The Seat Beside Me

by Nancy Moser

  Merry looked away. “I don’t have many friends.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve chased most of them away.”

  He looked at her sideways. “May I ask why?”

  It was a good question. Merry tried to tuck her feet beneath her, but her sore muscles wouldn’t budge. “They annoyed me.”

  “All of them?”

  She loved how George got to the heart of things. “Pretty much.”

  “They had bigger houses, cuter kids, more romantic husbands?”

  “Actually … no. They had exactly what I had. And that bugged me.”

  George tossed a kernel in the air and caught it in his mouth. “You lost me.”

  Merry bit her lip, trying to pin it down. “We were all living the American dream. A house, a family, a swing set in the backyard.”

  “But?”

  Her heart began to pound as if she were on the edge of a precipice and had been asked to jump. “But … but they were content, and I wasn’t.” She took an extra breath, relieved to get it out. “They wallowed in their lives; they were happy. They thought it was enough. I got so sick of their … their perkiness that I wanted to slap them. Didn’t they realize what they were missing?”

  “What were they missing?”

  “Reality. On TV, women work in fancy offices and have people hang on their words. They’re important. They’re contributing something.”

  George nodded. “Ah, I see. You’re taking TV as the basis for reality? Hello? Surely you’re not that naive?”

  “It’s not just on TV; it’s in real life too. I know it is. My friend Teresa, who I was going to visit in Phoenix … she’s free to spend money on what she wants and go where she wants, when she wants to go. She can party and not come home until two in the morning.”

  George tsked-tsked. “At the risk of sounding like a father, I’ve got to point out that what you’ve described as your friend’s ideal life sounds like the yearnings of a teenager wanting to run away from home. Parties, late nights, buying things. Is this truly what made you discontent?”

  It sounded so shallow. “I …”

  George put a hand on her arm. “Listen to me, Miss Merry. Listen to the advice of one who’s worked in a fancy office and has had people hang on my every word—and from one who’s even felt a little important in my time. What the TV shows and even society at large don’t tell you is that most of us successful corporate types would give anything to stay at home and have our kids hang on our every word and find a feeling of importance there. But we can’t. At least I couldn’t. As the man of the house, it was my responsibility to make the money, to provide for my family. You women have it made.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now don’t get huffy on me. Hear me out. A lot of women have the option of holding down an outside job or staying home with the kids, or a combination of both. Most men don’t have that option. We’re the ones who should be discontented with our lives. Maybe you felt that way because you had too many options. It was confusing, especially when the world tries to convince you that staying at home is the lesser thing. It’s not. It’s the greater thing. Maybe you resented your women friends because they loved what you were afraid to love: being a mom and a wife.”

  He was right. One hundred percent right. “Now I’m neither.” She tossed the popcorn bowl on the table. It upset and spilled kernels across a magazine. “Oh, George. But now I’m neither!”

  He moved close to comfort her.

  George wished there was something more he could do for Merry. Popcorn and a willing ear seemed as ineffective as blowing on a burn to make it better. It was good that she’d realized the source of her discontent, but he was afraid the new knowledge might be too much for her. She seemed strong earlier, but was she really?

  She’d gone off to the bathroom to freshen up. He heard the muffled blowing of a nose.

  The phone rang. George got it. “Hello?”

  “Who’s this?”

  George didn’t like the caller’s tone. “Who do you want it to be?”

  “Is this the Cavanaugh residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Merry Cavanaugh there?”

  “She can’t come to the phone right—”

  “Can you confirm that she was rushed to the hospital last night because of a suicide attempt?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Dan Craven, the Probe.”

  “We have no comment.”

  “We? This doesn’t happen to be George Davanos, does it?”

  “How—?”

  “We heard you were the one to find Ms. Cavanaugh. You saved her life. And now that you’re home with her. Is there something going on between you two?”

  George was so shocked he hung up the phone as if it were hot. He never even thought about the press finding out. And yet he shouldn’t be surprised. He still got phone calls asking for interviews and even spotted TV vans driving through his neighborhood as if seeing him come and go was some huge piece of news.

  Merry came out of the bathroom, her face freshly washed. “Did I hear the phone?”

  She didn’t need this new wrinkle in her life. “Wrong number.” He stood. “I’d better be going.”

  Merry nodded. “We wouldn’t want people to talk now, would we?”

  She was way too close.

  George scanned Merry’s neighborhood as he went to his car. If only he’d parked a block down.

  Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t done anything wrong.

  He spotted a blue car, parked on the street two houses away. A man got out and started coming toward him. He had a camera around his neck. His aggressive walk spoke volumes.

  George glanced at Merry’s house. He didn’t want her to see that tabloid reporters were close, and he couldn’t let the vulture bother her. He had to stop this. Now.

  He hobbled toward the man, attempting his own aggressive stride in spite of the crutches. He was rewarded with a momentary look of surprise on the man’s face. Apparently the reporter wasn’t used to being on the defensive.

  “What do you want?” George asked, as they met on the edge of Merry’s property.

  “You’re George Davanos.”

  “Answer my question.”

  The man’s grin was full of lewd thoughts. “You’re a widower, right? And now Ms. Cavanaugh is a widow? I’ve heard of old guys like you going after young things but—?”

  George shoved the man backward, making him fall onto a bank of snow. He pointed down at him with a crutch. “Listen to me, you dirty-minded cretin. You leave her alone! You leave us alone.”

  The man raised his camera. “Smile.” He took a picture. George lunged for the camera, but the man scurried out of his reach and ran for his car. “Thanks for the interview, Davanos.”

  He sped away. Oh dear. Things were going to get dicey now.

  Sonja and Eden sat on lawn chairs outside the Moore home, a white one-story concrete block house with yellow trim and cacti in the yard. Other neighbors sat in their front yards as the sun went down, watching the kids ride their bikes or play soccer in the quiet street. The evening was cool.

  “This is so different,” Sonja said.

  “Different is bad?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about … about anything. Your offer to work with you.” She shook her head with the immensity of the decision.

  “Maybe you need to let God push you out of your box, Sonja. Quit living the life you thought you ought to live, and live the life God wants you to live. Surrender and let Him do the work.”

  “My parents would never approve.”

  Eden nodded. “That’s regrettable. But will that stop you?”

  “Should it?”

  Eden batted a fly away from her face. “We’re supposed to honor our father and mother but, even more than that, bring honor to our heavenly Father.”

  “And you think He approves of me moving here?”

  “Yes, I do. But more important, you need to fe
el that way. You need to pray about it. Ask for wisdom.” She brightened. “Did you know wisdom is the one thing God always grants when we ask for it?”

  “Really?”

  “You bet. James 1 has been a favorite of mine for years. It says, ‘If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him.’ ” She raised a warning finger and continued. “ ‘But when he asks, he must believe and not doubt, because he who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.’ ”

  “I think I’ve been tossed a bit.”

  “We all get a little windblown at times.”

  “Surely not you.”

  “Just because I know God and can recite some Bible verses doesn’t mean I’m even close to perfect.”

  Sonja smiled. “You’re not?”

  Eden shrugged. “Well, almost.” She put a hand on Sonja’s arm. “You don’t need to give me an answer right now. Go home tomorrow and think on it—and pray about it. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Sonja was willing to pray, but she wasn’t too sure God would answer. Why should He?

  Fifteen

  But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise;

  God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.…

  so that no one may boast before him.

  1 CORINTHIANS 1:27, 29

  Anthony awoke to a pounding on his front door. It only took him a second to remember the reporters. He grabbed the arms of the chair, bracing to defend himself from the intruders.

  Then he noticed the edge of light glowing around the window blinds. It was daylight. He looked at his watch: 9:32 A.M.?

  “Dr. Thorgood? Are you in there?”

  It was Lissa’s voice. He eased his way out of the chair, his bruised body rebelling against its cramped night’s sleep. He peered out the side window. The reporters were gone. He let Lissa in, along with a blast of cold air.

  “What’s going on?” she said. “We paged you; we called. You didn’t show up at the office.” She gave him a thorough once-over. “You look terrible.”

  “How appropriate.” He turned toward the kitchen. He needed coffee.

  She followed. “Did you see the news?”

  He whipped around. “It’s on the news?”

  “Last night and this morning. In the papers too. The Patrick Harper thing and the Belinda Miller thing.”

  “Belinda?”

  “Her family is suing you for taking the lifeline, saying that your act contributed to her death.”

  “There’s no way they can prove that.”

  She shrugged.

  His head swam, and he faltered like a drunk walking a line. She helped him to a kitchen chair and asked, “What happened with Patrick Harper? Is it true what they say?”

  His initial reaction was to deny everything and even chastise her lack of loyalty and belief in his abilities. But what good would it do? She knew him too well. He ran his hands roughly across his face. “Is it true? Pretty much.”

  She sank into the seat nearby. “Why didn’t you operate if he needed it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about—”

  “Anthony, talk to me.”

  He did not miss her use of his first name. Could he have a discussion with her, friend to friend? The way he was feeling, he had to risk it. “I was in a hurry. I was tired. I didn’t feel like it. I thought he didn’t need—didn’t deserve—the extra attention because he’d hurt his hand in a bar fight. I thought he was a low-life brawler.” He met her gaze. “Satisfied?”

  He waited for her condemnation. It did not come. Instead, she reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  Her words didn’t fit. He felt like he’d come in during the middle of a movie. “Sorry? For me?”

  She nodded. “It’s been a long time coming.”

  “What’s been a long time coming?”

  “Judgment day.”

  He pulled his hand away. He didn’t need this from her.

  “Uh-uh, stop right there, Anthony. Don’t put your walls up. Not after it’s taken this much to tear them down.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” But he did. He did.

  She traced the edge of a place mat. “Everybody’s life has these moments. It’s not just you. We all get going down the wrong road, racing so fast we think nothing can stop us. We think everything’s great. Oh, we might even realize it’s inevitable we’ll run off the road eventually, and yet we keep racing on, stubborn and willing to take the consequences of our actions any time, as long as it’s later.”

  He looked toward the front door, wishing she’d use it. “I haven’t been racing—”

  “You have. The question is, what have you been racing from? Or what have you been racing to?”

  He crossed his arms. “Since you know so much, why don’t you tell me.”

  She made a face. “Why do you keep doing this? Making me tell you things about yourself instead of you figuring them out? Why do I have to be the bad guy?”

  “Because you do it so well?”

  “Don’t use that sideways flattery on—”

  “Or maybe it’s because you enjoy it?”

  When she clamped her mouth shut, he regretted his words. Although he knew this conversation had the potential to be painful, he was in the mood to hear it. He had to hear it.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Her smile started small and grew into a laugh. “Since the crash I’ve gotten two apologies from you. Maybe a dip in the drink did you some good after all.”

  “I don’t see how a crash can do me any good.”

  She clenched her fists and groaned. “You are so. You may be brilliant, but you are dense as a London fog.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He waved a hand. “Continue.”

  “You’re insufferable.”

  He counted on his fingers. “Dense and insufferable. That makes two.”

  “Arrogant.”

  He flipped up a third finger. “Always a popular choice.”

  Her jaw clenched. “If you’re going to make a joke of this …”

  He dropped his hand. “Fine. Give it to me straight. Let’s get back to road racing.”

  She studied him a moment, and he tried to apply his most sincere look. He was horribly out of practice.

  She didn’t buy it and stood. “This is a waste of time. I thought between this and the crash you would hit bottom, but apparently, it’s going to take even more.”

  His mouth went dry. More? He wasn’t sure he could take any more.

  She suddenly smiled and pointed at his face. “What have we here? Is that panic in the eyes of the great doctor? Panic at the prospect of having to endure more? Could it be you have hit bottom but are too proud to admit it?”

  Anthony turned away, hating that she’d read him correctly. He was appalled when he felt tears threaten. This is ridiculous. I must be more exhausted than I thought.

  She returned to her seat, and he felt her constant gaze. “Anthony … let it go. Quit pretending you’ve got everything under control. It’ll kill you—if not physically, then emotionally and spiritually. We all have choices, but none of us has ultimate control. Only God has that. And He’ll wield it if we force Him.”

  He raised his chin, feeling an intensity he hadn’t felt in years. “Don’t tell me about God. I grew up going to church every Sunday, all dressed up in our country-club best. And all I ever heard from my parents about God—the only answer I ever got to any of my questions about this greater being everybody talked about—was a statement by my father to stop such nonsense. God was for the poor and the weak, not for us. He said he achieved his success on his own and so could I. And that’s exactly what I did. I’ve got control of my life. I’m in charge of my destiny.”

  She shook her head and even had the audacity to smile. “Oh really?”

  “Really.”

  “So you wanted
the plane to crash?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But you have control. You’re in charge.”

  “Not then. That was different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because … because other people were involved. I was a victim of their mistakes.”

  Her smile grew into a grin. “Uh-huh … just like Patrick Harper is a victim of your mistake?”

  She was turning everything around.

  She moved her chair closer, its legs skittering on the quarry-tile floor. “We all have choices, Anthony. God gives us those—though sometimes I think it would be a lot easier if He’d just take over. The bottom line is that we mess things up when we don’t have our focus on the higher good.”

  Anthony rolled his eyes. “Oh please …”

  Her eyes focused on the refrigerator before turning back to him with new fire. “Have you heard the news that the crash was largely due to pilot error?”

  He sat up straighter. “When did you hear that?”

  “Last night. The pilots didn’t have the flaps set correctly. That prevented the necessary lift. In their hurry to take off, they didn’t go through the proper checklist.”

  “That’s great news. Now my lawsuit has a focus.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she shoved her chair away. It teetered but remained standing. “You pathetic man! You don’t see anything beyond your own immediate concerns. Don’t you understand why I told you about the pilots?”

  “Because they’re guilty—”

  “No! Because their overlooking the common good by being prideful in thinking they didn’t need to follow procedure, or impatient because they didn’t want to have further delays, caused the death of ninety-five people and the pain of countless others. Just as your self-focus has probably caused the death of a pianist’s career—his dream—and deprived countless others of ever hearing the beauty of his talent.” She knelt at his feet, her eyes dark with fervor. “Don’t you get it? The more you hold on, the harder it is for God to pry your hands loose. But He’s going to try, Anthony. Over and over, He’ll try, hoping you’ll finally let go of that blasted control and let Him do what He does best.”

  “And that is?”