by R. D. Kardon
Did I hear her correctly?
“Di, start from the beginning, please. You know what I’m dealing with here. I want to help, but you gotta walk me through it.”
And for the next few minutes, Diana led Tris on a harrowing tour of anger, frustration, and loss of control.
Tris listened, her own rage welling up. She hated flying, hated aviation and everything about it. For one thing, Diana was thousands of miles away. Even though they had a phone connection, for something like this, it wasn’t enough. Definitely not enough.
“But why? This is incredible.”
Diana didn’t try to minimize her actions. “You know . . .” she paused, coughed, then continued. “If I had to guess, I think it might be some of those vitamins I’m taking. The ones I got at the gym. I don’t think they were good for me, Tris.”
“Were they actually vitamins?” Tris asked.
“We’ll find out. The FAA medical team is doing a thorough screening. And then we’ll see. They made me feel great—strong, energetic. But I think they . . . well, let’s wait and see what the FAA says.” Diana concluded.
Another float in the parade of horribles marching through Tris’s world. Tris dug for anything she could say to comfort her friend. “They forced you into this position, Di. Made you get treatment. Now they’re complaining about the effects of that treatment.” But it was a weak defense. Because if Diana had done what she said—struck a crew member in the course of performing their duties—then it was indefensible.
“Can the union help?” Tris asked.
“How?” Diana’s voice cracked. “I served my country. I served the company. I moved my life thousands of miles away—at their request—to act as a role model at this company, flying with kids who had, I don’t know, 1000 hours of flight time. Barely.”
“What’s your end game?” Tris asked.
The question hung in the air. When Diana finally responded, the indignation from moments before was gone.
“I wish I knew. I’ve spent so many years here, built a solid reputation. A reputation I deserved. And now it’s gone. Like that. Just gone. I can’t get it back.”
Tris blew out her breath. “Maybe it’s time for you to come home. Wave the white flag. Find a job in the states. There’s a pilot shortage—haven’t you heard?”
Diana laughed. They’d been hearing about this ‘pilot shortage’ for years, as every pilot they knew competed for the few plum flying jobs out there. “So much seniority lost. Back to the bottom of the pile. And that’s if I can even get a job.” Now her friend was crying. Tris closed her eyes tightly, about to do the same. “I swear I don’t even remember what he said or did. How could he make me do that? It’s on the cockpit voice recorder, sure, but I can’t remember. Did I black out? Thank God it didn’t happen in flight. The only saving grace is that it didn’t happen in flight.”
Moments of silence were followed by the snap of a cigarette lighter, a whoosh of flame and the deep inhale that followed.
Diana’s self-disgust was palpable. “Tris, I hit a guy. Stick a fork in me. I’m done.”
NEWS 21 APRIL 2000 – 9:07 EDT
Therapist Shoots Ex-Husband, then Kills Herself: Pilot and Passenger Embraced Before Shooting
BY NUNATSIAQ NEWS
Iqaluit—Christine Marie Edgemon, 42, the passenger on the deadly “angel” flight from Iqaluit to Bangor, Maine took her own life after shooting her ex-husband twice, according to the Bangor Medical Examiner’s Office.
New evidence in the high-altitude airplane shootout was released by the Bangor Police Department and suggests that Warren Michael Marshall, a crew member on the “angel” flight, and Edgemon, his ex-wife, now deceased, may have embraced before any shots were fired.
“We’ve examined the trajectory of the bullets along with how we found the bodies. We’ve also reviewed preliminary investigative conclusions by the NTSB [National Transportation Safety Board]. Evidence strongly suggests physical contact between the two parties,” said Detective Chief Inspector Robert Gann of the Bangor Police Department.
“We are still reviewing all the evidence. And we have yet to speak to Mr. Marshall, who is recovering from complex surgery at Eastern Maine Medical Center and only recently has been allowed visitors. As soon as his doctors clear us to interview him, we hope to have more information.”
Marshall survived two gunshot wounds, which he received during the flight between Iqaluit and Bangor. The airplane, a Royal 350, was scheduled for a fuel stop in Bangor before continuing on to Exeter, Illinois, its final destination.
Patricia F. Miles and Bruce L. Burkey, the pilots of the catastrophic “angel” flight, so named because it was a non-profit flight taking Edgemon from remote Iqaluit to Exeter for specialized medical treatment, both escaped injuries. They are reportedly cooperating with Bangor police, NTSB, and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) inquiries.
Miles and Burkey are being touted as heroes for landing the plane safely despite the discharge of a firearm only feet away from them. Neither pilot has commented. Woodrow Westin, of Westin Charter Company, who owns the airplane and employed both pilots said that Miles and Burkey, “value their privacy. But I’m sure proud as I can be to call them my employees, and my friends.”
Edgemon and her husband, Tetrix Inc. project manager Erik Hudson, moved to the capital of Nunavut two years ago. Edgemon worked as a grief counselor serving the Inuit community of Iqaluit. In previous interviews, Edgemon, a licensed therapist, said she’d begun the work of helping people manage the deaths of loved ones and friends. Recently, she began counseling terminally ill patients to plan their own demise. According to sources close to Edgemon, she undertook that work to help heal the wounds she suffered from her father’s suicide when she was seven years old.
Ironically, it was a single bullet to the head, fired by Edgemon herself, that ended her life.
Hudson has told police that his wife had recorded a suicide note addressed to him. He found it at their home. No portions of the tape have been released, but sources close to the investigation say that the tape left no doubt that Edgemon intended to commit suicide, and to do it on that flight.
Hudson could not be reached for comment.
No further details on the investigation into security at the private terminal in Iqaluit that permitted Edgemon to bring a gun aboard the “angel” flight have been released.
Fifty-Six
As soon as a reporter told her that Mike was giving interviews, Tris called his hospital room in Bangor. For two days straight, she tried the number every hour. It rang and rang. No one ever answered.
Reporters loved to share the facts with Tris, each assuring her they had the best, most current information. Specifics of Mike and Christine’s relationship—the marriage, breakup, divorce, and subsequent stalking—were splashed across the pages of the Exeter Tribune. The salacious details mercifully drowned out information about her and Bruce, for which she was grateful.
No one asked Tris whether her relationship with Mike was any more than professional. She silently thanked him for keeping that secret. “Angel Flight Love Triangle” was the last headline she wanted to see on CNN’s news crawl.
Tris cried every time she stumbled upon one of the few things Mike had left in her apartment. A razor, which Mike only used to trim the edges of his full beard, a couple of t-shirts in the laundry. The worst breakdown came after she unscrewed the cap on his aftershave, the one that smelled like cherries. He rarely shaved but wore that scent whenever they were together. Each discovery reminded her of how close she came to a real relationship. And then she’d remember that he’d lied, and stop crying.
Tris gathered his belongings into a bag, dropped the red heart-shaped chain, now stripped of her apartment keys, to the bottom, and went to put it in the hall closet. On her way, Orion darted out in front of her. She stopped short, braced herself against the end table where her answering machine was set up, and accidentally hit the rewind button.
When it wound b
ackward for a few seconds instead of quickly resetting, Tris took a seat on the couch next to Orion to hear the missed message. The bag lay crumpled at her feet.
The answering machine’s recorded voice announced, “Message One received April 12th, 2000, at six-forty-six a.m.” Just before the angel flight took off.
“Hi baby. It’s me.” Mike’s voice filled the room. “I’m so sorry about last night. And the night before, and this morning. Well, about everything. All of it. All the things I didn’t say, and especially about Kick, uh, Christine. Look, to me, she was dead. When she and I broke up, when our marriage ended, I couldn’t accept it. I, I did some things I never should have done. Said some things. Said some things that weren’t true. Did some things I’ll be embarrassed about and regret until the end of my days.
“Yes, Christine Edgemon is my ex-wife. She is alive. She is our angel flight passenger. Baby, if I had realized that sooner, I would never have been here, never have been on this flight. And I would have told you. I didn’t even think to read the passenger file until that meeting. I mean, you were so on it. And when I learned it was her, the day before the trip, I didn’t know what to do. The angel flight, the whole Chief Pilot thing, the promotion getting between us, our future, then of all people we were picking up Kick, it was all too much. I figured we’d sort it out when I got home.
“And I still hope we will. But right now, you have to know how sorry I am. For lying to you. For not trusting you with the truth. You know how pilots are, right? I was afraid you’d think less of me, not respect me as much. Not love me.
“When this stupid flight is over, I’ll tell you everything. The truth this time, all of it. And I pray that you’ll still want me.”
Tris sat completely still, listening as tears slid quietly down her cheeks. Orion had stopped purring.
“And to prove it, well, I guess I’ll be the first to say it. Yeah. Here it goes.” He cleared his throat and sniffed. His voice cracked slightly. “I love you. I do. I love you Tris. Good night, baby. See you later at home.”
The answering machine clicked.
“End of new messages.”
Fifty-Seven
Tris pulled into the parking lot of Dr. C’s building the next day, and for the first time, she didn’t care who saw her. Reading, sleeping, walking—none of that helped. The healing work done with the help of the woman in the string of pearls was the remedy she needed most. The Corolla swung into the first open spot, and Tris strode into the building.
Tris flung the door to the waiting area open and sat with her right leg bouncing like a jackhammer until the red light went off. Only seconds passed before Dr. C opened her office door.
“Hello Tris. Come in,” she said, exactly as she had so many times before.
Once both of them were seated, Tris expected a barrage of questions from her therapist: about the angel flight, Bruce, Mike. But Dr. C observed Tris with her typical deadpan expression and simply said, “How are you?”
Tris parroted the question. “How am I? Honestly, I have no idea.”
“I’ve heard what happened,” Dr. C admitted. “It was hard not to read about that flight. Are you all right?”
“Physically, yes. But the trip—first, Mike lied to me about his ex-wife. The one he said was dead.” Tris picked at a bandage on her right forearm, a remnant of the only physical injury she had sustained on the angel flight: a deep cut when one of the paramedics accidentally bumped her with their equipment. “But there she was. Alive. And planning to kill herself on my airplane.”
She told Dr. C what she’d learned about Warren Michael Marshall, the man she’d welcomed into her past, her bed, and her life.
“Danny tried to warn me. He knew about Mike’s past. He told me about it, and I ignored him.”
“He did? And you didn’t believe him? Why?”
Why, indeed. Her hands shot into the air, then slapped her thighs. “Because I thought he was jealous. How fucking arrogant. Why after so many years wouldn’t I simply believe that one of my closest friends was telling me the truth?”
Dr. C frowned, clearly not satisfied. “Is there more to it, Tris?”
“I didn’t want to believe it, I guess. Not then. It was spot on. But I . . .”
“Didn’t you trust him?”
An involuntary laugh escaped her. “Danny? I did. I do. But . . .”
“But what?”
Tris stood up, stepped away. It was so hard to say it. “I wanted Mike. I wanted him to be the guy I believed he was. I miss him. Mike. Warren. I don’t care what his name is. I miss him. The man I was with was not that guy.” Tris paced the room. Dr. C’s eyes followed her, but she said nothing.
Church bells tolled faintly outside. For a moment, Tris wished she were in that church. Never religious, nor from a religious family, she was suddenly comforted by the repetitive sound, each toll the same. The bell rang at exactly the same time every day, day after day. Predictability. Certainty. Peace.
Those resonant chimes stirred up primal questions: Are our lives already mapped out? How much control do we have? Tris suspected—no, feared—she’d never find answers.
“What are you thinking about, Tris?”
“Something my mother used to say. ‘People show you who they are.’ That I should have faith in what I see, what people do. Not so much what people say.”
Many hours had been spent in that room on the distant relationship between Tris and her mother. Both of their worlds fell apart when Tris was twelve, and her father died suddenly. Neither woman ever shared their grief. Tris was only a child. But well into adulthood, the pain over their mutual loss hovered between them.
Fear of abandonment was at the core of her underlying anxiety, Dr. C had said. And it was no wonder, as the only people she’d ever truly loved—her father, her grandfather, Bron—had deserted her. Now Mike was gone.
She was all alone.
Dr. C’s lips parted, like she wanted to say something, then closed firmly. She leaned toward Tris. “Have you called your mother?”
Tris shook her head, feeling the now-daily prick of tears. “If it would help, I already would have.”
Dr. C nodded. “You’ve talked to me about faith before, Tris. What is it you have faith in?”
She squeezed her eyes shut and the pent-up drops fell. “That I did the right things. Did the best I could with Bruce, for Bruce, for Mike, for Christine. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing I did was enough.” Her fists tightened and, this time, the fingernails pierced a layer of skin.
Dr. C waited for Tris to settle back in her seat. “Well, you know what I’d say to that.” The therapist smiled.
Tris chuckled. “That I have to forgive—I shouldn’t expect to forget, and I won’t. That I have to forgive myself.”
Fifty-Eight
The kitchen took on a sepia hue as the sun went down. The blinds were drawn, like someone had died.
Danny’s beer was warm. Em had run into the bedroom crying. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t always figure out the reasons Em got upset.
When she finally came out, she walked straight to the refrigerator without acknowledging him. Her face was swollen, her eyes red.
“Hey babe. Feeling any better?”
“A little. I think.” The fridge door squeaked open, followed by the hum of the condenser. His hand relaxed its tight grip on the beer can. He could sense that the level of tension in the air was low and judged it safe to proceed.
“Good. I’m glad. Grab a drink, or a beer or something, and have a seat. Let’s enjoy some quiet time, okay?”
She nodded her agreement, and a few seconds later popped open a Diet Pepsi and sat at their kitchen island.
Their house seemed like a museum, one of those staged rooms where the bedspread is never mussed. A book long forgotten sat at the same angle that it had for decades. Tenderly dusted, but never read. Not a pillow out of place, not a speck on the wide plank floors, not a drop of water on the tile in the kitchen. Faucets didn’t drip. The
trashcan didn’t smell. Still, a musty, stale aroma hung in the room: the signature scent of their marriage.
He considered his wife, sitting quietly, sipping a can of soda. No surprises, but she was pleasant, honest, and had a good heart. Wasn’t that everything he wanted in a woman?
As his heartbeat picked up speed, he reached the one inescapable conclusion, the one thing that no matter how hard she tried, his wife could not be. She could not be Tris.
He shook his head, tried to catapult the thought from his consciousness.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. Nothing. I can’t believe everything that’s happened.” That much was completely true.
“Hmm. Yeah. It’ll take a while for it all to sink in. So, have you talked to Bruce or Heather today?”
“Me? Em, you’re the one they call.” He caught himself starting to get testy. “But after our visit yesterday, seeing how we left them, I have a good feeling.”
Em nodded as she swallowed a gulp of her soda. “Me, too.”
“In a way, I kind of admire Bruce. I mean, it takes guts to admit that you’ve picked the wrong career, and walk away, just like that. After having a baby, too! Flying was something he’d said he’d always wanted, but he’s realized it wasn’t for him. Gotta give the guy credit. I’m glad they’re going to counseling together. Bruce and Heather are gonna make it, for sure.”
The air in the room took on a sharper smell. Em’s shoulders now poked up toward her ears. His wife’s apprehension destroyed the temporarily companionable atmosphere.
“It’s not Bruce and Heather people have doubts about. It’s us.” Em leaned toward her husband. “Everyone does. Don’t you?”
When Danny didn’t answer, she went on. “What went wrong with Bruce? That story, about almost flying the airplane into a mountain. Or where he kind of spaced out on that insane angel flight. Has that ever happened to you?” She faced her husband, brows knit with concern.
