Frankie backed away quickly, hit something, and turned around.
Rye stood there. “Frankie,” he said, too softly for his wife to hear. “I meant to … it doesn’t mean—”
She shoved him out of her way, ran out of the hospital, and got into her car, slammed the door shut. Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped the keys. She opened her purse, took out two Valium, and swallowed them dry, then bent down, tried to find her keys on the floor mat.
Someone banged on her window.
She couldn’t look … had to look.
Rye stood there, looking as destroyed as she felt. “I’m sorry,” he yelled.
She started the car, stomped on the gas.
She had no idea what to do, where to go. She’d fallen for his lies again. Again. Melissa must have gotten pregnant soon after Rye’s return. With Frankie, he’d used condoms. Always. Never a mistake.
All these months, while he’d been sleeping with Frankie, his wife had been pregnant. When he’d proposed, Melissa had been nearing term. He’d dropped to a knee, said, “Marry me,” and Frankie had believed him. She’d believed every smile, every touch, every promise. Believed blindly, believed when he said, Soon, baby. Soon we will tell everyone we’re together.
Oh my God.
The only person she hated more than Rye was herself.
* * *
She needed a drink.
It was all she could think of. She couldn’t go home, to the bungalow where he had clothes in the closet, where he’d dropped to one knee and proposed marriage.
She drove past the bar frequented by the hospital staff and drove to San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter and found a parking spot on the street in front of a tavern where she would be anonymous. She went inside, found it already half-full of patrons who looked like regulars.
She slipped up onto a barstool. “Gin on the rocks,” she said. “And a pack of Virginia Slims.”
When the bartender returned with her drink, she barely looked at him. Her hand was trembling as she reached for the glass.
It’s a boy! crashed through her like a wrecking ball, destroying every fragile block of herself she’d tried to rebuild.
“I deserve this,” she said.
“Huh?” the bartender said.
“Nothing. Another drink, please.”
She took the second drink and downed it, then ordered a third. When a good-looking man sat beside her, said, “Hey, foxy lady,” she snagged her purse and headed out again. In the car, she cranked up the music on “I Am Woman.”
She drove out of the crowded quarter.
She should slow down; she was going too fast.
She sang along with the song, realized she was crying. Ahead was the bridge. She hit the gas, rocketed forward; a stanchion of concrete in front of her, a wall of gray to her right, and then nothing but water. She turned the wheel, just a fraction of an inch.
A man on a bicycle came out of nowhere. She slammed on the brakes, felt the car spiral out of control on the road, saw handlebars in her headlights. She yanked on the wheel, tried to turn the other way.
Too late.
Thirty-Two
Frankie woke in a hospital bed. Her entire body hurt, especially her left arm, and a headache pounded behind her eyes. For a split second she couldn’t remember why she was here, and then …
The man on the bicycle. The bridge.
“Oh God.”
She heard voices and footsteps coming down the hallway.
Her father walked into the room, looking grim and ashamed. Angry. Next to him was a policeman with short gray hair; the brass buttons on his khaki uniform strained over a big gut and a thin dark tie tried to hide the gaps that showed his undershirt.
“Did I kill him?” Frankie asked, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.
“No,” the officer said. “But you came close. Kicked the shit out of his bicycle. Came close to killing yourself, too.”
“You were drunk, Frankie,” her father said. “You could have died.” His voice breaking, he added, “Can you imagine me having to tell your mother that? Another lost child?”
Frankie’s throat felt so tight she could barely swallow. She wished she had died. And then a terrible, terrible thought: Had she wanted to? Had she turned into the bridge wall, instead of away?
Dad looked at the policeman. “Can I take her home, Phil?”
The policeman nodded. “Yes. She’s being charged with DUI. You’ll be notified about her arraignment.”
Frankie swung her feet to the side of the bed, slowly stood; she felt dizzy. Dad moved in close, steadied her as she limped out of the hospital, past her fellow nurses, who stared at her as she passed. They must have known what she’d done, that she’d almost killed a man. “The man I almost hit … you sure he’s okay? You’re not lying to me?”
“He’s fine, Frankie. Bill Brightman. Coronado High principal.”
Outside, the silver Mercedes gull-wing waited. Frankie refused her father’s help and made her own way into the passenger seat.
Dad put the key in the ignition and started the car. It roared to life but didn’t move.
After a long silence, he turned to her. “Do you want to die, Frankie? Your mother asked me that.”
“I shouldn’t have had that third drink,” she said. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Enough,” her father said sharply, and she saw it all on his face: the fear that he would lose her, the grief at their mutual loss, the anger that she couldn’t seem to be the daughter he wanted.
She stared at him, knowing he was right. She could have killed a man tonight. She could have killed herself. Maybe she’d meant to.
“I love you, Frankie,” he said in a sad voice. “I know we’ve had issues, but—”
“Dad—”
“You seem … broken.”
Frankie couldn’t meet his worried gaze. “I’ve been living this way for years,” she said. “Ever since my time in Florence.”
* * *
Enough.
Alone in her childhood bed, she lay awake, battling her need (addiction—had she ever thought of it in those terms before?) for a sleeping pill, and her overwhelming guilt, as well as this new and eviscerating fear that she had wanted to end her own life.
Who had she become?
A nothing woman, a ghost. No love, no child.
How could she survive? Each of the losses had derailed her, but this, now, the guilt and shame of last night, destroyed her.
She couldn’t live like this.
She needed help.
Who?
How?
You should talk to someone, get help, Henry had said to her; it felt like a lifetime ago, when she’d thought she’d hit rock bottom but hadn’t. I treat a few vets in my practice … Do you have nightmares, Frankie? Trouble sleeping?
Who else would understand the slow unraveling of her psyche since Vietnam, except her fellow veterans? She’d tried to get help before, once, long ago, and it hadn’t worked. That didn’t mean she should stop trying. The opposite was true, in fact.
She pushed the covers back and got out of bed. Weak on her feet, she went into her bathroom and took a hot shower and dried her hair, then dressed in jeans and a turtleneck.
She found her mother in the kitchen, looking tired. “Frances,” she said softly.
“Can I take your car?” Frankie asked.
Mom stared at her so intently Frankie felt uncomfortable, but whatever words her mom needed to hear, Frankie couldn’t say. No more promises. They both knew she shouldn’t be driving.
“The keys are in my bag. When will you be home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you be home?”
“I will.” She moved forward and touched her mother’s thin shoulder, let her hand linger there. A stronger woman would have offered words to accompany the touch, maybe an apology or a promise; she said nothing and went to the garage, climbed into the Cadillac. She took the Coronado Bridge at a cautious speed and pulled up in front of the new VA medical center.
Frankie parked in the lot and sat there, afraid to move. Finally, she glanced at her black eyes in the rearview mirror. Digging a pair of big sunglasses out of her purse, she left the car and walked up into the building.
Inside, she went to the front desk, where a large woman in a floral-patterned polyester dress sat in front of an IBM Selectric, her scarlet nails clacking on the keys.