The Marriage Lie(23)

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.”