Frankie went to him, gently took him by the arm, led him to the bed. “She’s been waiting for you.”
“Hey, Ma.” He reached slowly for his mother’s hand, held it.
Madge took a great rattling breath.
Frankie moved to the other side of the bed, backed up to give him some privacy.
Lester leaned down. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
Madge whispered, “Les,” and took one last breath, released it, and slipped away.
Lester looked up, his dark eyes full of tears. “Is that it?”
Frankie nodded. “She waited for you.”
He wiped his eyes, cleared his throat roughly. “I should have come sooner. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just … Vietnam, man…”
Frankie moved closer to the bed. “Yeah. I was at the Seventy-First. Central Highlands,” she said. “From ’67 to ’69.”
He looked at her. “So, we’re both the walking dead.”
Before Frankie could respond, he turned away from the bed and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
His presence—and his sudden absence—left Frankie feeling jittery, unsettled.
Without bothering to take off her scrubs or change her shoes, she left the hospital.
We’re both the walking dead.
He’d seen her in a way that cut to the bone, saw what she was trying so hard to hide.
She was driving over the Coronado Bridge, listening to Janis belt out “Piece of My Heart,” when she reached over into the passenger seat, felt around for her macramé handbag, and pulled out her sleeping pills.
There was no way she’d sleep tonight, and remaining awake—remembering—was worse.
She fumbled to open the cap at a stoplight on the island, and swallowed a pill dry, wincing at the taste.
At home, she parked and got out, a little shaky on her feet as she made her way into the house, where the phone was ringing. She ignored it.
She should eat something. When had she eaten last?
Instead, she poured herself a drink and took another sleeping pill, hoping two would be enough to get her through the night. If not, she might take a third. Just this once.
* * *
That spring, Tony Orlando and Dawn released “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” and reminded America that even though the war was over, there were still soldiers coming home from captivity in Vietnam. Overnight, yellow ribbons began to appear on tree trunks around the country, especially in military towns like San Diego and Coronado. Bits of yellow fluttering in the breeze to remind Americans of the POWs in captivity. Stories of heroes who’d been shot down and imprisoned for years filled the news. Frankie couldn’t get away from the stories and the memories they raised.
She survived one day at a time, by keeping to herself, not saying much. She got a prescription for the pills she needed, worked as many hours as humanly possible, and visited her parents when they demanded it; she talked on the phone in short, expensive conversations with Barb and Ethel, most of which ended with Frankie’s adamant （and dishonest） I’m fine. The letters she wrote to her girlfriends were long and chatty and filled with half-truths and pretense, not unlike the letters she’d written to her parents from Vietnam.
In May, her parents invited her to join them on the brand-new Royal Viking Sky cruise ship for a month at sea. Frankie declined easily and let out a deep breath when she saw them off.
Now there was no one to pretend for. She could be as alone and reclusive as she liked. Finally, she thought, she could mourn without anyone watching.
* * *
Despite her best intentions, Frankie couldn’t seem to pull herself back from the edge of despair. If anything, the solitude and silence settled so heavily on her that sometimes she found it hard to breathe unless she took a pill, which she often did. By the end of May, she had refilled her prescriptions twice; it was easy to do for any woman these days, but certainly easy for a nurse.
In June, an unexpected weather front hit San Diego, a deluge that the local TV weatherman claimed came from the Hawaiian islands. In the middle of the night, Frankie was unexpectedly called in to work. Although she still felt a little lethargic from last night’s sleeping pills, she popped another pill to wake her up and agreed. Without bothering to shower, she dressed in yesterday’s clothes and headed for her car.
As she drove over the bridge, rain pounded on the convertible roof, sluiced across her windshield so hard the wiper blades could hardly keep up. On the radio, a story about the Watergate hearings droned on. Secret meetings. The president. Blah, blah, blah.