For All Their Lives (28 page)

On the short ride to the airport, Luke muttered to himself, to the driver's amusement, “You better take care of her, Carlin, or I'm gonna be your worst nightmare come to life.”

 

I
SHOULD LEAVE
, Mac thought wearily. Instead he lit a cigarette he didn't want or need. The coffee cup at his elbow had been with him for over a day now, filled, rinsed out, and filled again. At one point he'd counted his refills, but gave up when he reached thirty-six.

Christmas Day.
Silent night, holy night . . .
She could die, they said. Luke said she wouldn't. “Trust me, Major, Casey is not going to die. I won't kid you, she's on the edge, but she isn't going to die.” Mac had winced. If pressed, he couldn't say who looked the sickest, Casey or Luke.

“I probably look worse than both of them,” Mac muttered to an old mama-san hobbling about the waiting room. Luke loved Casey, but Mac wasn't jealous. How could anyone not love Casey? He knew in his gut that if he called the hotel and asked for Luke, the desk clerk would tell him the doctor had checked out.

Christ, he was tired. He stubbed out his cigarette, stretched out his legs, and leaned his head back against the couch. He wanted to think about the Fourth of July picnic. Instead he thought about Alice and his father—an unholy combination if ever there was one—and Luke Farrell.

The judge was probably in New York City visiting friends. Christmas Day was over. It was December twenty-sixth back in the States. Was it a white Christmas back home? The judge always gave expensive bottles of wine and outrageously expensive cigars to his friends, whether or not they drank or smoked. He also sent out Christmas cards made from hard, shiny paper layered in foil with his name embossed inside the card and on the envelope. He had never, as far as Mac knew, added a single message inside a card. Several days ago Mac had received his. It was blue and white with the word
PEACE
on the front. Inside, it read, Justice Marcus Carlin. Mac remembered crunching it into a ball.

The card from Alice had eight tiny reindeer on the front. She'd written a note that said, “Merry Christmas, Mac. Your present is under the tree.” The third card made him clench his teeth. There was a fat Santa on the front. Inside was a sticky handprint; so sticky, he'd had to rip the card to open it. It was from Alice's daughter, Jenny. The card smelled like strawberry jelly. He'd crunched those two cards into balls too. “Merry Christmas,” he said bitterly.

“It may not be merry, Mac, but it is Christmas. Casey's alive.”

Mac's eyes snapped open. Lily was standing to one side.

“And Luke is gone,” she said.

“Gone?” Mac demanded.

“He sent this,” Lily said, withdrawing a fat envelope from her purse.

“What is it?”

“Money,” Lily said, an embarrassed look on her face. “Luke knew I would never take it, so he sent it by messenger after he was gone. That's the way Luke is.”

Mac's eyes sparked. He should have seen Lily's need and done what Luke did, but he had been so wrapped up in his own misery he'd had no time for anyone else. “You really do like him, don't you?”

“Of course. Luke . . . all the doctors are wonderful, but Luke is special. Did Casey ever tell you he writes to the parents of the boys he couldn't save?” Mac nodded. “He doesn't have to do that. Casey helped him. We all did. Luke got the other doctors to do it too—write the letters, I mean. Sometimes he has to make up little stories—lies, if you will. He's got this . . . this book. He writes down all the names. I've seen him cry in anguish over those letters, and yet he won't stop writing them.”

Mac felt his throat tighten. “He sounds like a hell of a guy. I liked him, and I know Casey adores him.”

“Like a brother,” Lily said softly. “Casey loves
you,
Mac.” She squeezed both his hands reassuringly.

“Sit down, Lily, there's something I have to . . . talk about. I need to talk about it.”

He talked at length of Alice and Jenny. He needed to confess his lie to lighten his guilt. He wasn't half the man Luke Farrell was, he thought miserably.

Mac pulled his hands free of Lily's grasp. He walked to the window and jammed them deep into his pockets. He didn't want to see Lily's face. He whirled about a moment later when Lily whispered hoarsely, “I know.”

“You know! What do you mean you know?” Mac demanded.

“Luke told me.”

“Jesus,” was all Mac could say.

“One of your fellow officers said something about . . . your wife's whining. It was at the Fourth of July picnic. He was telling someone how you came down hard on him in the beginning. You were such a hero that day, everyone was talking about you and this officer wanted to . . . he didn't know about Casey. Of course neither Luke or myself said anything to Casey. Luke . . . Luke told me to keep my mouth shut. Those were his exact words. I would never have said a word,” Lily said miserably.

“I was going to tell her. I've been in touch with my attorney back in the States. I told him to start divorce proceedings. I need you to believe me, Lily. When I came over here, my marriage was over. Even if I had never met Casey, I would still be getting a divorce when I leave here.”

“I'm not making a judgment, Mac. Casey . . . I don't know how Casey will . . . take the child . . .” She let her words hang in the quiet hospital waiting room.

“The child isn't mine. I'm sterile, Lily, I'm sure of it. That's something else I never told Casey.”

“When she's well, you can tell her,” Lily said quietly. “I must leave now, Mac. You should leave too. There's nothing you can do here. You need a shower, shave, and clean clothes.”

“I will, later though,” Mac said gruffly.

Lily approached him, stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I'll stop by in the morning before I go to work to check on Casey. Merry Christmas, Mac.”

“I don't have a Christmas present for you, Lily. Casey and I were going to shop together. I'm sorry. I wanted something for Eric . . . I'm sorry.”

“It's not important. Don't give it another thought. Next year, though, I want two presents.” A moment later she was gone.

He was alone again. He groped for a cigarette, changing his mind when the Zippo lighter refused to spark.

The short walk down the corridor to the nurses' station seemed to take forever. He pantomimed his need to see Casey. The tiny, trim nurse, her eyes full of compassion, led him to Casey's room. Mac reached out to the doorjamb for support. For as long as he lived he knew he would carry this vision of Casey with him. Luke Farrell said Casey wasn't going to die. He had to hold on to Luke's promise. “You better be right, Dr. Farrell, because if you aren't, I'll track you down and cut your heart out,” Mac muttered as he stumbled down the corridor and out into the dark night.

 

I
T WAS THIRTY
days before Casey was well enough to leave the hospital, and even then she was not well enough to return to Pleiku. Against all regulations, she moved into Lily's tiny apartment.

Alone with the mama-san and the baby, Casey looked around the poor apartment. It was clean and neat but almost bare of furniture. Two old chairs, a round table, and a tiered shelf were all that was in the tiny living room. A fan circled lazily overhead, moving the still air about the room. The bedroom, which was little bigger than a closet, held a wicker dresser and two futons for sleeping. Lily's clothing hung on a rope stretched across the room. The bathroom was tiny, the kitchen tinier yet. She was imposing herself on Lily and she knew it. Somehow, she would have to make it up to her. Perhaps when she was able to get up and about, she could go to Lily's parents and make them see how unjustly they were treating their daughter. How could they not want this beautiful, innocent child? Culture be damned.

Wearily, Casey curled up on the futon and was asleep almost instantly.

 

L
ILY
G
IA LOOKED
down at her patient in the sterile white bed. He was old, probably with many grandchildren. A simple farmer, the head nurse said when she handed the man's clothes to Lily. “He will be your patient until he is released. He has given us no information about himself. For now it is doubtful that any family member will come to visit him.”

Such an old man, Lily thought, to have so many shrapnel wounds. Obviously he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She wondered vaguely if he'd been wounded by the Americans or by his own countrymen. His skin, she noticed, was a pasty yellow, his lips thin and waxy, but he'd just come out of surgery. He would recover, but what would happen to him? Who was there to care about this old man? Then she looked at his hands and his feet before she pulled the white sheet up to his chin. His hands and feet weren't old-looking at all. The nails were still white. She frowned. He also had a full head of hair that wasn't gray.

She was out of sorts today and was at a loss to explain why. She'd been fine when she awoke and fed the baby. She'd been fine when she shared tea with Casey and felt relieved at the color in her friend's cheeks. She'd been fine when she kissed the baby good-bye and patted the mama-san on the shoulder. From that point on the day had been murky, her mood changeable. She'd walked to work the way she always did, nodding to acquaintances who bowed and nodded respectfully at her white uniform. But the streets were different. Today there had been no familiar faces, no nods or bows from shopowners. Today there had been many new faces in town, young men, probably university students. Quiet students.

With preparations under way for Tet, the Lunar New Year, the streets should have been teeming with shopowners hawking their wares beneath colorful streamers. Tet was the most important day of the year for her people, and it took days, weeks, to prepare for all the festivities. For years she'd taken part in it, but no longer. Not since Eric and the birth of the baby. Now she was an outcast, disowned by her family and barely tolerated at the hospital, all because she'd given birth to an American bastard.

Her patient moved restlessly, his legs thrashing under the thin white sheet. “Shhh, you must lay quietly, your sutures will open otherwise,” she said softly. The patient calmed almost immediately. Lily checked the IV in his arm and took his blood pressure and temperature. She recorded both on the chart at the foot of the bed. He was muttering, murmuring names. Poor thing, Lily thought, he probably wants to know if his wife and children are here. In the same calm, soft voice, she said, “Tell me who to get in touch with. What is your name? Tell me your name, sir.”

His eyes were open now, and they weren't old eyes. They were dazed, and she knew he wasn't seeing her clearly. “Where do you live?” she whispered.

He was thrashing about again, muttering furiously about the Tan Son Nhut Air Base and destroying the foreign enemy. He was cursing ripely. She bent over to listen. She had to reach for the metal side supports on the bed or she would have fainted. He said something about an offensive, the Tet Offensive.

Lily had her notebook out. She scribbled furiously. The Tan Son Nhut Air Base, the . . . Tet Offensive. She underlined the words Tet Offensive. Times, she needed to know the times or her information would mean nothing. She had so little information. Who was she to tell? Who would believe her?

Two days until Tet. What could she do in two days? Tell Casey. Casey could go to Army Headquarters and tell those in charge. Would they believe Casey, one of their own? Perhaps, until Casey told them where she got her information. Maybe what she was hearing was nothing more than the delirious murmurings of a sick patient.

Confused and desperate now, Lily leaned closer to her patient. “Tell me what time. . . .” She made her voice deep and gruff. “Tell me, I need to know the time of the offensive.” But he was asleep. She had nothing.

When her shift was over, she wanted to run home, to tell Casey, but she forced herself to walk the streets, hoping to see something that would give credence to what she'd just heard. So many students. Why weren't they in class? Were they soldiers? Sometimes they walked in groups of three. Hundreds of students. The air base, of course, was off limits to her, but not to Casey.

Lily looked around wildly. Saigon had always been safe. Surely the VC wouldn't open fire on the city. But according to her patient, that was exactly what they were going to do. Two days. Forty-eight hours. It wasn't much time.

Casey knew the moment Lily walked through the door that something was critically wrong. The smile she showered on the mama-san was forced, her full lips stretching into thin lines.
She's lost her job,
was Casey's first thought. Her second was that she'd heard something terrible about her family.

Tea. Tea always made things right. “Sit, sit, Lily, and tell me what's wrong. The mama-san made tea a few minutes ago. We were worried about you. You're late,” she babbled uneasily.

“I know. I've been walking about the city because . . . because . . . Oh, Casey, I need your common sense here.” She told her everything she'd heard, about how she'd tried to question the sick patient. “His hands were young, so were his feet. Our men tend to look prematurely old, especially the soldiers. It is the sun that does it. But who is going to pay attention to what a patient's hands and feet look like?” she said, wringing her hands in agitation.

“Drink your tea and then we'll talk,” Casey replied. “You must relax, Lily. Your anxiety will transfer itself to the baby, and that isn't good. Maybe we can do something about what you heard. At least we'll try.”

When Lily had swallowed the last of her tea, Casey said, “Now, calmly, tell me everything.”