirmed—?”

  “Shh.”

  “A visual confirmation of the identity of Henry Smith was made by the two helicopter rescuers, Floyd Calbert and Hugh Johnson. Added to that identification are the unique autopsy results that revealed only one victim of Flight 1382 died from drowning. All others died from blunt trauma—injuries caused by the impact of the plane crashing into the river.” The reporter looked behind his own shoulder, then turned back to the camera excitedly. “We are here at the airport to greet Mrs. Henry Smith, who has just arrived. Only minutes ago she was notified that her husband was the brave man who gave his life for others.”

  A distraught woman appeared on the screen, her face drawn, her eyes filled with tears. Reporters surrounded her.

  “Look at those vultures,” George said. “The poor woman comes to town to claim her husband’s body and is assaulted by those—”

  “But she should be happy. He’s dead, but at least he died a hero.”

  George swung in his daughter’s direction. “He survived the crash, Suzy. He had the same chance we did, and he gave it away. I’m sure she’s torn between being proud of him and being furious.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Well … you should.”

  George knew all about mixed feelings.

  Sonja felt like a guest in her own living room. She sat in the armchair while her parents took the other points in the triangle: one on the couch and the other on the love seat. Although Sonja had wanted to go to bed first thing—for numerous reasons—her father had made that impossible within three seconds of entering the apartment.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said.

  And so they sat. And so started the dialogue, or rather two monologues that shared equal billing. Her parents didn’t talk to each other or even about each other. They talked about themselves and their own concerns, assuming other people in the room would be as enraptured by the subject matter as they were.

  Sonja was polite for the first fifteen minutes—after all, her parents had come all this way to see her safely home—but after her mother shoved a stray newspaper to the edge of the love seat as though it were a defiled object, Sonja had enough of polite. This was her apartment and she needed to regain control. Blocking out her mother’s rambling about the J. C. Penney’s decorator who had presumed to suggest burgundy for the redecoration of their dining room, Sonja planned her strategy.

  There were three ways to handle the elder Graftons. The easiest way was to ignore them. But Sonja had tried that, and her silence only increased their preoccupation with themselves.

  The second way was to fight. Sonja wasn’t sure if she felt up to it.

  Which left the third way, the method Sonja most often employed: She would cajole them—or at least give it a good shot.

  She interrupted her father’s monologue. “Daddy, would you like some hot tea? Or maybe I could run to the store and get some of that brandy you like?”

  “No thank you, dear. We’re fine.”

  A laugh escaped. Sonja clamped a hand over her mouth to keep it contained. Were they totally clueless as to who should be doing errands for whom?

  Apparently, Sonja’s mention of libations made her mother think of the kitchen because she migrated to the edge of the linoleum and peered in. “Oh dear.”

  “Sorry, Mom, I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Obviously.”

  Her mother moved on to the doorway to Sonja’s bedroom. Various Phoenix rejects littered the bed and floor. “Sonja, you know it doesn’t take you any more time to hang up—”

  So much for cajoling. Sonja pushed herself out of the chair with her good arm. “Okay. That’s it.” She winced as a pain shot through her midsection.

  “Are you all right—?”

  Sonja pointed a finger at her mother. “Don’t suddenly act as if you care how I feel, Mother. It’s been over an hour since we left the hospital, and not once have you or Daddy asked me about the crash or about my experience in living through it.”

  “Now, now, dear—”

  Sonja’s voice broke. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to fall from the sky? To experience that moment when you know that all your thoughts of such things always happening to the other guy are a lie? Do you know what it’s like to hear people screaming all around you and then realize you’re screaming with them?”

  Her mother came toward her, but she waved her away. “Get away from me!”

  “Sonja, I won’t have you speaking to your mother that—”

  “Shut up, Daddy!”

  He drew back and put a hand to his chest as if he’d been assaulted. She didn’t care—and she found that knowledge both terrifying and wonderful.

  A deep breath calmed her, yet Sonja still found herself fueled to say what was bursting from her heart. “The plane cracked in two beneath us. Do you understand that? I was holding on to the hand of the man seated beside me, and then suddenly he was gone. Everyone was gone! And I thought I was gone too.” She shook her head, staring at the ground. The solid, carpeted, neutral ground. How could anyone take for granted such an important element of life?

  When she looked up, her mother had found solace under her father’s arm. Two against one. So be it.

  “Those of us who didn’t dive-bomb into the river, who weren’t crushed by the collision of plane and water, were hurled free—through the ice. Think of the coldest you’ve ever been in your life and triple it. Quadruple it.” She shook her head, unable to come up with an example cold enough. “We plunged into that water without taking a deep breath to hold. We went in with only the air in our lungs that instinct told us to grab. And pain … such pain.” She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking.

  “I hurt from the impact. I hurt from broken bones and cuts. And I hurt from the cold. Yet I didn’t have time to think of any of that. I had to get to the surface or die, but I was still strapped in my seat, held prisoner at the bottom of the river. I had to make my body move through all that—or die right there. Somehow I got free and broke through the water. I sucked in the air, such as it was. It was cold and snowing and the water was doused with jet fuel, and it tasted awful and was in my eyes …”

  “Honey …”

  She shook her head, once left, then right. “Let me finish this.” She was surprised to hear how calm her voice had become. Oddly calm. “Getting to the top of the water was just the beginning. I found myself by the section of the plane that I had been sitting in moments before. It was now ripped to shreds, sticking its awful tail out of the water.” She laughed softly at the surreal memory. “And there was a man—the man. The hero, though we don’t even know his name yet.” She swallowed hard. “He called me over and told me to hold on to the plane, even though just to touch the cold metal hurt my hands and ripped at my skin.”

  “But then you were saved,” her father said.

  Sonja caught a breath a
nd then laughed at his succinct summary. “Yup, I guess that’s it. And then I was saved. After all, everything always works out for the Graftons, doesn’t it, Daddy? Life wouldn’t dare outsmart one of us, would it? It better not, not unless it wanted to feel the full wrath of the Grafton anger.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic, dear.”

  Sonja stared at her parents, huddled together in their oblivious block of ignorance. “You want sarcasm, Mother? I shouldn’t have been on that flight at all. In true Grafton fashion, I forced my way on. And also in true Grafton fashion, I didn’t die. Do you get the irony of it? I shouldn’t have been there, and yet I was one of the five to live. Did Sonja Grafton have to pay the consequences of doing whatever it took to get what she wanted? No way. Sonja lived! Sonja was even the fourth one saved—right after a mother and child and an old man.” She pointed to her father. “Even you would agree that, in the case of a rescue, a Grafton should let mothers, children, and the elderly go first, wouldn’t you, Daddy?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “You should be proud of me for letting them go. But then, when the hero handed me the line—his line—I acknowledged the fact that I was special and worthy to be saved, and I took it.”

  “Certainly you’re not implying you should have died?”

  “Oh, heavens no. I have too much ego for that.” She looked her parents straight in the eyes. “But just because I won’t admit it doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”

  Sonja suddenly realized her energy was gone. Her reserve was gone. She nodded toward the door. “I’d like you two to leave now.”

  “What?”

  “We came to help—”

  Sonja shook her head. “You came to fulfill a duty so you wouldn’t suffer guilt later. Now it’s done. You’ve gotten poor Sonja home safe. But poor Sonja is tired and wants to be alone so she can maybe, possibly, but probably not, deal with all this.”

  “You want us to go home? We just got here.”

  “I don’t care where you go—to a hotel, or home. Just go.”

  She turned her back on them and was relieved when she heard them put on their coats and open the door.

  “Call if you need us, dear.”