For All Their Lives (31 page)

“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.

 

C
ASEY 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 sounds 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.

 

A
FTER 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.

M
AC 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.

This just wasn't right, he thought, staring at the neon sign in Sadie's window. Casey was supposed to be with him. He was going to show her off. They were going to walk through the door together and Sadie was going to close the bar. How could she be dead? Only young soldiers died ahead of their time, not vibrant, lovely young women who saved lives in the operating room. Not Casey, never Casey. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat.

He opened the door because that was what he was supposed to do.

Sadie was dressed to the teeth, standing behind the bar. Benny was on a bar stool, a glass of orange juice in front of him. They looked at him. He looked at them. And they knew.

Together they held him, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a mother, while he cried great, manly, gulping sobs. Their tears mingled with his and not one of the three cared. He thought he was going to die when he heard the platter drop on the Wurlitzer. He dug down to the last ounce of his reserve when he heard the words to “When I'm Sixty-Four.”

“You okay, buddy?” Benny said gruffly.

“Of course he's not okay, he's hurting,” Sadie said tearfully.

“I can handle it,” Mac said hoarsely. “I'm hungry, Sadie. Let's go upstairs.”

“Hungry? Well, you certainly came to the right place. I'll fix you the grandest meal you've ever had in your life. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's cook,” Sadie babbled happily as she led the two most important men in her life up the stairs to her apartment.

“It's the same. Why did I think it would be different?” Mac said quietly as he sniffed the popcorn-scented air.

Both men ate heartily. When the plates were slipped into the soapy water, Sadie took her place at the table.

“So what are my options?” Mac asked wearily.

“This isn't the time to do
anything
,” Sadie said carefully. “You have the rest of your life to make decisions. You need to mourn, honey. You need this time to think about your life and what you really want to do.”

“What do I do about Alice and the child?”

“Why don't you try the truth? Tell her what you told us, that you've been sterile since the age of fourteen when you had the mumps and there's no way you could be the father of baby Jenny. You should have told her long ago, Mac. That's just my opinion, of course,” Benny said miserably.

“It's mine too, Mac, honey,” Sadie said sadly. “This isn't the time though. Why don't you and Benny go off together on a fishing trip or something. You know, just hang out with nature. Bill always used to do that, and he would come back full of spit and vinegar. It might help, Mac.”

“It's been great seeing you both. I . . . talked about you to Casey, and I always told her what you wrote in your letters. She couldn't wait to meet both of you. Look, I'm going home. I don't know why because I don't want to go there. I might even stop and see my old man. It's something I have to do. I'll be back. Thanks, it was wonderful, Sadie. Benny, thanks for being here. I'll give you a call.”

When the door to the bar closed, Sadie laid her hand on Benny's. “You can't go after him. He has to handle this in his own way. We're here and he knows that. It's all we can do. He'll be all right, but it's going to take a while. That business about him being sterile, I didn't know that. Did you?” she asked in an accusing voice.

“Yeah, I knew. It's not the kind of thing men rush to explain to people. No guy wants to admit to that. I sure as hell wouldn't. Hell, I don't even think his old man knows. Just us.”

“But . . . that was so long ago . . . Isn't it possible he could have . . . what I mean is, is the sterility . . . forever?”

“Jeeze, Sadie, I don't . . . it wasn't something we discussed in detail . . . I've heard of cases where . . . shit, I don't know,” Benny groaned. “I just know that he doesn't deserve this, Sadie.”

“God never gives us more than we can handle,” Sadie said quietly. “Mac can handle this. He's not the same, Benny, surely you noticed that. He's his own person now.”

“Yeah, guess you're right. He's gotten hard, Sadie. I hate to say this, but he reminds me of his old man.” Benny shrugged, his round, homely face worried. “I'll call you, Sadie,” he said, crushing her to him. He wondered how it was possible for her always to smell the same, always just right. He had to remember to ask Carol, who always smelled like Johnson's talcum powder. God, he couldn't wait to hug Carol, to look at the kids asleep in their beds, to pull up the covers, to bend down and kiss them good night. He wanted to make love to his wife, to have her hold him, to have her tell him what they had would last forever, and when forever was over to have her tell him they would meet in eternity. That's all he wanted, all he ever wanted out of life.

 

“T
HIS IS GOOD
enough,” Mac said to the taxi driver and handed him two bills. He wanted to walk the rest of the way up the long, curving drive. This was
home,
that wonderful place everyone in Nam thought about and talked about. His home. He'd never talked about it, but he had listened, his heart sore when he listened to the stories his men told. Home. Family. Parents. Pets. Friends. One out of five was all he had. All that counted.

The house was lit. Alice had a thing about making the electric company rich. It looked the same, and why shouldn't it? They certainly paid enough to gardeners and maintenance people. Still, he thought, there should be
something
different, some small change, but there wasn't, at least not any he could see. Unless you counted his father's car in the driveway. That was new. Usually his father had his driver waiting. Marcus Carlin never drove himself because he was a terrible driver, unable to concentrate on the road. Yet, here he was, the Mercedes 560 SEL with the government license plates.

Something perverse in him made him ring the doorbell. A woman with a coronet of braids atop her head opened the door. He'd never seen her before. She was all in gray, from her gray hair to gray uniform, complete with gray ruffled apron. She even had on gray shoes. “Who should I say is calling?” she asked in a guttural accent Mac took to be German.

The perverse streak was still with him. “The man of the house,” he said coldly. He wasn't amused when he heard the woman repeat the words twice as she walked away.

He stood in the foyer, the light at his back, more commanding than any general, as he surveyed the two people walking toward him, both their faces registering shock. He watched as his wife's step faltered and his father's eyes narrowed.

“Mac!” they said in unison.

“The prodigal son,” Mac said tightly.

My God, Alice thought fearfully, this person can't be Mac, not with such cold eyes and dark skin. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Thank God she'd had her hair done today.

Marcus Carlin's jaw dropped. He had it in place a second later. This was trouble, he could feel it oozing from Mac's pores. Who
was
this steely-eyed man standing in front of him. Certainly not the young man he'd said good-bye to at the Jockey Club twenty-four months ago. For the first time in his life, he felt fear and wasn't sure why. He didn't need anyone to tell him there was a new game in town and it was called Mac Carlin.

“Mac, boy, it's good to see you,” Marcus said, holding out his hand. “You should have called us. We'd have rolled out the red carpet and hired a band. You deserve a hero's welcome.”

“I'm no hero,” Mac said curtly as he suffered through an arm's length embrace from his wife. “I see you got your hair done today.”

“You noticed,” Alice said.

“What's this you're saying about not being a hero, boy?” the judge said playfully as he poked at the ribbon bars on Mac's duty uniform blouse.

“These,” Mac said, ripping at his jacket, “belongs to you, not me. It was what you wanted, and now you have it.” He wadded up his jacket and tossed it at his father. The elder Carlin had no recourse but to reach for it. “I gave you ten years and now I don't owe you a thing.”

“What's wrong with you, Mac? We had a deal. Ten years and then politics. You can't welsh on me now. It's all set to go. I expected a certain . . . change. After all, you just came out of a war. You'll need time to get acclimated again. We have time. We'll talk in a few days. I'll leave you lovebirds alone now,” the judge said, stepping out of the way, his face flushed with controlled anger.

Mac didn't bother to reply. Instead he turned to Alice. “What's the name of the maid this month?”

“Why, it's . . . Olga. Yes, it's Olga,” she said fretfully.

“Olga!” Mac roared.

“Yes, sir,” the maid spoke up.

“I want the guest house cleaned. Now! I want my things moved there. Now!”

“I was about to serve dinner, sir.”

“Dinner can wait. My father won't be staying. Mrs. Carlin has lost her appetite and I ate at a bar and grill. Now!”

Alice bristled. “What's gotten into you, Mac? You certainly are not staying in the guest house. What will people think? Marcus, talk to your son,” she pleaded.

Marcus was about to open his mouth when Mac swiveled to face him. “Don't interfere,” he said coldly.

“I wasn't about to. She's right though, it isn't going to look good.”

“That's rather amusing since this is a fifteen-acre site and there are no neighbors. Unless of course you were planning on a press conference. It's either the guest house or Sadie's apartment.”

He stared his father down. The judge's eye twitched. Mac smiled.

Alice seethed when Mac picked up his bag and headed for the door. “Don't you even want to see the baby?”

“No,” Mac said curtly, walking back out into the dark night. He heard the door of his father's car shut then saw the headlights spring to life. He didn't look back.

He liked the guest house, had always liked it. It was a brick building that looked deceptively small from the outside. Inside, it was spacious, with a living room, a dining room, a study, two full baths, and three bedrooms. The study was Mac's favorite room, with a huge fieldstone fireplace that stretched all the way to the ceiling. Bookshelves lined the other three walls and were full, from floor to ceiling. It had central heat and a fully equipped kitchen that would be stocked before the night was over. Tomorrow he would ask Sadie to hire him a housekeeper who would live in one of the three bedrooms, a motherly person who would take care of him, feed him, and iron his clothes. He wanted someone like his mother's old companion, Maddy, not some cold-eyed fish like Olga.

“I'll be back in a few hours. Air out the house, make a fire, and have coffee ready,” he ordered the housekeeper. “Build a fire in the bedroom too. After today you won't have to concern yourself with this building. You do know that I'm the one who pays your salary, don't you?”