Sunday blooms bright and beautiful, one of those perfect spring days for which Atlanta is famous. Blue skies. Warm sunshine. A crisp breeze carrying whiffs of grass and honeysuckle. The kind of day Will and I loved to spend lazing in Piedmont Park or exploring the Atlanta BeltLine. The kind of day that’s too bright and sunny for a funeral.
Liberty Airlines has secured the Atlanta Botanical Gardens for the memorial service, and as I lumber through it in dark clothes and darker glasses, I grudgingly admit the choice is pretty brilliant. With its swooping bridges and reflecting pools and Technicolor Chihuly sculptures everywhere, the park is pretty spectacular. Even better, no journalists are allowed through the gate, and there isn’t a zoom lens on the planet that can reach us through the leafy cover. I picture Ann Margaret at the employee meeting, nodding enthusiastically when it was suggested. Who can be bereft when the tulips are in full bloom?
Mom winds her arm through mine, presses her temple to my shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay.”
Thankfully, it’s not a lie. As soon as we pulled into the garden’s parking deck, everything inside me went completely numb, like someone shot me full of Novocain. My body going into survival mode, I guess, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. It sure as hell beats sobbing or throwing up, both of which I spent all day yesterday doing, after Dad handed a solemn-faced Liberty Air representative the items he’d collected from Will’s side of the bathroom—his toothbrush, a forgotten fingernail clipping, a few stray hairs. Closure—that’s what genetics is supposed to provide for Liberty Air families. But I don’t want closure. To hell with closure. I want someone to tell me they couldn’t find one piece, not one teeny tiny speck, of my husband on that Missouri cornfield.
Uniformed park employees herd us down bricked pathways into the Rose Garden, a large grassy field set against a backdrop of the Midtown Atlanta skyline. We file into a middle row and take a seat on padded folding chairs, my gaze picking out a few familiar faces from the Family Assistance Center. The Indian woman in another sari, this time white. The black teenager minus the studs, his face streaked with unchecked tears. The sun reflects off their wet faces like a beacon, making me glad for my sunglasses. Especially when I spot Ann Margaret, watching from the sidelines. Her look of obvious longing transports me back to the halls of Lake Forrest, to the pimply-faced girls desperate to be part of the popular crowd. We are “her” family, and we’re excluding her. I give her my best mean-girl cold shoulder and turn away.
The service is an hour and a half of infuriating, excruciating torture filled with cheesy songs and a long procession of speakers, people I’ve never met before and will probably never see again. They package their condolences into ridiculous platitudes, things like Let your love be stronger than your desperation and sorrow and Let us concentrate on filling the holes with love and hope. Hope for what? I hold my breath and grit my teeth so I don’t scream the words. Hope for fucking what? Thanks to Liberty Air, I don’t have the slightest clue.
Liberty Airlines. Two words I can’t utter without shaking with fury. I hate them for their sloppy mechanics, their faux concern, their incompetent disaster planners and clumsy crew. If that pilot didn’t die in the crash, I’d want to kill him myself.
And where is the pilot’s family? Are they here? I study the profiles of the folks weeping all around me, trying to find his wife or husband, their 2.5 loving children. Would they dare to come? Would they be able to face the 178 other families, knowing their loved one made the mistake that brought down the plane?
After the service, we gather for refreshments by a rose arbor better suited to a wedding than a funeral. The flowers won’t bloom for weeks, their tight buds only barely there nubs, but the climbing vines with their pale green shoots mock me with their optimism. Alive, alive, alive, they scream, while my Will is not.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Dad asks, gesturing to the edge of the crowd, where a uniformed server stands with a tray of icy drinks.
“A Coke,” I tell him, even though I’m not thirsty. I figure at least if I’m holding a glass, I can’t slug somebody in the gut. But as soon as Dad has slipped into the crowd, I reconsider. “Actually, can we just leave? I really want to go home.”
Mom and Dave exchange a look. “Maybe you want to talk to some of the other families?” Mom says.
“No. I really, really don’t.” As a psychologist, I am a big believer in group therapy, in finding solace with others who have been through a similar tragedy. But doing so with these people here means resigning myself to Will being on that plane, and until DNA tells me otherwise, I’m hanging on to my denial with both hands.
My boss, Ted Rawlings, steps up in front of me. Though I didn’t expect to see him here, I’m not surprised. He treats everyone at Lake Forrest, staff and students alike, like one big extended family. Of course he’d be at one of our funerals.
He reaches for my hand, wraps it between both of his. “On behalf of everyone at Lake Forrest Academy, I offer you my deepest, most sincere condolences. I’m so very sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, that any of us can do, please, please let me know.”
Tears spring to my eyes, not at his words but mostly at his tie—a solemn, staid black so unlike the colorful ones he wears to school. A funeral tie if I’ve ever seen one. I bet he bought it for the occasion, and the thought makes me unbelievably, inexplicably sad. “Thank you, Ted. That means a lot.”
“Take as much time as you need, okay? We’ll see you back at school whenever you’re ready.” He squeezes my hand, then moves on to my mother, becoming the first in an impromptu receiving line. More colleagues and their spouses, a man I belatedly recognize as Will’s boss, a few of his coworkers. They file by, repeating much of what Ted just said. The entire Lake Forrest lacrosse team is next, solemn-faced and saying all the right things, but an itchy rash spreads across my skin with each hand I shake. I don’t want their sympathy. I don’t want their kind words. I only want my husband back.
“Oh, Iris,” a familiar voice says, and I’m surrounded by my three best girlfriends, their eyes puffy and bloodshot. Elizabeth, Lisa and Christy huddle around, wrapping me in a hug that smells like flowers and honey and tears.
“He wasn’t supposed to be on that plane,” I say, pressing my forehead to theirs. “He’s supposed to be in Orlando.”
There’s nothing they can say, no hope they can offer, so instead they scoot in tighter and say nothing at all. The idea that they know me well enough not to plug the silence with platitudes fills me with love at the same time it wrings my heart with a fresh round of grief.
“Thanks for coming,” I whisper, right before Mom swoops in. She did this at her and Dad’s fortieth anniversary celebration last year, too, moving the line along when someone lingered too long. Now she takes a couple of hands in hers and tugs, her smile so genuine and the move so smooth, nobody but me is the wiser.
A blond man in a pinstripe suit steps up next. “Didn’t I see you at the Family Assistance Center?”
“I was there,” I say and leave it at that. The thing is, I would have remembered this guy by his height alone. He’s shockingly tall, the kind of tall you see prancing up and down a basketball court.
Then again, I was a wreck, and maybe he was sitting down. Either way, he lost someone on that plane, I’m positive of it. His face is molded into something polite and pleasant, but his green eyes give him away. They are haunted, and nothing about this is pleasant.
He offers me a hand. “Evan Sheffield. My wife and baby daughter were on the plane.”
I wince, at the same time a shiver of something that feels a lot like relief passes through me. This poor guy lost two people on that plane. Apparently, there are people here who have it worse than me.
“Iris Griffith. My husband, Will...” I swallow. I still can’t manage to get the awful words past my lips.
Evan gives me a nod, his grimace telling me he understands. Of course, he does. “I wanted to let you know, I’m organizing an association for friends and family of the passengers and crew. I figure if we band together, we’ll get a lot more accomplished.”
“Like what?”
“Like figuring out what we’re supposed to be doing and who we’re supposed to be listening to, for starters. I don’t know about you, but I don’t plan to blindly follow the path my Care Specialist laid out for me. I’m not sure a Liberty Air employee is our best advocate at this point.”
“I agree.”
“Good.” He pulls a business card from his jacket and passes it to me. He points to his name in swirling blue letters. “Shoot me an email with your contact information, and I’ll add you to the list. First meeting will be early next week sometime at my firm, Rogers, Sheffield and Shea in Midtown. The address and parking instructions will be included in the email.”
I know Rogers, Sheffield and Shea. Everybody in the South knows Rogers, Sheffield and Shea, after they overturned the 2001 conviction of Troy Coles, a Savannah man sentenced to death for a murder he didn’t commit. I look back down at his name, a name I now remember as the lead attorney in the case. “You’re that Evan Sheffield?”
“Yes, and I’m not the only attorney in the group if that’s what you’re asking. We’ve also got a couple of nurses, a sleep therapist and a handful of doctors. If you have a specific talent or knowledge you’d like to volunteer, let me know in the email. It’s not mandatory, of course. You can always just come and listen.”
“My daughter’s a psychologist,” Mom says, not able to help herself. “Agnes Scott and Emory educated.”
“I’m not sure I’ll do anybody any good,” I quickly add. “I’m kind of hanging by a thread here.”
Evan tries to push up a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. “Welcome to the club. Everybody keeps telling me we’ll survive this, but if you ask me, the jury’s still out.” He inhales, pulling himself together. “Anyway, nice to meet you, and I’ll watch for your email.”
He moves on, and I watch him give his spiel to the next person, his shoulders slumped with a weariness that I feel down to my bones. Grief is exhausting, and this man lost two people to my one. Where does he get the energy? My gaze travels to a patch of thick, fluffy grass, and I wonder if I could lie on it, just for a minute.
Dave steps up beside me, sliding an arm around my waist, and I lean into him. I meant it when I told Evan I was hanging by a thread—one that’s frayed enough to give out any second. I also meant it when I told my mother I wanted to go home. Suddenly, leaving is my newest and most urgent goal. I can’t take another person in this parade of mourners.
“Let’s go.”
Dave points across the grass, where they’re setting up giant trays of food on a buffet table. “But—”
“I’m not kidding, Dave. I need you to get me out of here. Now.”
Dave looks over his shoulder, craning his neck. “Okay, but Mom just headed off in search of the bathroom, and I don’t know where James went.” He turns back, gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Hang tight. I’ll go round up the troops.”
“That’d be great. Thanks.”
As soon as he’s gone, there’s another tug on my sleeve. Before I can stop myself, I whip around, my face tightening into a scowl. “What?”
If the man is insulted by my lack of manners, he doesn’t let it show. He smiles, a flash of bright white against coffee-bean skin, and holds up a glass of clear, sparkling liquid. “San Pellegrino. You looked like you could use something cold.”
“Oh.” Guilt surges, and I stretch my mouth into what I hope looks like an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m not usually that much of an asshole, but...” I take the glass from his hand, tip it in his direction. “Thank you. Really.”
“Corban Hayes,” he says. “I’m a friend of Will’s from the gym.”
I sip my water, taking him in over the rim. That this guy spends time at the gym is not exactly news. Tall and lean, with muscles so clearly defined that his veins pop, like black rope standing up on his brown arms. The type of guy who does one-handed pull-ups while chanting eat clean, train dirty to anyone who walks by. Will worked out, but he wasn’t a gym rat. Weights and treadmills were necessary evils, but only so he could eat as many burritos as he pleased. How good of friends could they have been?
“Will gave me shit for putting the weights up in the wrong place. I gave him shit for being so anal. We’ve been buddies ever since.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s Will. He likes order.”
“I’ll say.” Corban’s expression sobers, and he shakes his head. “I’m going to miss that guy bossing me around, harassing me to change my passwords every thirty days. My company migrated over to the AppSec security suite last year, and it was the cleanest, quickest software migration we’ve ever experienced. Will made sure of it, and he didn’t bill me for all the extra hours he spent whipping us into shape. I know AppSec was sorry to see him go.”
I’m already nodding, already murmuring my thanks for his kind words, when the last ones register. “What do you mean, see him go?”
“To the new job. What’s the company’s name again? EPM? TPM? Something like that. I assume that’s why he was on a plane to Seattle, to finalize the contract, no?”
The glass slips from my fingers, dropping onto the bricks with a loud crash. Heads swing in my direction, and something wet stings my shins.
But instead of lurching backward to avoid the mess, Corban springs forward, clamping a palm around my biceps, right as I feel myself sway. “Steady now.”
I open my mouth to tell him to let go, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. The air gets stuck halfway down my throat.
“Are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.”
My lungs have turned to stone. I can’t make them expand or contract. I suck little sips of air while black dots dance around the edges of my vision. “Can’t...breathe...”
“That’s because you’re hyperventilating. Here.” He steers me toward a shady bench, parks me there. “Hold your breath. I know it feels wrong, but I promise you it’ll help. Hold it for as long as you can, then breathe in through your nose as slowly as possible.” He talks me through a few rounds of this, sitting down next to me and demonstrating with puffed cheeks and exaggerated pulls through flattened nostrils, until my lungs release and the dizziness subsides. “Better?”
Slightly. I nod.
He leans over, takes a look at my legs. “If I tell you you’re bleeding, are you going to start hyperventilating again?” He doesn’t wait for my response, just yanks a paisley pocket square from his jacket and squats on the grass, blotting it on my skin. “I don’t think the cuts are deep, but you should still probably get someone to clean them up as soon as you’re home.”
Vaguely, I’m aware of Corban fussing over me, of a crowd gathering all around us, strangers watching with curiosity and alarm. Somebody slides off my shoe and pours icy water down a shin, and I barely notice any of it.
All along, I’ve been waiting for someone to tell me these past few days were a mistake, that Will was safe and sound where he was supposed to be, in Orlando. But the conference was a lie, his cover for a difficult truth: that he was headed to Seattle to uproot our lives, to begin the process of starting a new one on the opposite coast. I cover my mouth with a palm, the truth slamming me in the gut. Will had a reason to be on that plane.
Which means I have a reason to give up hope.
Will got a new job in Seattle?
I must say the words out loud, because Corban looks up. “You didn’t know?”
My eyes widen. “Of course I didn’t know.” The words come out like darts, fast and furious. Why else would I be causing such a scene?
Corban pushes up from the ground and settles onto the bench beside me, watching me with eyes black as night. “I didn’t realize he hadn’t told you yet. If it makes you feel any better, I know he was going to. He was just waiting for the right time.”
“When was that, when I came home to find a For Sale sign in front of the house and movers carting out all our stuff?”
“Don’t be crazy. You know Will would never let strangers touch his stuff.”
I know he’s joking, but Corban’s words hit me like a fireball shot, sudden and scalding. This guy claims Will was his friend, but he’s my husband. I feel like a jealous lover, and this feels like an intrusion, like a third person butting into my and Will’s relationship, trying to elbow in bed between us. Heat rises in my chest.
“How well do you know Will?” I say, more accusation than inquiry.
Corban’s brows rise, then fall into a V. “I told you, we met at the gym.”
“Not how. How well. It can’t be all that well, seeing as he never, not once, mentioned your name. How do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
Corban doesn’t look the least bit insulted. He leans back, stretching one of his bulked-up arms along the back of the bench. “Well, I know his dad disappeared when he was seven, and his mom died during his junior year of high school. I know he couch surfed for a month or two until he turned eighteen, social services breathing down his neck the whole time. I know he put himself through college and grad school, and that he was far too qualified for the work he was doing at AppSec. And I know he was bighearted and off-the-charts brilliant, an all-around good guy who fell for the love of his life in a Kroger parking lot.”
I fall silent. It took me years to get all that out of Will. He didn’t like to talk about his difficult past, and he hated to blow his own horn. That he shared all this with Corban says something about not only the length, but also the depth of their friendship.
“So not all that well,” I mumble, and he laughs, proving yet again how well he knew my husband.
And now I’m crying again, both at Corban’s obvious affection for Will and at the idea that he had a friend, one he liked and trusted enough to share the most private parts of himself but, for some reason I’ll never know, decided to keep that friendship from me. Why would he do such a thing?
Corban presses a palm to the back of my hand for a quick squeeze, pulling away before the gesture can turn anything beyond friendly. “He was going to tell you about the job offer, Iris. Honestly. He wanted you to be as excited as he was. This job was the opportunity of a lifetime. But he was waiting until next weekend, at Optimist, because he didn’t want the discussion to detract from your anniversary celebration.”
Optimist—yet another fact Corban has gotten right. Will and I have dinner reservations at the Westside hot spot next Saturday, a rare date night with just us two.
“He told me he was going to Orlando. To a conference. He even produced a flyer featuring himself as keynote speaker.”
“Orlando, huh?” Corban shakes his head. “That’s something I didn’t know, though I can’t say I’m surprised. This new job came with a promotion and a hefty raise in salary, but Will knew neither would make it an easy decision for you. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty-four road miles between you and your brother. That’s what he kept saying he was up against.”
“He wasn’t wrong.” I draw a shaky breath and wipe my cheeks. “I would have gone, but I would have fought him on it first.”
“And who knows? He probably would have let you win.”
Corban smiles, and my lips tip up in response, like one of Pavlov’s dogs. It happens without me giving them permission.
“You ready?” Dave says from right behind me, and I twist around. My parents and James hover at either shoulder. I give them a quick nod, then turn back to Corban.
He reaches into a pocket, passes me a business card, and I recognize the logo for a local chain of banks. “Call me anytime, okay? Day or night. If you think of any more questions or just want to talk. And for what it’s worth, Will was right.”
“What about?”
“What the two of you had was worth a million dented fenders.”