She opened the gate and stared at the home she’d grown up in, feeling a rush of emotion. She couldn’t wait to be welcomed home at last, to be admired for her service instead of reviled.
How often had she dreamed of this moment, of safety and love and comfort, of hot baths and fresh coffee and long, slow walks along the beach without an armed guard standing by?
She stepped into the beautifully manicured backyard, drinking it all in: the whispering of the oak leaves, the scent of chlorine and ripening lemons, the soft clatter of her mother’s wind chimes.
Struggling with her heavy duffel and her overnight bag, she walked around the pool and up to the glass-paned doors. Opening them, she stepped back in time. For a second, she was a girl again, following her wild brother wherever he went.
Home.
She dropped her duffel bag on the polished hardwood floor. “Hey, you guys!” she said at the same time her father came around the corner, dressed in a lime-green turtleneck with checkered slacks, holding a folded newspaper. His hair was a little longer, as were his sideburns, which held a few strands of gray.
At the sight of her, he stopped, frowned briefly. “Frankie. Did we know you were coming home?”
She couldn’t hold back a smile. “I wanted to surprise you.”
He moved forward woodenly, confusion on his face. She knew her father didn’t like surprises; he liked to always be in control. He gave her a brief, hard hug.
He released her so quickly that Frankie stumbled back. “I … should have called,” she said.
“No,” he said, shook his head. “Of course not. We are glad you’re home.”
Frankie realized suddenly what she looked like after so many hours of travel—hair a mess, poorly cut, no makeup on, uniform wrinkled. No wonder her dad was frowning. She reached into her purse and pulled out her favorite picture of her and Ethel and Barb, arms around each other, standing in front of the O Club. “I brought this one just for you.”
He glanced at the photograph. “Oh.”
“For the heroes’ wall,” she said.
Mom came around the corner, dressed in bright red ankle pants and a white top, her hair covered by a silk scarf. “Frances!”
She rushed forward and pulled Frankie into a fierce hug. “My girl,” she said, easing back, touching Frankie’s face. “Why didn’t you call?”
“She wanted to surprise us,” Dad said. “Apparently it wasn’t enough of a surprise when she joined the Army. I’m sorry, but I have a meeting.”
Frankie watched her father leave the house, heard the door shut behind him. It unsettled her, his leaving so abruptly.
“Don’t take it to heart,” Mom said lightly. “Ever since Finley’s … passing, and your leaving, he isn’t himself.”
“Oh,” Frankie said. Had her mother just equated her war service to her brother’s death?
“Frances, I…” Mom’s hand slid down Frankie’s arm, as if maybe she couldn’t quite let her daughter go, couldn’t quite believe that she was here again. “I’ve missed you so.”
“Me, too,” Frankie said.
“You must be exhausted,” Mom said.
“I am.”
“Why don’t you take a nice, hot bath and perhaps a nap?”
Frankie nodded, confused; she felt battered by hours of travel and the way she’d been treated by strangers. And now by her parents. What was wrong?
She left her mother in the living room and headed for her childhood bedroom, with its canopy bed and pink ruffles. Most kids had posters in their rooms, but Mom hadn’t allowed tacks to be stuck into her expensive wallpaper, so Frankie had framed art on her walls. A row of old stuffed animals sat along the top of her bookshelf. A pink ballerina jewelry box on the bedside table held junior and high school trinkets, probably a stack of senior pictures and prom memorabilia. You knew what was expected of a girl who slept in a room like this.
Only Frankie wasn’t that girl anymore.
At the end of the bed stood a hope chest, which was filled with perfectly folded and pressed tablecloths and Italian linens, and embroidered sheets. Mom had started filling this chest when Frankie was eight years old. Every birthday and Christmas, Frankie had received something for her hope chest. The message then—and now—was clear: marriage made a woman whole and happy.
Again. It was for the girl who’d left for Vietnam, not for the woman who’d come home, whoever that woman turned out to be.
Frankie peeled out of her uniform and left it in a heap on the floor.