The Marriage Lie. Kimberly Belle

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       8

      “Mrs. Griffith, let me begin by expressing my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband.”

      Dad, Dave and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder, a united front across from our Liberty Airlines point of contact, Ann Margaret Myers, a thin, blonde woman in a punishing ponytail. The tag hanging from her neck identifies her as Care Specialist, and I hate her on sight. I hate her starched pink blouse and the way she’s buttoned it up all the way to the notch in her throat. I hate her long, French-tipped fingernails and the way she clasps her hands so fiercely together that the skin turns white. I hate her thin lips and her mud-puddle eyes and her mask of empathy so exaggerated, I have to sit on my hands so I don’t punch it off her face.

      My father leans both forearms onto the wooden table. “Actually, Ms. Myers, we’d like you to begin with an explanation of how the media learned Will’s name before his own wife was told he was on the plane.”

      Ann Margaret’s spine goes ramrod straight. “Excuse me?”

      Dad lifts a shoulder, but the gesture is anything but casual. “You’d think an airline would have better ways of informing the next of kin than releasing the passengers’ names to the media, but what do I know? I suppose you folks at Liberty Air have a different way of doing things. What I can tell you is that your policy is a shitty one.”

      “I...” Her lips flap around like a stranded fish, and her gaze flits back and forth between me and my father. “You learned about Mr. Griffith from the news?”

      The three of us nod, once and in unison.

      “Oh, my God, I had no idea. I can assure you, Mrs. Griffith, Mr. Stafford, that is absolutely not Liberty Air’s policy. Someone over there made a huge, grave error, and I am so very, very sorry.”

      I know what she’s doing. She’s distancing herself from both the airline and their mistake, and I’m not buying it. Not even a little bit.

      And judging from his scowl, neither is my father. “I appreciate that, Ms. Myers, but I’m sure you can understand that an apology from you isn’t going to cut it. We’d like an explanation, and we want to hear it from the person responsible.” He leans back and crosses his arms, commanding, authoritative and in charge. On a good day, my father is someone to be reckoned with. Today he’s supreme command.

      Ann Margaret is clearly rattled. “I absolutely understand. As soon as we’re done here, I will find out what went wrong and then coordinate a face-to-face meeting between that person and your family. Does that sound like an acceptable solution to the three of you?”

      Dad gives her a curt nod, but I don’t move. To me it sounds like her throwing us a bone, but I’m too tired, too shaken and shattered to say anything without flying across the desk and wrapping my hands around her neck.

      The room Liberty Airlines has stalled us in is an airline executive lounge in Hartsfield’s brand-new international terminal. It’s plush and roomy, decorated in dark jewel tones, with sitting areas and a bar and an entire wall of windows overlooking the concourse. Airplanes lumber back and forth on the other side of the glass like giant missiles, taunting me with murderous intent.

      “Has the press found you yet?” Ann Margaret says, and I turn back to the table.

      Dave nods. “They’ve been calling the house all morning, and there are a couple of vans camped out on the street. Some of the reporters even had the nerve to ring the doorbell and ask for an interview.”

      She shakes her head, disgusted. “We’ve specifically asked the media outlets to respect the privacy of our families, but not all of the journalists listen. What I can do is make sure you get out of here without having to interact with them. And may I suggest you appoint a family friend to be media contact? That way, you won’t have to talk to them until you’re ready.”

      My father adds another bullet to his list, which has grown to a handful of pages.

      All around us, people are weeping. A silver-haired man with unshaven cheeks, an Indian woman in a teal-and-silver sari, a black teenager with diamond studs bigger than my engagement solitaire. Tears roll down their cheeks unchecked, and the air in the room pulses with despair. Seeing their sorrow is like watching someone yawn, uncontrollable and infectious. Suddenly and without warning, I’m weeping, too.

      Ann Margaret passes me a pack of tissues.

      “Ms. Myers,” Dad says, “perhaps you could give us a quick update on the crash. Is there any new information?”

      “Please. Call me Ann Margaret, and of course. As you may have heard on the news, both black boxes have been recovered, the flight data recorder and the cockpit voice recorder, and they’ve been sent on to the National Transportation Safety Board for analysis. I do want to warn you, though. Their final report will likely take months, if not years.”

      I wince. A month feels like an eternity, but years?

      “In the meantime...” She pushes a packet of paper an inch thick across the desk and taps a fingertip on a website address printed across the top. “This is a dark website, meaning it’s not meant for the general public. There are no links leading to it, and only people who type in the exact address will be able to find it. Liberty Airlines will use it to issue statements and provide updates to friends and family of the passengers as soon as information becomes available. You’ll also find a list of contact names, phone numbers and email addresses for every employee on the disaster management team. They are available 24/7, as am I. You are my family, and as such, my very first priority.”

      I look up. “What do you mean we’re your family?”

      She smiles at me, not unkindly. “Every passenger’s family receives their own Care Specialist. I’m yours. You are my family. If there’s anything at all that any of you need, all you have to do is say so and I’ll take care of it.”

      “Excellent. You can start with giving me back my husband.”

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