* * *
Frankie woke in a darkened room that smelled of disinfectant and bleach.
Hospital.
The previous night came back to her in a rush—blood running down her legs, a terrible cramping, a young doctor saying, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acevedo. There’s nothing I can do.”
Her saying, ridiculously, “I’m Frankie McGrath.”
She heard a chair creak beside her, saw Henry sitting there, slumped over.
“Hey,” Frankie said; just the sight of him saddened her. He was such a good man and he deserved better.
She pressed a hand to her empty abdomen.
“Hey,” Henry answered, rising, taking her hand in his. He leaned down to kiss her cheek.
“Was it—”
“A boy,” Henry said.
Finley.
“The doctor said we can try again,” Henry said.
There was a knock at the door.
It opened.
Mom stood there, dressed in a rust-colored suede skirt with a print vest over a blouse buttoned up to her throat, and knee-high boots. “How is she?”
Henry answered, “She’s—”
“She’s right here, Mom. And conscious.”
Mom’s smile turned brittle. “Henry, darling, would you go get me a coffee from the cafeteria? I’ve got a headache.”
Henry kissed Frankie, whispered, “I love you,” and left the room.
Mom approached the bed slowly.
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.