“Tell that to this kid.”
The doctor turned, said, “Mrs. Henderson, get a team here. Now.” He went to wash his hands.
Frankie felt flushed with pride. She had shown them her skills. Saved this young man, maybe.
Mrs. Henderson stood there, her arms crossed, her hair frizzed out around her white, starched cap, her forehead pleated, her mouth set in a grim line. “You could have killed that man.”
“I saved him, ma’am.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“I’m a combat nurse. A good one.”
“That may be,” Mrs. Henderson said, “but you’re also a loose cannon. You have just exposed this hospital to liability. You’re fired.”
Twenty-Two
Headlights shone on the elaborately scrolled metal in front of her, illuminating the gold M in the center of the gates. When Frankie was young, this house had been neither gated nor walled, but open to the world, situated proudly on its large, ocean-facing lot. Back then, Ocean Boulevard had been a quiet street, mostly driven on by locals. The world had felt safe.
The assassination of President Kennedy had changed everything. She still sometimes thought of her childhood as Before and After. Following the death of the President, no one in America had felt safe from the Red Scare and up had gone the wall around the McGrath property. Not long after that, the gate had closed them in, created an oasis designed to shield the inhabitants from the ugliness of life.
As if bricks and mortar could protect a person.
Frankie drove through the open gate and followed the driveway into the four-car garage, where she parked beside her mother’s Cadillac. Her father’s silver gull-wing Mercedes was off to the left.
She realized too late—when she was nearly at the front door—that she’d forgotten her purse. Feeling unsteady, she walked back, retrieved her purse, got out her keys, and opened the front door.
It was 0400 hours. Quiet. Dark. A single lamp in the living room cast a little light, but otherwise the rooms lay in shadow. Frankie could have navigated this house blindfolded, so she didn’t bother with any lights. She walked into the living room, grabbed a bottle of booze and a glass from the bar, and carried them out to the patio.
Fired.
For saving a young man’s life.
What was going on in the world?
She needed to eat something. Why that came to mind, she had no idea.
She poured a glass of … vodka, apparently … and drank it fast and poured another.
She needed something to dim the pain, at least to give it a blunt edge.
She needed to get herself together. Her mind was a whirlwind: anger, fear, grief, sorrow. Every now and then she cried. Then she’d scream. Neither helped at all.
God help her, she missed Vietnam, missed who she’d been over there. She closed her eyes, tried to steady her breathing.
She heard footsteps. How long had she been out here, drinking and smoking and crying? And how could she still have tears to shed? It dawned on her suddenly that it was daylight. So she’d been out here for hours.
The lights flicked on.
Her father strode out onto the porch in his pajamas and monogrammed robe. He saw her and stopped. “What in the Sam Hill…?”
Mom came out behind him, still in her silk pajamas. “Frances? What happened? Are you okay?”
Frankie realized that she was still in her blood-splattered white nurse uniform. At some point, her cap had fallen off. There was blood all down her front, on her white pantyhose, on her shoes. “I saved a man’s life in the hospital tonight. Performed a tracheotomy.”
“You?” her father said, one eyebrow cocked in disbelief.
“Yes, Dad. Me.”
“We heard about the scene you caused at Becky’s party,” he said.
For a second, she didn’t know what he was talking about; yesterday afternoon felt like a lifetime ago. At the suddenness of the topic change, she stumbled into confusion, lost her sweeping anger. She didn’t want to disappoint them. Again. “I didn’t mean to cause a scene. It’s just—”
“Well, you did. No doubt the story will be all over the club by now. Connor McGrath’s daughter went to Vietnam and came home crazy.”
“Are you taking drugs?” Mom asked, twining her hands together.
“What? Drugs? No,” Frankie said. “It’s just the way people look at me when I say I was in ’Nam…”
“You exposed my fib about Florence,” Dad said.
“Fib?” Frankie couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Fib?”
She knew then what this was about, what it had always been about. His reputation. The man with his stupid heroes’ wall who knew nothing about heroism and lived in fear of that embarrassing truth being exposed. “If you don’t want to be seen as a liar, maybe you shouldn’t lie, Dad. Maybe you should be proud of me.”
“Proud? That you embarrass this family at every turn?”
“I went to war, Dad. War. I have been shot at in a Huey and lived through mortar attacks. I’ve had my ears ring for days when a bomb hit too close. But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”
He paled at that, clenched his jaw.
“Enough,” he said.
“You’re right,” she yelled back.
She pushed past him, headed to her bedroom before she could say something even worse.
The door to her father’s office was open. She saw all those pictures and mementos on the heroes’ wall, and without thinking, she went into the sacred space and started pulling the framed pictures off the wall, throwing them to the floor. She heard glass shatter.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dad roared at her from the doorway.
“This,” she said. “Your heroes’ wall. It’s a big fat lie, isn’t it, Dad? You wouldn’t know a hero if one bit you in the ass. Believe me, Dad. I’ve seen heroes.”
“Your brother would be as ashamed of your behavior as we are,” Dad said.
Mom appeared in the doorway, threw Dad a pleading look. “Connor, don’t.”
“How dare you mention Finley?” Frankie said, her anger swooping back in. “You who got him killed. He went over there for you, to make you proud. I could tell him now not to bother, couldn’t I? Oh, but he’s dead.”
“Out,” her father said in barely above a whisper. “Get out of this house and stay out.”
“With pleasure,” Frankie hissed. She snagged the photograph of her brother and stormed out of the office.
“Leave that picture,” Dad said.
She turned around. “No way. He’s not staying in this toxic house. You got him killed, Dad. How do you live with that?”
She ran down to her bedroom, stuffed a few things in her overnight travel bag, grabbed her purse, and left the house.
Outside, she felt the sting of regret, and tears blurred her vision. Dear God, she was sick to death of crying. And of these mammoth mood swings. She shouldn’t have said that terrible thing to her father.
She threw her stuff in the backseat, along with the portrait of Finley, and climbed into the Bug, slamming the door shut behind her.
She knew she was driving on Ocean Boulevard too fast, but it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like the last girl in a horror film, running for her life, but the danger wasn’t behind her, trying to catch up, it was inside her, trying to break out. She thought, if it gets out, something bad will happen. All this rage and hurt could destroy her if she didn’t bottle it up.
She reached over for her purse, felt around for her cigarettes in the mess inside.
The music blared through the small black speakers. “Light My Fire.” For a second she felt it all, the missing of herself, of Vietnam, of her lost loves. Tears blurred her eyes; she couldn’t lift her hand to wipe them away. She pressed her foot on the gas when she meant to ease off.
A flash of something.
Color.
A streetlight, a dog, darting in front of her.
She swerved and slammed on the brakes so hard, she was flung forward, cracked her head on the steering wheel.
Where was she?
She came to slowly, saw the crunched wreckage of the VW Bug’s hood.
She’d hit a streetlamp, gone up onto the curb.