Frankie woke up, still in the throes of the nightmare, thinking that she was in Vietnam again, that she’d seen Rye get shot down.
The world righted itself slowly.
She was in her bedroom, with the frilly pink tulle canopy overhead, and the ballerina jewelry box on her nightstand.
Last night had been brutal. Consecutive nightmares. She had a vague memory of wandering through the dark house, smoking, afraid to sleep.
Feeling numb, her body heavy, her heart heavier, she stood, but once she was up, she didn’t know what to do.
She just stood there.
There was a knock at her door.
Frankie sighed. It had been only two days in a world without Rye; forty-eight hours of this grief, and already she couldn’t stand being in this house. She hated the way her mom watched her, with sad, wary eyes, as if she were afraid Frankie might run out into traffic at any moment.
Mom opened the door. She was dressed in a lavender silk peignoir with pearl buttons and pom-pommed white slippers. A white turban covered her hair.
Frankie stared at her through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “How do I stop loving him?”
“You don’t. You endure. You go on. I won’t insult you by mentioning the supposed healing properties of time, but it will get better.” Mom gave her a sad, compassionate look. “He would want you to live, wouldn’t he?”
Frankie had lost track of the variations on life-goes-on that she’d already heard from her mother.
The words had become just clanging noises in the empty room inside of her.
“Sure, Mom. Right.”
Twenty
“I’m worried about you, Frances,” Mom said.
“Go away.” Frankie rolled over, put her pillow over her head. How long had it been since she’d lost Rye? Three days? Four?
“Frankie…”
“GO AWAY.”
A gentle touch on her shoulder. “Frances?”
Frankie played dead until Mom sighed heavily and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Frankie eased the pillow off of her face. Did Mom think that Frankie had moved on already?
At that, her grief expanded again; she let it submerge her. Strangely, there was peace in the nothingness, comfort in her pain. At least Rye was with her here in this darkness. She let herself imagine the life they would have had, the children who looked like them.
That hurt too much to bear. She drew back, tried to push the thought away. It wouldn’t leave.
“Rye,” she whispered, reaching for a man who wasn’t there.
* * *
“Frances. Frances.”
Frankie heard her mother’s voice coming at her from far away. “Leave.”
“Frances. Open your eyes. You’re scaring me.”
Frankie rolled over, opened her eyes, stared blearily up at her mother, who was dressed for church.
“I’m not going to church,” Frankie said. Her voice felt thick. Or maybe that was her tongue.
Mom picked up the empty glass on the nightstand. Beside it was an empty bottle of gin. “You’re drinking too much.”
“Takes one to know one,” Frankie said.
“Dad said he saw you wandering in the living room. Sleepwalking, maybe.”
“Who cares?”
Mom stepped closer. “You lost someone you think you loved. It hurts. I know. But life goes on.”
“Think I loved?” Frankie rolled over and closed her eyes, thinking, Rye, remember our first kiss?
She was asleep before her mother left the room.
* * *
Frankie became aware of the music in stages. First the beat, then the rhythm, then at last, the words. The Doors. “Light My Fire.”
She was in ’Nam, at the O Club, dancing with Rye. She felt his arms around her, felt his hips pressed against hers, his hand settling possessively in the curve at the base of her spine. He whispered something and it made her feel cold, afraid. What? she asked. Say it again, but he was pulling away, leaving her alone.
Suddenly the music blared, turned loud enough to hurt her ears, sounded like a red alert.
She sat up, groggy, headachy, pushed the damp hair out of her eyes.
Her lashes were stuck together. Grit itched at the corners of her eyes.
The music snapped off.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes.”
“Not so much beauty, but plenty of sleeping.”
Frankie turned her head, saw Ethel and Barb standing in her bedroom. Ethel was heavier than she’d been in Vietnam, with rounded curves that had filled out her tall frame. Her red hair was pulled into a low side ponytail. She wore bell-bottom jeans and a striped polyester tunic top.