“You exposed my fib about Florence,” Dad said.
“Fib?” Frankie couldn’t believe he’d said that. “Fib?”
She knew then what this was about, what it had always been about. His reputation. The man with his stupid heroes’ wall who knew nothing about heroism and lived in fear of that embarrassing truth being exposed. “If you don’t want to be seen as a liar, maybe you shouldn’t lie, Dad. Maybe you should be proud of me.”
“Proud? That you embarrass this family at every turn?”
“I went to war, Dad. War. I have been shot at in a Huey and lived through mortar attacks. I’ve had my ears ring for days when a bomb hit too close. But you don’t know anything about that, do you?”
He paled at that, clenched his jaw.
“Enough,” he said.
“You’re right,” she yelled back.
She pushed past him, headed to her bedroom before she could say something even worse.
The door to her father’s office was open. She saw all those pictures and mementos on the heroes’ wall, and without thinking, she went into the sacred space and started pulling the framed pictures off the wall, throwing them to the floor. She heard glass shatter.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Dad roared at her from the doorway.
“This,” she said. “Your heroes’ wall. It’s a big fat lie, isn’t it, Dad? You wouldn’t know a hero if one bit you in the ass. Believe me, Dad. I’ve seen heroes.”
“Your brother would be as ashamed of your behavior as we are,” Dad said.
Mom appeared in the doorway, threw Dad a pleading look. “Connor, don’t.”
“How dare you mention Finley?” Frankie said, her anger swooping back in. “You who got him killed. He went over there for you, to make you proud. I could tell him now not to bother, couldn’t I? Oh, but he’s dead.”
“Out,” her father said in barely above a whisper. “Get out of this house and stay out.”
“With pleasure,” Frankie hissed. She snagged the photograph of her brother and stormed out of the office.
“Leave that picture,” Dad said.
She turned around. “No way. He’s not staying in this toxic house. You got him killed, Dad. How do you live with that?”
She ran down to her bedroom, stuffed a few things in her overnight travel bag, grabbed her purse, and left the house.
Outside, she felt the sting of regret, and tears blurred her vision. Dear God, she was sick to death of crying. And of these mammoth mood swings. She shouldn’t have said that terrible thing to her father.
She threw her stuff in the backseat, along with the portrait of Finley, and climbed into the Bug, slamming the door shut behind her.
She knew she was driving on Ocean Boulevard too fast, but it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t catch her breath. She felt like the last girl in a horror film, running for her life, but the danger wasn’t behind her, trying to catch up, it was inside her, trying to break out. She thought, if it gets out, something bad will happen. All this rage and hurt could destroy her if she didn’t bottle it up.
She reached over for her purse, felt around for her cigarettes in the mess inside.
The music blared through the small black speakers. “Light My Fire.” For a second she felt it all, the missing of herself, of Vietnam, of her lost loves. Tears blurred her eyes; she couldn’t lift her hand to wipe them away. She pressed her foot on the gas when she meant to ease off.
A flash of something.
Color.
A streetlight, a dog, darting in front of her.
She swerved and slammed on the brakes so hard, she was flung forward, cracked her head on the steering wheel.
Where was she?
She came to slowly, saw the crunched wreckage of the VW Bug’s hood.
She’d hit a streetlamp, gone up onto the curb.
She could have killed someone.
“Jesus,” she said, in both relief and prayer. Her whole body was shaking. She felt sick.
She couldn’t go on like this. She needed help.
And she couldn’t go back to her parents. Not yet, maybe not ever, after what she’d said to her father.
She put the Bug in reverse and backed up. The car clanged down onto the street.
A dog sat on the grass, watching her.
Frankie had never hated herself more than she did right now. She was hungry, brokenhearted, and drunk, and she’d gotten behind the wheel.
She parked the wrecked car on the side of the road and left her keys in it. In this neighborhood, the police would be alerted to its presence in no time. They’d call the registered owner, Connor McGrath, and he’d see it sitting here, broken.