“I shouldn’t have had that third drink,” she said. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Enough,” her father said sharply, and she saw it all on his face: the fear that he would lose her, the grief at their mutual loss, the anger that she couldn’t seem to be the daughter he wanted.
She stared at him, knowing he was right. She could have killed a man tonight. She could have killed herself. Maybe she’d meant to.
“I love you, Frankie,” he said in a sad voice. “I know we’ve had issues, but—”
“Dad—”
“You seem … broken.”
Frankie couldn’t meet his worried gaze. “I’ve been living this way for years,” she said. “Ever since my time in Florence.”
* * *
Enough.
Alone in her childhood bed, she lay awake, battling her need （addiction—had she ever thought of it in those terms before?） for a sleeping pill, and her overwhelming guilt, as well as this new and eviscerating fear that she had wanted to end her own life.
Who had she become?
A nothing woman, a ghost. No love, no child.
How could she survive? Each of the losses had derailed her, but this, now, the guilt and shame of last night, destroyed her.
She couldn’t live like this.
She needed help.
Who?
How?
You should talk to someone, get help, Henry had said to her; it felt like a lifetime ago, when she’d thought she’d hit rock bottom but hadn’t. I treat a few vets in my practice … Do you have nightmares, Frankie? Trouble sleeping?
Who else would understand the slow unraveling of her psyche since Vietnam, except her fellow veterans? She’d tried to get help before, once, long ago, and it hadn’t worked. That didn’t mean she should stop trying. The opposite was true, in fact.
She pushed the covers back and got out of bed. Weak on her feet, she went into her bathroom and took a hot shower and dried her hair, then dressed in jeans and a turtleneck.
She found her mother in the kitchen, looking tired. “Frances,” she said softly.
“Can I take your car?” Frankie asked.
Mom stared at her so intently Frankie felt uncomfortable, but whatever words her mom needed to hear, Frankie couldn’t say. No more promises. They both knew she shouldn’t be driving.
“The keys are in my bag. When will you be home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will you be home?”
“I will.” She moved forward and touched her mother’s thin shoulder, let her hand linger there. A stronger woman would have offered words to accompany the touch, maybe an apology or a promise; she said nothing and went to the garage, climbed into the Cadillac. She took the Coronado Bridge at a cautious speed and pulled up in front of the new VA medical center.
Frankie parked in the lot and sat there, afraid to move. Finally, she glanced at her black eyes in the rearview mirror. Digging a pair of big sunglasses out of her purse, she left the car and walked up into the building.
Inside, she went to the front desk, where a large woman in a floral-patterned polyester dress sat in front of an IBM Selectric, her scarlet nails clacking on the keys.
“Ma’am?” Frankie said.
The receptionist paused in her typing, but didn’t move her hands away from the keyboard, then looked up. “You in trouble, darlin’？ Is your husband … angry?”
Apparently the sunglasses weren’t much of a camouflage.
“I’ve heard that you offer therapy for Vietnam vets.”
“There’s a rap session at ten. Why?”
“Where is it?”
The woman frowned, pulled a pencil out of her big hair, tapped it on the desk. “Down that hall. Second door to the left. But it’s only for Vietnam vets.”
“Thanks.” Frankie walked down the hall, past several men sitting on molded plastic chairs. At Room 107, she saw a flyer taped to the textured, frosted glass panel in the top half of the door: VIETNAM VETERANS, SHARE YOUR STORIES WITH EACH OTHER. RAPPING HELPS! She took a seat, waiting, staring at the clock. Her whole body ached and her head hurt and she felt sick to her stomach, but she didn’t move. Her left wrist throbbed. She looked down, saw a bruise blooming on her pale skin.
The door in front of her opened at 9:55. A few men walked into the room.
She paused, tried to calm herself, and then she got up, opened the door onto a small, windowless room, in which folding chairs had been set up in a circle. Several of the chairs were occupied by men, most of them Frankie’s age or younger, with long, untended hair, big sideburns, and mustaches. A few older, grizzled-looking guys sat with crossed arms.