In the morning, she found a closet full of clothes in her bedroom. Essentials.
Smiling, she dressed in striped corduroy pants and a flowy, embroidered peasant blouse, and drove down to her parents’ house, where Mom stood on the front step, holding on to a walker. “Y’re … late,” she said, looking agitated.
“I’m not late, Mom,” Frankie said, helping her mother into the car.
Mom slid awkwardly into the seat.
“I love the house, Mom,” Frankie said. “Everywhere I look, I see you. I know how hard you worked to make it homey. Thank you for letting me live there.”
Mom nodded jerkily, not quite in control of her movement. Frankie could see how anxious her mother was, how she gripped the console between the seats to steady herself.
“Are you having a little vertigo?” Frankie asked.
Mom nodded, said, “Yes,” in a way that stretched out the word, misshaped it. “Damn it.”
Frankie could count on one hand the times she’d heard her mother curse. “It will take time, Mom. Don’t be too hard on yourself. The physical therapist will help, and the occupational therapist, too.”
Mom gave a little snort that might have been agreement or disagreement; it was hard to tell.
In San Diego, Frankie turned into the medical center entrance and parked. She helped Mom out of the car and steadied her. Using the walker, with her knuckles white from effort, Mom limped slowly from the car to the lobby. Frankie checked her mother in and got them both seated in the waiting area.
“Scared,” Mom muttered.
Frankie had never heard her mother even use that word before. “I’m here, Mom. I’ve got you. You’ll be okay. You’re tough.”
“Ha.”
A nurse came out and called, “Elizabeth McGrath?”
Frankie helped her mother to her feet, steadied her as she used the walker to cross the lobby. At the last minute, she turned, looked at Frankie through frightened eyes.
“I’ll be here when you’re finished, Mom,” Frankie said, giving her a gentle smile.
Mom nodded awkwardly.
Frankie returned to her seat and sat down. Reaching sideways, she picked through a stack of magazines, found an article about the POWs still in Vietnam.
It reminded her of the League of Families and their quest to bring the POWs home from Vietnam. They had been looking for an office in San Diego when Frankie and Barb had attended that luncheon in Washington, D.C.
Frankie went in search of a pay phone, found one, and called information. “Is there an office number for the League of Families in San Diego?” she asked the operator.
A moment later, the operator said, “There’s a National League of Families of American Prisoners and Missing in Southeast Asia.”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll connect you.”
“League of Families, this is Sabrina, how may I help you?” a woman said over the phone.
“Hi. Do you accept donations?” Frankie asked.
The woman laughed. “Boy, do we. Would you like to come by the office?”
“Sure. I have a little time.” Frankie wrote down the office address and walked out to her car.
In the glove box, she found the Thomas Guide for the area, looked up the address, and started to drive.
Across town, on a pretty little side street, she parked in front of a small building that looked like it had once been a restaurant. A hand-painted sign over the door read THE LEAGUE OF POW/MIA FAMILIES.
She went to the front door, which was standing open.
The office was small, basically unfurnished except for a single desk that held stacks of flyers. A woman sat behind it. At Frankie’s entrance, she looked up. “Welcome to the League of Families!”
Another woman was on her knees, her face covered by a cascade of blond curls, painting a sign that read DON’T LET THEM BE FORGOTTEN. She waved at Frankie, too. “Hi, there! Welcome.”
The woman at the desk was beautiful in an exotic way, with long black hair and high cheekbones. Beside her, a toddler lay sleeping in a stroller. “I’m Rose Contreras. Come in. Are you a Navy wife?”
“No. I’m Frankie McGrath, former Army nurse.”
“Bless you,” Rose said softly. “Do you know a prisoner of war?”
“No. I’m just here to donate to the cause.”
“We welcome all donations, of course,” Rose said. “As you can see, we are pretty bare-bones at this point.”
Frankie opened her handbag, reached in for her wallet.
“But Frankie…”