by Nancy Moser
Dora looked up and was relieved to see that she still had their attention. She returned to her reading. “I never met Henry Smith, nor do I know any of the specifics of his life. At first this bothered me, and I put off writing this essay because I thought it was necessary to know about him, to meet his wife, to talk to his friends. But then I realized that’s exactly what is so special about heroes like Henry. There is little about their pre-hero life that hints of their fate—of their opportunity to touch greatness. There is no such thing as hero training. No education prerequisites and no previous experience required. Family background, ethnic origin, age, and gender are irrelevant; heroism is truly equal opportunity employment. You don’t even have to be a deeply religious person for God to use you in such a way. But that doesn’t mean God isn’t involved. He is very involved. For He is the One who breathes on that spark within us and fans it into a flame of willing self-sacrifice in a divine slice of time that makes a person stop thinking of himself and begin thinking only of others.
“But perhaps that last statement isn’t totally true. For I believe Henry Smith did think about his own life as he shivered in the water; I believe his thoughts were consumed with his own life in that last hour. But the difference is that the hero thinks of giving up his or her own life, not saving it.
“The survival instinct is strong and can be illustrated in the simple act of putting a protective hand in front of our face when something comes too close. But heroism is born when the survival instinct collides with empathy, when me comes face-to-face with we and the latter is chosen over the former.
“Former is an interesting term meaning bygone or old or past. The hero, in his or her choice, makes our normal preoccupation with me, myself, and I fall away into our pasts, into our former nature. The hero shoves such ordinary, understandable considerations aside and thinks in an entirely different way: beyond himself. And the key is that the hero is given the opportunity of saying yes or no.
“Henry Smith said yes. As I watched tapes of the rescue and saw him hand over the lifeline for the first time, my mind accepted his actions as standing on the edge of ordinary. Just being polite. Women and children first. But then, there had to be a moment when he was shivering in that water, his body going numb, his injuries causing pain, that he made a conscious decision to continue his course of action—no matter the cost.”
Dora’s throat constricted, and she forced a swallow. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking voice. “When Henry saw the helicopter move away from him time after time, he had to realize that by giving up the line, he was choosing death.”
The tears came, and Dora let them fall. “And when everyone else was gone, and he saw that helicopter fade into the distance and felt his body shut down, I cannot imagine his loneliness. And yet I have to believe that God gave him comfort in his last moments. Somehow God gave Henry Smith the most intense feeling of satisfaction a person can feel. ‘Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’ For that’s the key element of a hero. Love. Though heroes may not know how to show it well in their daily lives, when given the chance by God, they say yes. They choose to love.
“And so, Henry Smith, I say thank you for your act of love. And for showing us and challenging us, that maybe we, too, have a hero in us if we only say yes.”
Dora lowered the pages. She looked at the faces surrounding her. All were crying now, even Anthony. And then Ellen Smith got out of her chair and came to her, hugged her tightly, and whispered thank you in her ear.
George began the applause. “Bravo!”
Dora shook her head and sat down. She didn’t want applause. In fact, what she truly wanted to do was to run into the bathroom and cry.
Sonja came to her side. “When is that going to be in the paper?”
Dora looked down at the pages. “Probably never.”
“What do you mean never?”
“My boss will never go for it. Quoting Bible verses is not his thing. Not the Chronicle’s thing.”
“But it has to be printed,” Tina said.
Dora shook her head. “It had to be written. I had to write it. I’m just glad all of you could hear it—and approve. That’s payment enough.”
George handed her a tissue. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any of your articles about us. You interviewed us, but you didn’t write—”
“Oh, I wrote them in here,” Dora said, touching her head. “But I couldn’t actually write them—not for publication.”
“Why not?” Tina asked.
Dora looked at Anthony. “Various reasons. But basically, most of what I would have written was too spiritual for the Chronicle.”
“You never did ask us about facts,” Sonja said. “Why is that?”
Dora took a deep breath, giving her time to think of an answer. “Probably for the same reason as tonight. None of you has obsessed about why the crash happened. Perhaps the normal journalistic who-what-where questions weren’t as important as how the five of you responded to the crash. How it changed your lives.” She looked down at the pages. “I shared this with some of you. I was supposed to go on that flight to be with my mother for an operation—an operation that was miraculously canceled. So Flight 1382 changed my life too.”
“You were supposed—?” George asked.
Tina waved this subject away. “Hold off just a second. Let’s get back to your writing. You’re a good writer,” she said. “I’d love you to write my story. I’d love—” She stopped in midsentence, her eyes darting around the room as if trying to snap up stray thoughts. “Hey … why don’t you write about us? Write a book about all of us and our experiences before, during, and after the crash.”
“A book?”
Sonja nodded enthusiastically. “Sure. I trust you. I gave you all sorts of delicate information about myself that I asked you not to use, and you didn’t. And actually, you helped me work through a few things.” She looked around the room, gathering support. “What do the rest of you think?”
“I’m all for it,” George said. He took Merry’s hand. “What about you? It would be a way for Lou and Justin to be honored.”
She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.” She looked at Dora. “You never interviewed me. Why didn’t you interview me?”
Dora couldn’t tell if Merry felt hurt or just left out. “I couldn’t imagine your grief. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“But maybe it would have helped. You helped Sonja …”
Dora moved to Merry’s side. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should have asked you and let you make the decision to talk or not talk.”
She nodded, then shrugged.
George spoke softly to Merry. “Would you be willing to talk to Dora for a book?”
A breath. In. Out. “I think so. Eventually.”
“And I’ll talk,” Ellen said. “I’d love to have a book honoring Henry’s sacrifice.”
Everyone was for the book. Except.
All eyes turned to Anthony.
He pinched a piece of lint from his trousers. “Dora. Ms. Roberts. I seem to remember that you said you wouldn’t write an article about me because I was an arrogant, egotistical man with a skewed opinion of himself and his position in the world.”
George laughed. “You said that?”
Dora covered her face with a hand. “I said that.”
“Unfortunately,” Anthony said, “her opinion was quite true.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then laughter. “Way to peg it, Anthony!” George said. “I assume this means you’d be open to Dora’s book?”
“It’s doable.”
“And that you no longer hold those character traits?” Tina said. Her smile was sly.
“I’m working on it.”
George spread his arms. “I think that’s where we all are. Working on it. Learning to live with being one of the living. Learning to say yes.”
Ellen stood. “Speaking of saying yes, before I even heard Dora’s reading, but now, spurred
forward by it.” She took a breath and stood tall in her five-foot-two frame. “I had decided to tell people about Henry’s sacrifice and obedience to God—and inspire them toward their own selfless acts by starting a foundation: The Henry Smith Foundation. Its motto will be ‘Finding the Hero in All of Us. Providing Lifelines to People in Need.’ ”
“I like it,” Merry said.
“I will be Henry’s voice.” She turned to George. “And you, George, I want you to speak with me, give your testimony as one of the five.”
“But Henry didn’t save George,” Anthony said. “He was the only one of us your husband didn’t save.” Anthony received dirty looks from the others. “Well, it’s true.”
George waved away their looks. “Henry didn’t save me from the water, but let me tell you, Henry Smith did save me. He saved me from myself.” He looked around the room nervously, with a special glance to Suzy at his side, then set his shoulders. “I was heading to Phoenix to kill myself.”
A flurry of gasps filled the air.
George waved away their shock. “But in talking with Henry on the plane … even though I didn’t admit it at the time, I now know that Henry sold me on life before the crash. If we’d ever gotten to Phoenix, I don’t believe I would have gone through with it—because of him.”
Merry put a hand on his arm. “Just as you’ve tried to sell me on life.”
He looked into her eyes intently. “Tried?”
Her eyes were sad. “I have a ways to go.”
Tina raised a hand. “George is the perfect one who should testify with Ellen. It fits.”
“Should we be surprised?” Sonja said.
“Then I accept Ellen’s offer,” George said. He put an arm around Suzy and squeezed her shoulders. “Guess I have another reason for living, don’t I? I think this calls for a celebration. Let’s eat.”
Epilogue
“Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”
HEBREWS 13:5
George wiped dishes while Ellen washed and Suzy put away. It felt good to have a woman in the kitchen again. The evening had been a huge success. After eating, George stood alone near the kitchen listening to the stories being exchanged—while Dora took copious notes. Stories of fear, pain, doubt, and utter triumph. He didn’t know if these people would stay in touch after Dora’s book was finished, but perhaps that didn’t matter. What mattered was that their lives had touched. For a short period of time these five lives had met in the icy water and had been united by Henry Smith and by the God who had sent him to help—a God whom George would have to get to know better.
Ellen finished the last dish and wiped her hands. “Now that that’s done … I have something for you, George.” She went into the den, retrieved her purse, and secretly pulled something out. Then she extended a closed hand toward his. He held up his hand to receive the offering, and she dropped a gold watch into his palm.
“What’s this?”
“A little present. From Henry.”
Then George recognized the waterproof, shatterproof watch with four time zones. It was still working. The last time he’d seen it was on Henry’s wrist. “I can’t take this.”
“I want you to have it. Ever since I came to take Henry home, I’ve been carrying it around in my purse. But tonight, after what you said, after what you agreed to do.” She closed his fingers around the watch. “It will be a sign of the partnership between us. Between the three of us—the four of us. Let’s not forget God.”
He smiled. “Nope. Let’s not forget God. After all, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ ”
“Our way and His way.”
George pulled Henry’s watch to his chest. “Amen to that.”
Back home, Merry couldn’t bring herself to clean up the mess caused by her tirade. Seeing the destruction of the living room was evidence of the tightrope she walked between craziness and sanity, between wallowing in her grief and moving on.
For a long time, she knew she would be walking through the moments of her life with great care. She knew she could call George if she needed him and, for that matter, any of the others. But she didn’t want to need people. She didn’t want to be a bother.
The truth was, without her family to take care of, she didn’t have anything to do.
The phone rang. It was her mother. “How you doing, baby?”
She hated that question. She despised that question because it forced her to lie. “I’m fine.”
“Have you written the thank-you notes yet? Aunt Claudia called and asked me if you had gotten the azalea they’d sent.”
Merry glanced toward the kitchen where she remembered seeing a box of thank-you notes handily provided by the funeral home. “I’m working on it.”
“Good girl. You always were good about that sort of thing. Would you like help?”
“No!” She toned down her voice. “No, I’ve got it covered, Mom.”
“I know you do, Merry. You’re a strong woman.”
Funny, I don’t feel very strong.
“There are so many people to thank,” her mom said. “I wish we could write notes to all the rescuers on the shore, the emergency people, the ones who saved your life. I will never forget the sight of those helicopter men, Floyd and Hugh, pulling you and Justin up, dangling on that lifeline. Those men risked their lives for—”
“Their names were Floyd and Hugh?”
“Sure. Floyd Calbert. And the pilot’s name was Hugh Johnson.”
Why have I never asked their names before? She shook her head, suddenly appalled at her oversight. “What’s wrong with me?”
“What?”
Thoughts assailed her. She needed to get off the phone. “Gotta go, Mom. I have work to do.”
“But baby—”
Merry hung up and stared at the phone. At her hand on the phone. At the table that housed the phone. At the living room that held the table.
“I never said thank you.”
She rushed into the kitchen and grabbed the box of thank-you notes and a pen. She sat at the kitchen table, flipped off the box’s lid, and removed one. She opened it and stared at the blank page for only a moment. Dear Mr. Calbert. I have been negligent in not contacting you and thanking you for your bravery …
The words of appreciation flowed. Merry finished one, then immediately started another. And another. And another.
For the first time since the accident, Merry found a reason for going on.
Gratitude.
She’d need another box.
Anthony called Lissa into his office. He’d never been nervous in her presence before, but then he never had to ask her such a question before.
She followed him inside. “Can we do this later, Doctor? Mrs. Greene has a one-thirty, and you know how huffy she gets if we keep her waiting. Plus I know you have an appointment with your lawyer at—” She stopped talking as he closed the door behind them. “Hey? What’s going on? Alone in your office. The door closed. People will talk—at least Candy will—”
“Will you be quiet just one minute?” He moved behind his desk and indicated that she should sit in the guest chair.
“Goodness. You certainly have piqued my interest.”
“Finally.” He picked up a pen, then realized he had no use for it. He put it down. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for all you’ve done for me since the crash. Taking me home from the hospital, making me dinner, coming over to my house when the lawsuit hit, talking to me about … stuff.”
“Is stuff a technical term, Doctor?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Maybe.” She crossed her legs and leaned closer. “But why don’t you make it perfectly clear what stuff we’re talking about.”
She was insufferable. “God-stuff, okay?”
She smiled. “Gotcha. And you’re welcome. But would you care to tell me how things are on that front?”
He grinned. Two could play at this. “On what front?”
She groaned. “The God front.”
> “Ah.” He nodded. “Let’s just say that I know I’m not Him. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”
“Excellent start. But there’s so much more.”
He nodded. Now came the hard part. “I understand that. And to be honest, I don’t know where to start. That’s where you come in.”
“I’m listening.”
His stomach tightened. This is ridiculous. I’m her boss. I’m her superior.
But not in this … not in this.
“Would you meet with me, Lissa? Maybe … teach me?”
Her grin was ridiculously happy. “Hallelujah!”
“Hey, don’t go overboard.”
She headed for the door. “Oh no, Anthony. There’s no stopping me now. The floodgates have been opened.”
“Oh, brother.”
She swung open the door and pointed at him with flourish. “Exactly. You got it, brother Anthony!”
She left singing the chorus from the Messiah all the way down the hall. Before he knew what was happening, Anthony found himself humming along.
Anthony’s heart was pounding as he dialed the phone. Can I do this? What if they refuse? What if they think it’s just a ploy to make them drop the lawsuit? What if——
“Millers.”
Anthony cleared his throat. “Is this the son of Belinda Miller?”
The voice was suddenly wary. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“This is Dr. Anthony Thorgood—please don’t hang up, please.”
“Talk to my lawyer.”
“No, no, this isn’t about that. This is about your son. About Ronnie.”
A moment of silence. “What about him?”
“Your mother told me about his port-wine stain. I’m a plastic surgeon. I can fix that. Make it disappear.”
“We can’t afford—”
“I’ll do it for free.”
Another pause. “Is this your way of making us drop the lawsuit? Because what you did to my mother—”
“Was despicable. I know. And the offer is good whether you sue me or not. I want to do it. I need to do it.”