The Seat Beside Me (37 page)

“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?”

“Be God.”

“Huh?”

“
You’re
not God, Anthony.”

He smiled. “I’m not?”

Her eyes changed from the warmth of fervor to the fire of anger in the span of a moment. She got up to leave. “Bye, Doctor.”

No more ‘Anthony’?
“Lissa, I was just kidding.”

She paused at the door. “Were you?”

She left him alone with his deity.

George woke up craving a chocolate doughnut—or better yet, multiple chocolate donuts—so he drove to a quick-stop store and picked some up, along with an extra-large coffee. While paying at the counter he spotted the
Probe
. A headline caught his attention: “Crash Survivor Attempts Suicide.” He ripped the paper out of its stand.

“You want the paper too, mister?”

He nodded and shoved another dollar toward the clerk. There were two photos: one of Merry with ice in her hair as she was brought onto the shore after the rescue, and another of himself threatening last night’s reporter with a crutch. The caption read: An
angry George Davanos attacks reporter after being found at the house of fellow survivor, Merry Cavanaugh.

The cretins
.

“Hey, mister? Is that picture you?”

George folded the paper in half, grabbed his food, and left.

It’s not that the facts were wrong, it was how they were presented. Yes, George and Merry were widower and widow. Yes, she had tried to commit suicide. And yes, they had spent time together, but for the
Probe
to imply they were dating, or even worse, that George was able to find Merry in time because he was
staying
at her house.

He flicked a donut crumb off the paper. He took little comfort in the fact they were not the only survivors of Flight 1382 who were receiving questionable headlines. “Crash Survivor Sued for Malpractice.” “Survivor Fired Due to Misconduct.” “Survivor Walks Out on Job.”

Not a happy camper in the bunch. He wished he could talk to the others, compare notes, maybe even help—

He slammed his palm on the kitchen table. That was it! They needed to help each other. But they couldn’t do that strung out across town. They had to meet. Get together.

George nodded as the idea took form. “We’ll have a reunion. A get-together. We’ve never talked. Shouldn’t we talk?”

Of course they should. He and Merry had benefited by meeting. He grabbed a phone book, a pad, and pen. Taking the names of the survivors from the articles, he began to gather the numbers.

He was interrupted as an even better idea was added. The pièce de résistance of surprises. The frosting on the cake. The true union to the reunion.

He laughed out loud and called the long distance operator.

Merry looked over the smorgasbord of food in her kitchen. Breakfast could be chocolate cake, Jell-O salad, or lasagna. She peeked under the lids of some Pyrex dishes and spotted a cake that only had one piece missing. Chocolate frosting.
Justin’s favorite
.

A surge of sorrow came front and center, displayed like a flashing sign.
Dead. Dead. Dead
.

They’re dead
.

She turned her back on the guilty cake and fled to the edge of the living room—which was still as neat and tidy and silent as it was two days before when she’d tried to kill—

Die Merry. Die just like them. You deserve to—

With a sudden burst of panic, Merry lunged for the stereo and turned it on full blast to drown out the voice. A country song assaulted her—one of Lou’s favorites and one she had moaned and groaned about at his incessant playing.

How appropriate. Music to crack to, break to, die to. But if she was going down, all of this was going down with her.

She rushed to the coffee table and swiped a hand across the top of it. Magazines and a candleholder fell to the carpet. She grabbed the toss pillows from the couch and heaved them against the windows, clattering the blinds, making them a mishmash of closed and open slats.

As the music blared, her chest heaved, and she scanned the room for more potential victims of her anger. Justin’s toy chest sat in the corner, mocking her. She fell upon it, flung open its lid, and hurled the toys behind her, not caring where they landed. The sound of a breaking lamp made her laugh hysterically.

No more neatness. No more order. No more everything in its place. No more control or nods or attempts to smile, or deluding myself that everything will be all right
.

The built-in wall shelf was next. With the flick of a finger, she tilted the spines of the books, making them teeter and fall to their
deaths. A bluebird figurine was heaved over her shoulder. Merry didn’t look to see where it landed but was cheered by the sounds of breakage.

The stereo yelled at her, flaunting Lou’s song, so she yanked it from its mooring and heaved it toward the television, grunting at the effort. Its electrical cords made it come up short, and it swung back against the shelf two ticks of the clock, until its own weight pulled it out of the wall and into a deathly silence on the floor.

Merry stood, assessing her progress.
Yes. Yes. This is what I deserve
.

But there was more to do.

Her eyes fell upon the entry closet, and she thought of the items inside. She ran to it, tripping over debris on the way. “You think you’re safe in there, don’t you? But you can’t hide from me.”

She flung open the door. The closet was stuffed with evidence of her family. Lou’s jackets laughed at her; Justin’s red snow boots jeered. Gloves waved good-bye to her past life.
Bye-bye, Merry. Don’t be fooled. Things will never be the same
. She grabbed a pair of Lou’s gloves, the extra-heavy ones he wore to shovel the driveway. She put them on and clapped them together, hoping to quiet their condemning words, the muted
whawp, whawp
ringing in her—