Chapter Eighteen Marion
eighteen MARION
Marion made sure she was at work early on Wednesday. She had prepared for this day, and yet she felt completely at a loss. When she walked into the staff room, Paul was leaning back in a chair, reading what looked like a letter.
“Good morning,” she said with a smile, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Good for you, being upbeat. How many of yours are leaving today?”
“I wasn’t being upbeat, just polite. Two more. I submitted the last of their paperwork this morning. Six left last week. Two of those were taken in by family, but the others were not welcomed. Hardly a surprise.” She sipped her coffee and with a studied nonchalance said, “Your former patient, Daniel Neumann, is leaving soon.”
“They assure us,” Paul said, studying the tattered arm of his chair, “that we don’t need to worry.”
“In all our years at med school and beyond, I don’t remember learning who ‘they’ is.”
They heard the sound of Dr. Bernstein’s footfalls approaching, and Paul chuckled softly. “Speak of the devil. Here comes ‘they’ now.”
“Doctors,” Dr. Bernstein acknowledged, reaching for the coffeepot. “How are we feeling today?”
“Actually, we—”
Paul’s hand clamped onto her forearm. “Can’t complain. It’s a fine morning.”
Dr. Bernstein’s eyes narrowed at Marion. “Seems a bold place for the two of you to meet, right here in the open, doesn’t it?”
Marion’s jaw dropped, and she whipped her arm out of Paul’s reach. “Pardon me?”
“I do not encourage fraternizing among the staff, but seeing as you are both professionals, I—”
“Dr. Bernstein! I object to your assumption. Dr. McKenny! Tell him.”
Paul smiled. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid your conjecture is incorrect, Dr. Bernstein. As charming and beautiful as Dr. Hart unquestionably is, she and I are only friends and colleagues. We have well-established boundaries.”
Those boundaries had been set months before, when she’d finally agreed to go for dinner with him a second time. After a delicious meal, he had chased after a different kind of dessert, and she’d surprised both of them by slapping his face. He had sheepishly admitted she’d warned him, then he backed off and apologized. Since then, there had been no suggestion of a third date, but she was glad they were still friends. Plus, he was someone with whom she felt comfortable discussing cases, and sometimes that could be hard to do.
Still, her face burned. “Dr. McKenny, I find it disrespectful when you refer to my charm and beauty. I am your colleague and your equal. I would appreciate it if you would keep that in mind.”
The men exchanged a glance then turned back to her. Apology softened Paul’s expression.
“Understood,” Dr. Bernstein said, his lips slightly pursed. “I do hope you will not reprimand me for pointing out that your job is not to sit around, talking. Your patients are waiting.”
“A lot fewer of them,” Paul muttered as their boss walked away.
At first, Paul had been like so many of their generation, caught up in fashionable new ideas about treating people with psychiatric problems: a clean sweep of these old institutions, and a fresh start with community health centres. The plan had been popular until recently, when the consequences Marion had feared had started to occur: increased vagrancy, addiction, crime. Now Paul was completely on Marion’s side, but it was too late.
“None of it makes sense to me,” she said.
Paul rolled up his letter and was tapping it thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. “I’ll tell you what else doesn’t make sense. My friend wrote to me about hospitals in Vietnam. Did you know they’re being targeted out there?”
“What do you mean? The hospitals specifically? Aren’t there rules in war? Like no bombing medics or field hospitals?”
He unrolled the paper. “He wrote about this woman, Claire Culhane. She was a medical administrator at Grace Dart Tuberculosis Hospital in Montreal. Last spring she felt moved by a front-page photograph in Weekend Magazine that showed a young Canadian nurse caring for orphaned infants in Vietnam. She decided to go there herself and see what it was all about.”
“Gosh. That’s brave.”
“It’s either courage or delusion.” He twisted his mouth to the side. “Or a little of both. Miss Culhane told my friend that Saigon is disgusting, crowded with beggars, overwhelmed by poverty, and the whole city stinks. She started working as a nurse in a tuberculosis hospital, but then she learned of a rehabilitation centre being built entirely by Canadian funds in a coastal town”—he checked the paper—“called Quy Nhon. Apparently, that hospital is entirely unprotected in the midst of rockets, gunfire, and mortars. All essential medical equipment—like bandages, morphine, X-ray machines—were on back order when she arrived. Even the generator was on back order.”
“How can they function?”
Paul read out loud. “They have twenty-three beds and sixty patients, on average, with twenty more arriving daily. Many suffer from tuberculosis, but about eighty per cent suffer horrific wounds from bullets, fire, poison gas, and napalm.”
Marion hadn’t allowed herself to think about what the medical situation might be out there. She’d seen enough just watching the news.
“Yvon—”
“Who?”
“Sorry,” Paul said. “My friend who wrote this letter. Yvon says there’s another big hospital in Qu?ng Ng?i with two hundred beds and seven hundred patients. Many of those are women and children. Miss Culhane started tracking everything, and since it’s Canadian-funded, she wrote to Canada’s External Affairs minister and demanded an increase in the budget as well as an end to the red tape that was holding all the medical equipment hostage.” He frowned. “Looks like they got some of the money, but spent most of it on bribes, to keep the deliveries safe.”
“What a disaster. Why isn’t our government getting involved?”
“Listen to this. It gets worse.”
A few weeks ago, the hospital was visited by the ICC, and a new head doctor was put in place. Upon his arrival, this Dr. Jutras designated the hospital for tuberculosis patients only, and he expelled all other patients, whether they were sick, wounded, or dying. Claire strongly objected, citing the Geneva Convention, but he paid no attention.
Soon afterward, she discovered that Dr. Jutras was sharing Claire’s detailed patient files with the CIA. Why? So they could weed out any possible Vietcong among them, then descend upon those patients’ villages for the purpose of interrogation and torture. As a result of Dr. Jutras’s actions, they have burned down entire villages, including everyone in them. It’s mass murder, Paul. Claire confronted her superior, but she was ignored.
“Oh my God, Paul. That’s horrible!”
He nodded. “Canada has given millions of dollars to the government of South Vietnam. That sounds good in theory, but we have also taken American defence contracts, supplying raw materials and manufacturing weapons. Think about that. The napalm, grenades, aircraft engines, and whatever else we’re sending is putting those patients in hospitals.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “Miss Culhane’s right. We are basically an American weapon.”
Marion dropped her hands to her lap. “This is shocking. Everything we’re being told about Canada’s contributions to the war is a lie.”
She sat a bit after Paul left, stewing in her thoughts. The lies of the governments, the needless destruction of lives—there was a terrible parallel to the war in Vietnam and deinstitutionalization at home. There was no napalm here, but there was ignorance, and that would kill people one day.
“All in the name of freedom,” she said softly, then she got to her feet and headed down the hallway. The empty rooms around her felt strange. Where were those patients now? Were they all right?
When she arrived at Daniel’s room, he was sitting on his bed, reading a book with his back against the wall. When she entered, he jerked forward, then he spun from view and his hands went to his nightstand. She watched him struggle to set the eye patch in place, then he got up, still facing away from her.
“I’m sorry, Daniel,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
He turned back, his smile sheepish. “I wasn’t dressed for visitors.”
“I should have knocked.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He lifted one shoulder. “I just don’t like to flash this around.”
“I understand. Is it more comfortable when you take the patch off?”
“Yeah. A little air feels good, no matter if it’s fresh or not. But it sure ain’t pretty to look at.”
She had done her best not to study his scars, but sometimes when he got lost in his stories, she couldn’t help but see. That smooth, invincible skin of a strong young man, the lines at the corners of his eye that should have creased when he smiled, the dark shading of his beard on only one side, the eyebrow that should have drawn down to mirror the other.
He was right. It wasn’t pretty. But somehow, to her, he was beautiful.
“How’s the book?” she asked.
He held a copy of Catch-22 , and he frowned at the cover. “It’s all right. Pretty depressing, though.”
“Do you want to come out to the community area so we can talk? There’s hardly anyone there.”
He was up and at her side in no time, keen to get out of the tiny room. They walked together, and she felt a sense of contentedness just being with him. She supposed they could be called friends, in that he had shared his innermost thoughts and feelings with her during treatment, but he didn’t know much about her. Once in a while, he asked questions about her life, but she kept her answers brief and always returned to the original point. After all, no matter how much she was learning about herself from him, this was his therapy, not hers.
They had been working together for a few months now, and Marion felt better about his well-being after every appointment. Through meditation techniques, he had gained better control over his physical aggression. He was coming to terms with things in his past and learning to control his episodes. He had begun to attend art therapy classes, and she was stunned by his talent, though the scenes he painted were dark with menace.
“My grandma’s an artist,” he told her. “She paints portraits, mostly.”
“Does she know you can do this?”
“Sure. She taught me.”
“I’m still trying to get you moved to a bigger room,” she said as they walked to the end of the hallway. The area was set out like a T, with the top of the letter against a bank of windows.
“It’s not a problem. I’ve been in less comfortable places in my life. Can you get me more books?”
“Let me know what you like to read, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“You mentioned a spy book by a French guy—”
“John le Carré, yes. The Spy Who Came In from the Cold . I’ll look for it. Anything else?”
“Surprise me.”
“Have you read any of the James Bond novels? You’d love them, I think.”
“I’ve heard of the movies. Sure. I’d read those. Thanks.”
“Interesting trivia: the author of those books, Ian Fleming, trained at Canada’s spy school not too far from here during World War Two.”
He frowned, clearly doubting her. “Spy school?”
“It’s true. It was called Camp X. Amazing story.”
In the common area, she chose a table with two chairs. Nurses frequently passed by, and an occasional patient shuffled along the corridor, but she and Daniel would be left undisturbed.
He sat facing the window so he could watch a winter storm as it blew in. Early flurries danced in the dwindling light.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” she asked softly, admiring his profile. “So calm.”
He nodded, looking thoughtful.
When a nurse walked past, he asked her, “Can we have something to drink?”
The nurse bobbed her head at both of them. “Tea or hot chocolate? They’re making up a big pot of hot chocolate in the kitchen. With marshmallows.”
“Tea!” shouted one of the men at the neighbouring table. “Tea, please! Tea for Stanley, too! He wants milk in it.”
“All right, Henry. I will bring those right out. How about you two?”
Marion and Daniel glanced at each other. “Hot chocolate,” they said together.
After the nurse left, Daniel smiled. “I haven’t had hot chocolate in years. Makes me think of home. My mom always made it.”
“I’ve never been to Nova Scotia.”
“So you said. You need to do some travelling, Doc. I’ve got you two for two.”
“I have a question about Vietnam.”
He kept his gaze still, observing the snowflakes. “Are you asking me about the place or what I did there?”
“I was asking about the place, but I’m open to whatever you’d like to talk about.”
“Why?”
“Because your stories are interesting.”
He winced, remembering. “I know what I haven’t told you about yet. I’ve been putting it off. There’s a whole other world underground. Tunnels the Vietcong dug years ago, filled with booby traps and gooks we called tunnel rats. I was in one once. That was the most terrifying experience in my entire life. I would prefer to get shot over taking my chances in one of those again. I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I don’t need to hear about it.”
“Sometimes we humped through the worst of the jungle in silence, only to hear the scream of an explosive just before it hit and blew everything up. We saw so much. In the beginning, I puked a lot. I saw parts of men that should never be seen. But I was with my brothers, and we kept each other relatively sane. At some point I guess I toughened up. I had to. You gotta keep moving, or those body parts could be yours.”
“A friend of mine just got a letter about a Canadian nurse in Vietnam. She discovered some horrific things over there, and I wondered if you’d heard of them.”
“Like what?”
She decided to skip over the part about the Canadian government funding targeted killings. She wanted to learn more about that before she started spreading talk.
“She talked about villages getting burned, of civilian men and women and children being slaughtered. Did you see that ever?”
He nodded and looked away. A young man in a greying bathrobe strolled past their table, humming to himself.
“She hinted that sometimes it wasn’t the North Vietnamese that killed them, but the CIA.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Vietnam is crazier than the craziest sucker in this building. And every man over there is a product of the insanity.”
She had avoided directly asking about combat for a while, but he was so calm now that it felt like the right time, so she did.
“Can you tell me more about what your unit did over there?”
“We walked, we hid, we killed, we blew things up… we laughed sometimes. And other stuff.”
“Like what?”
He narrowed his eye, thinking back. “I’ll tell you about recon. Five or six of us would go humping in the boonies for four or five days at a time, locating enemy base camps and reporting their movements. We had to move like snakes through those trees, because Charlie was always listening. It was his neighbourhood.”
“Charlie. That’s slang for the North Vietnamese?”
“Yeah, among other, less friendly names. And there are also the Vietcong, the communists in South Vietnam.” He puffed out a breath. “On recon, we were supposedly hunting, but really, we were the ones being hunted. Everybody knew that if you walked into an ambush, you probably wouldn’t come out. Flak vests and metal helmets were too bulky to wear on those missions, so we wore regular camo without protection, and we smeared grease on our faces. We couldn’t let our rifles jingle against our backs as we walked, so we cut the slings off and carried them by hand. Everything we needed to survive was in our packs, plus one of the men always carried a radio so we could report what we found. That thing weighed twenty-five pounds. It’s nearly impossible to carry it without making a sound.”
“How do you know where you’re going in that jungle? I’ve seen it on television. Everything looks the same. How can you communicate with each other? How do you know if you’re being seen?”
“Well, if they see you, it’s too late,” he said flatly. “We communicate through hand signals mostly.” He stuck his fingers together and extended them, then he bent his elbow so his hand fell in a chopping movement. “That’s ‘fall in line,’ meaning get back in formation before you step on a claymore. A land mine.” He dropped his flat hand, palm side down, toward the ground. “That one’s obvious. It means to get down, whereas if you raise it in a fist, you’re telling everyone to freeze. And if you are indicating the position of incoming enemy fighters, you use the numbers on a clock. Like straight ahead is my twelve. Directly beside me on my left would be my nine, and behind me is my six. Get it?”
“So you are sitting at my ten?”
“Exactly.”
She was spellbound, listening to him. What did his facade of calm suggest? Was he the smooth surface of a lake with a sea monster lurking beneath, or was he the ocean after a storm, the churning sand within slowing and settling?
The more time Marion spent with Daniel, the more she thought of her father. What had he seen during his combat days? What had he done? What kind of strain was he still suffering with? And yet, he lived a relatively normal life. He did his job, went out with friends, came home for dinner. He’d raised two daughters.
Why was Daniel here in this place, while her father was in his home? Daniel had calmed immensely since he’d first arrived at the institute. He hadn’t had an episode in two weeks. Together, they had worked on differentiating between nightmares and hallucinations, then helping him find his way through both. He needed to be prepared. They were going to push him out of the hospital soon.
She tried to ignore the ache she felt, knowing he would be gone. It was unprofessional. She’d gotten far too attached to Daniel. As he spoke, she watched his lips and listened to every syllable. She held her breath when he described a perilous occurrence, stared openly into his remaining eye. She even felt a girlish rush in her chest when he flexed his fingers, imagining the strength in them.
In fourth year at university, her favourite lecturer, Dr. Perkins, had talked about the ethics of physician-patient relationships, including the clear rule that there be no sexual bond at all. At the time, Marion hadn’t considered that to be anything with which she must deal. Now it weighed heavily on her conscience.
“I don’t expect I could bum a cigarette.”
“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head to break her reverie. “I don’t have any.”
“That’s okay.” He hung his head. “You know, I think of my unit every day. Who’s been killed since I left? I wonder if I’ll ever see any of them again.”
She waited for him to continue.
He hesitated. “I know what you’re thinking—that seeing them would bring back bad memories—but nobody knows those like me and my brothers.”
“When you think of your buddies over there, how does it feel? Physically, I mean.”
He gnawed on his lower lip while he thought that over. Automatically, Marion noted that it was not a compulsive action. Nothing irrational or concerning. Just an ordinary man, making an ordinary movement, thinking about the least ordinary thing.
“My body hurts,” he replied gruffly. “Like I got ripped out of a place where I should be. They need me.”
“You’ve said that before. You’d still go back.”
“In a heartbeat.”
“You are a braver person than I, my friend. The Canadian Red Cross just put out a call looking for more surgeons to go to Vietnam, but I can’t imagine doing that.”
“You’re not a surgeon, though.”
“Actually, I am. I loved doing surgery. Especially in an emergency room.”
“How’d you end up a shrink?”
“I got sick in school and was unable to physically continue the specialty. I still wanted to be in the medical field, so I changed direction and studied psychiatry instead.”
“Well, if you change your mind about going, I’d be the best security guard you could ever imagine.”
She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Daniel, I need to ask you one more question.”
“Shoot.”
She pushed past the pang in her heart. “Do you think you will be all right, living outside of the care you’re being given here?”
His brow lifted. “I was ready weeks ago, Doc. I’m just saving money with free rent and meals.”
Just then, the nurse walked through the doorway carrying a steaming tray of tea and hot chocolate. “Here we are!”
Henry, the card player at the next table, shot out of his chair and raced toward the nurse, overcome by thirst. The nurse stepped out of his way, Henry kept going, and the tray of hot drinks crashed to the floor, shattering the cups.
When Marion glanced back from the disaster, Daniel was crouched under their table, his expression blank. He’d been facing away, she remembered, so he’d been unprepared. With shock, she realized she saw her father in Daniel’s face in that moment.
“Daniel?” Marion whispered. She crouched beside him. “You’re all right.”
He didn’t move. It was a moment before he even blinked.
“Daniel? It’s me, Dr. Hart. I’m with you. You’re all right. You’re safe.”
Focus slowly returned to his gaze, like ice melting, and his hands began to shake. He closed his eye, ashamed, and Marion’s throat swelled with sympathy. So much strength and courage and dedication, now so small, huddled beneath a table.
“Why are you behind the furnace, Daddy?”
Her mother entering, taking her hand. “Come along, Marion. Let’s leave your father in peace.”
Marion set her fingertips on the back of Daniel’s right hand, and it stilled. Without looking at her, he gently turned his hand over and interlaced his fingers with hers. Marion’s pulse raced at the contact. They both sat motionless, waiting for their hearts to slow.
At last, he let out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she felt his hold ease.
She tightened hers, unwilling to relinquish the unexpected touch and the feelings it had released in her. There was something connecting their palms, and it felt vital. A kind of electricity built on trust. He needed her, but it was more than that. She needed him. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
“That hasn’t happened in months,” he told her. A veil of sweat shone on his brow. “I thought I was doing well.”
“You are. And if you ever wonder again, find me. Sometimes wondering causes more fear than knowing. I am here for you, Daniel. I want you to know that. Even after they release you from this place, I want to be there for you.”
Bit by bit, his face turned to hers, the light scruff of his beard shadowed by the table over his head. He didn’t speak, but she felt as if she could hear his tortured thoughts.
“Am I crazy?” he asked at last.
“No, Daniel. You’re in pain. But you’re going to be just fine.”
Too soon, she went to meet Daniel in his new, larger room. Beside him on the cot was a small rucksack, in which he had packed his few belongings. When he rose to greet her, he stood a little taller.
“How do you feel?” she asked, wishing he would ask her the same thing. She had been miserable all week, pacing the hospital corridors and the rooms of her apartment, picking things up and putting them down, all because he would soon be gone. She wanted to reach for his hand again, but she kept her own at her sides.
“I got a question,” he said.
What on earth were these feelings? What was it rushing through her heart, burning through her face? She felt like a teenager in high school again, suddenly shy.
“You never told me your first name. Since I’m not a patient here anymore, is that allowed now?”
“Marion,” she replied.
She was accustomed to reading his glances and body language: the tilt of his head, the tightening of his brow, the sarcastic smile that made him look devilishly handsome. But the way he was watching her now, with vulnerability softening his expression, that was new. His mouth opened slightly.
“Marion, do you think I’ll do all right out there?”
Her name on his lips sent a thrill through her. “Do you?”
“Give me a straight answer.”
“I think you’ll be fine. You have the information about the legion, right? They will help you find a place to stay and get you going again. And you have the letter about the community health centres in your area. It’s important you go to those appointments and call them if you need anything else. Here, I brought you a heavy coat and a cap…” She trailed off, swallowing the knot in her throat. “Daniel, it’s been wonderful getting to know you. I truly mean that.”
He hesitated. “I almost wish I still needed help. So I could be with you.”
She was the one who needed help now. She held the coat toward him and took a step back.
“I’ll walk you out,” she offered.
It was cold and grey outside, with random snowflakes twisting slowly downward. Daniel stood in the entrance to the Administration Building, folding his cap in both hands and staring out at the bleak winter day. He was good at standing very still. He’d perfected that skill in Vietnam.
Marion couldn’t speak, seeing him there.
“All right,” he said at last, taking a deep breath and pulling the wool cap low over his ears. He gave her one last smile then held out his hand for her to shake. “Thank you. I feel like my life has changed, being stuck in this place with you. For the better.”
Me too, she thought. “I’ll miss you, Daniel. Be careful out there.” She sniffed, wondering where on earth she’d left her professional detachment. “Do me a favour?”
His gaze travelled over her hair, her eyes, her lips, as if he was trying to commit it all to memory. She felt the strongest sense that he wanted to kiss her. “Whatever you need, Marion.”
“Never be afraid to ask for help. Find me if you need me.”
He nodded.
She didn’t move. She stood on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall into him if he made the slightest move, but then a car horn sounded out on Queen Street, and they both stepped back.
“Goodbye, Daniel.”
“I’ll see you, Marion,” he replied, then he walked off into the greyness and joined the anonymous crowd.