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.”