Frankie hoped she didn’t flinch. “Just before my first coffee. Moving a little slow. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all,” she lied.
“I know about the pain of a miscarriage. And my husband served in Korea. He’s told me that some … experiences settle in our bodies as well as our minds. Perhaps you need help dealing with some things?”
“I’m fine. Truly.”
“Even if one’s experience isn’t as traumatic as combat, I’m told wartime can rather upend a man for a time.”
A man.
“I’m ready to go back to work, ma’am,” Frankie said. “I may soon even have some good news to share that will put your mind at ease.”
Mrs. Stone studied her for a long moment. “All right, Frankie. In fact, Karen Ellis called in sick today. Can you finish out her shift?”
“Of course. I still have scrubs in my locker.” Frankie stood up. “You won’t regret it, ma’am.”
“See that I don’t.”
Frankie left the office filled with hope.
This was the first step to recovery. She would be herself again in no time. Marry Rye and wear white. Not some off-the-rack prom dress this time. With Rye, she wanted it all: the gown, the veil, the church, the cake.
* * *
A week later, Frankie stared down at a display of wedding rings in the jeweler’s case.
“May I help you, miss?” the clerk asked her.
Frankie glanced at her watch. Her shift at the hospital started soon. “No, thank you. I guess my fiancé has been detained,” she lied. Next time she came to this store, she would bring Rye with her, see what kind of ring he wanted and show him her favorites. There was nothing wrong or weird with her looking by herself, was there?
Leaving the store, she drove across town to the medical center, which rose tall and white against the morning’s cloudless cerulean sky. Inside, she changed into her teal-blue scrubs, covered her long hair with a cap, and headed to the surgical floor.
She assisted on one surgery after another for hours. At the end of her shift, she checked on her patients, and then headed down to the first floor.
In the lobby, she saw a crowd of men in suits gathered around the desk. Most were scribbling in open notepads.
Reporters.
Probably some famous local resident had given birth; like Raquel Welch, who had been Raquel Tejada back when she’d been crowned the Fairest of the Fair at the San Diego County Fair. Or maybe an actor had died.
Frankie headed for the door. As she passed the clot of reporters, she heard someone say, “Lieutenant Commander Walsh.”
Frankie stopped, turned back. Pushing through the reporters, she got to the front of them just as the woman at the desk was saying, “We respect our patients’ privacy. You know that. You may not speak to them yet. I’ve called security.”
“But it isn’t every day a former prisoner of war—”
Frankie edged around the reporters, ducked behind the front desk, and sidled up to one of the women seated there. “The reporters. They want to see—”
“Some famous guy’s wife. A prisoner of war. Walsh.”
His wife. “Is she okay?”
The woman shrugged.
“Where is she?”
“Four-ten B.”
Frankie went to the elevator and pushed the button impatiently. It wasn’t until she stepped inside that she realized where she was going.
The fourth floor.
Ping! The doors opened.
She walked slowly down the hallway, feeling suddenly sick; at the last door, she saw the patient’s name and stopped: WALSH, MELISSA.
Frankie pushed the door open just enough to see Melissa Walsh, sitting up in bed, surrounded by balloons and flowers and baskets of candy. A soccer ball balloon said IT’S A BOY!
A bassinet was at her bedside; through the clear sides, Frankie could see a baby swaddled in blue.
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.