Sooner or later she was going to have to think about Pleiku, Saigon, Luke Farrell, and all the wounded, but not now. Her heart was too sore and bruised, and she was in constant pain; but the dreams, the cold sweats were the worst.
She smelled Maline’s sweet scent before the girl came around her chair to sit opposite her.
“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?” Maline didn’t wait for a response but rattled on. “It’s the kind of day that is wonderful for a picnic with one’s lover. Today is Sunday, Lily. I checked with the office before I came on duty, and no paperwork has arrived in regard to you. Dr. Vinh is staying on top of it. It’s taking much too long, but you are not to worry. Your army has other things to concern itself with besides paperwork. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Now,” she said cheerfully, “I have two newspapers, and they’re only three days old.”
Casey leaned back against the soft pillows. This was the best part of the day, the only part of the day she liked. She half listened to the words, paying more attention to the soft, musical, cultured voice. It wasn’t until Maline said, “The political news is that Major Malcolm Carlin of McLean, Virginia, has thrown his hat into the senatorial ring. There’s a picture of Major Carlin, his wife, baby daughter Jennifer, and his father, Supreme Court Justice Marcus Carlin. Everyone is smiling. It says Major Carlin served in Vietnam for two years, and then it mentions all the medals he was awarded.” With her eyes riveted to the newspaper in front of her, Maline failed to see Casey’s back stiffen and the tears rolling down her cheeks.
Wife and daughter. A child. Mac was married with a child. It wasn’t possible. He’d never given any indication of a child or that he was married. At least Eric Savorone had told Lily that he was married. She, Casey, was no better than Lily, and she’d had the nerve to chastise the Asian girl. She swayed sickeningly in her nest of pillows. Married. She felt herself slipping into blackness, powerless to stop what was happening to her. When she awoke, she was back in her room, the nest where she’d been for so many months. She could hear voices coming from a long tunnel, those of Maline and Dr. Vinh.
“Did something happen?” he asked sharply.
“Nothing, Dr. Vinh. We talked about how nice it was today with no monsoon rain. I read the paper to her. It was political news, nothing alarming. Perhaps it was the heat.”
“It’s not your fault, Maline,” Singin said kindly. “I’ll feel so much better when we can unwire her jaw and she can talk. Another week or so and she can tell us what happened. Her vital signs are fine now, but I still want her watched carefully. I don’t want her left alone even for a moment. Is that understood, Maline?” He knew it was understood. He’d never had to admonish Maline and didn’t know why he was doing it now. She was a dedicated nurse, and Lily seemed to grow calm and respond only to her. He was worried though and didn’t know why.
Casey wanted to cry, to sob her heart out, but she lay still, sick with humiliation. The beautiful memories, the wonderful notes and letters, were all lies. Her love, like Lily’s, was based on a lie. How fitting that they should call her by Lily’s name now. She cowered in the bed, tears of shame at her own stupidity sliding down from behind the darkened glasses.
In her drugged daze, Casey listened to the conversation from a faraway place, her humiliation so total, so secret, she wanted to die, until she heard Luke Farrell’s name mentioned. She tried to struggle up from her cocoon, but she was powerless to speak, to tell them to get in touch with Luke.
“I heard from my American friend in Pleiku yesterday,” Singin said softly. “He says I am needed desperately, and once again I must tell him I cannot accommodate the American forces. I wrote him early this morning and told him about this patient. I feel so guilty, Maline, I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Lily needs me and so does Luke. I could be helping so many. Instead, I am here trying to restructure this one person’s body, because this is what I was trained to do. I can’t cast her aside or turn her over to another doctor. I’ve done nothing but think about this all night long. I’ve sent a letter to the doctor under whom I trained back in the States, but so far there has been no response. I took liberties and was quite forward in asking him to come here. If he comes, I know Miss Lily will be in safe hands, and I would be free to help Luke. I want desperately to give back to the Americans for giving me my fine medical education, but I cannot do it at the expense of this patient,” Singin said sadly.
“Is it possible to send Miss Lily back to the States?” Maline asked quietly. She knew it was impossible, but she felt the need to voice the question aloud.
“Look at her, Maline. If it were you, would you want me to ship you off in this condition? She has no stamina. She is nothing but skin and bones. I think I’d give everything I own to know what is going through her head, to know what she thinks. I haven’t heard one whimper all these months. That in itself is amazing. My God, what we’ve put her through. I must see it through, or I won’t be able to live with myself. I couldn’t have done all this,” he said, waving his arm about tiredly, “without your excellent nursing care. It’s amazing how your touch and your voice seem to reassure her. I truly believe she knows she’s in good hands. Now, it’s time for rounds, Maline,” he said briskly, changing the subject.
In the corridor, his patient list in hand, Singin stopped long enough to say, “Will you have dinner with me this evening?”
Maline’s eyes sparkled before she replied, and even then she answered his questioning invitation with one of her own. “Will we talk of patients and medicine?”
“No, we’ll talk of wildflowers, summer rains, and Hollywood.” Singin smiled, his eyes warming at Maline’s blushing face.
CASEY DIDN’T LIKE the blinding whiteness of the operating room or the strong antiseptic smell. She knew if she closed her eyes she could pinpoint where everything was, right down to the tongue depressors. She’d lost track of the times she’d been wheeled in here and then wheeled out. In a little while, probably less than an hour, when the anesthesia wore off, she’d be able to speak. Questions would be asked and answers would be expected.
All she’d done this past week was think about what she would say. Just last night she’d finally come up with answers. She knew they were the wrong answers, but she didn’t care. When they asked her if she was Lily Simon, she was going to say yes. She would claim that she couldn’t remember anything and that she knew her name was Lily only because they’d been calling her that for all these months. She was never going back to nursing—she’d decided that too. She’d seen too much death, a hundred times more than an average nurse would see in a lifetime. If she ever recovered fully, she wanted no reminders of this time in her life. If she had to sum it all up to someone, to herself, it was simple: she had lost the ability to care. Right now her life as she knew it was over. God alone knew what her future held.
Her future. Was there going to be a future for her? If she mended and was eventually discharged, she would return to Paris and get a job in a shop as a salesgirl. Nicole was banking her money, and there would be more now if the United States government paid off on her death policy. None of that mattered anyway. She was going to be ugly and deformed. All night long she’d dreamed about going to work for the rest of her life wearing a black veil.
It was dawn when a horrible thought struck her. When she was discharged, there would be a hospital bill. Who would pay it? The doctors’ fees must be enormous, with all the skin grafts and operations she’d had.
She hadn’t wanted to cry, but she had, great gulping sobs when she thought of Lily and Sue Collins. She didn’t know where little Eric was now, and if she was going to go through with her plan to pretend to have amnesia, she couldn’t ask.
Could she pull this off? She had to, she had no other choice, she decided. She forced herself to relax when she saw Maline at the foot of her bed, hypodermic syringe in hand. “In just a little while, Lily, we’ll be able to speak to one another. I’ve tried so many times to imagine what your voice so
unds like. Very American, very soft and gentle, is what I think.” The needle shot home. It was a trick every nurse used. Talk to the patient, say something pleasant, and then, pow.
For the first time, Casey fought the drug she’d been given. Maline had said something, something she had to pay attention to, something that could cause her a problem. Her voice, she thought groggily. They wanted to hear her voice. Maline’s voice was different too. She’s in love with Singin. It was Casey’s last thought before slipping into the deep, drug-induced sleep that would allow the surgeon to remove the wires imbedded in her jaw.
AFTER SURGERY, PATIENTS normally awake in degrees, but Casey awoke fully, instantly aware that she was in the recovery room. She knew without opening her eyes that Singin and Maline were at the foot of her bed. They’d already done her vitals. Careful, go carefully, an inner voice warned. Give one-word answers and remember all your English lessons. Don’t sound French!
“Today you will have noodle soup, which you will drink through a straw,” Singin said softly. “Tomorrow you won’t need the straw.”
He’s in love too, Casey thought. She could hear it in his voice. She wanted to weep. She lay quietly as he prodded her tender jaw with deft fingers. “Tell me your name. Make your jaw work, but do it gently, easily. If it hurts too much, speak around your teeth.” She did as ordered.
“Wonderful! Is there much pain? No, that’s good. Do you want the noodle soup now? Ah, I thought so. Maline, please fetch it.”
“Well what do you think? I think I do good work.” Singin grinned.
“Mirrrorr,” Casey mumbled.
“No!” Singin said sharply.
“Ugly?”
Singin felt his throat constrict. “Very ugly,” he said honestly. “But,” he said, holding up his hand, “I’m going to fix that. Do you trust me?”
“No.” The horror on Singin’s face was so total, Casey would have laughed if she could have. She would never trust a man again. “Ah, I see, it is a joke! Ha ha,” he said self-consciously.
Think what you want, Casey thought bitterly.
Maline would try next, but not today. She would try to feel her out, to use her influence, since Casey trusted her, and then report back to the doctor. She’d gone that route herself many times. All in the best interests of the patient, of course.
“As you know, there has been no word from the United States about you. We have filed dozens of reports, filled out many forms, all with numbers on the top. We then make copies of those forms when we file our next report. You are Lily Simon?”
Here it is, Casey thought. She worked the words around in her head before she uttered them. Talking through her clenched teeth garbled the words, but the meaning was clear. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you’re Lily Simon? It is a joke, ha ha.”
“No joke,” Casey said forcefully.
“You don’t remember who you are? Do you remember anything prior to the accident? Do you remember the accident?”
Casey waited until she was certain there would be no other questions before she answered. “No.”
“You are American? Lily Simon is . . . American-sounding. Over here Lily is a very common name. Much like the name Mary back in the States. Simon is American. If you aren’t American . . .” He let the rest of what he was about to say hang in the sterile air. Casey waited. “You are not Vietnamese, you’re Anglo. We checked with the Red Cross and none of their people are missing. You must be what they call a WAC. Is this possible?” He didn’t wait for a response. “A middle name. Do you have a middle name?”
Did she? What would go with Lily? Nancy, she almost blurted. She thought of the real Nancy Simon and wondered if she was still in Pleiku.
The way the army took its time doing things, she just might get away with this. She waited, every nerve in her body twanging. “Bills,” she whispered. She almost blacked out then.
“Yes, yes, the bills are mounting. Lily Simon. I’ll have the office start all over and see what can be done. Can you tell us anything about the accident?” At Casey’s blank look, Singin backed away from the bed to allow Maline access to the hospital stand-up tray. “You have no recollection of anything until you woke here?”
“No.”
Casey tried to listen to the whispered conversation between nurse and doctor, but couldn’t make out any of it.
“How awful for you,” Maline said, her voice full of compassion. “All these months we didn’t know . . . that you didn’t know who you were. You are a very brave woman. I would have . . . freaked out. You are familiar with that term?”
“Yes.” Play dumb, Casey cautioned herself.
“That is good, Lily. They say that in America. I love American slang,” Maline said, fixing the straw between Casey’s teeth. “Suck,” the nurse ordered. “The noodles are small and fine and will easily go through the straw. Just a little,” she cautioned, “or you will get sick. You’ve been on intravenous nutrients a long time, so we must do this very gradually.” Casey sucked greedily. Nothing in her life ever tasted so good. “We must talk, Miss Lily.”
She removed the bowl, then wiped Casey’s chin.
Casey listened to the nurse’s words, she’d heard it all before, from the doctor and from Maline herself. What they wanted now was for her to verify what they’d been told.
Casey’s thoughts drifted to Lily, to Mac. Sweet, gentle Lily. Mac. Did anyone know Lily was dead? Did Mac know? The baby, that sweet cherub who Lily loved with all her heart, was he safe and in good hands? Did Lily’s parents know? To her mind, Lily’s parents didn’t love their daughter or they wouldn’t have abandoned her. Eric Savorone had abandoned her too. And Mac betrayed me, she thought. No one cares about me and no one cares about Lily. I have to think of myself now. There’s no one in this whole world to help me but myself.
Maybe she wouldn’t go back to Paris. Nicole and Danele had probably spent all her insurance money by now. Damn, she couldn’t think anymore. All she wanted to do was sleep. But as she drifted off, she made a promise to herself. If the day ever came when she was well and fit to take her place in society, then and only then would she think about setting the record straight. For now she was Lily Simon, and she would stay Lily Simon for as long as it took to get her life back together, if that was possible.
Casey dozed fitfully before slipping into a deep sleep, a sleep invaded by demons of her past. She was in Da Nang, in the sterile white hospital, moving among the rows of operating tables, looking at the faces of the injured men. Every patient looked like Mac. Mac minus a foot. Mac minus an arm. Mac with a deep belly wound. Mac with half his face blown away.
I don’t care if you’re crippled! I don’t care if you’re ugly! I love you! Do you hear me? I love you! Luke! Make him whole again. Please. Please make him whole again, for me. If you love me, you’ll do this for me. Damn you, Luke, stop whistling. “When I’m Sixty-Four, ” is my song, mine and Mac’s. You have no right to whistle that song. Please, Luke, don’t let him die! Damn you, give me that scalpel, I’ll do it myself! He’s dead. You waited too long. I hate you, Luke Farrell . . .
Chapter 9
MAC STEPPED OFF the commercial airliner at Dulles Airport. He didn’t look to the right or to the left but headed straight for the terminal and a taxi. He caused more than one head to turn in the busy terminal. He was so tanned, his skin looked like rich copper. His shoulders were tense and tight, his face grim. He was creased and polished.
He’d returned to the Ho Chi Minh trail, after accepting the fact that one of the six burned and mutilated bodies at the embassy had been Casey, to go on a killing rampage. He’d been a one-man army, taking unnecessary risks, without caring if he lived or died.
It was over now. In just two more days he would be a civilian. He’d hang up the uniform, shove the medals in a drawer, along with the pictures of the Fourth of July picnic, and never look at them again.
“Seventeenth and Pennsylvania Avenue,” Mac barked to the cab driver.
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie said, easing the cab away from the curb.
“And I don’t want any conversation.”
“You got it, sir.”
Mac leaned his head back against the seat. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He was supposed to be happy. His first stop should have been his attorney’s office to check on the divorce proceedings, the second stop Sadie’s, where Benny would be waiting. He’d show them pictures of Casey and invite them to the biggest wedding Washington ever saw.
Burned beyond recognition. Jesus Christ, he didn’t even know where they sent her body. The day would come when he’d need to go there, to see that final place, but not now, not when he was so raw and bleeding.
He’d wanted to die back there on the trail. He’d done everything to get himself killed, yet here he was, sitting in a taxi in Washington, D.C. Thank God he’d had the good sense not to involve his men in his crazy stunts. He’d been invincible, every nerve in his body tuned to danger, and still he’d survived. Behind his back his men called him Captain Marvel. They also called him crazy, but they backed him up to a man. Even old fuckface Morley had tapped him on the back and said, “Well done, Carlin,” which was as close as the man ever came to an apology in his life. Mac had wanted to deck him on general principle, but he hadn’t. He’d suffered through the handshake and back slapping.
If he hadn’t been so devastated, so dead inside, he would have preened like a peacock when he heard one of his men say, “They don’t come any better than Carlin, man. He’s all army.” He had all their addresses. Hell, he had everyone’s address in Vietnam, and he had promised them all to throw a bash equal to the one he’d thrown on the Fourth of July. “When I get my shit together, men,” was the way he’d said good-bye. He would too. It was a promise he meant to honor.
For All Their Lives Page 27