The next day, the newspapers and news broadcasts were full of the story: three Vietnam veterans in wheelchairs had rolled into the National Convention just as Nixon was giving his acceptance speech. They’d shouted, Stop the bombing.
They’d been escorted out quickly, taken away by police, but the images made the news. The veterans had shouted so loudly that the President had had to stop his speech.
* * *
Medics run past me, carrying men on litters. Someone’s screaming.
Frankie came awake with a startled cry and sat up, breathing hard.
It took a moment to remember that she was in her house on Coronado, in bed, with Henry sleeping beside her. She reached out a trembling hand, touched him, needing to know he was real.
“You okay?” he mumbled, not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either.
“Fine,” she said, touching him until he went back to sleep.
Easing out of bed, she went down to the living room. On a top kitchen cupboard shelf, she found a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, standing at the sink. Images of Vietnam crowded in on her, demanded she remember.
It was the march.
All those veterans together, reminding each other of their shared past. All the pain, the loss, the lost, the shame.
She wasn’t supposed to think about any of it anymore. She was supposed to soldier on.
Forget, Frankie.
Twenty-Seven
Nearly four months later, on her day off, Frankie pulled up to the Coronado Golf and Tennis Club and parked under the white portico. A valet rushed out to take the car from her.
“Thanks, Mike,” she said, tossing him the keys to her Mustang.
Inside, the club was decorated for Christmas, from stem to stern, as the sailors in the club often said. Fake garlands lay across the mantel, studded here and there with white candles. A live Christmas tree shone with multicolored lights and golf-themed ornaments. Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” wafted through the speakers. No doubt it was a scandalous music choice here.
Several men in polyester leisure suits stood near the fireplace, drinking Bloody Marys.
Mom was already seated in the dining room, which smelled of pine and vanilla. Behind her, the fairway stretched out in an undulating swath of emerald grass.
At the white-clothed table, Mom sat stiffly upright. She wore a cowl-collared jersey dress with a knit beret over her short black hair and long, dangling earrings.
Frankie slid into a chair across from her. “Sorry I’m late.”
Mom flagged down the waiter and ordered two glasses of champagne.
“Are we celebrating?” Frankie asked.
“Always,” Mom said, lighting a cigarette. “I’m walking and talking, aren’t I?”
Frankie took a sip of the champagne and felt a spasm in her stomach, a rise of nausea.
Barely excusing herself, she ran to the restroom and vomited.
Twice.
She went to the sink and drank a handful of water.
She’d been sick yesterday morning, too.
No.
No.
She pressed a hand to her stomach. Was there a slight swelling? A little tenderness?
A baby?
But … she was on birth control. Could the pill have failed her? Had she been religious in taking it every morning? She might have forgotten once or twice …
She walked back to the table, didn’t sit down.
Mom looked up. “You’re pale, Frances.”
“I just threw up. Twice.”
Mom frowned. “Are you hungover? Do you have a fever?”
Frankie shook her head.
Mom’s gaze remained steady. “Are you being … intimate with a man, Frances?”
Frankie nodded slowly, feeling her cheeks burn. “I’ve been seeing him for a few months.”
“And didn’t tell your parents. I see. And your last visit from Aunt Flo?”
“I’m not sure. Since I started on the pill, there’s barely … anything.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
Frankie nodded numbly.
“Sit down. After lunch, we’ll go to Arnold. He’ll fit us in.”
An hour and a half later, after an awkward luncheon full of things unsaid, they left the club and drove to the doctor’s office on Orange Avenue. At the front desk, Mom said, “Hi, Lola. I need a pregnancy test.”
The older woman looked up. “Are you—”
Mom waved her hand in irritation. “Not for me, Lola. For my daughter.”
Lola pulled a pen out of her teased hair and said, “He’ll make time. Nice to see you moving so well.”
Frankie clasped her hands together and took a seat in the waiting room.
Moments later, a nurse came out, collected Frankie, and led her to an examination room. “Put on a robe. Ties in front. Doctor will be with you shortly.”
Frankie took her clothes off and put on the robe, then climbed up onto the exam table.
Pregnant. The word kept repeating itself.
A quiet knock on the door, and then it opened.
Closing the door behind him, the doctor pushed the black horn-rimmed glasses higher on his bulbous nose. “Hello, Frankie. It’s been a long time.”
“Hi, Dr. Massie,” she said. The last time she’d seen the doctor, she’d been seventeen, going off to college, and he’d given her a sex talk that was franker than the one she’d received from her mom, but still began with On your wedding night, and she’d been so nervous and uncomfortable hearing about penises and vaginas from an old man that she’d barely listened.
“I didn’t know you’d married,” he said.
Frankie swallowed hard, said nothing.
If Dr. Massie noticed her silence, he didn’t remark upon it. “Climb on up to the table.”
Frankie lay on the exam table and fit her stockinged feet in the metal stirrups. The doctor settled himself between her legs. She stared up at the brightly lit white wall, squeezing her eyes shut as he moved her legs farther apart, scooted closer, snapped on a pair of gloves.
“This will be a bit cold,” he said apologetically, as he fit the speculum up inside of her. He followed the speculum with a digital exam. After that, he stood up, covered her legs with the gown, and came around to her side. Carefully opening the gown, he felt her abdomen, her breasts.
Then he covered her nakedness and stepped back. “When was your last period, Frankie?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“Are you on the birth control pill?”
“Yes.”
“They’re not foolproof. Especially if you aren’t conscientious in taking them.” He stepped back. “I will run some tests to be certain, but physical indications tell me that you are indeed expecting. I’d say about two months.”
Two months.
“Oh my God … I’m not ready … not married…”
He moved to her side, said softly, “Catholic Adoption Services do a good job of placing babies with upstanding families, Frankie. Your mother will know all about it.”
Frankie remembered a few girls from high school who’d disappeared from class and returned months later, thinner and quieter. Everyone knew they’d gone to a home for unwed mothers, but the words weren’t even whispered, it was considered so shameful. And there had been rumors—once—of a girl from St. Bernadette’s who’d died from an illegal abortion.
Frankie couldn’t imagine either path for her; not because they were wrong choices, but rather because she knew she wanted to be a mother, but not by herself, not as a single woman; she wanted the whole package: a husband, a baby, a family made from love.
She nodded, sat up, touched her abdomen. A baby.
She wasn’t ready to be a mother, and yet, when she closed her eyes, just for a moment she pictured a whole different version of her life, one in which she loved unconditionally and was loved, where her present wasn’t constantly shaded by images of the past, by shame and anxiety and anger. A version where she was Mom.
She dressed and walked out of the examination room.
Mom was in the waiting room, sitting in that stiffly upright way that was her new normal, as if she feared that poor posture could cause another stroke. She looked up, met Frankie’s gaze.
Frankie felt the start of tears.
Mom limped toward Frankie and took her by the arm, maneuvering her out of the office, across the parking lot, and into the Cadillac, where Mom immediately lit up a cigarette.
“You shouldn’t smoke, Mom,” Frankie said dully. “You’ve had a stroke.”
“Who is this boy you’re seeing?”
Frankie almost laughed. “He’s a man, Mom. Henry Acevedo.”