What the hell?
The world righted. She wasn’t in ’Nam. She was in the country club dining room, sprawled on the floor beside the table like a fool. Not far away, a waitress was kneeling on the floor, picking up broken glass.
Dr. Brenner took hold of her hand and helped her to her feet.
“Frankie?” Mom said, frowning. “Who falls out of a chair?”
Frankie didn’t know what had just happened. The memory had felt so real. “I … don’t…” She felt clammy, shaky. She pushed her hair out of her face, felt the sweat on her forehead. It took effort to smile. “I’m sorry. I just got home from Vietnam and…” And what?
Dr. Brenner let go of her hand. “There are no women in Vietnam, dear.”
“There are, sir. I did two tours.”
“Your father said you were studying abroad.”
“What?” Frankie turned to her mother. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Dr. Brenner left like a shot at the curse word.
Mom looked around to see if they were being observed. “Sit down, Frances.”
“You lied about where I was?”
“Your father thought—”
“He was ashamed of me? Ashamed of my service, after all those stories, all that hero talk?”
“Sit down, Frances. You’re making a scene.”
“Am I embarrassing you?” she said. “And you think this is a scene? No, Mom. A scene is when a soldier comes in off the battlefield holding his own foot. It’s when—”
“Frances Grace—”
Tears scalded Frankie’s eyes. She ran out of the club, heard the whispers that would grow into rumors about “the McGrath girl,” and she would have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much.
Down the street, a stitch burning in her side, she hailed a cab.
It was easy now, just a hand in the air. No uniform to make people hate her.
The taxi pulled up alongside her, the driver rolled down the window. “Where to?”
Where to?
It felt as if there were nothing left for her here, in this place she’d always loved.
But where else?
She said, “Ocean Boulevard,” with a sigh, and wiped her eyes.
She had nowhere else to go.
Once there, she pulled out a piece of the blue stationery. In a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, she wrote to Rye, tried to ease her hurt by sharing it.
March 22, 1969
My love,
I miss you so much I can’t stand it. I’m counting the days until your return.
Things at home are terrible. I don’t know what to do. My parents lied about my service in Vietnam. That’s how ashamed they are of me. It makes me mad in a way I’ve never felt before. Furious. Pissed off. Today I caused a scene at the country club. I can’t quite control this new fury that is eating me up. Maybe I just need sleep …
Everything is so weird and upside down, I haven’t even told my parents about you. I’m not sure they’d care.
I can’t wait for you to come home.
I love you,
F
* * *
Sometime later, Frankie woke up sprawled on her bedroom floor with a pounding headache and a sore throat. Probably because she had screamed in her sleep.
She got to her feet, held herself together by sheer force of will. Nightmares had left her shaken, and she was still angry at her parents’ betrayal. The room was dark, no lights on to banish the night. How long had she slept?
In the hallway, decorated in rich wood and gleaming brass, she smelled cigarette smoke, lemon furniture polish, and a hint of Shalimar perfume.
Mom was in the living room, still dressed for the club, seated in a chair by the cold fireplace, sipping a martini, reading a Life magazine. A pair of table lamps illuminated the room; a fire in the fireplace sent out waves of heat.
Dad stood by the fire, dressed in a suit and tie, holding a drink and a lit cigarette. At the sight of Frankie in her robe, he frowned. No doubt she was not looking her best.
“Yeah. It’s me, Dad, back from studying abroad in Florence. The food wasn’t nearly as good as I expected,” Frankie said, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice.
“No one likes a smart aleck, Frankie,” he said.
She went to the bar, poured herself a large gin on the rocks, and took a seat by her mother.
The tension in the room felt heavy; she saw the wary, worried look in her mother’s eyes.
Frankie reached over for one of her mother’s cigarettes and lit up.
“When did you start to smoke?” Mom asked.
“I think it was after a red alert.” At her mother’s blank look, she added, “Rocket attack on the hospital. The explosions were deafening. Terrifying. Or maybe after a push in the hospital where men came in blown to shit. Who knows? One minute I wasn’t a smoker, the next minute I was. It helped with the shaking in my hands.”
“I see,” her mother said tightly.
“No, you don’t,” Frankie said, desperate suddenly to explain. If they would just listen, everything might fall into place. “At the Thirty-Sixth—that’s the evac hospital where I was assigned—my first shift in-country was a MASCAL—mass casualty—and, shit, was I a disaster,” Frankie said. They were staring at her, listening. Thank God. “This soldier came in on a litter, all blown to shit. He’d stepped on a Bouncing Betty and his legs were gone. Just gone. I had no—”
“Enough.” Dad slammed down his drink on the bar. He’d used such force the glass could have cracked. “No one wants to hear these stories, Frankie. Sweet God. Legs blown off.”
“And the language,” Mom said. “Cursing like a sailor. I couldn’t believe the language you used at the club. And in front of Dr. Brenner. I had to call Millicent and apologize on your behalf.”
“Apologize on my behalf?” Frankie said. “How can you not care about my war experience?”
“It’s over, Frances,” Mom said smoothly.
Calm down, Frankie. But she couldn’t do it. Her heart was pounding and she felt a surge of fury so overwhelming she wanted to hit something.
For a moment she held back, but the effort it took felt toxic, as if the stories she wanted to share might turn to poison inside of her. She couldn’t be here, pretending nothing had changed, that she’d been in Florence for two years instead of holding men’s body parts together in her bare hands. She felt choked by her need to say, I was there and this is how it was. For them to welcome her home and say they were proud of her.
Frankie stood up abruptly. “I can’t believe you’re ashamed of me.”
“I have no idea who you are anymore,” Dad said.
“You don’t want to know,” Frankie said. “You think it means nothing when a woman, a nurse, goes to war. You think it’s glorious that your son goes to war and embarrassing when your daughter does.”
Her mother stood up, holding a now-empty martini glass, a little unsteady on her feet, tears in her eyes. “Frances, please,” she said. “Connor. You both—”
“Shut up and drink,” Dad said in almost a snarl.
Frankie saw how her mother sagged at that.
Had it always been like this? Had Mom always been a shadow woman, held together by vodka and hair spray? Had her dad always been this angry man who thought he had the right to dictate every action and emotion in this house?
Or had it been losing Finley that ruined them?
Frankie didn’t know. She hadn’t lived with them these past two years, and truthfully, she’d grieved alone and then she’d gone to Vietnam and learned a whole new kind of loss.
Frankie had to get out of here before she said something terrible.
She left them standing there, staring at her as if she were an intruder, and walked out of the house; she slammed the door shut behind her. It wasn’t like her, that burst of fury and the wanting to display it, but she couldn’t stop it. Out on the beach, with night darkening around her, she dropped to her knees, wanting to be calmed by the sound of the surf.
But it made her think of Vietnam, of Finley and Jamie and the fallen.
She screamed until she was hoarse. And the anger inside of her grew.
* * *
March 24, 1969
Dear Rye,