by C. L. Hoang
“You guys beat me to it,” I said in the most jovial tone I could muster. “I was hoping to be up and dressed before you all got here.”
They set the bags down on the side table then hurried over to give me a hug, obviously relieved to find me in a more lively state than the last time.
“There’s a picnic area in the back of the building,” I continued. “If you don’t mind waiting while I get ready, we can move outside for some fresh air.”
“Beautiful day to be outdoors,” my dad concurred. “But you sure you’re up to it, son?”
“I’m starting to get out, a little more each day. It feels too cooped up in here.”
My parents exchanged a quick glance before Mom said, “How about Dad and I carry all the food out now, and you come join us when you’re done? Take your time, though, honey.” Then she had second thoughts. “Or maybe we’ll wait right here. In case you need help?”
I waved them away with a reassuring smile, then waited until they were gone before I began getting dressed. With my body rusty and stiff from the long slumber, it ended up more of a chore than usual. I struggled through and was all set to head out when a tentative knock on the door turned me around.
There she was, a shadow in blue just outside the doorway. Looking unsure, a small vase of flowers in her hand, she seemed like a lost child who had wandered to the wrong door.
“Deb . . .” I exhaled her name, taken aback by her unexpected appearance.
“How are you, Roger?” She emerged from the hallway’s dimness into the brightly lit room, coming to a stop just beyond the entrance. “I heard you weren’t feeling well . . . I—I brought you some flowers.” She moved forward, set the vase on the table, then stepped back. “You must be exhausted, so I’ll just wish you a speedy recovery and let you rest.”
“Debbie. Please . . . won’t you sit down?” I motioned to the empty bed next to mine.
She hesitated, then sat down at the foot of the bed, a short distance from where I stood.
We made eye contact.
My heart ached at how thin and weary she looked although she’d tried to conceal it with a touch of makeup and a discreet blue dress. There was no discernible resentment or bitterness in her large brown eyes. Only sadness, and genuine concern.
“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” she whispered.
“I’m getting better, slowly but surely.” I tried to smile through my parched lips. “Thank you for the flowers. It’s very sweet of you.”
Awkward at first but more comfortable as we went on, we attempted small talk. I found out she’d asked to come with my parents, having heard of my illness from my mother. I was deeply touched, considering what nightmare I had put her through this summer.
“You waited outside until now?” I asked.
She looked down at the floor, took a moment before answering. “I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to drop in like this. It’s important now that you rest and relax. I didn’t want to cause you any upset.”
“You’re my best friend, Deb. No matter what happens. I’m always happy to see you.”
Her eyes blinked rapidly. She dropped her gaze lower.
Pulse racing, I sat down on the edge of my bed and faced her. “I’m so sorry, Debbie—”
“You don’t need to go there, Roge,” she interrupted, her voice quavering. “Let’s not talk about that. It doesn’t help your recovery.”
I felt an impulse to take her hands in mine but didn’t want to startle her. The thought crossed my mind that had I done so at our last picnic together, maybe I would’ve been able to avert some heartbreak for both of us.
Taking a deep breath, I decided to seize my second chance for atonement.
“Please let me say what I need to say, just this once. I did wrong by you, Deb. There was no excuse for it, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. But take it for what it’s worth. I never meant to hurt you. It wasn’t anything I planned, it just . . . happened. I can’t explain it. Anyway, it’s over now. In fact, it ended as soon as it started. But that’s neither here nor there. My biggest regret through all this craziness is that I’ve dragged you into it and hurt you terribly. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”
The words tumbled out over my ragged breathing, in my mad dash to unload the truth lest I had a change of heart. Waves of frustration and anger rose in my chest against the hopeless, absurd situation, squeezing my lungs tight and stinging my eyes. Somehow, through ironic twists and turns, it mattered none what we did or didn’t do, what choices we made or failed to make. We always wound up hurting ourselves and those we cared about. Toys. We were, all of us, but toys. Nothing more than playthings in the hands of a capricious young child. All damaged and scarred, if not destroyed, sooner or later.
I got up, strode over to the window and stared out on the most glorious Thanksgiving Day one could hope for, struggling to regain my composure.
Neither of us spoke for a while, until I heard her gentle voice behind me.
“You went through an awful lot in Việt-Nam this past year, Roger. None of us at home can presume to understand. But we’re here for you. To help in any way we can to make the transition easier, so you can put all the bad stuff behind you once and for all. If you’re comfortable with it, I’d like to come visit you more regularly. We can talk about your experience over there—or not. It’s entirely up to you. We’ll always be friends no matter what, as you said. That’s all we need to know right now. Let’s concentrate on getting you well again. What do you say?”
At once humbled and moved by her kindness, I turned back to her with a grateful nod, barely able to get the words out. “Thanks. I’d like that very much.”
“It’s settled, then,” she said, rising to her feet. “But I’ve taken up too much of your time. Your parents are waiting for you.”
“You’re certainly staying for dinner, aren’t you?”
She hesitated. “My auntie lives near Davis. I’ve made arrangements to visit her—”
“Please stay,” I said. “Just a little while. It’s Thanksgiving.”
She gave it some thought, then said, “All right. Just a quick bite. But we mustn’t keep your parents waiting any longer.”
As we strolled out the door, Debbie turned to me, her eyes suddenly grown misty. “I’m sorry about Dick and all your losses and pains, Roger. I wish there was a way we could bear some of the load for you.”
Squinting at the bright daylight outside, I kept quiet. There had been enough explaining for one day. But for the first time since coming back from Biên-Hoà, I felt like I’d finally made it home.
Thus began my “rehab,” an informal process that stretched through the holiday season of 1968. As my condition improved, I gradually resumed my responsibility as base GMO, all under the watchful eye of kind Captain Morgan.
Debbie made good on her promise. Using her remaining week of vacation, she came up to stay with her aunt and commuted every day to see me at Mather Hospital. Between her low-key visits and my daily walks with the chief of psychiatry, I started to open up about my experience in Việt-Nam and to slowly work through my feelings. But no more was said of what had taken place between Lee Anne and me, as I believed no further healing could be gained from that. For reasons unknown, Lee Anne had chosen to disappear from my life. Part of me still clung to the bittersweet memory, like one would to a beautiful dream rudely awakened, but I had come to realize it belonged to the past. And I had to move on, as best I could.
Determined to keep her word even after she’d used up her vacation, Debbie drove from Bishop to Mather AFB every other weekend to spend half a day with me. Occasionally she came with my mom and dad, but most of the time by herself. During the winter months, she took the longer southern detour to circumvent the snowy mountains. The trip was several hours each way, but come she did, just as promised.
It was a special time. A
time of renewal for us. As part of rebuilding our friendship, we had to get reacquainted and learn to be comfortable with each other again. Through it all, Debbie showed amazing patience and understanding, and her steadfast support gave me a good start on my recovery road.
We went on regular walks through the greenery behind the hospital. Basked in the warm afternoon sunlight, we often felt no need to talk. It occurred to me that this must be as good as it got. This was real life, as temperate and dependable as the California weather itself. This was what I’d been born into, and destined to live. Not the pursuit of passion, or some illusion thereof, in the land of monsoon storms and bloody warfare clear on the other side of the earth. This, when all was said and done, remained my reality. My here and now. My peace. I’d better embrace it—before it was too late.
Toward this newfound purpose, I thought it simpler to let all correspondence from my Việt-Nam acquaintances go unanswered. Their innocuous-looking letters always brought me such angst since I never knew what horrific news might be concealed in them. Had tragedy struck at Lee Anne’s family again, or Elise’s? Would Paul make his DEROS without a hitch? Had new leads surfaced to dash all hopes for Dick’s safe return? Would Dean sign up for yet another tour? All possible disasters out of my control. Any bad news along those lines could push me back into the deep hole I’d been struggling to climb out of. Weary to the bone of living in constant fear and suspense, beset with survivor’s guilt and wishful thinking that nudged me ever closer to the edge, I resolved to turn my back on yesterday and focus exclusively on the future, with blinders on. A clean break with the past was my only chance.
Thus, with great sadness and regret I let them go, my good friends from the Việt-Nam days. As their repeated attempts to stay in touch were met with total silence from me, they eventually gave up and dropped away—one by one, out of my life. The last note I opened and read was a Christmas card from Mme Yvonne and her husband Bill, which, ironically, brought good tidings. It turned out the excited couple was busy preparing for the summer arrival of their first child. Yet even this joyous announcement plunged me into melancholy as it brought back the tragic memory of Bob Olsen, killed before he’d had a chance to hold his newborn son. This was the last straw that cinched my decision to close that chapter in my life, and not a moment too soon.
Christmas 1968 came and went, and so did Debbie and my family, who drove up to Mather to celebrate the holiday with me, since I hadn’t recovered enough to tackle the long drive home. As the new year rolled around, I continued to improve, not just in health but with Debbie as well. With no more entanglement from my past, coupled with her willingness to leave bygones behind us, we bridged the gap between us and grew close again, much to my parents’ delight.
Knowing how treacherous the mountain roads could be in winter, I was concerned for Debbie’s safety on those long weekend commutes and suggested that we visit over the phone until warmer weather. She agreed, mainly to set my mind at peace. In an odd, mysterious way, this new arrangement brought us even closer. We ended up talking on the phone almost every night, more than we ever used to.
But January was a month of grim anniversaries—of Bob’s untimely death and the infamous Tết Offensive. With dread, I felt a dark pall settling over me again. To make matters worse, news reports predicted an upcoming repeat of Tết. It was widely expected that the communists would celebrate its one-year anniversary with a new cycle of violence. This brewing tension abruptly came to a head for me one morning while I was out on my daily walk during lunch break.
On that day, I followed a path that took me around to the SAC side of the airbase just as an alert exercise was taking place there, the first one I’d ever witnessed. Even when observed from a safe distance, through a chain link fence draped over with concertina wire and patrolled by M-16-toting security police, it was a spectacle to behold. Frozen in place, I watched with awe as the eight B-52 BUFFs on alert pulled out in perfect sequence from their “Christmas tree” pads and thundered down the main runway, two at a time in a flawless Minimum Interval Takeoff. As the roar of jet engines drowned out the klaxon horn, the giant birds swept into the air. Outside the fence, I could smell their acrid fumes and feel the blast of hot air from their powerful wake.
Suddenly, to my horror, the sky turned black and burst into flames. I found myself engulfed in a tidal wave of Vietnamese refugees stampeding away from a fiery war zone. Drowned in this sea of forlorn humanity, completely disoriented from the horrible din of bombs and artillery fire and people howling in pain and terror, I suddenly heard my name called out in such anguish—a sobbing voice I recognized as Lee Anne’s. But before I could turn and search for her among the crowd, the vision dissolved as fast as it had appeared, leaving me weak in the knees, gulping for breath. I staggered toward a nearby oak tree and crumbled to the ground, head in hands and body shaking from the experience. When peace and quiet finally returned following the departure of the last BUFF, I caught myself still whispering her name.
In that moment, I knew this aching emptiness would always be there in my heart, a constant reminder of the destiny that could never be. The same way that her lovely ghost, alongside those of my other friends, would follow me for the rest of my days. It would be a never-ending battle for me to keep the past at bay and to prevent it from intruding into, even taking over, my present. Terrified at the possibility of a relapse, I told myself the time had come to seize back control of my life and to start implementing concrete plans for the future.
In February 1969, I obtained a short leave from Captain Morgan and set out on my first trip home since the summer, arriving unannounced in Lone Pine the night before Valentine’s Day, to my parents’ pleasant surprise. And while they wished I could have spent more time at home, they understood when I left the next morning to drive to Bishop to see Debbie.
As Mom walked me to my car, she looked happier than I’d seen her in a while.
“Good luck, sweetie,” she whispered in my ear, and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You kids have a wonderful day. Call me later if you can.”
Debbie had sounded astonished over the phone when I called earlier to let her know I was on my way. So as not to rush her, I made a couple of shopping stops along the way, and surprised her even more when I showed up around noon with two dozen red roses and a box of chocolates. She seemed flustered, genuinely touched by the gesture. It was clear she hadn’t expected us to be celebrating Valentine’s Day together.
“Oh, my gosh. I can’t believe you really made it,” she said, holding the door open for me, her face flushed with excitement. “Such lovely flowers, thank you so much. Make yourself at home. I’m going to put these in a vase and give them some water.”
From the small, tidy living room, I heard her moving around in the kitchen, a cabinet door opening then closing, and water pouring into the vase.
“How bad were the roads driving down?” she asked through the cutout window between the kitchen and living room, rustling paper as she unwrapped the bouquet. “Another foot of snow is expected on Mammoth this weekend . . .”
She stopped short with a sharp intake of breath. I rounded the corner into the kitchen and saw her leaning against the counter, staring down at a little velvet box among the thorny roses, a stunned look on her face. Water was overflowing the crystal vase in the sink.
“What’s . . . this?” She glanced up, all but speechless.
Without warning, my mind flashed back to a morbid scene from a lifetime ago—of Dick proposing to Vivienne, catching her totally off guard. A big, fatal mistake.
My heart dropped. Would I now face the same ill fate as my doomed buddy?
“This,” I said, grappling nervously to open the box, “is what my mom received from her mom a long time ago. She gave it to me, and I’d like very much for you to have it now.” I looked in her eyes. “If you’ll still have me.”
It was a simple diamond ring set in white gold
, which my mom had removed from her trove of personal treasures and handed me last night after I’d confided to her the real reason for my trip. I had no ring, but was planning to propose to Debbie in the morning anyway, not wanting to wait and squander any more time than I already had. Mom insisted I use her mother’s ring for the big occasion, especially since Debbie had always been like a daughter to her. At the last minute, I’d slipped the little box inside the bouquet, as a Valentine’s surprise. Judging from Debbie’s reaction, it must have done the trick. For better or for worse.
“I know it hasn’t been easy—” I began anew, but Debbie stopped me by placing her hand over mine, which still rested on the box. Her eyes were veiled in tears.
It struck me then just how much pain and distress I had caused her, and how deeply my personal struggle had affected her life, as mine had been impacted by my friends’ misfortunes, only worse. Yet she had remained right beside me, lending me strength and support to find my way back, never for a moment losing faith or ceasing to care. My true best friend, through and through.
Filled with tenderness, I reached and pulled her close to me.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she finally said, smiling through her tears.
It was all the answer I needed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Four months later, the week I completed my two-year stint in the USAF and returned to civilian life, Debbie and I had our June wedding in Lone Pine.
Having waited through college, medical school, and the doctor draft, we’d had enough of putting our lives on hold and had decided on a simple ceremony with just families and some close friends in attendance. Captain Morgan and his lovely wife were gracious enough to accept our invitation. He was the only guest who shared the war connection with me, and I suspected he’d traveled this long way to say good-bye and to help me celebrate my exit from the Air Force. It was the last time I got to see an old friend from Việt-Nam before Debbie and I embarked on our new life together.