Frankie thought her mother looked tired. Her makeup had been applied a little too heavily and she couldn’t hold a smile. As usual, when she was tired or stressed, the effects of her stroke were more noticeable. There was the slightest downturn to one side of her mouth. “I am so sorry, Frances.”
Tears scalded Frankie’s eyes, blurred the image of her mother. “God is punishing me. But I was going to do the right thing.”
“It’s nothing you did.” Mom reached behind her neck, unclasped her necklace, and handed it to Frankie.
As a child, Frankie had been obsessed with the necklace, wondering how that delicate gold chain could hold the obviously heavy heart.
Mom pulled out her silver cigarette case, lit an Eve cigarette.
“You’re not supposed to smoke, you know,” Frankie said.
Mom made a dismissive gesture. “Look on the back of the heart.”
Frankie turned the necklace over, saw an inscription on the back. Celine. She frowned. “Who is Celine?”
“The daughter I lost,” Mom said. “The baby I was carrying when I married your father.”
“You never—”
“And I won’t now, Frances,” Mom said. “Some things don’t bear the weight of words. That’s the problem with your generation, you all want to talk, talk, talk. What is the point? I thought … you could give your … child a name and engrave it there, below your sister’s, and wear it.”
“He was a boy,” Frankie said. “We would have named him Finley.”
Mom blanched.
Some things don’t bear the weight of words.
“I’m so sorry, Frances. Put the pain away, forget about it, and go on.”
“Were you able to do that?”
“Most of the time.”
Mom reached into her purse, pulled out two prescription bottles. “I know you’re a nurse and all, but I swear by these pills. Cheryl Burnam calls them ‘Mother’s Little Helpers.’ The white ones help you sleep and the yellow ones keep you awake.”
“I am a nurse, Mom. And I read Valley of the Dolls.”
“Pooh. Those were bad girls. You just need something to take the edge off. These have hardly more kick than a gin martini.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“I’ll put them in your purse. Trust me, you and Henry will be married and expecting again in no time.”
Frankie sighed. “Do you remember the man I fell in love with in Vietnam?”
“The pilot who was killed?”
“Yes, he—”
“Frances, enough Vietnam. For God’s sake, that was years ago. Let it go. He’s not coming back to you.”
She closed her eyes in pain, unable to look at her mother anymore, unable to see pity and sorrow and know that it was for her.
* * *
Barb and Ethel stood at Frankie’s bedside.
Their mission was obvious, to keep up a steady stream of banter, to talk about whatever they could think of: the commutation of Charles Manson’s death sentence to life imprisonment, the rockiness of the Taylor-Burton marriage, the uproar over a movie called Deep Throat.
Frankie couldn’t listen anymore. She raised a hand.
Ethel stopped talking—Frankie had no idea what she’d been talking about—and leaned in. “What is it?”
Frankie sat up, staring dry-eyed at the wall. “I’m not going to marry him,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“Give it some time,” Ethel said. “Don’t decide now, after…”
“Say it. After losing my son.”
“Yeah,” Barb said, holding Frankie’s hand. “After losing your baby. I can’t imagine your pain.”
“Rye—”
“He lied to you, Frank,” Ethel said. Her voice had a sharp edge, but the tears in her eyes were obvious. “He had his men lie to you. Or he lied to them. Either way, he’s not good enough to lick shit off the floor, and if I ever see him…”
“I’ll help you kick his ass,” Barb said. “I’ll pay people to help us.”
“You can go home,” Frankie said. “There’s no wedding to stay for. Ethel, your husband and daughter need you, and Barb, I know Operation PUSH’s convention is coming up and Jesse Jackson is probably counting on you.”
“We don’t want to leave you,” Barb said.
“I’m fine,” Frankie lied. She touched the golden heart necklace at her throat. All three of them knew the truth: that it would be a long time before Frankie was really fine, but whatever that journey looked like, however she healed, it would fall on her to do the heavy lifting. Her friends could be there for her, help her stand, but she had to walk alone.
They kissed her forehead, Ethel first, Barb next, her kiss a moment longer. “We will call you tomorrow,” Barb said.
“And the day after that,” Ethel added.
Frankie was relieved when they left. She lay back into the pillows, feeling exhausted. And afraid.
The hospital door opened and she winced.
Henry stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. He looked as tired and beaten as she felt.
He came to her bedside, held her hand. She couldn’t find the strength to squeeze his hand back.
He smoothed the hair back from her face. She knew how badly he was hurting, how much he needed to share that with her, but she was a closed door.
She closed her eyes, hating that she would hurt him.
“Don’t shut me out, Frankie,” Henry said. “I need you … us. This happened to both of us. The doctor says we need to put it aside and try again. We can do that, can’t we?”
Forget it, in other words. The same old advice, given for a brand-new pain.
God help her, she wasn’t able to mourn with him. Even now, with loss all around her, in her own body, she couldn’t help thinking of Rye. His was the touch she wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice broke. “I should have been there earlier.”
She looked at him, felt a hot rush of self-loathing. “It would have happened anyway,” she said tonelessly.
“I know, but—”
“No buts, Henry. I don’t want to talk about the baby.” She took a deep breath. “I want to talk about the wedding. About us.”
“Us? Oh, babe, don’t worry about the wedding. We have time. Let’s just get our feet under us.”
She looked at him, seeing how deeply he loved her.
“Henry.” She sighed, played with her engagement ring—his grandmother’s. “You remember I told you about Rye? The man I loved in Vietnam, Finley’s friend?”
He drew back, let go of her hand. “Sure. The pilot who was killed?”
“He didn’t die over there. He’s been in prison. He got back to the U.S. yesterday.”
“Oh.” He said it lightly, and then he frowned, said it again. “Oh. You saw him?”
“I did.”
“And you still love him?”
“I do,” Frankie said, starting to cry. She wanted to tell him about Rye’s betrayal, about how the pain of it had somehow caused her miscarriage, and still she couldn’t stop loving him. But Henry was too good a man for that. If she told him the truth, he’d stay with her, give her time, tell her she deserved better than a man who’d lied to her. She had no doubt that there was no future for her and Rye. She didn’t fool herself about that. But just knowing that he was alive made it impossible for her to pretend to love Henry enough to marry him.
Slowly, she took the engagement ring off her finger, gave it back to him. “I can’t marry you, Henry.”
She saw his struggle with emotion. “You should talk to someone, Frankie. The new VA medical center offers therapy for vets. It can really help to talk to someone.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I love you, Frankie,” he said, his voice cracking on emotion.
“You’ll find someone better.”
“Jesus, Frankie. You break my heart.”
“Henry—”
“And for a woman in love, you have the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
* * *
Frankie left the hospital in a wheelchair, like an ancient woman, wearing a pad to absorb the bleeding. Dad pushed the wheelchair and ordered the local nurses around as if they were employees under his charge.
Mom pulled up in front of the hospital and they both helped Frankie into the passenger seat of the new Cadillac.
At home, Frankie crawled into bed. Mom stayed in the bungalow, trying to distract her—as if such a thing were possible—until Frankie begged her to go home.
I’m fine, she kept saying, until at last there was nothing left for Mom to do but leave.
Alone, Frankie reached for the purse on her nightstand. She took a pill for pain and then two sleeping pills.