Crawling between the soft, lavender-scented sheets, she lay her head on the silk-cased pillow.
She shouldn’t have surprised her parents. She’d caught them off guard.
Tomorrow would be better.
Nineteen
The smell of burning flesh. Someone is screaming.
I run forward, crying for help, trying to see through the smoke.
There’s a baby in my arms, burning, her skin blackens and falls away. I am holding a pile of bones …
Choppers overhead. Incoming.
A scream. Mine? The red alert siren blares. Something explodes near my head.
I throw myself out of my cot, hit the floor, crawl for my flak jacket and helmet.
Quiet.
Frankie came out of the nightmare slowly, realized she was on the floor, in her bedroom.
Curling into a ball on the rug, she tried to go back to sleep.
* * *
The next time Frankie awoke, it was 2115 hours and the house was dark. She heard the faint ticking of her bedside clock. She had no idea how long she’d slept. A day? Two?
She got dressed and wandered through the house. At her father’s office, she stared at the pictures on the heroes’ wall, saw Finley smiling at her on his way to war.
Another world. Now no one welcomed you home, let alone celebrated your leaving. Suddenly she felt suffocated by the scent of lemon furniture polish and expectation. She’d been raised to be a lady, always, serene and calm, smiling, but that world, and those lessons, felt far, far away.
Outside, a full moon shone down on the waves. She felt drawn to the beach, as always, the stretch of sand that had been her playground as a child.
“Hey, Fin,” she said, sitting close to the waterline. An occasional spray of water hit her cheek, felt like tears.
She closed her eyes. Just breathe, McGrath.
Gradually, the tightening in her chest eased. Much later, she went back to her frilly pink room and climbed into bed. In the glow of her bedside lamp, she opened her nightstand drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery with her full name written in elegant script across the top.
March 17
Dear Barb,
I’m home. No one told me how tough it was, this re-entry. Why didn’t you warn me? People spat at me at the airport, called me a baby killer. What the hell? My parents haven’t even asked about Vietnam. Mom acts as if I am home from band camp and my dad has barely said a word to me. Honest to God.
It’s weird.
Tell me I’ll be okay, will you?
And how about you? I’ve been thinking about you, sending good thoughts to you about your brother. Grief sucks.
Being home makes me miss Fin all over again. It’s like staring down at a puzzle with one piece missing; it ruins the whole thing.
Now I’m back to bed. I’m more than tired. Too many hours of travel and despair and jet lag, I guess.
Love you, sis.
Stay cool,
F
Then she stripped down to her bra and underwear and climbed back into bed.
* * *
“Wake up, Frances.”
Frankie opened her eyes slowly, feeling grit on her eyeballs.
She sat up, feeling bruised. Once again, she was on the floor.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” Mom said, looking worriedly at Frankie before she turned and walked away.
“Okay,” Frankie said, tasting something foul in her mouth. When had she last brushed her teeth?
She limped to her closet （how had she twisted her ankle?）， pushed past her old pogo stick and shoved aside a hula hoop, and then slipped into her pink chenille robe and left the bedroom. Why was everything about her past so damned pink?
“Finally,” Mom said from the kitchen table, smiling.
Frankie went to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, and sat down at the table across from her mother.
“Where’s Dad?”
“You look awful, Frances.”
“I’m having nightmares.”
“I’ve made reservations for lunch at the club. I thought it would feel good to get back to real life. Just us girls.”
Frankie sipped her coffee, savoring the bitter, rich taste of it. Nightmare images clung like cobwebs to her mind. “Is that what you think the club is, real life?”
Mom frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“People spat at me at the airport,” Frankie said, surprised at the way her voice broke. “Called me a baby killer.”
Mom’s mouth opened in surprise, then slowly closed. “I’ve called Paul and made you an appointment for this morning. A nice new haircut always brightens my mood.”
“Sure, Mom. I know how much appearances matter to you. Where’s Dad?” she asked again.