Her father nodded. She could see that he wanted more from her, absolution maybe, but there was time ahead for that.
This. Here. Was her time. Her moment. Her memories.
She left her parents standing in front of Finley’s name, and walked along the Wall, looking for 1967–1969, seeing the flowers and pictures and yearbooks that were being set up at the base of the black granite. She saw a Gold Star Mother standing beside a pair of confused-looking teenagers trying to construct their lost father from letters carved into granite.
She followed the line of names, looking for Jameson Callahan—
“McGrath.”
Frankie stopped.
He stood in front of her. Tall and gray-haired, with a jagged scar along one side of his face and a pants leg that ruffled against a prosthetic.
“Jamie.”
He pulled her into his arms, whispering, “McGrath,” again, into her ear.
Just that, being called McGrath again, hearing his voice, feeling his breath on her neck, sent her back to the O Club, beaded curtain clattering, the Beatles singing, Jamie asking her to dance. “Jamie,” she whispered. “How—”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gray stone that read:
YOU FIGHT
MCGRATH.
The stone she’d been given by the young Vietnamese boy in the orphanage, and which she’d slipped into Jamie’s duffel bag. “It was a hellhole over there and worse when we got home,” he said quietly, “but you got me through it, McGrath. Remembering you got me through.”
“I saw you die.”
“I died lots of times,” he said. “They kept dragging me back. I was in bad shape for a long time. My injuries … Christ, look at me…”
“You are still as handsome as ever,” Frankie said, unable to look away.
“My ex-wife would disagree.”
“You’re not—”
“It’s a long, sad story with a happy ending for both of us. I stayed with her for years. We had another baby. A girl. She’s nine, and a real spitfire.” He stared down at her. “Her name is Frances.”
Frankie didn’t know how to respond; it was hard to draw a breath.
“How about you?” he said, trying to smile. “Married, with kids?”
“No,” Frankie said. “Never married. No kids.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly; he of all people knew how much she’d wanted that life.
“It’s okay. I’m happy.”
She gazed up at him. On his face, she saw all that he’d been through: the jagged jawline scar, the pucker of skin along one ear, the sadness in his eyes. His blond hair was long now, threaded with gray, a reminder that they’d been young once together, but weren’t anymore, that there were scars on both of them. Wounds that remained, seen and unseen.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he said in a cracked, scratchy voice.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Frankie said. “You could have found me.”
“I wasn’t ready. It’s been rough. Healing.”
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “For me, too.”
“But we’re here now,” he said. “You and me, McGrath. Finally.”
He gave her a smile that made her feel young again. For a moment, time fell away; they were Frankie and Jamie again, walking through camp, keeping each other upright, sharing their lives, laughing and crying together, loving each other.
She felt the start of tears, felt them on her face as she stood there, surrounded by her fellow Vietnam veterans, the wall of black granite blurring behind them.
Jamie moved toward her, stumbled; she reached out to steady him. “I’ve got you,” she said, her words echoing his from long ago. There was so much to say to him, words she’d gathered and stored in her memories, dreamed of saying, but there would be time for that, time for them. Today, just being here, holding his hand, was enough. More than enough.
Miraculous.
After all these years, so much pain and regret and loss, they were here, she and Jamie and thousands of others. Battered and limping and in wheelchairs, some of them, but still here. All of us. Together again. In a group, at a wall that held the names of the fallen.
Together.
Survivors, all.
They’d been silenced, forgotten for too long, especially the women.
Remembering you got me through.
And there it was: remembrance mattered. She knew that now; there was no looking away from war or from the past, no soldiering on through pain.
Somehow Frankie would find a way to tell the country about her sisters—the women with whom she’d served. For the nurses who had died, for their children, for the women who would follow in the years to come.