She put down her coffee.
He was dressed in an old-fashioned way: tan slacks and a crisply ironed white shirt. “Nurse?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m José Garcia. My wife, Elena, is having trouble breathing.”
Frankie nodded. She knew she should call Mrs. Henderson, ask for reinforcements, but she didn’t. Screw it. Whatever was happening with Mrs. Garcia, Frankie could handle it.
She followed Mr. Garcia to Room 111.
In the room’s only bed, a woman lay still, her body covered in blankets, her head raised slightly on a mound of pillows. Her face was pallid; her mouth hung open. She breathed in and out slowly, making a terrible rattling sound.
“She just started breathing like that,” José said quietly.
“How long has she been ill?”
“Six months. Cancer of the lungs. Her students come by almost every day, don’t they, Elena?” He touched his wife’s hand. “She is a high school teacher. Fierce,” he added. He turned to Frankie. “You heard about the walkouts? Students and teachers protesting inequality in our schools? She was part of that, my Elena. Weren’t you?” He gazed down at his wife. “She fought to get her students college preparation classes, instead of just training for domestic work. You changed lives, mi amor.” His voice caught.
Frankie took hold of the woman’s gnarled, bony, dry-skinned hand and thought for a moment of all the hands she’d held in Vietnam, all the men and women she’d comforted and cared for. It steadied her, calmed the loud noises in her head.
“You’re not alone, Elena,” she said. “How about some lotion on your hands? I bet that would feel good…”
Twenty-One
On a hot June afternoon, three months after her return from Vietnam, Frankie woke from her first decent night’s sleep.
Maybe she was getting better.
She was.
She was getting better.
She put a robe on over her SKI VIETNAM T-shirt and panties and headed down to the kitchen for coffee.
She found her mother at the kitchen table, dressed for the country club, smoking a cigarette, a cup of coffee beside her, reading the newspaper. Frankie saw the headline: FIRST LT. SHARON LANE KILLED IN ROCKET EXPLOSION IN VIETNAM.
Mom drew in a sharp breath, slammed the newspaper face down on the table. Then she looked up, tried to smile. “Good morning, dear. Well, good afternoon.”
Frankie reached for the newspaper.
“No—” Mom said.
Frankie wrenched it away from her mother, turned it over to the article. Army nurse Sharon Lane is the first—and so far only—nurse to be killed by enemy fire, although seven nurses have been killed or died during the conflict to date. First Lt. Lane died almost instantly when a rocket fragment struck her during an attack at Chu Lai.
Frankie put down the paper. Enemy fire. A rocket fragment.
Almost instantly.
“Did you know her?” Mom asked quietly.
“No.”
And yes. We were all the same in some ways. I could have been her.
Frankie closed her eyes, said a silent prayer.
“Maybe you should call in sick for work today.”
Frankie opened her eyes. She felt jittery now, anxious. Angry. “If I called in sick every time I felt sad, I’d never go to work.”
“I ran into Laura Gillihan yesterday at the Free Bros. Market. She mentioned that Rebecca would love to see you.”
Frankie poured herself a cup of coffee, stirred in some heavy cream. She was breathing a little fast, felt almost light-headed.
Becky Gillihan. There was a name she hadn’t heard in a long time. Once upon a time, they’d been friends. At St. Bernadette’s Academy, they’d been inseparable.
“She’s married. Still lives on the island. I could call. Tell her you’ll stop by before work. What else will you do until your shift starts?”
Frankie wasn’t really listening. She could feel her mother’s worried gaze, felt how she was being watched. Frankie should say more, tell her mother that she was okay, not to worry, but the thought of Sharon Lane wouldn’t let her go.
Almost instantly.
She walked down the hall, stripped out of her clothes in her bedroom, and took a long, hot shower, crying for the unknown nurse until her tears ran out.
Afterward, she re-dressed in the clothes she found on her bedroom floor—bell-bottom jeans and an embroidered peasant top—and realized she was shaky from a lack of food. She lit up a cigarette instead of eating.
On the kitchen table, she found a note from her mother.
Frances Grace,