by Nancy Moser
Tina suddenly thought of Henry Smith. “The hero … the man in the water who saved us and sacrificed …”
“Perhaps he achieved a bit of perfection in that last act?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“I’m sure God and the angels celebrated.”
“And Jesus.”
He smiled. “And Jesus.” He warmed their coffee from the carafe. “All you just said about Jesus was good. It was said simply. Directly. But you can’t leave Him hanging on that cross. You have to get to the victory part.”
“Easter.”
“Resurrection. Rising from the dead. Coming alive like we will come alive in heaven—”
“If we believe in Jesus.” Tina pegged her finger into the table. “That’s the crux of it. That’s what gets hard. Saying that Jesus is the way to heaven. Not a way. The only way.” She thought of one of the verses she’d memorized. “In John 14:6, Jesus says, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ ”
“Pretty blatant. Pretty clear.”
“Hard.”
“Vitally important.”
She couldn’t disagree with that one.
Mr. Carpelli looked past her, and she could see an idea forming behind his eyebrows. “So do we not give people like my Mally the punch line because we’re afraid of their reaction?”
“What?”
He looked right at her. “Does a stand-up comic not give the punch line because he’s afraid the audience won’t laugh at his joke? No. He goes for it. If they laugh, fine. If they don’t? What’s he out? A little effort?”
Tina liked this image and immediately got the connection. “And a person’s salvation—their eternal, forever-after life in heaven—is no laughing matter. No joke.”
“And just because there’s a chance people won’t respond how we want them to, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t say it. Go for it.”
Tina agreed. But there was a small hitch. “The danger is in saying too much too soon. You and I both know that we never stop learning. There are definitely different levels of understanding all this—and it has nothing to do with chronological age. A person can be eighty and be a kindergartner in the school of faith, yet a ten-year-old can already grasp the essence of what we’ve said. So we need to be aware of our listeners’ levels of understanding. You don’t explain calculus to a person who’s only ready for arithmetic.”
“Point taken. And you don’t take it personally if they don’t kneel at your feet and want to pray with you on the spot—” he lifted his hands in a mock hallelujah stance—“and give their life to the Lord!”
“Lingo city,” Tina said. “But your point is good. Free will prevails. We need to realize that maybe we’re only supposed to plant a seed. Maybe it’s up to someone else to do the watering or the fertilizing—”
“Or the harvesting. All are equally important.”
“At least we’ll know we did the right thing.”
“Gave it our best.”
“Yet even if our hands tremble and our voice wavers while we stumble over the words, or even if our timing isn’t perfect, God can use our efforts. But He cannot use our silence.”
Mr. Carpelli stared at her. Then he smiled. “That’s very profound, Miss McKutcheon. You’ve hit it square.”
They shared a moment of silence and both took deep breaths. Their time together had been so intense. And then, as if in concert, they made one final connection and acknowledged it to each other with a look.
“But Mallory.” Tina said.
“Did we fail her?”
“Did she choose Jesus?”
“Is she in heaven?”
This second silence spoke their answer. They didn’t know. Only God knew.
Tina hugged Vincent Carpelli in the parking lot. They both seemed hesitant to let go.
When they parted he had a worried look. “I just realized we never talked about the crash. Your ordeal. And I don’t know anything about you. Are you married? Do you have kids? What do you do for a living?”
Tina laughed. “We did the opposite of most people, Mr. Carpelli. We bypassed the small talk and got right to the important stuff.”
“Indeed we did. But I still want to know more.” He hesitated just a moment. “I’d like to be your friend, Miss McKutcheon.”
She squeezed his hand. “My friends call me Tina.”
Merry felt herself swimming toward the surface. There’s the light! Swim toward the light. She was nearly out of air. Just a few more feet.
She opened her eyes, and the mental water dissipated. She found herself in a hospital bed. Pale walls. A TV looming near the ceiling. But the picture on the wall … it was all wrong. I have a desert scene, not this barn, this meadow. Why did they change—
Then she remembered. She’d been at the funeral. She went home. She got tired of pretending. She’d tried to die.
An old man with thinning hair peeked in the door to her room and did a double take. “Hey, you’re awake.”
A name clicked. “George?” Now she was really confused. Hadn’t he been discharged too? Sure, he had. She’d met him in the hospital on his way out and had seen him at the funeral.
He came to the side of her bed. “That was a close one.”
He knows. She looked away. She didn’t want him seeing her like this. Weak. Pathetic. Not when he seemed so strong and together.
He took her hand, enveloping it between his. “Don’t look away, Miss Merry. I’m not judging you. I’m just glad I found you.”
It took a moment to sink in. “You found me?”
He nodded and let go of her hand, needing his own to be free when he talked. “Now if that wasn’t a weird one. I was heating myself a pan of chili when I saw a Christmas ad on TV.”
“It’s past Christmas.”
“I know. That’s what got my attention. And when they said, ‘Merry Christmas’ I thought of you—Merry. And then my gut started acting up—and I hadn’t even eaten the chili yet—and I knew something wasn’t right. So I looked up your address and went to check on you.” He waggled a finger next to his nose. “You didn’t look too good the other day when I first met you in the hospital hall out here. You were putting on an act.”
“I was?”
“Weren’t you?”
He was smart. “I was.”
“Thought so.”
She creased the end of the sheet. “I thought if I pretended …” It was hard to explain.
“The pain would go away? Or the people would go away, or the guilt would go away?”
She looked up. “How do you know all that?”
He hesitated, then glanced at the door. “I’ve been where you are.”
She didn’t understand.
He let out a sigh. “Truth be told, I was on Flight 1382, heading to Phoenix to kill myself.” He sighed again. “There, I said it.”
A slew of questions came to mind. Unsure which should be asked first, Merry chose a statement. “But you lived.”
He laughed. “Nobody can tell me God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
Her next offering was delicate. “Do you still … you know …?”
“Want to die?”
Merry nodded.
“Nope. And neither do you.”
She shook her head. “You presume too much.”
He shrugged and turned toward the door. “Suit yourself.”
“What?”
He stopped and faced her. “You heard me. If you’re going to hold on to this notion of killing yourself, then I’m done with you. I did my good deed for the day in getting you in here—once. I’m not going to stand around and watch you do it again.”
Merry sat up in bed. Her head seemed a beat behind the movement. “That’s pretty cold.”
“Yeah? Well, so be it. I figure I’ve earned the luxury of bluntness by sitting in your shoes—in more ways than one.”
He had a point. Who else in the world would understand the scope of her ordeal—the c
rash and the suicide attempt? “What happened in your life that made you give up on living?”
“My wife died.”
“I’m sorry.” His loss reminded her of her own. Tears pushed their way to the edges of her eyes. She was relieved he didn’t notice—or didn’t mind.
“I’m sorry too. Irma and me were chocolate and peanut butter, cheesecake and cherries, Oreos and milk.”
“I’m seeing a pattern here.”
“Probably do. Our life together was the sweetest dessert.”
She smiled in spite of her pain. “George, that’s quite romantic.”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah? Well, even I have my moments. Had. With Irma, that is. Without her, well … I felt like a dried-up scone with no butter.”
“Felt? What made you feel differently?”
“Living when so many had died.” He pointed at a tear that sat on the ledge of her cheek. “Don’t go crying on me, Miss Merry. I know your situation is different, you losing your hubby and boy, but in a way it’s the same.” He returned to her bedside. “We lived, you and me. Through huge odds, five of us lived. There’s got to be a reason for it.”
“I can’t think of what it would be.”
He looked past her. “Well, when you think about it … I think I lived so I could save you. How can I throw that back in God’s face?”
“Then why am I supposed to live?”
He studied the ceiling. “To be my friend?” He spread his arms as if presenting himself as a gift.
She had to smile. “Thanks, George. Thanks for being there for me. But I’m not sure what kind of friend I’ll be.”
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll work on it. All I know is that we can’t throw away a gift God’s given us. That would be downright rude.”
“I’ve never heard suicide described as rude.”
He set his chin. “Until now.”
“Until now.”
He pulled a chair close and rested his arms on his knees. “The thing is, there’s another reason you’ve got to go on living.”
“And what’s that?”
“Henry Smith.”
“Who?”
“Henry Smith, the man who saved you.”
“The helicopter man?”
“No, missy. The man in the water—the passenger like us. The man who handed over the lifelines.”
She vaguely remembered the face of a bearded man hanging on to the tail section. Had he given her the line? She mentally saw the motion of his hand extending it toward her. The awful whir of the helicopter overhead, the gnawing cold, the—
“His sacrifice was a thing to behold.”
“Sacrifice?” Merry shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “I’m still foggy; I’m not getting this.”
George stood and clasped the side of her bed rail, as if in need of support. “Henry handed off the lines, but it took too long. When the helicopter went back for him, he’d already disappeared under the water. He drowned.”
She put a hand to her mouth. To be told that a fellow passenger had given his life for her?
“Uh-oh,” George said, waving a finger at her face. “There you go again. There will be none of that. And no guilt either.”
“Those men in the helicopter … that Henry … they shouldn’t have—”
“Saved you?” He swallowed with great deliberation. “I suppose you can go through the rest of your life feeling guilty and unworthy, but personally, I think that’s a mighty waste of a hero.” George’s voice broke, and Merry watched his face fold in on itself. “Henry Smith died so you could live. Not so you can kill yourself and not so you can throw yourself some pity party and waste what time you’ve got left in this world.” He threw back his head, pulling in his tears with a breath. “Do you want him to have died for nothing?”
“No, of course not.”
His eyes flashed. “Then snap out of it! I know the doctors probably wouldn’t approve of me sniping at you like this. They’ll want to coddle you and have you talk for hours about why you thought you had to kill yourself. But I’m too ignorant and ornery to abide by such baloney. And when I’m yelling at you, I’m yelling at me. It takes guts to be happy. The two of us wanted to kill ourselves because we were cowards. That’s a fact we can’t deny. But what we also can’t deny is that a man displayed the epitome of bravery for us.” He looked away, then back again. “You know what Henry Smith said to me in the plane before we crashed?”
“No.”
“He said two things I will always remember. One, that God didn’t want me to take my own life. And two, that Henry felt like he’d been given a verse that directed his actions—only at the time he didn’t realize how.” George’s eyes brightened. “He didn’t realize it then, but now … the verse is perfect.”
“What is it?”
“Isaiah something or other. But the words were, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’ ”
“What way?”
George gripped Merry’s arm. “Don’t you see? God told Henry that verse as a kind of challenge. Getting him to think past himself to bigger things. Then the plane crashed, and Henry followed the verse. God showed him a way, and he took it—he walked in it.”
“Wow.”
George nodded, and when his eyes teared, hers did too. “You bet your bedpan, wow. People don’t know they’re heroes until God gives them the opportunity and they say yes. Heroes are not forced; they choose.”
Merry shivered.
George straightened his chin. “So considering all that, knowing what we know, I refuse to let either one of us taint the choice Henry Smith made. You hear me, little girl? You get where I’m coming from?”
Merry’s lungs were suddenly empty. She gasped for air, then let out a sob. Everything he said was true. She had a choice to make. This is the way; walk in it. She reached out a hand. George took it and squeezed. “Help me get out of here, George. Help me get through this.” She let out a breath. “Help me go home.”
Merry’s driveway was occupied so George pulled up front. A woman got out of the car in the drive, eyed them, and then rushed to Merry’s door.
“Baby, where have you been? I’ve been sitting here twenty minutes. I knocked, I called you on the phone. I was getting worried.” For the first time she looked at George. “Who’s this?”
Merry got out of the car. “This is George Davanos, Mom. He’s another one of the survivors. George, this is my mother, Anna Keenan.”
The woman eyed him warily, as if her daughter’s explanation weren’t enough. Merry looked at George nervously, and he could read her mind: Cover for me, George.
He chose his words carefully. “I picked Merry up for lunch, Mrs. Keenan.”
The woman’s irritation turned toward her daughter. “You went out to eat the day after your family’s funeral?
Merry headed for the door. “That’s exactly what we did, Mom. I do need to eat, you know.”
Good save, Miss Merry.
Merry stopped on the front step and turned back to George. “Care to come in?”
After checking the still-disapproving face of Anna Keenan, George knew the prudent thing would be to leave. But he wasn’t in a prudent mood.
“I’d love to.”
Merry waited at the door for him, then took his arm. “You coming, Mom?”
The woman’s look changed from disapproval to the sad-sack face of a child who’s received an invitation to a birthday party that’s already in progress. “No, no thanks. I think I’ll go home. I have things to do. Just so you’re all right …”
“I’m fine. Or at least I feel the possibility that I could be fine. Maybe. Someday.”
For the first time since meeting her, George believed it was true.
Sonja hesitated at the edge of the airport metal detectors. She’d gotten this far from a sheer act of will, but suddenly, when faced with entering a gate, she shied like a thoroughbred on the edge of a fence. What am I doing flying again?
“Ma’am? Either come on through or
step aside. You’re blocking traffic.”
Sonja stepped aside, aware of the puzzled looks of the other passengers, as well as the wary scrutiny of the security people who probably thought she was hesitating because she had a gun in her cast, her facial scars the result of a terrorist action gone bad.
This is ridiculous. Millions of people fly every day without incident. The odds of being in a plane crash are astronomical.
But I crashed …
Which means I’m done. Through. It’s statistically impossible for me to experience such a thing again.
She saw a handsome African-American woman go through the line. The woman matched the mental image Sonja had of Roscoe’s wife. Eden Moore would be waiting for her. The woman wanted her to come. The woman had called Sonja a gift from God.
She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She had to do it. For Roscoe. For Eden.
And for herself.
Anthony’s second day back at work was a little easier. He had a good night’s sleep, fueled by the news that the black box had been recovered from the crash site. Soon they’d know who to blame, and his lawsuit could gain momentum.
Today he even had some surgery scheduled and felt totally up for it. Mrs. Wanda Saperstein was in for a face-lift. He’d worked on her before, and together they were methodically remaking her body. With his expertise—and multiple thousands of her dollars—she looked fifteen years younger than her chronological age. To be honest, Anthony found it a little creepy when grandmothers attempted to look the same age as their grown children, but who was he to argue? If it weren’t for his patients’ vanity, he wouldn’t be able to pay his bills.
Anthony had just finished with Mrs. Saperstein in his office complex’s private operating room. He had a few minutes until the day’s remaining round of appointments started. He fell onto the couch in his office. The promise of relief was not fulfilled. He moaned. His entire body hurt, and he was exhausted as much from the mental and emotional stress of keeping up the front of invincibility as from any physical residuals from the crash.
He had just closed his eyes when the intercom buzzed. Candy’s voice filled the room, “Dr. Thorgood? Are you there?”
“Can’t you leave me alone for a few minutes? Surely one of the nurses can handle—”
