The Seat Beside Me (29 page)

Mr. Wilson proceeded down the corridor toward his office. Sonja followed after him. Neither one spoke. She was concerned over his lack of small talk and yet also relieved. Her insides were knotted so tight she feared if he did talk to her in any way that required a response, she would throw up. Now wouldn’t that be impressive on her first day back?

Mr. Wilson’s office was lush and old world. No tan land here. Rich navy blue colors and brown leather heralded his status as one of the big guys.

He moved behind his desk. “Have a seat.”

Sonja sat. And waited.
Maybe he’s going to offer the company’s
support in my recovery? Maybe he’s going to tell me I can take as much time off as I need? Maybe—

He cleared his throat and picked up a pen, though she could tell he had no intention of using it to write. “Well, Ms. Grafton, we didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“I was at the funeral.”
But I got scared away
.

“Oh. Were you? That’s good. I mean it was good you were there to say good-bye.”

She nodded. Now was the time he would ask about her injuries, inquire about the horror of her experience, or share where he was when he first heard—

“I’m sorry, Ms. Grafton, it seems we have a problem.”

That’s when she knew this was not a courtesy meeting. The way Mr. Wilson’s eyebrows dipped, the way his chin jutted forward as if he were attempting to fortify himself. Fortify himself to do what?

Somehow, Sonja managed to find her voice, or rather,
a
voice, since the words that came out sounded strained and odd. “What problem, sir?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “The problem of deceit.”

Sonja’s first thought was almost comical. Instead of letting her mind zero in on the meaning of Mr. Wilson’s words, she marveled at the classy way he had found to say it. Not “Your lying” or “Your cheating” or even her own personal favorite, “Your finagling,” but “the problem of deceit.” Very highbrow.

She decided to lie. “I don’t understand.”

At this ludicrous statement, he raised his left eyebrow. “I think you do. We at Sanford Industries know what you did in order to go on the trip to Phoenix.”

“I didn’t do—”

A raised hand stopped her denial. “And though it is true you didn’t break any laws or even do anything particularly blatant like changing the numbers on a report, you
did
do something that is
just as reviled at Sanford Industries. You violated our team concept. You forced yourself front and center as a Me-player instead of a We-player.”

The cards were faceup on the table. “I was only trying to make sure the work was done correctly.”

“That was your only consideration?”

Sonja felt herself redden. “I don’t see what’s so wrong with pointing out an error that might have cost this company tens of thousands of dollars.”

He nodded, tenting his fingers under his chin. “Ah. So your first concern was with the bottom line of the company.”

Although she wanted to, Sonja couldn’t bring herself to blatantly lie. Not anymore. “It was
a
concern.”

“And what were the other concerns?”

That I go to Phoenix instead of Geraldine, that she be showed up, that I finally get some recognition in this stinking company. That my parents finally be proud—

“Ms. Grafton?”

She took a breath. “The other concerns were personal.”

“I see.”

She looked at her lap and put a hand under her cast, supporting it as if it hurt. Actually, at the moment the pain in her arm was the least of her worries. Yet perhaps if she got the sympathy vote …

“We’re going to have to let you go.”

Sonja’s throat intertwined with her intestines. “Go?”

“You’re fired.”

Nothing highbrow about those two words
. She shook her head against the impossible. “But this isn’t fair. I just lived through a plane crash. I almost died. I.” She knew none of the things she mentioned had anything to do with her job performance, a matter for which she had no defense.

“I know you’ve been through a horrible experience and I feel bad for you. But you are obviously a survivor, Ms. Grafton. You’ve
shown a knack for looking after yourself.”

The way he said it was not complimentary, and his tone irked her almost more than the firing itself. At that moment she stopped pretending. She remembered the freeing aspects of the episode with her parents and sought to duplicate it. She had nothing to lose.

She straightened her spine. “Face it, Mr. Wilson. You don’t care about the crash. All you care about is this company. How ironic I’m being penalized for being aggressive, for doing the same types of things that are done every day in this office by men—by Allen, if you must know. His slate was far from clean.”

“We know. And if he had lived through the crash, he would have faced his own Waterloo. Eventually.”

She laughed. “I’m supposed to find comfort in that?”

Mr. Wilson shrugged. “Living through a close brush with death offers a chance for new beginnings, Ms. Grafton. Considering the hard feelings you’ve left behind here, perhaps you can look upon this as a blessing. A fresh start. A chance to get it right.”

Sonja stood and moved until her thighs touched the edge of his desk. She loved it when he leaned back in his chair in order to create more space between them. “In that case, I thank you for releasing me to my destiny.”

Releasing me to my destiny? What was that? Sounds like a blurb from a cheesy self-help book
.

Sonja drove home, her speed increasing and decreasing with the sway of her emotions. She’d already traveled through anger, skirted past disbelief, and was now headed on a collision course with acceptance—a state of mind she desperately wanted to avoid.
Fight or fail
. Acceptance was the end of fighting. Acceptance was akin to failure.

Sonja stopped at an intersection and rested her head upon the steering wheel. She was beyond weary. If only she could go home
and sleep for a week. She knew she ought to be making plans, formulating a strategy for the rest of her life.

She raised her head to check the traffic light and noticed she was right in front of the
Chronicle
. Dora Roberts worked there. The friendly reporter. She needed a friend.

Clyde leaned over the top of the cubicle. “Dora, hop to! There’s someone here to see you.”

“Who?”

“One of the survivors.” He pointed a pencil at her. “It’s a chance to redeem yourself.” He tapped the pencil twice on the partition. “Get the story. Now.”

She called after him. “But who—?”

He answered over his shoulder. “Sonja something.”

Sonja?
Dora rushed to meet her. Was she ready to talk on the record? That would indeed be a coup.

But when Dora saw Sonja, she pulled up short. Sonja was dressed impeccably in dark clothes, but her face looked worse now than it had in the hospital, and it went beyond the bruises. Dora could tell Sonja was suffering from another kind of pain. A worse kind.

She extended her hand. “Sonja. How nice to see you. Let’s go in the conference room.” She led her into the room and closed the door. “Can I get you some coffee? Tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.” Sonja didn’t just sit on the seat but seemed to let the inanimate cushions swallow her up. “I remembered at the hospital … you … you were so nice to me. You listened.”

So there still wouldn’t be an interview
. Dora shoved her disappointment aside. “So what’s up? How are things going? It’s nice to see you’ve been released.”

Sonja offered a bitter laugh.

“Uh-oh. That bad?”

“Today’s been … a bad day. I tried going to the funeral of my coworkers and—”

“Oh, dear.”

“Actually, I
tried
to go but got the most awful vibes in the church, and the strangest looks from people, and whispering behind hands.” She traced the edge of the conference table.

“What was all that about?”

Sonja looked up. “They hate me. They blame me. They—”

“They can’t hate you or blame you for their friends’ deaths. It wasn’t your fault the plane—”

“No, no, not that. Not directly at least. But remember when I told you about what I did to get on that flight? The deception and conniving.”

“Oh yes, I remember.”

“They found out. I was just fired.”

Dora fell back against the chair. “That seems pretty cruel, considering what you’ve been through.”

Sonja’s shrug was full of defeat and resignation. “All in all, I’d say I got what I deserved. Ever since the crash, when I look back at my job, it all seems so tainted.” She took a deep breath but seemed to gain no strength from it. “Besides, I’ve passed through the angry and incredulous stage. Right now I’m trying to figure out what to do next. As you told me in the hospital, this is a chance for me to start over.” She laughed. “Neither crisis was one I would have chosen, but God didn’t ask me.”

Dora felt a wave of hope. Although they’d mentioned God during their first meeting, it made things easier that Sonja brought Him up again. This was good.

“You’d mentioned your seatmate. Roscoe, wasn’t it? He talked to you about God getting your attention?”

“Yes, he did, and I haven’t forgotten it. He said he’d gone through a similar experience in his life—not a plane crash, but a big event that forced him to reassess things.” Sonja looked down,
then up. “He ran over his little boy and killed him.”

“Oh my goodness. That’s terrible.”

Sonja sighed. “I know. I can’t imagine.”

“But he turned his life around?”

“Completely. Up until then he was consumed with his work. But after that he gave up being head of the company and worked with his wife helping high-risk kids.”

“Wow. I admire people who can do that—get their priorities straight
and
work with kids who need them.”

“He said it was all due to his wife. She’d been trying to make him see things clearly for years, but he never listened to her. Until their son’s death.”

“She sounds like a neat lady.”

“He wanted me to meet her someday.”

An idea flashed into Dora’s head. “Then you should do it. Meet her. Find her.”

“What?”

Dora was surprised by the intensity of her idea. “You said Roscoe helped you, and his wife helped him. He wanted the two of you to meet.”

“But I don’t even know where she lives.”

“Did he say if he was heading home on Flight 1382?”

Sonja brightened. “Yes, yes, he did.”

Dora stood. “Then let’s go find her.”

Sonja sat in her living room with the phone on her lap. She stared at the address and phone number of Eden Moore. Would Roscoe’s widow want to hear from her? Or would the knowledge that Sonja, a woman sitting right next to her husband, had lived when he died upset her?

There was only one way to find out. Sonja took a deep breath and dialed the number.

A woman with a deep alto voice answered. “Moores.”

“Hello … you don’t know me, but my name is Sonja Grafton, and I sat next to your husband on the plane and—”

“You sat next to Roscoe?”

“Yes.”

“On Flight 1382?”

“Yes.”

“And you survived?”

Sonja braced herself. “Yes.”

“Praise the Lord!”

“What?”

“I’ve been wanting to know what happened; I’ve been aching to know what Roscoe went through, and now to have someone call who sat next to him and talked with him. I want to meet you, Sonja Grafton!”

To expect anger and receive enthusiasm. Sonja’s voice was tight, but she managed the words. “I want to meet you too.”

“I can’t get away again right now. I’ve been away from our work too long, but—”

“I’ll come down there,” Sonja said, totally surprising herself.

“You will?”

“I’ll fly down tomorrow.”

“You don’t mind flying?”

Sonja had never thought about it. “I’ll do it. I’ll be there.”

“Bless you, dear girl. You are a gift from God.”

Funny, she didn’t feel like one.

Anthony’s pager vibrated. He looked at the number.
911
. The code meant he was needed in emergency. Just his luck. If only he’d canned the superdoctor bit and stayed home another day. But it was too late now. He couldn’t refuse.

He reached for the phone and called back. “Dr. Thorgood here.”

“Yes, Doctor, we have a hand injury. Bar fight. The patient’s been bit pretty badly, plus there’s some glass—”

Yes, yes, don’t drone on about it
. “I’ll be right there.” Anthony hung up and closed his eyes in disgust. This was one of the reasons he’d veered away from reconstructive plastic surgery and toward cosmetic. He hated dealing with the lowlifes who got injured through exposure to drunk drivers, domestic abuse, or sheer stupidity. He liked dealing with people who chose surgery as a means toward bettering their lives.

The truth was, some people got what they deserved.

Anthony found the patient sleeping, or out cold from the booze that seemed to emanate from every pore. His shirt was covered with blood. Various cuts on his face had already been treated.
Must have been some fight
.

The man pulled out of his stupor, saw Anthony, and got agitated. “My hand! You have to fix … I must play …”

At that moment the attending physician, Dr. Andrea Margalis, came in and rushed to the patient’s side. “Shh, shh, Mr. Harper. Calm down. Everything will be all right. We’ve brought in a specialist to look at your hand.”

The man glanced at Anthony, then, when consciousness seemed too much for him, lay back down, mumbling a few times more about his hand before going silent.

Well then
. Anthony donned a pair of gloves and lifted the patient’s hand, assessing the damage. Andrea moved close. Her perfume was delicious. She waited patiently until he finished his examination. “You can see why we called you in.”

Anthony set the hand down. “Actually, no. This is a stitch-up job, pure and simple.”

Her eyebrows furrowed, taking nothing away from her beauty. Anthony purposely glanced at her left hand as she donned a pair of
gloves. There was no ring, which indicated no husband. Usually. Though that detail wasn’t necessarily a problem.