by Nancy Moser
The doctor replaced her chart in its slot. He faced her. “The body of your husband has been pulled from the wreckage.”
All breathing stopped. Merry hung in limbo until her body took emergency action and jump-started by sucking in fresh air.
“They found him yesterday. Your mother identified him. And also your son, whom you, of course, brought in.”
Brought in only to die. Some mother I was. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t keep him warm. Keep him safe. And the visualization of her mother looking at a lifeless Lou and Justin. Cold Lou. Cold Justin. Wet from the depths of the river Lou and Justin.
Merry jerked her head back and forth, denying such a picture could be reality. Her lips closed tight, her chin hardened.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cavanaugh. I know this is hard.”
Hard? That word was no representation of how she felt. Falling from the sky was hard. Waking up under water was hard. Holding on to the metal of the plane was hard. Holding on to Justin as they flew through the air was hard. But the vision of her mother seeing in death the two people who were her life? That wasn’t hard.
Was there a hell?
Absolutely.
“Mrs. Cavanaugh?”
Merry stopped brushing her hair. A man in a suit stood at her door. “Yes?”
He came in, his hand extended. “I’m Dr. Gillespe, a psychologist on staff. Your doctor asked me to stop by.”
Merry didn’t answer. Nor did she shake his hand. The last thing she wanted was to have her head shrunk by a shrink.
“I hear you’re upset.”
Merry had never heard a more idiotic understatement. This guy called himself a doctor? She resumed brushing. “No, not a bit.”
He blinked twice, and in his confusion, Merry found strength. Maybe if I act as if I’m all right, he’ll leave me alone. She slapped the brush against the palm of her hand. “Will there be anything else, Doctor? Otherwise, I’d like to finish getting ready to leave.”
“You don’t want to talk?”
She cocked her head. “Well, let’s see, since I’m not into basketball, and baseball hasn’t started yet … no. I don’t think so.”
He smiled. “Your humor is a good sign.”
“Glad to hear it. If you care to wait, I bet I could think of a doctor joke.”
He locked his hands in front of himself. “Nice wall you’re building.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nice wall you’re building around yourself, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Before you can work through this, you’ll need to knock it down.”
“I don’t know about any wall, but you know what might make me feel good?”
“What?”
“Knocking you down.”
She watched him put on his tolerant face. “There’s no reason for you to get violent—”
“No reason?” Her voiced edged into its shriek mode. “No reason?”
He glanced toward the door. “I think it’s best if you calm down. If you would like a tranquilizer to help you—”
“No!” Being drugged out of her pain was the last thing she wanted right now. What she did want was to be rid of this man.
Then be calm. Tell him what he wants to hear.
Merry ran her hands over her face, pressing sanity into place. When she removed them, her panic was absent—at least in her outer appearance. She even managed a smile. “Well, that was quite a fit I had there, wasn’t it?”
The doctor blinked a few times, gauging her new persona. “It is understandable.”
You bet it is, Doc.
“I want to apologize for my outburst.” She sighed for effect. “I just want to get home so I can begin to deal with my loss.”
“But your doctor said you didn’t want to go home.”
Caught in the truth. She forced an apologetic smile. “That was then, this is now.” She clasped her hands in her lap like a teacher’s pet vying to get her way. “May I please go home now?”
The doctor studied her face intently, and Merry nearly lost it under his gaze. She felt her right cheek twitch at the effort, but luckily, the doctor looked away and didn’t see it.
He fished a business card from his pocket. “If you want to talk.” He nodded a good-bye and left.
Merry stared at the card. That was easy—and telling. A few witty comments, a confident facade, and people left her alone. The doctor had been eager to accept her normal mode over her panic. Interesting.
But maybe it made sense. In spite of their good intentions, people didn’t want to talk about bad things, be reminded of bad things, or be around people who were suffering through bad things. Perhaps because it made them feel bad and vulnerable and inept.
If Merry wanted to be left alone in her grief and pain, then the best course of action was to pretend she was fine. Act strong. Put on a face of acceptance, tinted with a blush of regret for good effect. People would be so relieved they would flee to escape even the shadow of what she’d been through. Truth be told, they didn’t want to know how it felt. And they didn’t want to witness it, either. Ignorance was bliss.
But if she was going to pull this off. Merry held a mirror to her face. She looked awful, her face scarred from cuts, bruises, and the aftereffects of frostbite. She’d lucked out with the doctor. Fooling her extended family would take more effort. She lifted her chin and immediately noticed a change for the better. With difficulty she relaxed her forehead until the lines went away, and she pressed a finger against the crease between her brows until it dissipated.
Her smile needed work. Actually, it wasn’t her mouth’s problem but her eyes. For even when her lips were curled in the right direction, her eyes betrayed the mask.
With a deep sigh, Merry took one last look at the reflection of her facade. It was doable. She’d work on it.
“You wait right there, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Your mother called and said she’d be here momentarily to take you home.”
The nurse left Merry sitting in a wheelchair in her room. There were no belongings to collect. She wore a complete set of new clothing, a gift from the hospital or airline or some Good Samaritan. She had no purse, no money, no nothing. And that was fine with her.
If only she could proceed with her life without its other encumbrances. There was no picking up where she left off, either in terms of her activities, her possessions, or her home. Maybe if she worked hard on her “I’m okay” face, she could somehow con her mother into dropping her off in the middle of nowhere and driving away, leaving Merry to fend for herself. If that involved crawling off in a wilderness corner to curl up and die like a wounded animal, so be it.
She maneuvered her wheelchair into the doorway and looked down the hall she’d avoided in spite of numerous attempts by the nurses to get her to take a walk. All the noise and hubbub were disturbing, and she pulled the wheels back, making sure she wasn’t sticking out into the fray. Her domain since the crash had been so small. Safe. Isolated. To venture into the world.
An old man in a wheelchair was pushed past. “Whoa! Back up there, girl.”
His wheelchair reappeared in her sight line, and he looked at her. “You one of the five?”
“The five?”
“The five survivors? One of us?”
There were others? Why have I never wondered if there were others? “I guess I am.”
“Me too.” He extended a hand, then turned it into a salute when the doorway and their chairs prevented contact. “George Davanos. And you’re … Sonja?”
“Merry. Merry Cavanaugh.”
“That’s right. Taken first.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve been watching the news reports.” He did a double take. “Haven’t you?”
Merry shook her head. It had never occurred to her to watch coverage of the crash. Why would anyone want to see it again and again and—
“You’ll have to take a look sometime. It’s a weird experience seeing yourself in the water and then being rescued. Obviously at the time I was pretty focused
and had no clue what was going on around me. Did you?”
She shook her head again. He studied her a moment, reminding Merry of the questioning looks her father used to give her when he knew she was keeping something from him. George must be a father himself.
“Too bad we didn’t have a chance to compare notes, Miss Merry, but the hospital was pretty tight with visiting privileges. Protective as a mama hen covering her brood.” He leaned closer. “Speaking of chickens … I bet they thought our meeting would cause more emotional trauma than they were ready to deal with. Or maybe they’re worried about lawsuits or something.” His eyes twinkled. “Or maybe they’re in cahoots with the airlines. Now there’s a company that would rather not see us again.” He took a deep breath. “But maybe we can get together once we’re mended. You think?”
She didn’t answer. The last thing she wanted was to rehash the destruction of her family with strangers.
He swatted the arm of the woman pushing his chair. “Well then, I guess we’d best be going, Suze.” He looked at Merry. “This is my daughter, Suzy. You got family coming to get you?”
Don’t mention family to me, old man. But as soon as Merry felt the anger threaten, she remembered her new resolve and tried out her happy mask. It took a little effort … but … Yes, there it was. She grinned a moment, letting the muscles find their places. “Of course they are,” she said. Her voice broke a little, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
He noticed. “Oh, shoot … you’re the one who lost her husband and son, aren’t you? I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip about things. Don’t take no nevermind about me. I’m just an old coot who should know better but doesn’t.”
The daughter spoke. “But do you have a way home, Mrs. Cavanaugh?”
So much for my acting abilities. Merry nodded. “My mom’s coming.”
“Well, that’s good anyway,” George said.
Merry shrugged. George kept looking at her. It made her squirm. My face green, old man?
Finally he pulled his eyes away. “Home, Suze.”
As he moved on, Merry turned her chair inward toward the room. Why hadn’t her cover-up worked with George? She was so sure it was the answer to dealing with people. But maybe it didn’t work because he wasn’t an outsider like the rest. George and Merry shared something unique, and that made the mask unnecessary—almost an act of bad manners.
And yet, as nice as George had been, Merry didn’t want to meet any of the other survivors. Although they had this shared experience, there was no way they could ever bond. They were not the same. The others had lived and were eager to go on with their lives.
Merry had lived only to want to die.
As they waited for the elevator, George looked over his shoulder toward Merry’s room.
“What?” Suzy asked.
“I’m worried about that girl.”
“You don’t even know her.”
Suzy was right. There was no reason for George to worry about a woman he’d met for thirty seconds, a woman who had spoken less than a dozen words. And yet there was something about Merry’s eyes, something about the way she shrugged when George had mentioned how good it was that her mother was picking her up. As if her mother was not enough, as if what she had to go home to wasn’t worth leaving the hospital for.
She’s just lost her husband and her child. You lost Irma. You know how that feels. You know—
George tossed his hand backward and whacked Suzy’s arm. “Go back!”
“What?”
“Go back to Merry’s room. I have to talk to her. There’s something wrong.” He tried to turn the wheelchair on his own, but his hands wouldn’t prevail against Suzy’s solid stance.
“Dad. Enough. Leave the woman alone. You could tell she didn’t want to talk—”
“But that’s the point. She’s depressed. I could see it. And I can help.”
“How can you help?”
“I … I know …”
“She’s probably just tired and hurting from her loss. You know how you felt when Mom died. She doesn’t want a stranger butting in.”
“But—”
The elevator dinged. “We’ll get her phone number. You can call her later, okay?”
George was pushed inside the elevator. His stomach grabbed when the doors closed between him and Merry Cavanaugh.
The doctor standing beside her wielded the ultimate power over her immediate future. With this knowledge, Sonja was on her best behavior. She was willing herself to be pronounced well.
“What’s the verdict, Doctor? Can I go home?”
The doctor peered over the top of the chart. “Do you want to go home?”
“Where’s the door?”
“I see no reason—”
“Super.” Sonja flipped back the covers.
The doctor stopped her. “I don’t want you driving. Can someone come and pick you up?”
“My parents are flying in.”
“Then you need to wait until they get here.”
“I can get a cab.”
“You could, but I’d rather you have more personal help.” She patted Sonja’s hand. “You deserve a little pampering, Ms. Grafton. There are so few times in life when one gets it. I’d enjoy it if I were you.”
Sonja wasn’t sure her parents were the pampering types. Although she wanted some attention, the thought of having them with her, in her apartment, was not restful. Especially since she hadn’t cleaned up before she left for her trip. Her kitchen was full of dirty dishes, there was laundry to do, and newspapers were strewn all over the floor—
“I’ll tell the nurses you can go as soon as your parents get here. Agreed?”
Do I have a choice? “Agreed.”
The doctor adjusted her stethoscope around her neck. “Have a nice life, Ms. Grafton. You’re a very lucky woman.”
“I know.”
A candy striper came to the door with magazines and newspapers. The doctor nodded a good-bye and let the girl in.
“You want something to read?”
Sonja looked at the clock. It was two hours before her parents’ flight got in. “Sure. Give me a newspaper.” She thought of her new friend, Dora. “The Chronicle if you have it.”
Sonja’s attention was immediately drawn to a front-page picture of a crane lifting a twisted piece of fuselage from the river. It was a ghastly reminder. It’s a miracle any of them had survived. If the crash could do that to metal, what chance did a frail body have?
She found a story about the helicopter rescuers, Floyd Calbert and Hugh Johnson. It was a wonderfully written piece, but more than that, Sonja found she could not take her eyes off the two men. Her saviors. Two men propelled into heroic action by circumstances beyond their control. All logic told them not to go, and yet they did. And saved us. Saved me.
Sonja pulled the paper to her chest and closed her eyes. If I haven’t said this before, and I know we haven’t talked much, but thank You, God. Thank You for giving me this second chance. Thank You for men like Floyd and Hugh.
She ended the prayer feeling better—and more than a little shocked that just a few words to God would have such an instant effect on her. Maybe this God-stuff wasn’t all bad.
She turned to page two. A headline caught her attention: Funerals Set for Sanford Industries Crash Victims. She held the page close. Allen and Dale were being buried tomorrow. To think she nearly missed it. If she hadn’t read about it in the paper.
Which brought to mind something that irked her more as each hour passed: Why hadn’t anyone from work called her? Not just to tell her about the funeral, but to check on her? On the plane, Roscoe had spoken of her reputation. Apparently things were worse than she thought. Did people resent her for living when Allen and Dale died? Did they think she’d done something shifty to bring about their deaths?
That’s absurd.
Perhaps. Yet why hadn’t anyone called? Why was she being treated like a persona non grata? Was she being punished for living?
&nb
sp; With a sudden burst of energy, Sonja crumpled the newspaper into a wad and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It fell short.
Join the club.
If Sonja’s body hadn’t been so sore, she would have paced. What was taking her parents so long? They’d called from the airport to tell her they arrived and were renting a car. But maybe her father didn’t like the car they’d gotten and was arguing about getting a better one—while his daughter was going crazy in a hospital room, waiting to go home.
She’d seen him do such a thing many times. No transaction was easy when Sheffield D. Grafton II was involved. Dinners were sent back, hotel rooms refused, traffic tickets disputed. When she still lived at home, Sonja had made it a habit to go to the rest room or wait in the car when such confrontations loomed. And it wasn’t that he had the power of money on his side. No, her parents were definitely middle class, but her father’s name sounded like money, so he played the part.
Sonja found comfort in knowing she wasn’t like him. Not in this respect anyway. Or was she?
She heard a commotion outside and recognized its source immediately. The booming bass of her father’s voice demanded attention as he asked where his daughter’s room was located.
Sonja put a hand to her chest. Why had her heartbeat suddenly shifted from a livable two-step to a polka rhythm?
They’re here to help you, Sonja. You have nothing to apologize for or feel bad about. You’re the victim.
Her parents swept into her room, her father in the lead. He took the power position at the foot of the bed. “Well there you are.”
Where did you expect me to be? In the lobby, waiting so you wouldn’t have to bother finding a parking space?
Her mother made a beeline for her side, studying her, assessing the damage. She lifted a hand to touch the forehead bandage but withdrew it before it could be contaminated by the wound’s imperfection. “My, my, you are worse for the wear, aren’t you, dear?”
“I just went through a plane crash, Mother.”
The woman cocked her head, making further assessments. “No need to be rude, Sonja. Is that a bruise on your neck there? And your skin …”
