Kojiro was just leaving the hospital when the florist arrived with the flowers he had ordered earlier in the afternoon. When the driver appeared to be having a problem carrying the two bouquets, he offered to give him a hand. Kojiro was instructed to leave the flowers at the front desk, but once he was back inside the building, he kept walking, through the lobby, past the reception desk to the stairs leading to the wards. A few people remarked on the size of the bouquet he was carrying, but no one stopped him or bothered to inquire why he was roaming around the halls, peering anxiously into every room he passed.
A Japanese maintenance man eventually came to Kojiro’s rescue and directed him through a set of double doors to the suites reserved for VIPs. Charlie was in the first room he came to. Through the partially opened door, he could see two doctors conferring by the bedside. They were talking about the accident and how Charlie wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for Captain Comerford. “She had the presence of mind and the physical strength to pull it off,” one of the doctor’s remarked. “Quite frankly, I wouldn’t have thought as a woman she had it in her.”
“Don’t let the CO hear you make a remark like that.”
The second door was closed. Kojiro hesitated. There was no point in trying to see Libby again. If she were awake, she would be furious at him for intruding on her privacy. If she were asleep he would feel like a voyeur. What had possessed him to sneak around the American hospital trying to find her room? He should have left the flowers at the front desk and walked out of the hospital. It was finished. Over. Ended. Next week at this time he would be in Sydney with Motoko.
He turned the knob and opened the door, just wide enough so he could peer inside without being seen. The room was dark except for a night light that glowed on a panel above the bed. Libby was asleep — resting comfortably — in hospital parlance. It didn’t look like the Libby he knew, stretched out under the flannel blankets. She liked to sleep curled up on her side, with her hands tucked under her cheek. Her complexion was waxen, her hair as pale and lusterless as the starched pillowcase, her lips, white and bloodless.
Kojiro pushed the door open a little wider and went in. It was a pleasant room, more tastefully decorated than the ones on the other end of the corridor. He set the bouquet in a prominent place on the bedside table. The fragrance from the flowers reminded him of the perfume Libby wore. He closed his eyes and inhaled the sweet, heady scent.
When he opened them, Libby’s eyes were open and she was smiling up at him. “Kojiro,” she said. For a moment, he thought she was actually awake, had recognized him, and was pleased he had come. Caught off-guard, his heart started pounding in excitement, but before he could think of something to explain his presence, she had drifted back to sleep.
“Oh, Libby … ” His hand was shaking as he reached out to stroke her cheek. It was so smooth and soft. He traced his finger across her brow, through her hair, winding the short silky strands around his finger. Then he adjusted the blankets, drawing them up under her chin, tucking them gently around her shoulders before turning abruptly and hurrying out of the room.
One of the nurses happened to spot him just as he was leaving. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Captain Comerford’s room is off-limits,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
Kojiro shook his head as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Playing ignorant was easier than trying to explain why he had been in Libby’s hospital room.
“Well?” He pointed to the bouquet. The flowers seemed to appease her and she stepped aside to let him pass. “Next time, leave them at the front desk,” she said crossly.
When Libby awoke the next morning, the first thing she saw was the enormous bouquet of flowers. She was sure they hadn’t been in the room the night before — the size of the arrangement would have been hard to overlook — but on the other hand, the events of the previous evening were a bit of a blur.
She remembered the accident clearly enough — every agonizing moment from the loud bang that had precipitated the crash, ejecting out of the aircraft, the terrifying descent into the water, her heroic efforts to find Charlie and free him from the tangled parachute, the deafening roar of the helicopter hovering overhead, but once she got to the hospital things became a little vague. The flight surgeons insisted on keeping her overnight for evaluation and prescribed a sedative so she would be well rested for the intensive interviews that would get underway after breakfast by members of the accident board.
As much as Libby deplored taking medication, she was glad she had, for it had prevented her from dwelling on the accident, and induced a calm, restful sleep. She had done everything by the book, and come through the ordeal successfully. When it was happening, she had been too busy to be afraid, there were so many emergency procedures to attend to. But once she had the leisure to relive the experience, she was gripped by an unreasonable fear. What if she had been trapped in the burning airplane? What if Charlie’s parachute had drifted out of reach? Or she hadn’t had the strength to swim to him, or get him into the raft? She kept hearing the clangorous retort from the engine, felt the doomed airplane struggling like a wounded animal.
A good night’s sleep had helped alleviate her fear as well as allowed her to focus more objectively on the accident. Charlie and she were the only witnesses as to what had gone wrong. They both had to be clear-headed in recalling the events. Before the investigators were finished, every aspect of the flight would be analyzed, the pieces of airplane retrieved from the ocean floor and reassembled, their personal lives scrutinized, their diet, sleeping patterns, and alcohol consumption for up to fourteen days before the accident looked into for any manifest irregularity.
The team would find out that she and Charlie had dated, that she had broken off with him to date another man, a Japanese pilot in the Samurai Squadron — interesting twist — and had very recently terminated her relationship with him. The psychologist would have a field day with that one. Captain Comerford appears incapable of sustaining a healthy, long-term relationship with the opposite sex. They would ask if she were despondent over the breakup. Was she suicidal or distracted? Did Charlie harbor any ill-feeling toward her? Or perhaps she had skipped breakfast the morning of the flight or was suffering from indigestion from a greasy lunch. Nothing, no matter how trivial, was overlooked in an accident investigation.
Libby would have liked to look in on Charlie; the last time she’d seen him was in the ambulance. But until they were interviewed — each one separately — they would be sequestered in their own rooms. In the unlikely event of pilot error, there was always the possibility of a cover-up if the two people involved were allowed to confer privately.
Libby had been reassured he would recover. His arm was fractured in two places and he had had to undergo surgery but, other than postponing his assignment to Fighter Weapons School, the injury would not interfere with his flying career. The burns on his face and scalp were superficial; when they healed, he would be as handsome as ever.
Charlie … . Would the accident bring them closer together, change her feelings for him? She wondered. They had shared a harrowing experience. As melodramatic as it sounded, she had saved his life. Would that bond strengthen their friendship or would it sever it completely? It was too early to tell. Gratitude could be a difficult obstacle around which to navigate.
Libby reached for the card tucked discreetly amid the blooms. The bouquet was from the Samurai Squadron. She wished it had been from somewhere else. She didn’t want any reminders of her association with the Japanese pilots. But when the orderly came in with breakfast, she asked if he knew who had delivered the flowers. She had a vague memory of Kojiro’s comforting presence beside the bed and wondered if … . But no, that was impossible. He wouldn’t have been allowed past the front desk and even if he had, surely he wouldn’t have had the nerve to visit her after what he had done? She’d made it very clear that she never wanted to see
him again. The image impressed on her brain of Kojiro gazing down at her and saying her name was just a dream, a fragment of memory that had resurfaced in her subconscious while she was sleeping.
Libby tore the card in two and tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Captain Comerford?” The flight surgeon, an enthusiastic New Yorker with a distinctive Brooklyn accent, stuck his head around the door. “May I come in?”
“Do you have to have my permission?”
“I’ve been trying to get in your bedroom since you got to Misawa, Libby, and you haven’t let me in yet.” Major Benjamin Segal was the squadron physician. The short, balding Easterner was an unlikely candidate for a career officer but after his first flight in the back seat of an F-16, he was hooked. The pilots liked him because he loved to fly and treated him accordingly with affection and trust. He was one of Libby’s stalwart admirers and an ardent defender of women in the military.
Libby smiled. “I’ll make an exception this morning. Sir.”
Ben closed the door behind him and came to stand by her bed. Libby, used to seeing him in his flying suit hanging around the squadron trying to get a flight or partying with the pilots in the officers’ club, was surprised to see him in a starched white smock with a stethoscope sticking out of the pocket and a medical chart tucked under his arm. He didn’t look so harmless or cuddly in that get-up. Instead of the usual leering grin with which he inevitably greeted Libby, his smile was cool and professional.
“You look perkier this morning than you did last evening,” Ben said, clasping her hand. “How do you feel?”
“My shoulders and arms are a little sore. But other than that, if it weren’t for the hangover I have from the injection you gave me, I feel fine.”
“You were too keyed up to sleep. If I hadn’t medicated you, you wouldn’t be in any shape to talk to all the people converging on base this morning.”
“Already?”
Ben nodded. “They’re waiting for me to release you. If you want a day to recoup, I can keep you here for another twenty-four hours but they’ll still want to talk to you today, while the accident’s fresh in your mind.”
“How’s Charlie? The nurses told me he had surgery … ”
“Charlie was lucky. He’ll be as good as new, once his arm heals.” Ben plucked one of the roses from the bouquet, broke off the stem and stuck it in his lapel. “You were terrific, you know.”
Libby squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Ben. For taking such good care of me.”
“My pleasure.” Releasing her hand he proceeded to check her vital signs, temperature, blood pressure, pulse. It was a routine procedure, which he attended to with professional detachment.
“What’s my prognosis, doctor? Will I live to fly another day?”
“Oh, I expect so. Unless … ”
“Unless what?” Libby sat up straighter and grasped the flight surgeon’s arm. “It’s imperative I get back in the cockpit as soon as possible. You know that. If I don’t people will think I’m in some way to blame. They’ll say I panicked and punched out too soon. That Charlie could have recovered and saved the taxpayers twenty-five million dollars. Someone, somewhere will write his congressman or a column in the newspaper complaining about women flying fighters. And there are pilots in the squadron who would be all too happy to concur — off the record, of course,” she added bitterly.
She tugged on his sleeve. “Ben, tell me. Do you know something I don’t know about the accident?” There was an edge of fear in her voice that belied her composure.
He shook his head. “No, no. It has nothing to do with the accident, Lib. You even impressed the skeptics with your heroics. No one’s questioning what happened, that I know of. People are just glad you and Charlie made it back.”
“Then what?” It wasn’t like Ben to give patients a hard time. Libby resented his evasiveness, especially under the circumstances. As a flight surgeon, he should have been more sympathetic to her present state of mind.
“What is it?” She repeated.
Major Segal walked over to the window and adjusted the sash on the blinds, taking great care to align the two cords evenly.
“Do you know that you were pregnant?” He asked bluntly.
Libby slumped back on the pillows in defeat, as reluctant to look at Ben and to acknowledge the truth as he had been, only a moment before, to confront her with the unfortunate reality.
“No,” she said. And then, “Yes. I think so.”
“Think so?” He sounded incredulous. “If it was anyone else … ”
“Ridiculous isn’t it? Someone in my position being so oblivious. I thought I was just under a lot of stress. I didn’t want to believe that, that … ” She couldn’t say it. If she confirmed the pregnancy out loud, it would make it real.
“Stress can manifest itself in a lot of ways, Libby, but pregnancy isn’t one of them.” She could detect the disappointment in his voice, the sudden distaste and the effort he was expending to sound nonjudgmental. “I suppose it’s of no consequence one way or the other now … .”
Libby leaned forward. “What do you mean?”
“You lost the baby, Lib. When they brought you in, you were bleeding. The shock, I suppose, or temperature in the water. Who knows? You weren’t very far along. Six or eight weeks at the most.”
Libby supposed she should feel relieved but she had been so successful at convincing herself she wasn’t pregnant, the significance of what Ben had just told her had little impact. Perhaps when she had time to think about what had happened to her she would feel something — regret, sadness, relief, but not yet … not yet. She had too many other unresolved issues to deal with before she could acknowledge the pregnancy and miscarriage.
“It’s none of my business, I know. But if you want to tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said sharply. “I made a mistake. I misjudged someone. It won’t happen again.” He went to pat her hand but she pulled it away, running her fingers absently through her hair. It felt stiff from the salt water, the smooth cap shaggy and unkempt. She needed a long, hot shower and shampoo.
“What day is it?” Libby asked suddenly.
“Saturday.”
“He’s getting married in five days.”
“Forget about him, Libby. Concentrate on your future. There’s nothing standing in your way.”
“I suppose everyone in the hospital knows … ” she hesitated. “About, about the pregnancy.”
“Your medical records are confidential, Libby. Excessive bleeding is not unprecedented after a traumatic incident … .” His voice trailed and he looked away, as if something outside the window had suddenly caught his attention.
“But the accident board … ”
“The accident board only knows what I tell them. That information is not germane to their inquiry.” He patted her hand. “If you have any problems, call me at home.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
He shrugged. “Just doing my duty as a flight surgeon, Captain Comerford. I have an obligation to the Air Force and to Colonel Long to get you back in the airplane as expediently as possible.”
THE fishing-boats are tossed about,
When the stormy winds blow strong;
With rudder lost, how can they reach
The port for which they long?
So runs the old love song.
Sone Yoshitada
Chapter Eleven
The final accident report would not be completed for several months, but the preliminary account exonerated Charlie and Libby and blamed the crash on engine failure. Both pilots were commended for their reactions during the crisis and Libby, in particular, was singled out for her courage in rescuing Charlie from almost certain death by drowning. Her picture appeared on the front page of The Stars
and Stripes and The Air Force Times. There was a feature article about her in the Dayton press and the Sunday supplement Parade wanted an exclusive interview.
Two weeks to the day after ejecting into the ocean, Libby was back in the cockpit of an F-16. She wasn’t afraid to fly, but the accident had instilled a new respect for the aircraft, as well as an awareness of the inherent danger. She felt different after the experience, older and wiser. Until the accident, she had been young and untested, driven by ambition to try to succeed in a man’s world. It was ironic that it took a disaster to prove to Libby that she was every bit as good a pilot and officer as the men in the squadron.
As far as her pregnancy was concerned, since Libby had refused to acknowledge it to begin with, she thought it would be easy to forget. She and Ben Segal were the only people privy to the information and true to his word, Ben had not disclosed the pregnancy to the accident board. She was young and healthy, her body quickly recovered. When Libby looked in the mirror, there was no hint she had ever been pregnant visible on her smooth, firm flesh.
But as the weeks went by, Libby discovered her emotions had not healed as swiftly as her body or that she was not as blasé about the miscarriage as she had believed. Her initial relief was sabotaged by sorrow. When she least expected it, she would suddenly remember and, just as suddenly, be awash in waves of unfathomable remorse. How could she grieve over the loss of an unborn child she had neither wanted nor acknowledged? It didn’t make any sense.
When Darlene confided that she and Leonard were trying to get pregnant, Libby burst into tears.
The accident affected her relationship with Charlie as well. There was no question that he wasn’t grateful to Libby for having saved his life, but he seemed embarrassed and demeaned by the whole thing. Nothing he did could have prevented his broken arm. He apparently hit the side of the cockpit when the ejection seat blasted him out of the jet. The misadventure with the faulty parachute was complicated by the fact that he couldn’t reach up to pop the back lines and control his descent or reach the pouch to release his dingy. But Charlie seemed to take the unfortunate events personally and behaved as if his manhood had been called into question.
The Unquiet Heart Page 17