“I know it seems that way, punkin’, but it won’t be just Liberty Air. The Red Cross will be there, too, as well as folks whose sole job is to collect information about the crash. I want to hear what they know that we haven’t gotten from the TV or newspaper.”
“Maybe you can ask them who alerted the media before my daughter,” Mom says, slamming the salt and pepper shakers onto the center of the table. “Because that is an unforgivable blunder, and I’d like to tell that person what I think of them.”
“Whoever made that mistake will be out of a job, I’ll see to it.” Dad uses his drill-instructor voice—forceful, booming and unambiguous. He turns, and his expression morphs from fierce to fiercely concerned. “Sweetheart, like it or not, we’re going to have to interface with Liberty Air at some point. I can be a buffer if you want me to, or I can stand back and let you handle it yourself. Up to you. Either way, at the very least, we should go down there and see what this Miss Myers has to say, don’t you think?”
No, I don’t think. I’ve seen that footage—sobbing family members pushing their way through a sea of cameras, keen to capture their despair for all the world to see. And now Dad is suggesting we become a part of them?
Then again, I have so many questions, not the least of which is what did you do to my husband? If this Ann Margaret Myers has an answer for that one, she can plaster my teary, snotty face on the high-definition LED screens at SunTrust Field for all I care.
I push away from the table and head upstairs to get dressed.
* * *
On the last night of Will’s life, he cooked. Not something out of a box or the freezer section, but a whole-food, homemade meal. For someone who didn’t know how to cut a tomato when I met him, whipping up dinner must have been no easy feat, and it probably took him all day. Maybe something inside him knew what was coming, some otherworldly awareness that his cosmic clock was about to hit zero, but that night—our seventh anniversary—he surprised me with real food, and for the first time ever made by his own hands.
I found him bent over one of my cookbooks in the kitchen, the most amazing smell hanging in the air. “What’s going on?”
He whirled around, a twig of thyme dangling from a curl and a mixture of pride and guilt on his expression. “Um, I’m cooking.”
I could see that. Anyone could see that. He’d used every pot and pan we owned, and covered the entire countertop, every single inch, with food and ingredients and cooking utensils. Will was covered in flour and grease.
I smiled. “What are you making?”
“Standing rib roast, new potatoes in butter and parsley, and those skinny green beans wrapped in bacon, I forget what they’re called.”
“Haricots verts?”
He nodded. “I’ve got dessert, too.” He gestured to two chocolate lava cakes in white ramekins, cooling on a rack by the oven. He’d even sprinkled them with powdered sugar. When I didn’t respond, he said, “We can still go out if you want to. I just thought—”
“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning it. I didn’t care that the kitchen was a wreck, or that we’d miss our reservations at the new sushi hot spot in Buckhead. Will cooked, and for me. I smiled and leaned in for a kiss. “You’re perfect.”
The meal, however, was not. The roast was overdone, the potatoes were mushy, and the haricots verts were cold, but no food had ever tasted better. I ate every single bite. Afterward, we took the cakes upstairs and devoured them in bed, kissing and licking and growing delirious on chocolate and sex, loving like there was no tomorrow.
But tomorrow came.
8
“Mrs. Griffith, let me begin by expressing my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband.”
Dad, Dave and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder, a united front across from our Liberty Airlines point of contact, Ann Margaret Myers, a thin, blonde woman in a punishing ponytail. The tag hanging from her neck identifies her as Care Specialist, and I hate her on sight. I hate her starched pink blouse and the way she’s buttoned it up all the way to the notch in her throat. I hate her long, French-tipped fingernails and the way she clasps her hands so fiercely together that the skin turns white. I hate her thin lips and her mud-puddle eyes and her mask of empathy so exaggerated, I have to sit on my hands so I don’t punch it off her face.
My father leans both forearms onto the wooden table. “Actually, Ms. Myers, we’d like you to begin with an explanation of how the media learned Will’s name before his own wife was told he was on the plane.”
Ann Margaret’s spine goes ramrod straight. “Excuse me?”
Dad lifts a shoulder, but the gesture is anything but casual. “You’d think an airline would have better ways of informing the next of kin than releasing the passengers’ names to the media, but what do I know? I suppose you folks at Liberty Air have a different way of doing things. What I can tell you is that your policy is a shitty one.”
“I...” Her lips flap around like a stranded fish, and her gaze flits back and forth between me and my father. “You learned about Mr. Griffith from the news?”
The three of us nod, once and in unison.
“Oh, my God, I had no idea. I can assure you, Mrs. Griffith, Mr. Stafford, that is absolutely not Liberty Air’s policy. Someone over there made a huge, grave error, and I am so very, very sorry.”
I know what she’s doing. She’s distancing herself from both the airline and their mistake, and I’m not buying it. Not even a little bit.
And judging from his scowl, neither is my father. “I appreciate that, Ms. Myers, but I’m sure you can understand that an apology from you isn’t going to cut it. We’d like an explanation, and we want to hear it from the person responsible.” He leans back and crosses his arms, commanding, authoritative and in charge. On a good day, my father is someone to be reckoned with. Today he’s supreme command.
Ann Margaret is clearly rattled. “I absolutely understand. As soon as we’re done here, I will find out what went wrong and then coordinate a face-to-face meeting between that person and your family. Does that sound like an acceptable solution to the three of you?”
Dad gives her a curt nod, but I don’t move. To me it sounds like her throwing us a bone, but I’m too tired, too shaken and shattered to say anything without flying across the desk and wrapping my hands around her neck.
The room Liberty Airlines has stalled us in is an airline executive lounge in Hartsfield’s brand-new international terminal. It’s plush and roomy, decorated in dark jewel tones, with sitting areas and a bar and an entire wall of windows overlooking the concourse. Airplanes lumber back and forth on the other side of the glass like giant missiles, taunting me with murderous intent.
“Has the press found you yet?” Ann Margaret says, and I turn back to the table.
Dave nods. “They’ve been calling the house all morning, and there are a couple of vans camped out on the street. Some of the reporters even had the nerve to ring the doorbell and ask for an interview.”
She shakes her head, disgusted. “We’ve specifically asked the media outlets to respect the privacy of our families, but not all of the journalists listen. What I can do is make sure you get out of here without having to interact with them. And may I suggest you appoint a family friend to be media contact? That way, you won’t have to talk to them until you’re ready.”
My father adds another bullet to his list, which has grown to a handful of pages.
All around us, people are weeping. A silver-haired man with unshaven cheeks, an Indian woman in a teal-and-silver sari, a black teenager with diamond studs bigger than my engagement solitaire. Tears roll down their cheeks unchecked, and the air in the room pulses with despair. Seeing their sorrow is like watching someone yawn, uncontrollable and infectious. Suddenly and without warning, I’m weeping, too.
Читать дальше