For All Their Lives (15 page)

“Where'ya from, Casey?” Luke Farrell asked as he tied off a bleeder. “Is that a French accent?” There was amusement in his voice. Casey wondered where it came from, considering their circumstances.

They talked as they worked, neither of them looking at the patient's face. It was an hour before Luke said, “Close, Lieutenant, I need to hit the latrine and grab a quick smoke. We're permitted ten-minute breaks. If I hustle, I might be able to sleep for six minutes.”

“Close!” Casey said in stupefied amazement.

“Yeah, you know, sew him up and prep the next guy.”

“Well, I . . . listen, Doctor, I never . . . I only . . .”

“Worked in a civilized hospital under the best conditions. You only assisted in gall-bladders, tonsilectomies, appendectomies, etcetera, etcetera. Honey, over here you're going to be doing everything. You've eaten into my ten minutes, so I'd get cracking if I were you. I get real cranky when my nurses don't follow orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Casey bleated.

Stripped of his mask, the doctor looked so weary Casey wanted to tell him to go to sleep, that she would operate for him. He had beautiful eyes, warm and caring, but frustration burned in them. She wondered how many men had died on his table today.

He rubbed his beard stubble and stretched his neck muscles. “I always tell my nurses to pretend the guy on the table is her brother. I pretend he's my father and give him my best shot.”

“Yes, sir,” Casey said, preparing to close the gaping belly wound on the young man. “Anything else, sir?”

“Nope. Unless you'd like to go over to the Officers' Club after this shift and grab a beer with me. We can tell each other how tired we are before we fall asleep on the bar.”

Casey nodded.

“By the way, I'm the chief surgeon here.”

Casey nodded again.

“I also like neat stitches, or as neat as you can make them in up to ten minutes. Pretend you're doing embroidery for your mother. It all comes down to home and memories,” he said, so wearily that Casey wanted to reach out and pat his shoulder.

The next eight hours were a nightmare for Casey. She didn't know where she found the strength to stay on her feet. Each time a new patient was littered to the operating table, she wanted to cry. Luke, she noticed, had tears in his eyes several times. “Wipe,” was all he said toward the end, when he lost two patients, one after the other.

On the wall by the door was a chart checked off by a corpsman. An O with a line through it meant a patient was alive. An X meant a patient was alive with a fifty-fifty chance of making it. A minus sign meant the patient had died. A plus sign meant the soldier was to be airlifted to Thailand. The moment Casey spied the chart, she hated it. There were too damn many minus signs. She shifted her mental gears then, determined to do her best as long as she could function and stand on her feet.

When it was finally over, she sagged against the wall. She was certain she couldn't move to take even one step. Her feet were swollen to twice their size, her ankles were chafed raw, and her neck was so stiff she couldn't move it to either side. Her ears buzzed from the surgical saw used to amputate limbs.

“I feel like my eyeballs have been boiled in formaldehyde,” she muttered to Luke Farrell.

“That's about as apt a description as I've heard. Come on, I promised to buy you a drink. Whatever you do, don't take off your shoes, or you won't get them back on.”

“I already figured that out for myself,” Casey said tartly as she trotted after him.

 

T
HREE CHUGS INTO
the long-necked bottle, Luke Farrell said, “You did good in there.” Casey felt as if she'd just been given the Distinguished Service Cross. She tried to square her shoulders, tried to smile to show her appreciation. She swigged from the beer bottle. Nothing in the world ever tasted so good, and she hated beer.

He was tall, lanky really, and he definitely wasn't handsome Casey decided as she eyed Luke Farrell over the rim of the beer bottle. Freckles, a shade lighter than his rusty red hair, marched across his cheekbones. She'd bet a nickel he hated his freckles. His ears, she decided, were a smidgin too large for his long, narrow face and in no way detracted from his warm, dark eyes. His hands were strong; beautiful, capable hands with clipped nails. Perfect surgeon's hands. If she were to describe him to Nicole, she would say Luke Farrell was ordinary with beautiful hands and eyes.

She liked him. Liked him a lot.

“Eat a couple of those hard-boiled eggs. The protein will pep you up a little. Two more,” he said to the bartender.

They were on their third beer when the club came alive. Nurses and officers in clean fatigues walked in, ordered beer and pretzels and carried them to spindly tables made from bamboo. Conversation hummed as Ping-Pong paddles clicked plastic balls back and forth. It looked civilized, Casey thought blearily. The eggs were giving her gas. Her stomach rumbled alarmingly. She felt sick and said so.

“Time for you to hit the sheets,” Luke muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “I'll carry on here.” He ordered another beer for himself.

“Aren't you going to sleep too?”

“Sleep? I can't sleep. I never sleep. What I do is drink myself into a stupor. When I actually
sleep,
I dream about all those kids who. got away from me, so I don't sleep. You want to hear something real fucking silly?” Casey nodded, knowing she wasn't going to like what she was about to hear. “I'm an abdominal surgeon. That was my speciality back in the States. I couldn't hack the hours and the mess, so I went into dermatology. It's a nine-to-five job, dermatology. Man, I was a real whiz on acne and heat rashes. People don't die from acne. None of my patients ever died. Now they all die. I write letters, you know. That's the hard part, writing the letters. I don't have to do it, but I'm the last person to see the . . . patient. Sometimes they say something. Parents have a right to know their son's last words.”

“I could help you,” Casey said quietly.

Something shimmered in Luke's eyes. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We can do it at night when we can't sleep. Yeah, yeah.”

There were more people in the club now, although the Ping-Pong table was quiet. Conversation was muted, almost hushed. Casey heard the number seven mentioned as she walked toward the door, every step pure agony. Seven young men had died today, and she didn't even know their names. That meant Luke Farrell was going to write seven letters.

Luke Farrell stared after Casey and wondered if she would be different from the rest. All his other nurses had taken off like scalded cats as soon as they could put in for transfers. But with this one, there was one second, one moment, when their eyes met and he thought he saw his destiny in her eyes. Christ, he should be a writer. How corny could a guy get? He guzzled from the beer bottle, draining it, then held up a hand to signal a refill.

Luke tilted his chair back against the wall. What in the goddamn hell was he doing here? It was a question he asked himself every day, and every day he gave himself the same answer. He was here because of Jimmy Oliver, Jimmy Oliver's mother, an old Mustang, and his own shame.

Jimmy Oliver mowed his mother's lawn. Jimmy Oliver raked his mother's leaves in October, and in the winter Jimmy Oliver shoveled his mother's snow. Jimmy Oliver delivered the
Pittsburgh
Press
to his mother, never just throwing it in the driveway, but climbing off his bicycle to walk to the front porch, where he folded it neatly before stuffing it in the mailbox. Jimmy Oliver bought his old Mustang with the money he saved from all that lawn mowing, leaf raking, snow shoveling, and paper delivering.

The day Jimmy Oliver turned eighteen he'd put the Mustang up on blocks, kissed his girlfriend Katy, hugged his mother, shook his father's hand, and left for basic training in the army. He ended up in Vietnam. Luke knew this because Mrs. Oliver felt it her duty to tell him about Jimmy's last good-bye.

The last time he saw Jimmy Oliver was the day his casket was lowered into a grave in the Squirrel Hill Cemetery.

Harriet Oliver, Jimmy's mother, had looked at Luke with tear-filled eyes and said, “There was no doctor for him. He bled to death. Jimmy's buddy wrote and told us.” Harriet had lunged at him, and Jim Senior had to physically pull her away while Katy cried great gulping sobs.

“You're a doctor,” Harriet shrieked, “you treat pimples.
Pimples.
My son . . . my only son died . . . and you treat pimples. It's not fair.”

Two days later the Ford Mustang was in his mother's driveway covered with a tarp. As far as he knew, it was still there.

Luke hadn't done anything stupid right then, like closing up shop and hustling his butt over here. He'd waited
three whole days
before he notified all his patients he was closing his office and referred them to various colleagues who thrived financially on skin problems. Then he'd driven over to his mother's, removed the tarp from the Mustang and vacuumed the interior. He spent all day washing, waxing, and compounding the car. When he was done, he put the tarp back on and cried. The rest was history.

Luke raised his hand again. Maureen Hagen, the chief nurse, slapped a bottle of warm beer into his hand. She moved away, saying nothing.

The warm beer rushed down his throat. He was here because of all the Jimmy Olivers . . . for all the Harriet Olivers.

Damn, this Casey Adams had nice eyes . . . good hands. He wondered what it would feel like to touch her yellow curls. He could feel his hands start to itch. He lit a cigarette, then removed his boonie hat, shook it out then settled it on his rusty hair. His night was over. He counted the beer bottles before he let his chair thump back on all four legs. Maybe he could sleep tonight. Maybe he would see Casey Adams's face instead of Jimmy Oliver's before he sank into oblivion.

Maybe.

 

T
HE
MOMENT
C
ASEY
was outside in the humid air, the eggs and beer spewed from her mouth. Gasping and retching, she staggered down the path to her quarters. Off in the distance she could hear a sort of coughing sound she'd never heard before: mortars. And of course the crackling noises had to be rifle fire.

Inside her room Casey looked over her army cot with its inch-and-a-half mattress, her footlocker, dresser, and regular locker with distaste. She peeled back the blanket and sat down. The sheets were wet. So was the blanket and pillow. She didn't care. She tugged at her shoes, each tug pure torture. Her feet seemed to swell even more, right before her eyes. The relief of freeing them was exquisite.

“Welcome to Vietnam,” she murmured before she settled into a sleep so deep she didn't wake until she felt someone shake her to wakefulness.

“Lieutenant, I am Lily Gia. Major Hagen has assigned me to you for the day. It's almost time for breakfast. I'll show you where the shower is, and I've brought some shoes that are a couple of sizes bigger than yours. We're expecting a big push in a few hours, and you're going to be on your feet again. I will ready a footbath for you when you get out of the shower. It will help a little. They have pancakes at the mess hall. You won't die from the coffee.” She smiled warmly.

The Vietnamese girl was so pretty, Casey thought, with her silky black hair and flawless complexion. She had the most beautiful smile she'd ever seen. Tiny little pearls gleamed at her ears, as pearly white as her perfect teeth. Model pretty, except she was tiny, elfin really, with long, slender hands, perfect for playing the piano or doing surgery. “Are you a nurse?” she said around the stench from her mouth.

“Yes, but I wish to be a doctor. Can you stand, Lieutenant?” she asked, her fine straight black brows feathering upward in concern.

“I can do whatever I have to do,” Casey said through clenched teeth.

Lily was stronger than she looked. She couldn't weigh more than one hundred and five pounds, yet here she was, holding Casey upright the moment her knees buckled.

Somehow Casey managed to get to the shower. Lily handed her a wicker basket that she upended and sat on. She lathered, scrubbed, and rinsed. She repeated the process four times before she felt clean enough to get out of the shower. She used three-quarters of the can of talcum powder she'd brought with her. Her clothes stuck to her body the moment she put them on. With Lily's aid she hobbled back to her quarters for the footbath she promised. It was waiting along with a plate of pancakes and a small pot of coffee.

“I made the decision to bring your breakfast here. I hope it was the proper thing to do,” Lily said shyly.

“Who cares if it's proper or not? For me, it's the right thing. You speak excellent English, Lily,” Casey said, dipping her swollen feet into the white enamel pan. “Oooh, this is wonderful. What's in it?”

“Many things. Local herbs mostly. One hour and the swelling will lessen. Tonight you will soak again, and by tomorrow you will be able to wear your own shoes. It is wonderful, is it not?” Lily asked impishly. “To answer your question, I learned English in New York City.”

“I don't think I ever felt anything this good. Do I detect French somewhere in your background?” Casey asked curiously as she attacked her stack of rubbery pancakes.

“I'm half French. My father was Vietnamese, my mother French. I have relatives on my mother's side of the family who live in the United States. They sponsored me, and I studied there for a very long time. I would have stayed on, but I felt my people needed me. Later, God willing, I will return to your country. Do I detect a French accent in your speech, as well, Lieutenant?” she quipped.