by Nancy Moser
Then, without further consideration, she heaved it over their heads until it hit the back wall of the room. All talking stopped. All eyes were finally hers. She wanted their attention? She had it.
“Good arm, Ms. McKutcheon.”
Nervous laughter. Tina’s heart pumped in a heady rhythm she hadn’t felt since the crash. If she’d had another book handy, she would have thrown it too—and not so high. She grabbed a breath and pointed a finger at them. “You people don’t care a thing about anyone but yourselves. You don’t care about me, you don’t care about learning, and you’ve just brazenly proved you don’t care a whit about showing respect for the people who died. And because you’re so good at taking care of yourselves, you certainly don’t need me. I quit.”
She walked from the room, slamming the door behind her. The hall echoed with it.
I just quit. I quit!
Her entire body shook. Tina looked back at her classroom and heard voices. No doubt they were discussing their crazy teacher. Or maybe not. Maybe they had already moved onto the next topic of discussion. The mere thought of that possibility sealed her decision.
She headed down the hall toward the exit.
A door opened. Ashley’s voice called out, “Ms. McKutcheon, where are you going?”
She had no idea. Tina did not look back but continued on the road she’d chosen. God help her.
Anthony drove to work feeling on top of the world. Maybe Lissa was partially right. Surviving the crash had given him a chance to start fresh. If his life was good before, it could be even better now.
He pressed the accelerator of his red Corvette to the floor, wallowing in its surge of power. He turned a corner as if he and the machine were one. A few minutes later he pulled into the parking space marked, “Dr. Thorgood.” He was back. Life was good.
However, he was thankful there was no one else in the parking lot to witness his awkward exit from the car. A sports car was great for taking curves—and attracting women—but an obstacle to overcome when one’s body was injured and sore. He shut his door and paused a moment to catch his breath and shove the pain aside. He’d considered milking his injuries but discounted such a plan as only marginally providing him with the attention he deserved. Besides, to do so would be a sign of weakness. Instead, he’d chosen to be a bastion of strength, a true survivor worthy of being chosen to live when others had died.
He adjusted his camel-hair topcoat across his shoulders and walked to the entrance. With each step his bruised ribs reminded him of their presence. Through the glass doors he spotted some bright oscillating colors in the lobby. Balloons? And was that a banner on the wall?
This is going to be great.
He raised his chin and entered, allowing himself to limp slightly for effect.
Candy saw him first and raced to his side. “Dr. Thorgood. You’re here! You’re here!”
Her exclamation brought the others from the back: nurses Sandy and Emma, and three other women who were past recipients of his surgical skills: Tummy Tuck, Face Lift, and Nose Bob. The women applauded, and he bowed as much as his ribs allowed.
Emma pointed to the banner. “Welcome back, Doctor.”
Sandy moved to a food table that was crowned with balloons. She tilted a cake so he could see the icing. It had a plane drawn on top, flying amid blue sky. “See? We had this made just for you. And there’s punch, and I brought in some of the mints left over from my daughter’s wedding.”
Anthony wasn’t sure an airplane cake was in the best of taste, nor did he find leftover mints appealing, but he accepted the intention behind it. “Thank you, ladies. You do me great honor.”
Candy jumped in with the response he had hoped for. “Oh, we’re the ones who feel honored, Doctor. After all you’ve been through.” Her eyes skimmed his torso. He hadn’t realized he’d put a hand to his ribs. He lowered it. “But look at us. Standing here jabbing when you need to sit.” She raced toward a chair and turned it around for him.
As soon as his bottom hit the cushion, Sandy got him a slice of cake, while Face Lift poured him a cup of punch. Its pink color looked sickeningly sweet.
Face Lift winked at him. “We’re so glad to have you back, Doctor.”
He realized he didn’t know her name. And hadn’t they dated? She held on to the glass of punch a moment too long, as if waiting for a special acknowledgment. “Thank you …”
“April, quit making eyes at the doctor,” Tummy Tuck said. “You need to share.”
April. I was close. I was thinking June …
As his fans fawned over him, Anthony noticed Lissa standing on the edge of the waiting room. Alone. She leaned against the wall, her arms across her chest. Why wasn’t she out here with the others?
He smiled at her, but instead of returning his smile, she merely shook her head as if she were disappointed in him. How dare she ruin my triumphant return.
Candy pulled a chair close and sat, her cheap perfume offending his nose. “Oh, Doctor Thorgood, tell us all about it. Tell us about the crash.” The other women gathered their own chairs until he had a circle of admirers.
At least someone was interested. He looked up, prepared to give Lissa a smile of victory, but when he did, she was gone.
He dismissed the subsequent wave of regret as ridiculous and turned back to his appreciative audience.
Anthony sank into the leather chair in his office. Although his staff had limited his appointments, he was still exhausted—and it was only noon. But he wasn’t about to show them that. To them he was a god, risen out of the icy waters of destruction. And gods didn’t get tired.
There was a tap on the door. He looked up and shoved the exhaustion aside. Lissa came in and eyed him far too knowingly. “You look wasted, Doctor. It’s tough being master of the universe, isn’t it?”
“What do you care?” As soon as he said the words, he wanted them back. He sounded like a bitter teenager.
They shared a moment of silence.
“What can I do to help?” she asked. Her voice was surprisingly kind.
Confronted with mercy, Anthony didn’t know how to respond.
“We’re ordering in for lunch. Do you want me to get you something? You’re on call at the hospital starting at one, but until then you can close the door, eat in peace, and even lie down for a bit. How does that sound?”
Anthony took a breath, prepared to maintain his omnipotent role. But the sincere look in Lissa’s eyes stopped him. It might be nice to have one person with whom he could just be himself, weak or strong. “That would be great.”
She smiled. “Turkey or pastrami?”
“Pastrami with lots of hot mustard.”
“You do like living dangerously.”
Sonja buttoned the top button of her black dress and smoothed it across her hips. Classic but subdued. Perfect.
It had taken her over an hour to get dressed and her broken arm was only part of the reason. She wanted to look perfect as she made an appearance at Allen and Dale’s double funeral—and then when she went into work right after. But not too perfect. At first she did a good job of covering her facial bruises and cuts with makeup, but then she thought better of it. Her injuries were a badge of honor for all to see. Off with the makeup. Black and blue looked good on her.
And yet she wasn’t exactly sure why she was going through all this. Did it stem from a feeling of guilt for living when they had died? Was it a way to assuage her guilt for forcing her way on the trip? Was her attendance a form of penance? It really didn’t matter. What mattered was going and being seen—
She stopped looking for her other gold earring. Did I really just think that? Am I that cold?
She waited for the desire to be seen to subside, or at least be handily pushed away by a character trait such as compassion or genuine sorrow, but it remained where it was. That was the trouble with most truths. They didn’t budge an inch. You can run, but you can’t hide.
She moved her cast around, determining whether or not she wou
ld have trouble driving. The last thing she wanted to do was call someone from the office to pick her up. For one thing, she couldn’t think of anyone she’d like to spend one-on-one time with, and for another, she didn’t want to dilute the power of her entrance by having a companion.
She could call a cab, but going to a funeral in such a way would be awkward. She wasn’t about to pay it to wait for her to come out, but if she didn’t, she’d have to call another cab to take her to the graveside service. And it was important to go to both sites to employ the full extent of her public sorrow and personal trauma.
It still bugged her that no one had called to tell her about the funeral.
No, she would have to drive. Perhaps there was power in surprise? She hoped so. Attending the funeral was part of her job—PR in its most poignant form. She’d gone into this thing alone; she would finish it alone. She looked in the mirror. “Right?”
As if she had a choice.
She was late. Because Allen didn’t belong to a church, his family had agreed to combine his funeral with Dale’s at his church. Sure was convenient.
Sonja steeled herself as she walked up the front steps. Her body was still sore, but she tried not to show it. After all, she had something to prove. The men from their office had died. The lone female lived. Strength be to women!
She took a deep breath and entered the church, bracing herself for the attention that would surely be hers—along with sympathy, concern, tears, and hugs.
Two caskets crowned the top of the aisle, and for a brief moment, Sonja found it oddly shocking. Her stomach roiled, and she reached for the edge of a pew. They’re really dead. They’re up there. The last time I saw them they were on the plane and—
A few heads turned in her direction. After the requisite widened eyes at her cast and bruises, those people she didn’t recognize turned forward again. But those from work … the gazes of her coworkers hung a few seconds too long. And not one person smiled or showed pity. Not one person stood to come to her aid. Not one person even scooted down in the pew to make room for her.
Then the whispers began. Raised hands, darting eyes, nodding heads.
What’s going on?
She spotted Geraldine, and Geraldine spotted Sonja. The look the woman flung across the sanctuary was enough to drive Sonja into the back wall. Geraldine rolled her eyes, shook her head, and her lips turned up in a snarl. Utter contempt. Hatred. Not an ounce of sympathy or compassion. Not even the cool friendship of working acquaintances. Hate.
A man at the end of a pew tugged at her sleeve. “Do you want to sit down, miss?”
Sonja shook her head. She had not expected to be treated like a conquering hero, but neither had she expected to be shunned.
“Are you all right?”
Things were not all right, not right at all. White was black, and black was white.
Sonja turned her back on the condemning crowd and left the church as fast as her injuries would allow. She got in her car and shut the door.
Then Sonja cried.
George saw the notice in the paper. Louis Grange Cavanaugh and Justin James Cavanaugh. Services at one. Wife and mother, Merry.
He closed the obituaries. I should go. For that girl. For Merry.
And yet he didn’t want to go. He hadn’t been to a funeral since Irma’s. He hated them.
He laughed at the absurdity of his thought. “Nobody likes funerals, George. It’s not something to like; it’s something to attend out of respect.”
He nodded at his own argument. Though the next funeral he’d planned to attend was his own, he’d have to make an exception. For Merry.
Merry walked in the crook of her mother’s extended arm through the double doors of the funeral home, past the solicitous words of a greeter, and toward the viewing room. She was getting her own private viewing of the bodies. Just her mom and Merry; Lou’s mother getting her own time an hour before. Merry held her back straight, pretending only reluctantly to let her mother comfort her. But in truth, the support was needed. Everything up to now had been rehearsal. This was the real thing.
Merry saw an open door ahead to their left. Just a few more feet and she would be face-to-face with her husband and son. Although her entire being wanted to see them again, there was one small stipulation to her wish: She wanted to see them alive. And that wasn’t possible.
She knew their silent faces would condemn her. Even in the funeral home’s applied mask of peace, she’d be able to see what they truly felt about her. Their disappointment, their accusations, their anger.
If it weren’t for you, we’d be alive. Can’t get much plainer than that.
The fragrance of flowers wafted toward her, luring her in. See? It’s all right. There are pretty flowers in here. You love flowers. Come smell them. Come closer and see the pretty—
It was a trick. An awful trick.
Merry stopped walking, pressing back against her mother’s guiding presence.
“Merry? Come on … You know this is part of it. We have to go in. You have to see—”
Her veil of strength ripped apart, leaving her exposed. “No, I don’t. I don’t have to see. I can’t see them. I can’t!”
Reinforcements appeared, touching her, cajoling her.
“It’s important, Mrs. Cavanaugh. It’s part of the grieving process.”
“It’s a chance for you to say good-bye, baby.”
“It will make you feel better.”
Merry turned toward the person who’d dared to utter the last argument. It belonged to a somberly-dressed stranger. A funeral worker. “Seeing the dead bodies of my family will make me feel better? Do they pay you to say such drivel?”
“Now, now, baby. Don’t take it out on Mr. Patterson. He’s been very helpful to me in planning the funeral, especially since you weren’t any … since you were indisposed.”
Now I have to suffer the guilt of not being able to plan my family’s funeral? Is there anything else? Perhaps my relatives will blame me for making them take time off from their jobs or for the burden of having to pay travel expenses? Yes, indeed, it’s Merry’s fault.
All restraint left her. Her guilt cup overflowed, and yet the flood brought a certain relief. Bring on some more. It doesn’t matter anymore. My cup runneth over, so let it run.
She enjoyed a sudden realization that she didn’t care what anyone thought about her today. Their opinions couldn’t be any worse than the opinions she had of herself. And so, she had three choices: She could try to regain her strong act; let herself be led through the day like a zombie—a choice which did have its merits; or she could just let it happen and feel what she had to feel, say what she had to say, and do what she had to do.
She chose the latter.
With a wave of her arms, she swept away the cloying hands of her comforters. “Get away from me!”
They stepped back as if she spat on them. It was a thought …
Her mother extended a hand. “Merry, baby … we’re only trying to help you through—”
“Don’t you get it, Mom? I don’t want help through anything. Part of me wants to wake up and have it be a horrid dream; while another part of me wants to wallow in it, rut in it, sit myself down in the dirty, slugging mess of it and never get up. Unfortunately, I’m coming to the conclusion that neither choice is going to make it go away. And so I’m going to face reality and, as you keep telling me, move on.”
She felt her lip curl. “I have never heard such a ridiculous set of words. Move on where? I don’t have a destination anymore. I don’t have a job—I was a wife and mother. I don’t have an identity—I was a wife and mother. I don’t have a purpose—” She clutched the neckline of her dress and screamed the rest. “I was a wife and mother!”
She felt her heart break in two. A definite pain. A crack she knew would never heal. It scared her, comforted her—and condemned her.
Merry had no more words. She looked around the lobby. She was surrounded. Her mother was crying, her hands to her mouth.
Two funeral workers took the other points of the triangle, exchanging visual, unspoken strategies to prevent her escape. And to her back … she was up against a wall, or rather, up against the open door of the viewing room.
She could either burst through the mortal barricade or escape to the land of the dead. Inept words, irritating hands, and ignorant minds? Or condemnation and just punishment?
She turned on her heel and fled into the viewing room. She closed the door behind her.
She locked it.
The pounding started within seconds.
“Merry! Let us in. You can’t be in there.”
Merry had to laugh. She put her forehead to the door and stroked the barrier that was saving her from such idiocy. “You wanted me in here, Mom. And so I’m here. Now leave me alone.”
Another voice. “Mrs. Cavanaugh. We do want you to have time with your family, but we’d prefer if you kept the door open—”
“No.”
“But what … what are you going to do in there, baby?”
Merry stared at the door, just inches away. What was she going to do? What were they afraid of? That she’d snuggle down beside Lou and slam the lid?
Say, that’s not a bad …
Merry blocked out their pleadings and slowly turned around. Her husband and son lay in front of her in matching white coffins—one big, one little. A spray of red roses lay on top of Lou’s and white roses on Justin’s.
Lou didn’t like roses! He always said they were a huge waste of money because they didn’t last. He preferred carnations. You could buy one carnation, and it would last for weeks, long after any rose had wilted to nothing.
Who made this decision?
With a single movement, Merry approached Lou’s coffin and shoved the spray of roses toward the back where they slipped off the coffin to the floor. She looked around to the sides of the room. Multilevel stands held dozens of fresh flower arrangements and plants. She spotted carnations. She ripped them out of the water and returned to the coffin, laying them on top. Beads of water ran down the slick sides of the white lacquered wood.
