The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  You’re nothing anymore. You have no purpose. No use. You’re worthless.

  She put a hand to her temples, shocked at the strength of the inner accusations.

  You’ve done your duty. You got your husband and son put in the ground. Now it’s time you joined them. Do what’s right, Merry. Pay the price for your own mistakes. Don’t let them pay it alone.

  She nodded. It made perfect sense. Being a survivor had given her a second chance—a second chance to die.

  She didn’t die when her family did because she didn’t deserve to die like they did. Or die with them. They were together in death as they had been in life. Two against one. Now that she had suffered, now that she had felt the guilt of her sin, now it was her time to do the right thing.

  She calmly walked toward her purse and took out her prescription. She jingled it and held it to the light. Blessed, blessed pills. There were still plenty left. Plenty enough to finish the job the crash had begun.

  George heated a can of chili on the stove. He knew it was late for him to eat such a thing, and he would surely pay for it during the night. But the nice thing about living alone was that he was able to eat what he wanted when he wanted to eat it.

  The chili began to bubble and he stirred it, then switched on the television. Commercials. He shook his head as a local station showed a leftover commercial from the Christmas season. Didn’t anybody check these things?

  “So have a merry, merry Christmas with Landon’s Furniture Warehouse.”

  Merry.

  He stopped stirring. Her name returned to his consciousness. Merry. Call Merry.

  The feeling was so strong. He stood over the pan and waited. Maybe it would go away.

  Call her.

  He shook his head, not understanding what was going on, but not willing to ignore it either. He flipped off the burner, turned down the television, and took out the phone book. He got her number. He dialed. It rang.

  It rang and rang and rang and rang.

  And suddenly he knew. Something wasn’t right. He ripped the page from the phone book, grabbed his coat, his crutches, his keys, and left the house.

  George jabbed Merry’s doorbell until his finger hurt. He’d already pounded. And yelled.

  She’s not home.

  It was a handy answer to the situation, but he knew in his gut that it was not the truth. She was home. And she wasn’t merely asleep. George had made enough ruckus to wake the—

  Enough of this. I have to get inside.

  He felt around the top of the doorjamb for a key. He looked under the mat and the icy planter in the corner. Nothing.

  If only he had heeded Suzy’s advice to get a cell phone. If only he had called 911 the moment he felt something wasn’t right. But would they have taken his feelings seriously?

  There had to be a back door. Would it be open? People were often negligent about locking their back doors.

  George eyed the snow warily. To trudge around the house with two good legs would have been an iffy venture, but with crutches? He wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t even middle-aged. He was an old, injured man. He had no right risking further injury over something that was so uncertain.

  And yet the idea of not trying everything to get inside … What if she was hurt? Maybe he was her only chance. He turned toward the snow. “Here goes.”

  The crutches proved to be helpful in the snow as they provided him something to hold on to and lean against to keep his balance. The snow found its way under his pant leg and into the top of his shoe. It also bit into the bare skin above his sock and across the opened toes of his cast. The cold brought back bad memories.

  He stopped to rest a moment. What if the back door isn’t open? You’ll be doing all this for nothing, and you’ll have to walk back the same way you came.

  He couldn’t think of that.

  Save her!

  He was nearly bowled over by the intensity of the inner voice. Rest time was over. Now.

  He turned the final corner and spotted a patio. Although no one had shoveled it, it had been trampled with footprints. Stray cigarette butts dotted the white. At least she’d had company. For a while. But now no one answered. Had they all gone and left her alone?

  Alone’s not good when you’re depressed, George. You know that from experience.

  He hurried to the sliding glass door. Please let it be open.

  It was.

  He slid the door to the side and stepped in, stomping the snow away. The smell of Italian food lingered, and one lamp lit the open spaces, revealing covered dishes on the counter. Condolence food. He remembered now. Family and friends bringing food in a welcome—but desperate—attempt to do something to help.

  George saw crayon drawings on the fridge. Family photos filled the walls above the kitchen table. Father, mother, child. Three reduced to one. His heart buckled and he felt a wave of familiar depression return, and yet he knew its intensity was minor league compared to Merry’s. I lost a wife near the end of my life. Merry lost her family in their prime.

  “Merry? Merry, are you here?”

  When his call was answered with silence, he realized if she hadn’t answered the door she certainly wasn’t going to answer a strange call from within her house. He had to find her.

  There was only one hallway leading past the living room into the bedroom area. He flipped on its light and peeked in a darkened children’s room, a teddy bear marking the bed. A bathroom. And one other room.

  The door was ajar. The light from a bedside lamp cast a warm glow. George pushed the door open with his crutch. It swung free and revealed a woman on the bed. Near her hand was a prescription bottle.

  He didn’t wait to see more. He called 911.

  George felt for a pulse behind Merry’s ear. Faint, but there. At least help was coming.

  He remembered the locked front door and hurried to open it wide for the paramedics. Then he went back to Merry and lifted her torso into the crook of his shoulder, jostling her with purpose.

  “Come on, Merry girl. It’s not time to leave us yet. Wake up, wake up. It’s morning. You’re going to be late. Breakfast, Merry.” He knew the chatter was false and meaningless, but who knew what would elicit a reaction in a comatose mind? George still had nightmares about being late for work and not being able to find two shoes that matched.

  George slapped her cheeks and willed her eyes to open and her slack jaw to suddenly suck in a deep breath and ask for water. He found himself rocking her. “Please, God. Help her live. Help her live.”

  George heard footsteps. Then a shout: “Paramedics!”

  Finally. “Back here, in the bedroom!”

  A man and a woman appeared in the doorway carrying equipment. They assessed the situation in moments and took Merry from his arms to do their work. George stepped back and watched. “What’s her name?” one of them demanded.

  “Merry. Merry Cavanaugh.”

  The paramedic talked to her as his partner worked by inserting an IV. “Hiya, Merry. We want you to come back to us now.” They read the label on the prescription. They talked to each other and to the hospital. Finally Merry’s eyes fluttered. “Thata girl, Merry, you can do it.”

  The woman stayed behind while the other paramedic left. He came back with a wheeled stretcher he placed out in the hall. He carried Merry toward it as easily as if she were a child. They covered her with a blanket and strapped her in.

  “You family?” he asked George. “You want to ride with us?”

  “Absolutely.” On both accounts.

  Thirteen

  The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me.

  PSALM 138:8

  Tina walked into Johnny’s Diner and spotted Vincent Carpelli immediately. Now she knew where Mallory had gotten her beautiful olive skin. The man was old-world Italian with a bushy white mustache and matching eyebrows. He stood as she approached.

  “Mr. Carpelli?”

  His smile reached his eyes. “Miss McKutcheon. It’s so nice of you to come.”
He pulled out her chair and set her crutches in the corner. He held up a carafe. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Definitely.”

  A waitress came with menus, but Mr. Carpelli put out a hand stopping their distribution. “Do you like cinnamon rolls, Miss McKutcheon? Because Johnny’s has the best cinnamon rolls, as big as a plate, with icing that looks like snow on a mountain.”

  Tina was charmed by the man’s ease of expression. It was quite a contrast with the other male Carpelli she’d met in her living room. “Count me in.”

  After the waitress left, there was an awkward moment when they looked at each other, yet tried not to look as if they were looking at each other. Finally, Mr. Carpelli’s hand bridged the space between them but did not touch. “Tell me about my Mally. If only I hadn’t insisted she come visit …” He pulled his hand—and his eyes—away.

  “Oh no, you mustn’t say that. I mean it’s natural for you to have regrets about her being on the plane, but as for your visit? You had a profound influence on her life.”

  “She told you about me?”

  “You were the number one topic.”

  His eyes softened and the wrinkles eased. “She was a good girl. She tried hard to do the right thing. She was searching so hard.”

  “That’s what she said. She told me about your stories of the military and how they made her think about joining some branch of the service herself.”

  “Yes, well …”

  Tina was surprised by the doubt in his voice. “I thought you backed her choice.”

  “I wasn’t sure. Although I had a good life in the service, and although Mally certainly had a heart to serve her country, I wasn’t sure it was right for her.”

  “She acted as if you approved—as if you were the only one who approved.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t disapprove, but there was more to Mally’s willingness to sacrifice and serve than the military would.” He searched for the right word. “Cultivate. She has so much to gi—” His hand moved toward his mouth. “Had. She had so much to give.” The hand shook and his face crumpled.

  The waitress came with the cinnamon rolls, hesitating as she saw the man’s pain. “Sir? Are you all right?”

  He nodded and drew a breath through his nose, which seemed to calm him. He dug a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “I know it’s customary to apologize for public displays of sorrow, but I won’t say I’m sorry for feeling pain over her death—or showing it. God allows our tears. ‘Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress, and he hears my voice.’ ”

  That’s a Bible verse! Without knowing it, Vincent Carpelli had made the perfect transition into the issue that was uppermost on Tina’s mind. She unwound the outer ring of the pastry as she tried to unwind the outer ring of her thoughts.

  “Your silence speaks of a question, Miss McKutcheon. Did my mention of God offend you?”

  “No, not at all!”

  He smiled at her fervor. “Glad to hear it. Then what’s the problem?”

  “Actually God is at the root of the problem.”

  “Oh dear. I bet He’s not pleased to hear that.”

  Tina felt some of her nerves ease. Mr. Carpelli had such an interesting way of putting things. It was no wonder Mallory had felt connected to him. “I don’t think God minds my having this problem—not if I’m sincere about trying to resolve it.”

  “And the problem is?”

  Tina took a sip of coffee hoping the caffeine would spur her on. “On the plane … Mallory asked me about God.”

  Mr. Carpelli had trouble swallowing. He cleared his throat. “Did she now? What exactly did she ask?”

  “She asked if I believed in God, if I prayed.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said yes.”

  His shoulders eased. “That’s good to hear. What else?”

  Tina closed her eyes. She’d tried to reconstruct their conversation many times. Now, more than ever, it was important that she got it right—for Mallory’s grandfather. “She was talking to me about trying to find her purpose, and she mentioned you’d wanted her to pray about it.”

  “That’s true. But she found it hard. Her parents.” He shook his head. “I brought up my son to know God, but when he got on his own, he chose to reject Him. His wife being from the Orient and believing in the power of self rather than God didn’t help. Then, when they had a few bad breaks he chose to blame God rather than his own choices and refused to see how good often comes from bad.”

  “He mentioned losing a job and his wife getting breast cancer.”

  Mr. Carpelli nodded. “At first Gerald used his faith like it was a security system. As long as he said so many Hail Mary’s or remembered when to kneel and went to confession, nothing bad would get through. But God doesn’t work that way.”

  Tina nodded, understanding completely. “People can get hung up on window dressing and ceremony instead of zoning in on a relationship with Him. And the hard times? Even though I don’t like them any more than the next person, I know the struggles I’ve had have made me stronger because they’ve forced me to turn to Him. ‘For when I am weak, then I am strong.’ ”

  He applauded softly. “Bravo, Miss McKutcheon. It’s nice to know Mally was sitting next to a Bible-knowing woman.”

  Tina stopped midchew. Here we go …

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  With difficulty she swallowed. “Can I be totally honest with you, Mr. Carpelli?”

  “It’s what I’d prefer.”

  Tina pushed her plate aside and clasped her hands on the table. She looked down at them, not wanting to meet his eyes. “I have a confession to make. When Mallory asked me about God, even though I knew it was the perfect time for me to share with her, even though I knew it was my duty to do just that, I … I …”

  “You chickened out?”

  She looked up. “Yes.”

  He nodded knowingly, and she waited to hear some much needed words of comfort. Surely this nice gentleman would make her feel better. She did not expect—

  “Are you ashamed of God?”

  Tina blinked. “No, of course not.”

  “Then why didn’t you do it?”

  She thought an answer would rush to her lips, but it didn’t. Why didn’t she do it?

  His hand bridged the gap between them a second time, but this time it made contact with hers. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to come down so hard on you, Miss McKutcheon. The truth is, I’ve been where you are. I’ve felt that regret, that shame at my own cowardice.” His eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I share it now.”

  “Now?”

  He withdrew his hand and fingered the handle of his coffee cup, shaking his head. “We’re some Christians, you and me. God gave us a chance to reach His lovely child, Mallory, and we each chickened out.”

  No! Tina’s head started shaking in rhythm with his. “She asked you too?”

  His head stopped. “Yes, ma’am. When she was visiting, she was ripe to hear all of it—and I knew that but said little. Oh, I told her to pray for guidance, that sort of thing. But that’s safe stuff—pabulum I could feed a baby. But I didn’t tell her about Jesus and heaven and hell; I didn’t tell her it was vitally important for her to make a decision in His favor. I thought there would be more time. Plus …” He looked up, his eyes drawn in an awful self-indulgence. “I didn’t want to turn her off. We were having such a glorious visit. She was so open. We had great talks. I didn’t want her to clam up and think I was a fanatic.”

  “Or have her reject it—and me.”

  He let out a laugh. “And there we have it, folks! Reasons number one and two why people don’t share the gospel with others.”

  Tina was struck by his choice of words. “You said, ‘share the gospel.’ A lot of people don’t know what that means. There are so many terms we believers use all the time that other people hear and block out because they don’t understand the lingo.”

  “And we’re n
ot good at making it clear, are we? We like our lingo: our calls to be ‘born again,’ ‘Jesus saves,’ and ‘repent.’ It’s like a physicist trying to tell a layman about gravity using the lingo of science. When all he has to say—all most people want to hear in order to believe in gravity—is that it pulls us toward the earth and prevents us from flying off into space.”

  Something clicked into place. “So what people want to hear about God and faith is what’s in it for them?”

  “Exactly. In words they can understand. That’s what Mallory wanted to know.”

  It sounded easy. “So what should we have said—without using the lingo?”

  Mr. Carpelli ate a bite of cinnamon roll, deep in thought. “I think it comes down to the facts.”

  “Which are?”

  “There is a God and He loves us.”

  Tina remembered Mallory’s final question. “Mallory wondered about that. She asked if God knew about her and cared about her.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “Nothing. The pilot interrupted. We took off. We—” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Mr. Carpelli’s shoulders sagged with the weight of it. “All she had was generic talk of God. She didn’t know about Jesus. And now …”

  Tina felt her own weight. “Why is it so hard to say the J-word? I can say God all over the place, but Jesus? His name catches in my throat.”

  “Because when we say His name, we’re taking a stand. Just saying God is a good thing, but again, it’s easy.” He looked up. “I’ve heard that over 96 percent of the world believes in God. There’s no risk leaving it there.”

  “But how do we explain that Jesus is God’s Son, and that He was born with the sole purpose of dying for those sins we keep doing—on a cross? It’s the most horrendous way to die. People have a hard time understanding such a sacrifice.”

  “Because they wouldn’t think of doing it themselves.”