by Nancy Moser
She smiled. “There, that’s better.”
She moved to confront Justin’s flowers and was within inches of giving them a similar fate but couldn’t bring herself to shove them away. The white of innocence. She touched a tender petal.
Then, only then, did Merry allow herself to look on her family. Justin was so handsome in his corduroy pants, his Christmas vest with a reindeer on it, and his little red tie. Merry remembered him bowing like a real gentleman when he first wore the outfit for church saying, “Can you be my date, Mommy?”
You’ll always be my little man, sweetie.
Justin’s blond curls were a golden halo. But his skin … it had a waxy look to it. Gone was the iridescent glow of her son’s perfect skin, a glow that came from the inside out. Yet perhaps capturing that glow was impossible once the life behind it had exited the body.
Because of you, Merry. Because of you.
Merry put a finger on his cross tie tack and tried to remember the essence of comfort she knew could be found in that symbol of faith. But comfort eluded her—yet she didn’t mind. Now was not the time for comfort. This moment was the essence of discomfort, and knowing that was in itself comforting.
It can’t get much worse than this.
Merry kissed her son’s forehead and, with difficulty, pulled her eyes away. Then she moved back to her husband. Lou was dressed in his only gray suit, wearing the maroon tie she’d given him for his birthday. His hands were clasped across his midsection, his wedding ring an eternal reminder of their bond. A ring. No beginning and no end. With this ring, I thee wed.
He’d taken their vows very seriously. For better or worse. She’d certainly given him worse lately. Why had she done that? Why had she shoved aside the better and allowed herself to grab up the worse, like an obnoxious banner she was proud to wave? Why hadn’t she realized what she had until it was gone?
She put her hand on his but removed it when its lack of warmth registered. His hands, his wonderful hands that had caressed and helped and held on and worked hard and. The very hand she had grabbed as the plane went down.
“I’m sorry, Lou. I’m so sorry.”
Merry heard the fumblings of keys outside the room and knew her time was short. She kissed her husband on the lips and faced the door, straightening her shoulders against the invaders who would soon take her captive again.
The door opened and her mother burst in. Her eyes scanned the room, and Merry realized these people had expected desecration of some sort.
Sorry to disappoint you, Mom.
Without a word, Merry walked past her mother, past the funeral employees, and out the door. Let them scurry to catch up. She had a funeral to attend.
Merry saw the old man from the hospital standing on the outer rim of mourners. Their eyes met and he gave a short salute as a greeting. What was his name? Joe? No … George. Another survivor like herself.
Funny, she didn’t feel like a survivor. Yet to everyone who saw her she was putting on a great performance. Academy Award time. Nominated for Best Actress in a feature-length life …
Merry’s senses wrestled for attention. The sea of black against the white snow and green pines of the cemetery. The drone of the minister’s words like a buzzing bee caught in the wrong season. The smell of her mother’s and Mabel Cavanaugh’s perfumes as they stood on either side of her—musk meets magnolia. The feel of the shredded tissue permanently gripped in her hand. And the acrid taste of grief that threatened to close off her throat so that she, too, would die.
This strong-woman number was exhausting. She glanced at George again. He had been so upbeat at the hospital when she saw him with his daughter. Hopeful. Grateful. Rejuvenated.
Looking down at the caskets of her family being lowered into the ground, Merry felt none of those things—and doubted she ever would.
Twelve
For the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom,
and the weakness of God is stronger than man’s strength.
1 CORINTHIANS 1:25
Sonja looked at the clock in her car. She’d been driving around for an hour. Surely the funerals were over. Surely people were heading to work. Surely she should join them.
She could not get Geraldine’s face out of her mind. Was the woman still holding a grudge because Sonja took the trip? If anything, Geraldine should be grateful. She could have been killed like Dale and Allen.
And what did Sonja’s finagling matter anyway? The bottom line was their boss, Allen, was dead. Certainly the whole Barston merger had been put on hold until Sanford Industries could regroup and hire replacements for Allen and Dale. Geraldine was the only one who knew what she did.
Maybe she was overreacting. The double funeral had been an emotional situation, not an easy thing for anyone to bear. The feeling of rejection Sonja had felt might have been the result of her own nerves and uncertainty and, yes, even sorrow. She was only human.
Sonja looked at the street signs, getting her bearings. She couldn’t hide forever. She had a job to claim. After all, she’d proven herself to be a survivor.
Hadn’t she?
Sonja got in the crowded elevator and pushed the button for the Sanford Industries floor. The man to her right eyed her cast and face.
“Boy, what happened to you?”
“Plane crash.”
The man’s eyes widened, and Sonja smiled—inside. It was kind of fun shocking people.
It took the man a moment, but then he clapped a hand on his mouth and pointed. “You’re one of the survivors! You were on Flight 1382.”
“Yes, I was.”
“I heard about you.”
The other people in the elevator started talking at once, offering their sympathy, sharing their shock regarding the tragedy, and detailing where they were at the time it happened. She’d heard her parents talk about where they were when President Kennedy was shot, or when the Challenger blew up. Wow. She had become a part of history.
The door opened to Sonja’s floor, but she was reluctant to leave her admirers, especially since what lay ahead was so uncertain. Her stomach tested its limits. She was grateful that her nerves had been sidetracked by the kind attention in the elevator, but now. This was it.
“Bye.”
“Good luck.”
The doors closed and Sonja was face-to-face with reality. The receptionist applied a receptionist smile even before looking up. But when her eyes showed recognition, her smile faded and, after a beat, returned falsely. “Ms. Grafton. How nice to have you back.”
“Thank you.” Sonja started toward her office but then returned to the desk. “Do I have any messages?”
The girl checked. “Sorry. None.”
Sonja nodded. Don’t panic. They had to have someone cover your work while you were gone. It doesn’t mean—
“Ms. Grafton, is it?”
Mr. Wilson stood at the edge of the corridor. She’d never met him but had seen him many times walking through the office, usually in deep conversation with Allen or other superiors. He was a vice president. A lifer. And at the moment, he didn’t look happy.
And yet he did know her name. That was a good sign. Maybe.
“Hello, Mr. Wilson.”
He stepped toward her. “I thought that might be you.” He pointed to her cast. “You recovering all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Terrible thing, terrible.”
“Yes, sir.”
He checked his watch. “I have a few minutes. We might as well get this …” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk with you.”
“Now?”
“If you please.”
Sonja glanced at the receptionist. The girl bit her lip. When their eyes met, she looked away.
This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.
Mr. Wilson proceeded down the corridor toward his office. Sonja followed after him. Neither one spoke. She was concerned over his lack of small talk and yet also relieved. Her insides were knotted so tight she fear
ed if he did talk to her in any way that required a response, she would throw up. Now wouldn’t that be impressive on her first day back?
Mr. Wilson’s office was lush and old world. No tan land here. Rich navy blue colors and brown leather heralded his status as one of the big guys.
He moved behind his desk. “Have a seat.”
Sonja sat. And waited. Maybe he’s going to offer the company’s support in my recovery? Maybe he’s going to tell me I can take as much time off as I need? Maybe—
He cleared his throat and picked up a pen, though she could tell he had no intention of using it to write. “Well, Ms. Grafton, we didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“I was at the funeral.” But I got scared away.
“Oh. Were you? That’s good. I mean it was good you were there to say good-bye.”
She nodded. Now was the time he would ask about her injuries, inquire about the horror of her experience, or share where he was when he first heard—
“I’m sorry, Ms. Grafton, it seems we have a problem.”
That’s when she knew this was not a courtesy meeting. The way Mr. Wilson’s eyebrows dipped, the way his chin jutted forward as if he were attempting to fortify himself. Fortify himself to do what?
Somehow, Sonja managed to find her voice, or rather, a voice, since the words that came out sounded strained and odd. “What problem, sir?”
He looked her straight in the eye. “The problem of deceit.”
Sonja’s first thought was almost comical. Instead of letting her mind zero in on the meaning of Mr. Wilson’s words, she marveled at the classy way he had found to say it. Not “Your lying” or “Your cheating” or even her own personal favorite, “Your finagling,” but “the problem of deceit.” Very highbrow.
She decided to lie. “I don’t understand.”
At this ludicrous statement, he raised his left eyebrow. “I think you do. We at Sanford Industries know what you did in order to go on the trip to Phoenix.”
“I didn’t do—”
A raised hand stopped her denial. “And though it is true you didn’t break any laws or even do anything particularly blatant like changing the numbers on a report, you did do something that is just as reviled at Sanford Industries. You violated our team concept. You forced yourself front and center as a Me-player instead of a We-player.”
The cards were faceup on the table. “I was only trying to make sure the work was done correctly.”
“That was your only consideration?”
Sonja felt herself redden. “I don’t see what’s so wrong with pointing out an error that might have cost this company tens of thousands of dollars.”
He nodded, tenting his fingers under his chin. “Ah. So your first concern was with the bottom line of the company.”
Although she wanted to, Sonja couldn’t bring herself to blatantly lie. Not anymore. “It was a concern.”
“And what were the other concerns?”
That I go to Phoenix instead of Geraldine, that she be showed up, that I finally get some recognition in this stinking company. That my parents finally be proud—
“Ms. Grafton?”
She took a breath. “The other concerns were personal.”
“I see.”
She looked at her lap and put a hand under her cast, supporting it as if it hurt. Actually, at the moment the pain in her arm was the least of her worries. Yet perhaps if she got the sympathy vote …
“We’re going to have to let you go.”
Sonja’s throat intertwined with her intestines. “Go?”
“You’re fired.”
Nothing highbrow about those two words. She shook her head against the impossible. “But this isn’t fair. I just lived through a plane crash. I almost died. I.” She knew none of the things she mentioned had anything to do with her job performance, a matter for which she had no defense.
“I know you’ve been through a horrible experience and I feel bad for you. But you are obviously a survivor, Ms. Grafton. You’ve shown a knack for looking after yourself.”
The way he said it was not complimentary, and his tone irked her almost more than the firing itself. At that moment she stopped pretending. She remembered the freeing aspects of the episode with her parents and sought to duplicate it. She had nothing to lose.
She straightened her spine. “Face it, Mr. Wilson. You don’t care about the crash. All you care about is this company. How ironic I’m being penalized for being aggressive, for doing the same types of things that are done every day in this office by men—by Allen, if you must know. His slate was far from clean.”
“We know. And if he had lived through the crash, he would have faced his own Waterloo. Eventually.”
She laughed. “I’m supposed to find comfort in that?”
Mr. Wilson shrugged. “Living through a close brush with death offers a chance for new beginnings, Ms. Grafton. Considering the hard feelings you’ve left behind here, perhaps you can look upon this as a blessing. A fresh start. A chance to get it right.”
Sonja stood and moved until her thighs touched the edge of his desk. She loved it when he leaned back in his chair in order to create more space between them. “In that case, I thank you for releasing me to my destiny.”
Releasing me to my destiny? What was that? Sounds like a blurb from a cheesy self-help book.
Sonja drove home, her speed increasing and decreasing with the sway of her emotions. She’d already traveled through anger, skirted past disbelief, and was now headed on a collision course with acceptance—a state of mind she desperately wanted to avoid. Fight or fail. Acceptance was the end of fighting. Acceptance was akin to failure.
Sonja stopped at an intersection and rested her head upon the steering wheel. She was beyond weary. If only she could go home and sleep for a week. She knew she ought to be making plans, formulating a strategy for the rest of her life.
She raised her head to check the traffic light and noticed she was right in front of the Chronicle. Dora Roberts worked there. The friendly reporter. She needed a friend.
Clyde leaned over the top of the cubicle. “Dora, hop to! There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
“One of the survivors.” He pointed a pencil at her. “It’s a chance to redeem yourself.” He tapped the pencil twice on the partition. “Get the story. Now.”
She called after him. “But who—?”
He answered over his shoulder. “Sonja something.”
Sonja? Dora rushed to meet her. Was she ready to talk on the record? That would indeed be a coup.
But when Dora saw Sonja, she pulled up short. Sonja was dressed impeccably in dark clothes, but her face looked worse now than it had in the hospital, and it went beyond the bruises. Dora could tell Sonja was suffering from another kind of pain. A worse kind.
She extended her hand. “Sonja. How nice to see you. Let’s go in the conference room.” She led her into the room and closed the door. “Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”
“Nothing, thanks.” Sonja didn’t just sit on the seat but seemed to let the inanimate cushions swallow her up. “I remembered at the hospital … you … you were so nice to me. You listened.”
So there still wouldn’t be an interview. Dora shoved her disappointment aside. “So what’s up? How are things going? It’s nice to see you’ve been released.”
Sonja offered a bitter laugh.
“Uh-oh. That bad?”
“Today’s been … a bad day. I tried going to the funeral of my coworkers and—”
“Oh, dear.”
“Actually, I tried to go but got the most awful vibes in the church, and the strangest looks from people, and whispering behind hands.” She traced the edge of the conference table.
“What was all that about?”
Sonja looked up. “They hate me. They blame me. They—”
“They can’t hate you or blame you for their friends’ deaths. It wasn’t your fault the plane—”
“No, no, no
t that. Not directly at least. But remember when I told you about what I did to get on that flight? The deception and conniving.”
“Oh yes, I remember.”
“They found out. I was just fired.”
Dora fell back against the chair. “That seems pretty cruel, considering what you’ve been through.”
Sonja’s shrug was full of defeat and resignation. “All in all, I’d say I got what I deserved. Ever since the crash, when I look back at my job, it all seems so tainted.” She took a deep breath but seemed to gain no strength from it. “Besides, I’ve passed through the angry and incredulous stage. Right now I’m trying to figure out what to do next. As you told me in the hospital, this is a chance for me to start over.” She laughed. “Neither crisis was one I would have chosen, but God didn’t ask me.”
Dora felt a wave of hope. Although they’d mentioned God during their first meeting, it made things easier that Sonja brought Him up again. This was good.
“You’d mentioned your seatmate. Roscoe, wasn’t it? He talked to you about God getting your attention?”
“Yes, he did, and I haven’t forgotten it. He said he’d gone through a similar experience in his life—not a plane crash, but a big event that forced him to reassess things.” Sonja looked down, then up. “He ran over his little boy and killed him.”
“Oh my goodness. That’s terrible.”
Sonja sighed. “I know. I can’t imagine.”
“But he turned his life around?”
“Completely. Up until then he was consumed with his work. But after that he gave up being head of the company and worked with his wife helping high-risk kids.”
“Wow. I admire people who can do that—get their priorities straight and work with kids who need them.”
“He said it was all due to his wife. She’d been trying to make him see things clearly for years, but he never listened to her. Until their son’s death.”
“She sounds like a neat lady.”
“He wanted me to meet her someday.”
An idea flashed into Dora’s head. “Then you should do it. Meet her. Find her.”