Chapter 35
"Mr. Bruce? A Mrs. Carter is here."
Bruce rubbed a weary hand over his eyes as he checked the survivors list. Yes, he remembered Mrs. Carter. She had taken it harder than all the others. Still, he was surprised to discover that she was here. He told her that she could have her husband's body shipped back home; why would she want to torture herself by seeing the crash site?
But he would go and talk to her; it was his job. He would do everything he could to make her go home, to minimize her pain. "Send her in," Bruce said. Another grieving widow.
Abby nervously walked in the room. She smoothed her hair. She adjusted her purse. She did everything she could to avoid talking to him.
Abby had spent the past day wishing that the train would speed up so she could find out Carter's fate. Now that she was here, it seemed too awful. She wanted to put it off for as long as she could, because if he was dead...there was no going back to hope.
Bruce was surprised. She had sounded a lot older on the phone; he had expected to see a woman who was at least fifty. But maybe he was remembering wrong. "Mrs. Carter, you know it was really not necessary for you to come here," he said, hoping she would leave as soon as possible.
Abby had no idea why he was calling her Mrs. Carter, but she didn't correct him. It gave her a strange sort of comfort, to be called by Carter's name. Like Carter was here with her, in some bizarre way. "I just wanted to find out what happened to him."
Bruce nodded. He shuffled the papers on his desk. "Well, his body is being held at the morgue in Phoenix until you tell us where you want it to be shipped."
Abby froze. Had he just said what she thought he did? No, it couldn't be, it was too horrible. "He's...dead?" she whispered, fearing the answer but knowing she had to find out.
Bruce nodded his head. Poor woman. He had told her when he called, but obviously she was too grief-stricken to remember. "Yes, ma'am, unfortunately the plane exploded and we were unable to save him." Bruce explained this slowly, as if he were talking to a two-year-old.
So that was it. Carter was dead. The reality of the situation began to sink in. How had she let this happen?
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Carter," Bruce repeated mechanically.
Mrs. Carter. What a joke. She had never been Mrs. Carter; she never would be. She hadn't even been a real friend; all she had ever done was let him down. How had she let Carter go on that plane? She caused his death!
Abby stood to her feet, but they felt like they were made of lead. "I've like to see him," she said woodenly, but she wouldn't like to see him. She didn't want to see his cold, lifeless body lying on a table like a slab of meat, to know that she had cut his life short by her carelessness. She didn't want to look at his eyes, eyes that would never see again. Carter was dead, and it was all her fault.
How could she do this? How could she go back to the hotel and tell her kids that Daddy was dead, that they would never see him again?
She couldn't. If she saw Carter's body in a drawer at a morgue, she would just run out on the morgue and keep running, and never have to tell anyone what a horrible thing she had done to a friend. How could she face them all, knowing that she was practically a murderer?
No, she had to get a grip on herself. She couldn't go over the edge like this. Her children needed her, and the three of then would continue to live without Carter, just like they had before. They had to; they didn't have any choice.
"Mrs. Carter?" Bruce repeated for the third time. Abby finally looked up. Bruce handed her a piece of paper. On it were directions to the morgue.
"I'll call ahead and tell them you're coming," Bruce said.
Abby nodded and left the room without so much as a thank you. She had wanted to put it off for as long as she could, but now, here it was staring her in the face. Carter was dead, and he had died trying to save Jill. What was she going to do when she saw his body?
She didn't know how she would react, but she knew one thing. She had to go and see it.
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"Hello, Mrs. Carter. I'm John Smithe, the coroner. Mr. Bruce told me to be expecting you."
Abby nodded quickly. She didn't have time for pleasantries. She just wanted to get this over with.
Mr. Smithe led her down a long hall, and at the end of it was a glass-encased room. Inside the room was a table, and on the table was a body. It was covered by a sheet.
This is it, Abby realized, her heart pounding with fear. She didn't want to do this; she didn't want to be here. But she had to. She had killed him, the least she could do was make sure he got a decent burial.
Mr. Smithe was reciting some mundane instructions, but Abby didn't hear anything until he said, "Ok, are you ready?"
Abby nodded apprehensively, but she was not ready; she never would be.
Mr. Smithe entered the room and walked over to the body. He snapped the sheet off.
A thousand emotions hit Abby at once.
An old, pasty man lay on the table. His flesh was weathered and wrinkled, and he was at least sixty years old.
It was not Carter.
"It's not him," she said, slowly, wonderingly. Then louder, "It's not him!" her voice gaining confidence. It wasn't him! They had made a mistake. Maybe he was even alive!
The coroner looked shocked. "Are you sure?" he asked. Abby nodded rapidly.
The man checked the tag hanging off the man's big toe. "Jonathan T. Carter," he read aloud, then looked at Abby.
"It's not him. That's not him. That's not even his name. His name is John, but it's not short for Jonathan. It's just John." Abby realized that she was rambling, but she was delirious with happiness. Was there some chance that Carter might actually be alive?