Ann Margaret is clearly rattled. “I absolutely understand. As soon as we’re done here, I will find out what went wrong and then coordinate a face-to-face meeting between that person and your family. Does that sound like an acceptable solution to the three of you?”
Dad gives her a curt nod, but I don’t move. To me it sounds like her throwing us a bone, but I’m too tired, too shaken and shattered to say anything without flying across the desk and wrapping my hands around her neck.
The room Liberty Airlines has stalled us in is an airline executive lounge in Hartsfield’s brand-new international terminal. It’s plush and roomy, decorated in dark jewel tones, with sitting areas and a bar and an entire wall of windows overlooking the concourse. Airplanes lumber back and forth on the other side of the glass like giant missiles, taunting me with murderous intent.
“Has the press found you yet?” Ann Margaret says, and I turn back to the table.
Dave nods. “They’ve been calling the house all morning, and there are a couple of vans camped out on the street. Some of the reporters even had the nerve to ring the doorbell and ask for an interview.”
She shakes her head, disgusted. “We’ve specifically asked the media outlets to respect the privacy of our families, but not all of the journalists listen. What I can do is make sure you get out of here without having to interact with them. And may I suggest you appoint a family friend to be media contact? That way, you won’t have to talk to them until you’re ready.”
My father adds another bullet to his list, which has grown to a handful of pages.
All around us, people are weeping. A silver-haired man with unshaven cheeks, an Indian woman in a teal-and-silver sari, a black teenager with diamond studs bigger than my engagement solitaire. Tears roll down their cheeks unchecked, and the air in the room pulses with despair. Seeing their sorrow is like watching someone yawn, uncontrollable and infectious. Suddenly and without warning, I’m weeping, too.
Ann Margaret passes me a pack of tissues.
“Ms. Myers,” Dad says, “perhaps you could give us a quick update on the crash. Is there any new information?”
“Please. Call me Ann Margaret, and of course. As you may have heard on the news, both black boxes have been recovered, the flight data recorder and the cockpit voice recorder, and they’ve been sent on to the National Transportation Safety Board for analysis. I do want to warn you, though. Their final report will likely take months, if not years.”
I wince. A month feels like an eternity, but years?
“In the meantime...” She pushes a packet of paper an inch thick across the desk and taps a fingertip on a website address printed across the top. “This is a dark website, meaning it’s not meant for the general public. There are no links leading to it, and only people who type in the exact address will be able to find it. Liberty Airlines will use it to issue statements and provide updates to friends and family of the passengers as soon as information becomes available. You’ll also find a list of contact names, phone numbers and email addresses for every employee on the disaster management team. They are available 24/7, as am I. You are my family, and as such, my very first priority.”
I look up. “What do you mean we’re your family?”
She smiles at me, not unkindly. “Every passenger’s family receives their own Care Specialist. I’m yours. You are my family. If there’s anything at all that any of you need, all you have to do is say so and I’ll take care of it.”
“Excellent. You can start with giving me back my husband.”
Her shoulders fall a good inch, and she tilts her head, reassembling her empathy mask. “I wish I could do that, Mrs. Griffith. I really do.”
I hate this woman. I hate her with such an intensity that for a second or two, I actually blame her for the crash. I know Ann Margaret is not the one who performed the sloppy safety check or who banked left when she should have banked right, but I don’t believe her I’m on your side here attitude, either. If this woman really had my best interests at heart like she claims, she’d tell me what I really want to hear.
“How did my husband get on that airplane?”
It takes Ann Margaret a second or two to register my change of subject, and then she gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“What I mean is, did someone actually see him walk on? Because he was late leaving the house, and even if he didn’t hit rush-hour traffic, which he most probably did, he would have had to haul ass through security and to the terminal. He probably would have been the last person on the plane, if he even made it on time.”
She shifts in her chair, and she glances at my father as if to request a little help. When she doesn’t get any, her gaze returns to me. “Are you asking how Liberty Airlines knows your husband boarded?”
“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m asking.”
“Okay. Why don’t we just back up a minute, then? All airlines have procedures in place, so mistakes like the one you’re suggesting could never happen. Passengers’ tickets are scanned at the security checkpoint and then again at the gate, right before they board the plane. Technology doesn’t lie. It assures us there are no false positives.”
I hear Will’s scoff, as clearly and surely as if he were sitting right here, right beside me. If he were, he’d tell this lady that technology lies by design, because it is created and controlled by humans. There are bugs. There are crashes. There are false positives and false negatives, too. So Ann Margaret can try to talk me out of beating this particular horse, but as far as I’m concerned, this horse is far from dead.
My flare of fury settles into one of self-satisfaction. If Liberty Air can make a mistake as grievous as neglecting to call me before contacting the media, then who’s to say Will’s name on that passenger manifest isn’t another? A gigantic, life-altering mistake, but a mistake all the same.
“What if halfway down the Jetway, he turned around and went back out? He could have slipped right past the gate agent while she was scanning someone else’s ticket. Maybe she didn’t even notice.”
“It’s possible, I suppose...” Ann Margaret looks away, and she doesn’t bother to conceal her doubt. She doesn’t ask the most obvious question, either—why would anyone turn around and leave? If she did, I’d tell her because it was the wrong flight, headed in the wrong direction. “Perhaps you’d like to speak with someone?”
Now we’re talking. I’m already nodding, assuming she’s referring to her boss or, better yet, the head of security for Hartsfield.
“Religious or secular? We have Red Cross grief counselors on hand, as well as clerics of every major religion. Which would you prefer?”
Irritation surges up my chest, lurching me forward in my chair. “I don’t need to talk to a psychologist. I am a psychologist. What I need is for someone to tell me where my husband is.”
Ann Margaret falls silent. She chews her bottom lip and glances around at her colleagues, stationed at nearby tables and consoling their inconsolables, as if to say Now what? They didn’t teach us this one at Care Specialist training. I’ve stumped her.
“So, what now?” my father asks, ever the planner. “What do we do next?”
Ann Margaret looks relieved to be prompted back on script. “Well, there will be a memorial service this weekend here in town. Liberty Airlines is still working out the logistics, but as soon as I know the time and place, I’ll pass it on. I am available to pick you up at your house and escort you to the service if you’d like. It’s of course up to you, but there will be media there, and I’ll know the way to get around them. And if you’re interested, I can help plan a visit to the accident site.”
My throat closes around the last two words. Accident site. I can barely stand seeing the images on television. The idea of walking among the wreckage, of standing on the earth where 179 souls crashed into it, fee
ls like a vicious punch in the gut.
“There’s no hurry,” Ann Margaret says, filling up the silence. “When and if you’re ready.” When I still don’t respond, she consults her papers for the next item on the agenda. “Oh, yes. Liberty Airlines is working with a third-party vendor to manage the process of returning personal effects to the rightful family members. You’ll find the form on page twenty-three of your packet. The more detail you can provide here, the better. Pictures, inscription texts, distinguishing characteristics. Things like that.”
Will isn’t big on jewelry, but he wears a wedding band and a watch. Both were gifts I had engraved with our initials, and both are things I’d want back.
“Again, you’re assuming he was on that plane.”
My denial, I know, is textbook. I don’t believe, therefore it cannot be true. Will is not buried under Missouri soil. He’s in Orlando, dazzling conference attendees with his keynote on predictive analytics and bitching in the hotel bar about the heat. Or maybe he’s already home, rumpled and tired from wherever he’s been all this time, wondering what’s for dinner. I picture myself walking through the door to find him there, and a bubble of joy rises in my chest.
“Mrs. Griffith, I realize how difficult this must be, but—”
“Do you? Do you really? Because was it your husband on the plane? Was it your mother or father or daughter or son who was blown to bits all over a cornfield? No? Well, then, you don’t know, and you can’t realize how difficult this is for me. For anyone in this room.”
Ann Margaret leans into the desk, and her brow crumples. “No, I didn’t lose a family member on Flight 23, but I can still feel deep sadness and compassion for you as well as everyone else here today. I share in your anxiety and distress, and I’m on your side. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”
“Give me my husband back!” I shriek.
All around us, tables fall still, and heads turn in my direction. Solidarity, their teary faces say. They want their loved ones back, too. If we were sitting close enough, we’d bump fists. It’s a shitty, fucked-up society, but at least I’m not the only one in it.
Dave presses a palm to my right shoulder blade, a show of brotherly support. He knows I’m on the verge of a meltdown, and I know his newest, most urgent goal is to get me out of here. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. It would help greatly if you would provide the name and address of your husband’s doctor and dentist. Be assured that all information collected is confidential and will be managed only by forensic personnel under the guidance of the medical examiner. And I’m very sorry to have to ask, but, um, we’ll also need a DNA sample.”
My father reaches for my hand. “Anything else?” he says through clenched teeth.
Ann Margaret pulls an envelope from her packet and pushes it across the desk. “This is an initial installment from Liberty Airlines to cover any crash-related expenses. I know this is a very difficult time, and these funds are intended to, well, take a little of the pressure off you and your family.”
I pick up the envelope, peek at the printed paper inside. Apparently, death has a price, and if I’m to believe Liberty Air, it’s $54,378.
“There is more forthcoming,” Ann Margaret says.
The anger that’s been simmering under the surface since I walked through the door fires into red-hot rage. The flames lick at my organs and shoot lava through my veins, burning me up from the inside out. My hands ball into tight fists, and I sit up ramrod straight in my chair. “Let me ask you something, Margaret Ann.”
“It’s Ann...” She catches herself, summons up a sympathetic smile. “Of course. Anything.”
“Who do you work for?”
A pause. She furrows her brow as if to say Whatever are you talking about? “Mrs. Griffith, I already told you. I work for you.”
“No. I mean whose name is at the top of your paychecks?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, hauls a breath through her nose and tries again. “Liberty Airlines.”
I rip the check in two, reach for my bag and stand. “That’s what I thought.”
* * *
Ann Margaret is true to her word on one account at least. When we push through the door of the Family Assistance Center, a handful of uniformed Liberty Air agents hustle us through the terminal and out a side door. If any journalists spot us on the way to the car, we don’t see them. The agents act as a human shield.
They pile us into Dad’s Cherokee and slam the doors, backing away as soon as Dad starts the engine. He slides the gear in Reverse but doesn’t remove his foot from the brake. Like me, Dad’s still in shock, trying to process everything we learned in the past hour. I lose track of how long we sit there, the motor humming underneath us, staring silently out the window at the concrete barrier of the parking deck, and it’s not until I feel Dad’s warm palm on my knee and Dave’s on my shoulder that I realize that this whole time, I’ve been crying.
9
All night long, I dream I’m Will. I’m high in the clouds above a flyover state, safely buckled in an aisle seat, when suddenly the bottom drops out of the sky. The plane lurches and rolls, and the motors’ screams are as deafening as my own, as terrified as the other passengers’ underneath and above and on all sides of me. We heave into a full-on nosedive, careening to the earth with irreversible velocity. I wake up right as we explode into a fireball, Will’s terror gritty in my mouth. Did he know what was happening? Did he scream and cry and pray? In his last moments, did he think of me?
The questions won’t leave me alone. They march through my mind like an army on attack, blitzing through my brain and lurching me upright in bed. Why would my husband tell me he’s going one place but get on a plane to another? Why would he create a fake conference with a fake flyer as fake evidence? How many other times has he not been where he said he would be? My heart gives a kick at that last one, the obvious answer like trying to jam a square peg in a round hole. Will wouldn’t cheat. He wouldn’t.
Then, what? Why lie?
I twist around on the bed, groping in the early-morning light for his empty pillow. I press the cool cotton to my face and inhale the scent of my husband, and memories swell in razor-sharp flashes of lucidity. Will’s square jaw, lit up from below by his laptop screen. The way his hair was always mussed on one side from running a hand up it, an unconscious habit when he was thinking about something. That smile of his whenever I came into the room, the one that no one else ever got but me. More than anything, the sensation of how it felt to be whole and to be his, what it felt like to be us.
I need my husband. I need his sleep-warmed body and his thermal touch and his voice whispering in my ear, calling me his very favorite person. I close my eyes and there he is, lying in the bed next to me, bare chested and a finger crooked in invitation, and an empty heaviness fills my chest. Will’s dead. He’s gone, and now, so am I.
The fresh wound reopens with a searing hot pain, and I can’t stay in this bed—our bed—for another second. I kick off the covers, slip on Will’s robe and head down the stairs.
In the living room, I flip the wall switch and pause while my eyes adjust to the sudden light. When they do, it’s like looking at a picture of my and Will’s life, frozen the moment before he left for the airport. His sci-fi paperback, its pages dog-eared and curling up at the corners, sits on the side table by his favorite chair, next to a mini mountain of cellophane candy wrappers I’m always nagging him to pick up. I smile at the same time I feel the tears build, but I blink them away, because one little word is slicing through my memories like a machete.
Why?
I push away from the wall and head over to the bookshelves.
When we moved into the house last year, Will nixed the idea of a home office. “A techie doesn’t need a desk,” he said at the time, “only a laptop with a multi-core proc
essor and a place to perch. But if you want one, go for it.” I didn’t want one. I liked to perch wherever Will did, at the kitchen counter, on the couch, in a shady spot on the back deck. The desk in the living room became a spot for sorting mail, storing pens and paper clips, and displaying our favorite framed photographs—snapshots of happier times. I turn my back to the desk so I can’t see.
But inevitably, home ownership comes with a paper trail, and Will stored ours in the living room built-ins. I kneel on the floor, yank open the doors and marvel at a display worthy of a Container Store catalog. Colorful rows of matching three-ring binders, their contents marked with matching printed labels. Everything is ordered and grouped by year. I pull the binders out, laying them across the hardwoods by priority. Where would be the most likely place to find another lie?
A trio of letter trays are stacked at the very left side of the cabinet, and I flip through the contents. Work-related brochures, a yellowed Atlanta Business Chronicle with a front-page article on AppSec, tickets for the Rolling Stones concert later this summer. A neat stack of unpaid bills is on top, clipped together and labeled with a Post-it in Will’s handwriting: To Do ASAP. My heart revs up, pumping too much blood all at once, and I begin to sweat despite the chill in the room. Will isn’t dead. He’s coming back. The evidence is right here, in his distinct scrawl. A dead person can’t go to concerts or knock out to-do lists, and my meticulous husband never leaves a task unfinished.
I sit cross-legged among the papers, sifting through the binders one by one. Bank statements. Credit cards. Loans and contracts and tax returns. I’m looking for... I don’t know what. A toe-dip into the husband I thought I knew so well, any clue as to why he has suddenly morphed into the kind of man who lies.
An hour and a half later, I come across one. A fresh copy of his will, a version I’ve never seen before, updated only a month ago, and the discovery hits me like a punch in the gut. He revised his will without telling me? It’s not like we have a lot of assets. A heavily mortgaged house, a couple of car loans and not much else. Will doesn’t have any living family members, and we don’t have children. Yet. Probably. Except for the maybe-baby, our situation is pretty straightforward. I flip through the pages, searching for the reason why.
The Marriage Lie Page 6
