“Follow me. I’ll get you started.”
The charge nurse walked fast, her shoulders squared, her chin tucked in, her head on a swivel. “You are on probation, Miss McGrath. I assume Mrs. Smart relayed this information to you. Our patients are important to us and we strive to offer the highest caliber of care, which means, of course, that nurses who know next to nothing do next to nothing. I will tell you when you can treat actual patients. For now, you may help patients to the restroom, refill their water, change bedpans, and man the phone at the nurses’ station.”
“But I know how—”
Another hand held up for silence.
“Here’s the emergency room. You’ll see everything here—from a heart attack to marbles stuck up a kid’s nostril.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good sign. Politeness. Nowadays, most girls your age act like feral dogs. My granddaughter dresses like a vagrant. Follow me. Keep up. This is the surgical ward. Only highly trained surgical nurses work here.” She kept going on her tour of the hospital.
Frankie followed her new boss down the hallway, past half a series of closed doors. She was shown the restrooms, the lab, the equipment room; they ended up back on the first floor at the nurses’ station.
“Sit there,” Mrs. Henderson said. “Answer the phone. If there’s trouble, page me.”
Frankie took a seat. You may help patients to the restroom, refill their water, change bedpans.
She took a deep breath and released it. Barb and Ethel had prepared her for this. She’d known it was coming. There was no point being angry. She simply needed to show them what she could do. Good things took time.
* * *
April 27, 1969
Dear Ethel,
I got a job as a nurse in a local hospital. Yay! I hope you can read the sarcasm in that word.
Barb was right. They’re treating me like I’m a candy striper. Sometimes it makes me so mad I want to scream. They have me on the night shift, answering phones and changing bedpans and refilling water pitchers.
Me. On the night shift.
The only good thing is the anger sometimes makes me forget how sad I am.
I’ll stick with it, though. Prove myself. I’ll bet you’re thinking of my first shift in-country.
I’ve got this. Thanks for reminding me, by the way. I still love nursing.
That’s something.
So, how’s life on the horse farm? Still kicking ass in your classes? How’s that new mare coming along, what’s her name? Silver Birch? After some book you read in junior high?
How’s Noah?
Love,
F
* * *
Running, breathing hard.
The admin building blows up beside me.
A chopper overhead. I look up, see Rye in the pilot’s seat.
A whistling sound.
I scream.
The helicopter explodes in the dark sky, blows into pieces. Ash rains down on me.
A helmet thuds to the ground at my feet, on fire. RIOT melts off the metal.
Frankie woke with a start, looked around.
At least she wasn’t on the floor. That felt like a small victory.
She pushed the covers back and got out of bed, not surprised to find that she felt weak. Last night had been a bad one for nightmares. There was no rhyme or reason to it; she had nightmares and mood swings out of the blue. Sometimes she felt as if she were hanging on to the end of a giant undulating rope. It took all her strength not to let go.
Putting on her chenille bathrobe, she made her way out to the kitchen, which was empty at 1500 hours. She poured a cup of coffee and carried it out to the patio, where her mother sat at a table by the pool, doing a puzzle.
“There you are,” her mom said, setting a puzzle piece aside. Her gaze narrowed, swept Frankie from head to toe. “You didn’t sleep well again?”
Frankie shrugged.
“This vampire shift of yours isn’t helping.”
“Maybe not.” Frankie sat down.
“How much longer will they have you working these ghoulish hours?”
“Who knows? It’s only been two weeks.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me, either.” She looked at her mother, who she knew saw the sorrow Frankie worked every day to overcome, and also worried about Frankie’s unsettling anger, which could flare up without warning.
“We should go to dinner soon. At the club.”
“Sure, Mom. Whatever.”
* * *
At just past 2200 hours, Frankie drove toward the ferry terminal on Coronado. There were few cars out this late on a weeknight in mid-May; no tourists stumbling from bar to bar, no well-dressed couples walking to their cars after dinner out. The island was tucked in for the night already and Frankie was going to work. She intended to be early to start her shift, as usual; it was something she’d learned in Vietnam.
In San Diego, the hospital was brightly illuminated. She parked beneath a palm tree and headed inside, waving to colleagues on her way to the lockers.
She smiled tightly, hopeful that no one detected the rabid frustration she felt with every shift.
They still treated her like an FNG. They didn’t even let her start an IV.
Still, she kept her mouth shut and soldiered on, as she had been taught to do. At her locker, she changed into her uniform and headed for the nurses’ station, to take her place at the desk.
As usual, the halls were quiet; most of the patients were sleeping, their doors closed. Frankie’s first chore was always to check each room, each patient. And to call for help if it was needed.
She poured herself a Styrofoam cup full of coffee and stood at the desk, sipping it.
An elderly man shuffled toward her, moving as if in pain, his shoulders hunched.
She put down her coffee.
He was dressed in an old-fashioned way: tan slacks and a crisply ironed white shirt. “Nurse?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m José Garcia. My wife, Elena, is having trouble breathing.”
Frankie nodded. She knew she should call Mrs. Henderson, ask for reinforcements, but she didn’t. Screw it. Whatever was happening with Mrs. Garcia, Frankie could handle it.
She followed Mr. Garcia to Room 111.
In the room’s only bed, a woman lay still, her body covered in blankets, her head raised slightly on a mound of pillows. Her face was pallid; her mouth hung open. She breathed in and out slowly, making a terrible rattling sound.
“She just started breathing like that,” José said quietly.
“How long has she been ill?”
“Six months. Cancer of the lungs. Her students come by almost every day, don’t they, Elena?” He touched his wife’s hand. “She is a high school teacher. Fierce,” he added. He turned to Frankie. “You heard about the walkouts? Students and teachers protesting inequality in our schools? She was part of that, my Elena. Weren’t you?” He gazed down at his wife. “She fought to get her students college preparation classes, instead of just training for domestic work. You changed lives, mi amor.” His voice caught.
Frankie took hold of the woman’s gnarled, bony, dry-skinned hand and thought for a moment of all the hands she’d held in Vietnam, all the men and women she’d comforted and cared for. It steadied her, calmed the loud noises in her head.
“You’re not alone, Elena,” she said. “How about some lotion on your hands? I bet that would feel good…”
Twenty-One
On a hot June afternoon, three months after her return from Vietnam, Frankie woke from her first decent night’s sleep.
Maybe she was getting better.
She was.
She was getting better.
She put a robe on over her SKI VIETNAM T-shirt and panties and headed down to the kitchen for coffee.
She found her mother at the kitchen table, dressed for the country club, smoking a cigarette, a cup of coffee beside her, reading the newspaper. Frankie saw the headline: FIRST LT. SHARON LANE KILLED IN ROCKET EXPLOSION IN VIETNAM.
Mom drew in a sharp breath, slammed the newspaper face down on the table. Then she looked up, tried to smile. “Good morning, dear. Well, good afternoon.”
Frankie reached for the newspaper.