And she would wear it today.
No more hiding this treasured memento away in her closet, trying to forget the woman who’d worn it. No more hiding at all.
She pulled out her dog tags, held them in her hand for the first time in years, surprised by how light they actually were. They’d taken on a weight in her mind. She thought of all the bloody dog tags she’d held in her life as she looked for a wounded man’s name, blood type, religion.
Some women had worn love beads in the sixties; others had worn dog tags.
She pulled out the stack of Polaroid pictures of Vietnam she’d brought, remembering the night, years ago now, at the ranch, when her mother had asked to see them, when they’d sat outside by a fire, a spray of stars overhead, and looked at these faded photographs of nurses and doctors, soldiers, Vietnamese children herding water buffalo along the banks of a river, green jungles, white beaches, old men in rice paddies. Mom hadn’t said much, but she’d sat there, listening, for hours.
Frankie pulled out the latest of her journals. She’d first begun journaling in rehab, at Henry’s urging. Her first sentence, written all those years ago, in angry black marker, was, How did I end up here? I am so ashamed.
In the years between then and now, she’d written hundreds of pages. They initially chronicled her pain and then her recovery, and finally her coming-of-age in Montana, on the land where she had found herself, her calling, and her passion. She didn’t have children, imagined now that she would never have children, but she had her ranch, and the women who came to her. She had friends and family and a purpose. She had the big, full life she and her brother had once dreamed of.
She opened up the first blank page, dated it, and wrote:
I can’t stop thinking about Finley today. Of course.
Mom and Dad chose not to come to the unveiling of the memorial. I wish they were here, I need them here, but I understand. Some grief is too deep to reveal in public.
We were the last believers, my generation. We trusted what our parents taught us about right and wrong, good and evil, the American myth of equality and justice and honor.
I wonder if any generation will ever believe again. People will say it was the war that shattered our lives and laid bare the beautiful lie we’d been taught. And they’d be right. And wrong.
There was so much more. It’s hard to see clearly when the world is angry and divided and you’re being lied to.
God, I wish we
There was a knock at the door. Frankie wasn’t surprised. Who could sleep? She got up, went to the door, opened it.
Barb and Ethel stood outside, beneath a feeble overhead light. A sputtering neon sign in the parking lot behind them read NO VACANCY.
“Smells like ’Nam,” Ethel said. “I wish you’d let me pay for nicer rooms.”
“It’s her damn overnight bag,” Barb said.
“I have to be careful with money these days,” Frankie said.
The three of them left the room, each wearing whatever they’d worn to sleep in, and walked down the stairs to a kidney-shaped pool that needed cleaning. Lights in the water created an aqua glow, as did the few lights on the exterior of the motel. The neon sign gave off a faint beelike buzzing sound.
“Six bucks and you get a pool,” Barb said, sitting in a creaky lounge chair.
“For seven, they might clean the pool,” Ethel said, sitting beside her.
“I’d rather they wash the sheets,” Barb said.
“Quit complaining, you two. We’re here, aren’t we?” Frankie said, stretching out on the chair between them.
“Last night, I dreamt about our first night in the Seventy-First,” Barb said, lighting a cigarette. “Haven’t thought about that in years.”
Ethel said, “For me, it was my first napalm-orphanage shift.”
Frankie stared out at the water in the dirty pool with the chain-link fence around it all. She’d had those nightmares, too, and they’d wakened her, too, gotten her heart pumping, but she’d also dreamt of waterskiing on the Saigon River, of Coyote’s howl, of Jamie’s smile, and dancing to the Doors with her girlfriends. She’d surprised herself by thinking about Rye—for the first time in years—and found there was nothing left in her that cared about him; all that remained was a patched and faded regret.
“It’s going to be crazy today,” Ethel said. “A huge crowd.”
“We hope,” Barb said.
They all considered that, feared it. The unveiling of a memorial to a war—and warriors—that no one seemed eager to remember.