The Seat Beside Me (28 page)

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.

She smiled. “There, that’s better.”

She moved to confront Justin’s flowers and was within inches of giving them a similar fate but couldn’t bring herself to shove them away. The white of innocence. She touched a tender petal.

Then, only then, did Merry allow herself to look on her family. Justin was so handsome in his corduroy pants, his Christmas vest with a reindeer on it, and his little red tie. Merry remembered him bowing like a real gentleman when he first wore the outfit for church saying, “Can you be my date, Mommy?”

You’ll always be my little man, sweetie
.

Justin’s blond curls were a golden halo. But his skin … it had a waxy look to it. Gone was the iridescent glow of her son’s perfect skin, a glow that came from the inside out. Yet perhaps capturing that glow was impossible once the life behind it had exited the body.

Because of you, Merry. Because of you
.

Merry put a finger on his cross tie tack and tried to remember the essence of comfort she knew could be found in that symbol of faith. But comfort eluded her—yet she didn’t mind. Now was not the time for comfort. This moment was the essence of
dis
comfort, and knowing that was in itself comforting.

It can’t get much worse than this
.

Merry kissed her son’s forehead and, with difficulty, pulled her
eyes away. Then she moved back to her husband. Lou was dressed in his only gray suit, wearing the maroon tie she’d given him for his birthday. His hands were clasped across his midsection, his wedding ring an eternal reminder of their bond.
A ring. No beginning and no end. With this ring, I thee wed
.

He’d taken their vows very seriously.
For better or worse
. She’d certainly given him worse lately. Why had she done that? Why had she shoved aside the better and allowed herself to grab up the worse, like an obnoxious banner she was proud to wave? Why hadn’t she realized what she had until it was gone?

She put her hand on his but removed it when its lack of warmth registered. His hands, his wonderful hands that had caressed and helped and held on and worked hard and. The very hand she had grabbed as the plane went down.

“I’m sorry, Lou. I’m so sorry.”

Merry heard the fumblings of keys outside the room and knew her time was short. She kissed her husband on the lips and faced the door, straightening her shoulders against the invaders who would soon take her captive again.

The door opened and her mother burst in. Her eyes scanned the room, and Merry realized these people had expected desecration of some sort.

Sorry to disappoint you, Mom
.

Without a word, Merry walked past her mother, past the funeral employees, and out the door. Let them scurry to catch up. She had a funeral to attend.

Merry saw the old man from the hospital standing on the outer rim of mourners. Their eyes met and he gave a short salute as a greeting. What was his name? Joe? No … George. Another survivor like herself.

Funny, she didn’t feel like a survivor. Yet to everyone who saw
her she was putting on a great performance. Academy Award time.
Nominated for Best Actress in a feature-length life
 …

Merry’s senses wrestled for attention. The sea of black against the white snow and green pines of the cemetery. The drone of the minister’s words like a buzzing bee caught in the wrong season. The smell of her mother’s and Mabel Cavanaugh’s perfumes as they stood on either side of her—musk meets magnolia. The feel of the shredded tissue permanently gripped in her hand. And the acrid taste of grief that threatened to close off her throat so that she, too, would die.

This strong-woman number was exhausting. She glanced at George again. He had been so upbeat at the hospital when she saw him with his daughter. Hopeful. Grateful. Rejuvenated.

Looking down at the caskets of her family being lowered into the ground, Merry felt none of those things—and doubted she ever would.

Twelve

For the foolishness of God is wiser than man’s wisdom
,
and the weakness of God is stronger than man’s strength
.
1 C
ORINTHIANS
1:25

S
onja looked at the clock in her car. She’d been driving around for an hour. Surely the funerals were over. Surely people were heading to work. Surely she should join them.

She could not get Geraldine’s face out of her mind. Was the woman still holding a grudge because Sonja took the trip? If anything, Geraldine should be grateful. She could have been killed like Dale and Allen.

And what did Sonja’s finagling matter anyway? The bottom line was their boss, Allen, was dead. Certainly the whole Barston merger had been put on hold until Sanford Industries could regroup and hire replacements for Allen and Dale. Geraldine was the only one who knew what she did.

Maybe she was overreacting. The double funeral had been an emotional situation, not an easy thing for anyone to bear. The feeling of rejection Sonja had felt might have been the result of her own nerves and uncertainty and, yes, even sorrow. She was only human.

Sonja looked at the street signs, getting her bearings. She couldn’t hide forever. She had a job to claim. After all, she’d proven herself to be a survivor.

Hadn’t she?

Sonja got in the crowded elevator and pushed the button for the Sanford Industries floor. The man to her right eyed her cast and face.

“Boy, what happened to you?”

“Plane crash.”

The man’s eyes widened, and Sonja smiled—inside. It was kind of fun shocking people.

It took the man a moment, but then he clapped a hand on his mouth and pointed. “You’re one of the survivors! You were on Flight 1382.”

“Yes, I was.”

“I heard about you.”

The other people in the elevator started talking at once, offering their sympathy, sharing their shock regarding the tragedy, and detailing where they were at the time it happened. She’d heard her parents talk about where they were when President Kennedy was shot, or when the Challenger blew up. Wow. She had become a part of history.

The door opened to Sonja’s floor, but she was reluctant to leave her admirers, especially since what lay ahead was so uncertain. Her stomach tested its limits. She was grateful that her nerves had been sidetracked by the kind attention in the elevator, but now. This was it.

“Bye.”

“Good luck.”

The doors closed and Sonja was face-to-face with reality. The receptionist applied a receptionist smile even before looking up. But when her eyes showed recognition, her smile faded and, after a beat, returned falsely. “Ms. Grafton. How nice to have you back.”

“Thank you.” Sonja started toward her office but then returned to the desk. “Do I have any messages?”

The girl checked. “Sorry. None.”

Sonja nodded.
Don’t panic. They had to have someone cover your work while you were gone. It doesn’t mean—

“Ms. Grafton, is it?”

Mr. Wilson stood at the edge of the corridor. She’d never met him but had seen him many times walking through the office, usually in deep conversation with Allen or other superiors. He was a vice president. A lifer. And at the moment, he didn’t look happy.

And yet he did know her name. That was a good sign. Maybe.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson.”

He stepped toward her. “I thought that might be you.” He pointed to her cast. “You recovering all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Terrible thing, terrible.”

“Yes, sir.”

He checked his watch. “I have a few minutes. We might as well get this …” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk with you.”

“Now?”

“If you please.”

Sonja glanced at the receptionist. The girl bit her lip. When their eyes met, she looked away.

This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.