…Grady directed the evacuation process from aboard the plane, maintaining the calm among crazed passengers and enabling their orderly evacuation from the burning plane with no further injuries. He exited the plane last, but not before saving at least two lives. He was deemed a real life Good Samaritan for rushing to the aid of the two pilots, who had sustained severe injuries after the crash, and singlehandedly saving both their lives by pulling them out of the cockpit and handing their unconscious bodies to the rescue teams on the ground. “If the pilots had remained without medical help any longer they would have both died,” said a spokesperson from J.T. Memorial Hospital, where the pilots are still under medical treatment for the traumas suffered during the crash.
Fellow passengers, the plane’s crew, and local rescue forces named Grady as the Hero of Flight 4568.
Ah, well, hero was missing from his qualifications, so it’s good that we can add it now. As if I needed any more proof of him being Mr. Perfect! Can you hate a national hero? The article continues with a very impersonal eulogy of myself, an account of my meager—compared with Liam’s—career achievements, and it ends with a more colorful description of Liam’s insufferable pain at my loss and his unavailability for comments. Bah! So insufferable he has already moved on, forgetting everything about me and getting married to the first woman he saw—literally.
I read the article until the end with bile rising in my throat. At the very bottom, there are three later additions that catch my attention.
Updated April 29 - Liam J. Grady to marry Victoria’s Secret Angel Adriana Amaral this coming Saturday.
Click here for the scoop.
Updated May 1 - Nuptials took place in a secluded location on the Brazilian coast.
Click here for the wedding pictures.
Updated May 15 - Liam J. Grady’s exclusive interview on his hasty second marriage.
Click here for the full interview.
I stare at the tiny writing, hyperventilating. A Victoria’s Secret Angel? I don’t think my coffin has any space left for nails. No, the irony of the phrasing is not lost on me since this all started with my presumed death, pun intended. My index finger hovers above the three links, undecided for a while. What would be my first torture of choice? Angel’s picture, wedding pictures, or marriage interview? My finger finally sets on the last one; I touch the screen and a new page opens.
23
Cry Me a River
“…I’m sure Joanna would have wanted me to move on and keep living my life to the fullest. She wouldn’t have wanted me to waste this precious gift grieving over a ghost…”
I re-read the phrase for the umpteenth time. No. No, you idiot! You stupid, dumb idiot. I didn’t want you to move on. I didn’t want you to forget about me in the blink of an eye. And I most certainly didn’t want you to get married to a Brazilian Victoria’s Secret Angel five months—five—after you thought I was dead.
I wanted you to fight for me, for us. I wanted you to find me. I wanted you to go to the end of the world to search for me. I wanted you to never accept my loss. And if I really had died, what I would have wanted was for you to mourn me for a respectful amount of time—at least ten years—before you even thought of entering in a platonic relationship with someone very ugly. Someone who would have just provided you some sort of companionship to help you carry through the unbearable pain of the loss of the love of your life—FYI, me!
I click on the link to the pictures next, and stare in shock at a wedding shot of my husband. Her husband. Whatever. He looks exactly the same as on our wedding day. Oh! Our wedding pictures—I never got to see them…I wonder how we looked. I shift my gaze to the bride. She’s wearing a mermaid dress. I hate her. I wanted to wear a mermaid dress, but they all looked horrible on me. They made me look like a fat pear. Anyway, after all the weight I’d gained just before the wedding, I was glad I’d gone for a more forgiving ball gown silhouette.
You know how everyone tells you that brides get so stressed before their wedding that the pounds just shred off on their own? Well, for me it didn’t happen. I was so stressed I kept eating everything I could get my hands on, and instead of losing the famous ten pounds I put some extra ones on. Not that it’s a problem right now; I have never been skinnier in my entire life. Well, a five-month diet of snappers and fruit will do that for you.
I scroll to the next picture. There are white petals falling all around the happy couple as they exit the church. I hate her even more. Why did I use common rice? Petals look so much better. I bet their wedding was at least twice as expensive as ours.
Next, a picture of them toasting champagne glasses at the reception.
Next, the first dance.
Next, the cutting of the cake.
Next, the happy couple leaving.
This is killing me. It’s a nightmare; this can’t really be happening. I swipe my fingers on the screen to get a close-up of Liam’s face. I wonder what he’s thinking right now, now that he knows I’m still here, and very much alive. Is he regretting his decision? Is there still a chance for us? Will he divorce her and marry me again? Or will he stay with her? Is he flying here right at this moment? Even if he married this Adriana person, I thought he would have jumped on the first plane to come here once he knew I was alive. Does the fact that he’s not here speak for itself? Is he coming?
Wait a minute. My heart stops for a second as an appalling thought crosses my mind for the first time. Does he know I’m alive? Does anyone know, except for my family? Did they tell him? My brother said they would, but that must have been a lie. They didn’t tell him! He doesn’t know. That would explain why he’s not here. Of course, he doesn’t know.
My heart pounds in my chest. I shoot up from the chaise lounge and dart inside my room. I sit on the bed next to the room’s phone and stare at it, filled with trepidation. With shaking fingers, I press the exterior line button and digit his cell number.
“I’m sorry, the number you have reached is not in service or has been temporarily disconnected. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”
Oh, I forgot. I’ll have to call the house again. I just hope I won’t get that couple-y this-is Liam-and-Adriana message again.
I punch in the numbers and wait patiently for the line to connect.
“Hallo?” says a female voice on the other side.
The voice startles me so much that the receiver escapes my sweaty palms like a live fish darting for the water. As I watch it fly into the air, I can hear her voice repeating, “Haalloo?”
Great, her accent is even sexier when it’s not recorded. I manage to get a hold of the escaped receiver and slam it back on the phone’s console. That was by far worse than the message. I get up and pace around the room a couple of times. Was he not home, or she just answered the phone instead? Should I try again?
Why do I feel like the mistress stalker? I am the wife. She stole my husband, my house, and my life, not the other way around. I have every right to talk to my husband. But I don’t want to have to explain myself to her all the same. I decide to wait a respectable amount of time before I try again, like thirty minutes or so.
They prove to be the longest thirty minutes of my entire life. I restlessly pace around the room, staring at the bedside clock, willing it to go faster. When the time has almost passed, I sit again on the bed and stare fixedly at the clock as every slow second of the last minute of my vigil turns into the next. When the display finally reaches the designated hour, I pick up the phone and jam in the number one more time. The line clicks. I wait, and…
“Hallo?”
Damn! It’s her again. Doesn’t she have some glamorous red carpet event to attend?
“Hallo? Who is dis?”
I slam down the receiver in frustration. Oh, Liam. Why can’t you even pick up the damn phone?
I’ll try again one last time. If he doesn’t pick up, I’ll wait until tomorrow morning. The pacing-clock-staring routin
e starts over. I serve my self-imposed half an hour waiting sentence and dial the number again, only halfheartedly.
“Hallo?”
I put the phone down at light speed, downhearted. I guess it wasn’t meant to be. I stare out of the window as a renewed feeling of sadness grips itself around my throat…that is, until the room phone nearly makes me jump out of my skin when it suddenly rings.
I stare at it, mesmerized. Who is it? I don’t give myself the time to think, and pick up.
“Hello,” I say hesitantly.
“Hello? Who is this?” says a male voice. Liam’s voice. “You’ve called my house and hung up three times tonight.”
“Liam?” I can hear my voice crack with emotions.
“Yes, who is this?” he asks, still fired up.
“Liam, it’s me,” I whisper, holding onto the receiver as if my life depended on it.
“I can’t hear you, who am I talking to?” he asks again, annoyed. He hates receiving unsolicited calls, especially at night.
“Liam, it’s me, Joanna,” I say more firmly.
There’s a long pause.
“Is this a joke?” he asks after a long time, in a softer tone.
“No, it’s me. Matt found me,” I reply simply.
“Babe, who is it?” a female voice shouts in the background.
“I’ll take this in the other room,” Liam says to her, and then to me, “Joanna?” He still sounds incredulous.
“Yep.” I laugh and cry at the same time.
“But that’s impossible. I saw you blow up and disappear into the sky.”
“I landed on a deserted island. The seat got stuck in the trees and we didn’t crash on the ground.”
“That’s impossible,” he repeats, still shocked.
“Apparently not. They said the plane was already close enough to the ground for the emergency landing, and the strong winds carried us.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re dead.”
“Liam, I’m right here talking to you,” I snap in frustration. “I’m not dead.”
“You’re alive!” The concept finally sinks in. “Your brother was right!”
“Yes, he didn’t give up on me,” I say, full of resentment.
There’s another long pause.
“Jo, if you had seen it you wouldn’t have believed it possible that you survived.”
“Well, you didn’t mourn me for too long, did you?” I am getting angry.
“I don’t know what to say. I was losing my mind. I had to move on.”
“Yeah, that didn’t take too long, huh?” I say in a harsher tone than I meant.
“I thought I was going to die, and I thought you were dead. It’s not an experience you forget overnight.” Is he seriously trying to legitimize his actions? “I cannot deal with this—this is too much,” he adds.
“Too much? You thought you were going to die? I was the one sucked out of a plane and spat out on a deserted island. I was the one who had to survive on raw fish and clams for five months. What about you? You didn’t even come looking for me.” A fury I didn’t know I had is mounting inside me. “The only raw fish you had was probably the sushi at your wedding!” A sob escapes my lips.
“Jo, I’m happy you’re alive. More than happy…” he says in a funereal voice. Our marriage funeral, I’m afraid.
“You don’t sound so thrilled.”
“Actually, I’m in shock. I don’t know what to say. It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
I hear Adriana’s voice calling him again. Nosy angel bitch, can’t she leave him alone for five minutes?
“Joanna, I’m sorry, I cannot do this right now. I have to go.”
“But…” I try to protest.
“I can’t, I’m so sorry.” Liam cuts me short.
I hear the phone click on the other side and the line goes dead. I launch the receiver against the wall with blind rage, and sag on the bed to cry myself to sleep.
24
Goodbyes
The next morning when I open my eyes, the oh-too-familiar sensation of wretchedness invades me. I know I’m not technically stranded anymore, but my life is still a wreck. A complete disaster. Oddly enough, I felt almost better on the island; at least I had hope there. Now I feel empty. After hanging up, I replayed my conversation with Liam a million times in my head. That bastard. I always knew he was a bit overly self-absorbed, as many writers or artists are in general, but I never thought he would be so downright selfish. He dealt with me as if I was a spam call. We spent four years together. He proposed to me, married me, and then forgot me in no time at all. Worst of all, he didn’t have the guts to face me and talk about it. What a coward.
I am angry at Liam, but mostly I’m angry at myself because, if I’m being completely honest, I think I’m still in love with him. I so wish I could erase him as quickly as he did me, but I think women are genetically programmed to stay in love longer. I waited for Liam, I was faithful to him, and all for nothing. I wish I could have at least had some fun on that damn island. No, that’s not fair. It wouldn’t have been right, for either Connor or me.
Connor. He must have had a good laugh at me after all the blabbing I did about Liam. My husband this, my husband that. Connor had him figured out better than me with a five-second look at him on the plane. My husband? I don’t have one. I’m single.
Today, along with the heartbreak and the humiliation, I have discovered this new, quiet sense of panic that has settled itself in the pit of my stomach. I’m a planner. I met Liam when I was twenty-five, he proposed when I was twenty-seven, I was married at twenty-eight, and on track to have my first baby at twenty-nine. What now? I’m single and on the way to thirty. My pulse accelerates. I shake the thought away; I can’t deal with this too right now.
I shift positions and bury my head under a pillow. I didn’t sleep well; the bed felt weird. After getting used to sleeping on the floor it felt too soft. But, mostly, I was alone. No Liam and no Connor. Here comes the panic again. I turn around and hug a pillow for comfort. When I’m tired of tossing and turning in my too comfortable bed, I decide to get up and go to the resort’s restaurant to eat. It’s pretty early; maybe I can avoid seeing the others right away. They mean well, but yesterday they got on my nerves.
Unfortunately, my entire family is already assembled at the same table as last night, and I am forced to join them. I hardly speak to anyone. I keep my head low and my gaze fixed on my plate, which is filled with all the things I have been craving for the past five months—pancakes, mini glazed donuts, muffins—but I don’t have an appetite for right now. If anything, the overstuffed table is making me feel slightly nauseous.
Everyone seems upbeat; they keep throwing me occasional worried looks when they think I’m not watching them, but it’s mostly smiles today, and no one mentions Liam whatsoever. I’m not sure if this bothers me more or less than their criticizing attitude of yesterday. It’s as if, for them, the problem was dealt with yesterday. They said what they had to say, and now we can all move on and be done with it. To them the notion of my divorce—sorry, annulment—must be old news, and they seem far happier that I’m alive and well—physically, at least—to worry about my love life, or lack thereof.
“So, Sis, are you ready to go home?” my brother asks when everyone is finished eating.
I look at him and feel tears welling up in my eyes.
“Jo, what’s wrong?” He’s at my side immediately.
“I don’t have a home,” I mumble between suffocated sobs. “I gave up my apartment, and she’s living in my house with my husband.”
“Baby, of course you have a home,” Mom chimes in. “You will always have a place with us—you can stay in your old bedroom for as long as you like.”
My brother must notice the look of utter terror on my face at the thought of going back to live with my parents, because he promptly says. “Or you could stay in the guesthouse with us. All your things are already there anyway.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, still sobbing. How convenient for Liam, I add bitterly in my head. He had all my belongings already packed and ready to be moved out. It didn’t take him much of an effort to toss every reminder of me away and make room for his new bride.
“It’s nothing.” Matthew hugs me.
“Would you be comfortable flying back home?” Dad asks.
My face must speak for me again, because he quickly adds, “Or we could cruise from here to Miami, and then drive home. It would take a little longer, but it would be a fun trip.”
Both my parents are retired. I’m sure that to them a Caribbean cruise to Miami sounds like a blast. However, a boat plus road trip with my parents is not exactly my idea of fun. Still, I prefer it to flying. I am never going to set foot on one of those death traps ever again.
“What about Manny?” I ask Matt.
“He’s being quarantined. I talked to the Chicago Zoo—they have a special program for orphans that didn’t learn how to survive properly in the wild. They agreed to take Manny in, and they said you can go visit him whenever you want.”
“What? But he needs me!”
“No, Sis. It was okay as long as he was a baby and had other monkeys around, but he’s going to be an adult soon and he is protected wildlife, not a pet. He’ll have to stay at the zoo. They assured me it’s the best solution for him.”
“I really wanted to keep him.” I can feel tears forming at the back of my lids. What else is going to be taken from me?
“He’ll be fine, and you can go see him all the time if you want. I bet Sophie will become your best friend if you bring her to the zoo every day.”
“If you say so.” My shoulders droop, and the will to fight drains from me. “Well, I don’t have much to pack, so we can go whenever you guys want.”
“I’m flying home with Judith and the kids. I’ll have everything booked for tomorrow,” Matt says in his business-efficient tone. “Today you can relax by the pool and enjoy the nice weather.”
What does he think I’ve been doing all this time on that stupid island? My will to fight suddenly reappears. I’m not a child. “I’ve done that for five months. I want to go get a new phone,” I protest.