The moment she heard the comforting plop of the percolator, she resumed her tour of the house, turning on more light switches in the hall and bathrooms.
There were two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Brown towels hung in the master bathroom. Brown rugs lay on the floor. The shower curtain was brown and white. Casey found it depressing. In her father’s bedroom was a large bed—king—size, she supposed—with a brown plaid spread. The bed was neatly made, with slippers at the side. Again, the windows were curtainless, with venetian blinds pulled to the sill. The second bedroom startled her when she turned on the light switch. She blinked and wiped at her tears with the back of her hand. She looked down and for a minute likened the carpet to a spring meadow. Little bits of green fuzz were on the surface. New carpet. A wicker chair with green and yellow cushions sat alone in a corner. Two wicker chests stood side by side against the wall. The bed, the kind she always dreamed of having, a four-poster with an eyelet canopy, took up most of the room. The bedspread was green with a huge spray of yellow tulips in the center. Pillow shams of the same color had smaller sprays of tulips in their centers. Here there were drapes on the windows to match the meadow-green carpet. The blinds were drawn. Her eyes swiveled to the four walls. On each one, in a simple white frame, were pictures of French flower stalls. Casey felt her throat tighten. Her hand went to her mouth to stifle a cry of pain. Had this room been intended for her someday? Was that possible?
She opened the mirrored closets. Empty of clothing. A dozen padded satin hangers hung on the rod. Two brass hooks were on each side of the closet, for hanging purses or scarves. There was a shoe rack on the floor. She counted the prongs. Six pairs of shoes. She had four pairs, counting her nursing shoes.
The bathroom was as pretty as the bedroom—all green and white tile. New, thick yellow carpets were on the floor. Equally thick yellow towels were on the racks. A yellow plastic soap dish and a yellow plastic glass sat on the vanity. She picked up the glass and saw the price tag still on the bottom—sixty—nine cents. The soap dish was seventy-nine cents. The toilet paper was yellow too, the first piece still attached to the roll and not hanging down. A dusty, off-white ruffled curtain hung over the window. A small, green porcelain frog perched on the windowsill. Casey bit down on her lower lip. Tears burned her eyes again as she tried to blink them away. She did her best to clear her throat. When she didn’t succeed, she threw herself on the green and yellow spread and howled her grief for a man she’d never known.
Casey cried all the tears she’d never been allowed to shed because Sister Ann Elizabeth said big girls didn’t cry. Tears brought swift punishment. Tears brought ridicule. Tears brought misery.
When she was tired of beating the pillows, tired of sobbing, tired of cursing Sister Ann Elizabeth, Casey swung her legs over the side of the bed. She hated to do it, but she unrolled the yellow toilet paper and blew her nose lustily. She loved the powerful sound of water rushing into the bowl. California must have a wonderful sewer system. She felt pleased with the thought as she made her way to the kitchen for coffee.
Back in the living room, she settled herself on the floor in front of the fire, with the cushions from the couch at her back. She got up a minute later and turned on the television set. She had no idea what she was watching. Three silly men hopping around, punching each other in the nose. She closed her eyes, the volume turned low. She was asleep within minutes.
WITH THE OBLIGATORY appointment with the legal firm representing her father behind her, as well as numerous visits to the supermarket, and having gotten what she thought of as her American legs planted firmly on the ground, Casey settled into the fourth day of her new life in California.
It was dusk now. She’d argued with herself about going to the cemetery to see her father and grandmother’s final resting place. Part of her didn’t want to see the cold marble with their names chiseled into the stone. The other part of her said she needed to see the place, needed to know there was a place to go to say thank you, to find a kind of secondhand comfort if that was possible.
She hadn’t cried. She’d tried to conjure up a picture in her mind of what her father and grandmother looked like, but she’d been unsuccessful. The best she could do was to frame a mental picture of Mrs. Laroux. Her father remained faceless. Probably because of Nolan Quigley’s words. She flinched even now when she remembered them. “He didn’t want to be bothered with a child. He didn’t want to remember the harlot who created you. Whores were supposed to take care of themselves. He believed you were your mother’s responsibility. He said you would be fed and clothed and have a roof over your head, and that was more than a lot of people had. Your father was a very cold man. He told me the only reason he was leaving his house and what little else he had to you was so the state wouldn’t claim it.” Then Quigley said the words that burned into her soul. “He didn’t love you, didn’t love your mother either. He said he never loved anyone. It pains me to tell you this, but it’s better you know the truth. I’m very sorry, Miss Adams.”
What that all meant, Casey thought miserably, was she shouldn’t make up stories about the family she never knew and delude herself. She would take the house, the six thousand dollars, and be damned glad she didn’t have any other problems like bills and liens she would be responsible for.
Casey slid the single pork chop and baked potato onto her plate. Maybe she should have said a prayer at the cemetery. She’d wanted to, but she hadn’t. She looked at the food on her plate as she said grace. Then she mumbled a short prayer for her unknown grandmother and father.
Her dinner over, the dishes washed, Casey carried her coffee into the small living room and lit a fire. She wondered what she would do when the last of the wood was gone from the back porch. Where was she to get more? Whom did one call? The problem went on her list of things to do. The list was getting longer, but she would handle it all.
The pad was on her lap, the coffee cup in one hand, a pencil in the other, her eyes and ears turned to the six o’clock news. The moment Walter Cronkite signed off, she turned the volume down on the set to concentrate on the note pad in her lap. The words hospital and then job were written on the first line. Transportation was on the second line, and on the third, driving lessons. Taking taxis until she learned how to get about with mass transportation was going to seriously eat into her budget. She blinked. The list seemed endless. Utilities and taxes had to be looked into. Car insurance too, if she was going to learn how to drive her father’s Dodge. Right now, though, she had to make a list of hospitals, along with their addresses and phone numbers, and make appointments to see their nursing administrators. She would deal with the other problems on her list on a daily basis. Things would work out, fall into place, she was sure of it. She sighed mightily as she stared into the blazing fire that was raging up the chimney. Why in the world had she built such a monstrous fire?
Casey slid down onto the floor and stretched out on her belly. It was so toasty, so warm. In France, central heat in her small flat was something she only dreamed about. She’d always been cold, always worn a sweater, even to bed. Mrs. Laroux would love America with its wonderful central heat.
She thought about Nicole and Danele then, and wondered what they were doing and if they missed her. So far she’d been too busy to think much about her old friends. “I hope I make friends here,” she muttered sleepily.
Casey woke a long time later, shivering. She threw two huge logs on the fire and watched as sparks shot up the chimney. She curled up and, hugging her knees, watched the dancing flames. Her little four-hour snooze had left her wide awake—so wide awake she decided to write to Nicole and Danele before going back to her lists.
From time to time she dozed off, awoke, and then dozed again. When her new gift watch said the time was six-thirty, she showered, made breakfast, and called for a taxi. At seven-thirty the taxi arrived. With list in hand, she climbed into the cab. “San Francisco General Hospital,” she said.
Thirty-five minutes later she exited th
e hospital so stunned at what she’d heard that she felt light-headed. The director had been kind but direct. “You need to be state certified,” she had said. “The nursing exam will be held July ninth at ten o’clock. I’m terribly sorry.” Her glowing letter of recommendation had meant nothing to the director. She would have to get a tutor. Even with a tutor, there was no way she could be ready to take State Boards in only five months. She felt like crying when she climbed into a waiting cab and ordered the driver to take her to the Medical Center at the University of California. There she was told exactly the same thing. The director, a kindly white-haired woman, offered to find her a tutor.
Casey spent the remainder of the day going from clinic to clinic. Then, in a last desperate measure, she asked the taxi driver to take her to a medical employment agency. The answer was the same everywhere. She needed an American nursing diploma, and the only way she could get a diploma was to take the State Boards in July.
She did cry then, hiccuping and sniffling into her handkerchief. The taxi driver, who’d decided to stay with her after her third stop, cleared his throat and voiced an opinion because he hated to see women cry. “Listen, miss, it isn’t the end of the world. Why don’t you go to work for a doctor in his office? There are thousands of doctors in the telephone book. And if that doesn’t work out, I know where you can get a job like,” he snapped his fingers, “that.”
Casey blew her nose. “Where’s that?”
“The military. They’re always looking for nurses.”
“Do you mean join the army?”
“Yeah, you wear a uniform. You’d probably be an officer.”
“Are there military hospitals here in California?” Casey asked tearfully.
“They’re all over. The really big ones are in Washington, D.C. If you went to work there, you’d be nursing all the top brass with their ulcers and hemorrhoids. Of course, if you want to really make a difference, you can sign up to go to Vietnam. Our boys could use you over there, and they won’t care if you’re French, English, or Mongolian. Whatever you decide, I wish you luck, miss,” the driver concluded, pulling to the curb in front of her house.
“Thank you very much,” Casey said as she paid him. She added what she thought was a generous tip. He smiled gratefully.
“Tomorrow is another day. If you want to make the rounds again, call and ask for me. My name is Jake Connors. I go on duty at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll do that,” Casey said, and thanked him again.
In the warm, lighted kitchen, Casey found a can of chicken noodle soup in the cabinet. While it heated up, she made fresh coffee and toast. It wasn’t much of a dinner, she thought, but she wasn’t very hungry.
Before she ate, she carried in wood from the back porch. The pile was dwindling. There were twelve logs, at best, with a few that were little more than kindling. God, what am I going to do? she asked herself. She wasn’t certain if her concern was for the wood pile or the fact that she couldn’t find a job. “The hell with it,” she muttered.
With her dinner on a tray, Casey sat in front of the fire. The soup was too salty, the toast cold. She set it aside and sipped at the coffee as she smoked one cigarette after another. She sat through the news and a game show before she got up to wash the dishes. She took a shower, washed her hair, filed her nails, replenished the fire, finished the coffee, and then got out her tattered list along with the phone book.
The cab driver was right, tomorrow was another day. She’d go to one of the medical registries that hired nurses to work in offices. Maybe she could get a job working in a dentist’s office. If tomorrow wasn’t more promising than today, she would give serious thought to the cab driver’s suggestion about joining the military. He said there was a real need for nurses in Vietnam. Or she could hire a tutor and study like mad and try for the State Boards. She had an ear for the English language, but she didn’t have an eye for the words. She knew her limits, knew she couldn’t possibly make it by July, which meant she’d have to study all the way through the year and try for the Boards in early February.
Go home. Go back to Paris, an inner voice chided. You’re needed there. They’ll welcome you. Mrs. Laroux will be delighted. Go.
But did she really want to go back to her old life? If she did that, she’d be admitting failure. There were still so many things to do here. She wanted to find out more about her father and grandmother. She wanted to see California sunshine. She wanted to smell the famous orange blossoms, tour a movie studio, and perhaps actually see a real film star. Of course, she’d have to go to Hollywood to do that. She owned a car, and once she learned how to drive, she could visit the whole state if she wanted to. “I can get a job as a shop girl,” she muttered, “and study for the Boards at night.” And waste a whole year of your life? the niggling inner voice replied.
She was angry now, up and stomping about the small living room, her hands clenched into tight fists. It wasn’t fair. She’d come here filled with hopes and dreams, and now they were in ashes at her feet. The urge to throw something was so strong that she bit down hard on her lower lip and tasted her own blood. She wiped it with the back of her hand. “Damn!” she exploded.
A nurse’s aide. She could do that. But would a hospital hire her in that capacity? She hoped so. And, of course, she would see if she qualified as an office nurse. At least she’d be working in her profession instead of selling hosiery and gloves to housewives.
Her bad moments over, Casey sat down cross-legged in front of the fire and reached for her pad and pencil. She worked steadily for over three hours writing down names, telephone numbers, and addresses. In her father’s desk she found a map of the area and a bus schedule. She mapped out her route, frowning over some of the names she had difficulty pronouncing. She felt better now that she had a plan, so much so that she brewed a second pot of coffee. She showered while it perked.
Casey watched a late night show while she worked on a budget. Eventually she dozed and then drifted into a sound, dreamless sleep, and didn’t awaken till six-thirty the following morning.
Dirty-gray drizzle greeted her when she left the house to step into a waiting cab, which would take her to the medical center. After that she would test her homemade map and bus schedule.
WHEN SHE ENTERED a steamy coffee shop at three-thirty, she was drenched. In her life she’d never felt this battered and bruised by her peers. She wasn’t wanted. She wasn’t needed. She’d put up with rudeness, and she had to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t snap back a sassy retort. There was no place for her here, it was that simple. State Boards be damned.
Casey ordered a tuna sandwich that tasted like glue. She pushed the plate away and concentrated on the coffee in front of her. She was startled a moment later when a crisp voice asked, “Would you mind sharing this table? All the others seem to be taken.”
Flustered, Casey looked around and for the first time noticed how full the shop was. She was taking up a table with four chairs. She felt embarrassed when she nodded, a flush creeping into her cheeks.
“I hate to ask, but I’m starving. If I’m intruding . . .”
“Not at all. I didn’t realize . . . I’ve been sitting here . . . I’m just about to leave,” Casey said self-consciously. She raised her eyes then. His smile was so real, so warm, she could only respond in kind. Nicole would call him a heartthrob. She waited a moment to see if her own heart would thump the way Nicole said it would when she met a handsome man. When nothing happened, she almost laughed.
“Mac Carlin, newly arrived in San Francisco.”
“Casey Adams, also newly arrived. And soon to depart.”
“Me too. My orders got snafued. I have two weeks to either cool my heels or kick them up.” He grinned. She had to be the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. He loved her accent. He’d never seen such riveting blue eyes before. They were taking stock of him. He wondered how he was measuring up.
Casey wondered if he was flirting with her. Nicole would have known instantly. “What does that
mean, snafued?” she asked.
“SNAFU stands for situation normal, all fouled up. That’s the way the army does things sometimes. I’ll have the number four,” he said to the waitress, “and a cup of coffee.” He looked back at her. “Where are you soon to depart for?”
What a wonderful smile she had. He likened it to his mother’s smile when he was little. It was the kind of smile that wrapped itself around you. The smile reached her eyes, as he knew it would. He felt like clapping his hands. He didn’t of course. That would have been childish.
“France. Paris.”
“Ah, Paris in the spring. Is it as beautiful as they say it is?”
“It’s very beautiful. I think Paris has a soul. I have lived there all my life.” He was easy to talk to. Surely this couldn’t be classified as flirting, not this easy, natural conversation.
“Then you must be on vacation. What do you think of California?”
Casey made a face. “All it does is rain. I don’t care for the fog. I think it’s . . . impersonal. No one speaks to anyone, everyone is so . . . busy. Actually, I’m not on vacation. I came here to find a job. It appears my services are not needed, so I decided this morning that I will return home.”
After the waitress set down his order, he said, “I agree with your assessment of this city one hundred percent. What is it that you do?” he asked, biting down on his sandwich. A look of panic rushed across his face when he chewed what was in his mouth.
Casey laughed, a sound of pure delight. “If your number four is tuna, I could have given you mine.”
“It tastes like Elmer’s glue and wood shavings.”
Casey laughed again. “I believe that’s a good assessment. The coffee is fine.”
“Which just goes to prove my theory. A coffee shop should serve coffee. They do that well. As soon as they start messing with food, it goes wrong. I should have ordered cornflakes. Would you like some? Cornflakes with a banana?” Casey nodded.
For All Their Lives Page 8
