Swan's Way (4 page)

“And does this handsome thirty-two-year-old have a name?”

“Neal Frazier,” they all chorused.

Then the chatter began in earnest, like hens clucking at feeding time.

“He’s from Richmond, but lives in Washington.”

“He’s single.”

“A widower, Sister,” Pansy corrected.

“Single
just the same.”

“Very tall.”

“Very sad.”

“I’d say more angry than sad,” Elspeth pointed out, with authority.

“Angry about what?” Ginna asked.

All three shook their heads. “We thought you might find out for us, Ginna,” Pansy pleaded.

“What did his chart say?”

Pansy shrugged. “I didn’t have time to read all of it, Ginna. The doctor came back in and took it away from me.”

“You’re losing your touch, Pansy,” Elspeth said. “You’ve never been caught red-handed before. At least not by Dr. Kirkwood himself.”

“My hearing’s not what it used to be. He sneaked up on me,” Pansy explained. “However, I did get a chance to read the diagnosis.” She frowned and looked to heaven, trying to recall the exact words. “Survivor’s Syndrome,” she said emphatically. Then she glanced about the circle of faces all staring at her. “But what in heaven’s name does that mean?”

“It means there was some kind of accident and someone was killed, but he survived, and now he’s feeling guilty about it and needs help to get over it,” Ginna explained.

“I wonder what happened,” Sister said.

“There’s no telling,” Elspeth answered. “Not unless he’ll talk to us. He’s not real friendly.”

“I bet he’ll tell Ginna,” Sister said.

“Oh, yes!” Pansy cried. “That’s a fine idea.”

All three women turned pleading gazes on their young guest.

He’s come home!
The eerie voice spoke again to Ginna, and in that instant she knew that she would make it a point to do her friends’ bidding. She had a feeling that Mr. Neal Frazier was the cause of her excitement today, even though she had yet to meet him. She meant to make his acquaintance the first chance she got. Finding out everything about him seemed a most intriguing way to spend her time.

“I’d like very much to meet your Mr. Frazier. It sounds like he needs a friend to talk to.”

Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister beamed as one. They could almost hear the wedding bells ringing already.

“It was not your fault, Neal.”

Dr. Leonard Kirkwood’s voice sounded amiable, but unconvincing to his patient. This was the same clinical tone he had used in his sessions for the four days that Neal Frazier had been at the Virginia sanatorium poetically named “Swan’s Quarter.” So far, the therapy had been less than successful. Neal still felt eaten alive with guilt.

“If you mean I didn’t cause the wind shear that made flight 1862 fall out of the sky, you’re right,” Neal answered grimly. “Still, it was my fault some of those people died. Maybe all of them.”

“You saved little Christine.”

“Only because her mother was sitting next to me and shoved her into my arms. My only thought was getting out of there. I could have gone back for Christine’s mother. I might have been able to save her too. I
should
have, dammit!”

“How do you figure?” the bearded, middle-aged psychiatrist asked.

“I was sitting by the emergency door. It was my responsibility to open it and help the others escape. Instead, the minute we crashed, I opened that door and got the hell out!” Neal’s voice rose angrily, his rage all self-directed. “I should have gone back in there. Christine has two sisters and a brother. Now they’re all motherless, and it’s my fault. I never even tried to help that woman or any of the others.”

“But the plane was on fire, Neal. You might have lost your own life.”

“Yeah, well maybe that would have been all for the better. Maybe I could sleep nights, if I’d died with everybody else. Maybe I wouldn’t have these dreams all the time.”

“Nightmares about the crash?”

“No. Crazy stuff! Has nothing to do with the crash—nothing to do with anything I can think of.”

“And these dreams began right after the accident?”

Neal’s dark scowl turned to a thoughtful look, before he answered. “No. As a matter of fact, they didn’t start until I got here, to this place.” He turned an accusing glare on Dr. Kirkwood. “Are you guys giving me some kind of weird drug that causes hallucinations?”

The doctor shook his head. “You’re receiving only a very mild sedative at night. Something to help you sleep, not give you nightmares.”

“Well, they’re not exactly what you’d call nightmares. Some of the stuff isn’t so bad, actually.”

“Tell me about your dreams.”

“I’m not sure I can. I mean, you know how it is. You have these dreams and they seem so real and so vivid at the time, but then you wake up and they fade. About all I can remember is that I’m fighting in the Civil War. And the war’s hell, of course, but that’s not what’s bugging me. I keep thinking all the time about this woman. And sometimes she’ll be right there with me and seem so real that having her there kills all the pain. But then when I try to reach out and touch her, she just melts away into the smoke of the battle, and I wake up crying like a baby and calling to her.”

“Do you know this woman’s name?”

Feeling sheepish, Neal looked down and shook his head. “She’s just part of the dream. If I knew her name, that faded too.” Neal looked up suddenly and said, “She’s Christine’s mother, isn’t she, Doc?”

Dr. Kirkwood thought for a moment. “I don’t believe so. This doesn’t sound like it’s connected to the plane crash. More likely it’s something else that you’ve been suppressing for a long time. But if we can work through your problems with the crash, I imagine the dreams will stop.”

Neal slumped down in his chair and gripped the upholstered arms, the same way he had clung to the armrests, as flight 1862 had started its long, fatal spiral toward the earth, only minutes short of its final approach to Dulles airport in Washington.

After a moment of silence between the two men, Neal turned glaring dark eyes on the doctor. “Why
me?
I’m nothing special. What have I ever done with my life that I should be the only one left?”

Kirkwood smoothed one side of his narrow, blond mustache. “You might look at this philosophically. Maybe it’s not what you’ve done, but what you’ve been saved to do. Or maybe little Christine is meant for greatness and your task was accomplished when you saved her life. Maybe your life is your reward.”

“Don’t get religious on me, Doc. You could be right about the kid, but I’m the same person now as I was before I boarded that flight to D.C. No near-death experience. No tunnel of light or angels singing to me. It was more hell than heaven—smoke, flames, people screaming and dying. But here I sit, same old me. Tell me, what great purpose could there be for a soldier without a war to fight? I’m a fish out of water, now that I’m out of uniform. I’ve just been bumming around for the past couple of years since the Army cut me loose, after Desert Storm. There’s not a soul in the world who would feel the loss if I’d died in that crash. But it would have been different for the woman beside me—a wife, a mother, a teacher. The guy in the seat ahead of me was a heart surgeon. Think of all the people he’ll never get a chance to save now.” His head drooped and his angry voice dropped to a whisper. “And all those kids—the plane was full of them—college kids with their whole lives ahead of them, on their way back to school. Gone! All gone! And here I sit, not a scratch on me and no one to care, one way or the other.” He glared at the doctor. “Where’s the justice in that? Where’s the sense in it?
Damn!”

“I don’t like sounding judgmental, but it seems to me you should be thanking your lucky stars, instead of feeling sorry for yourself, Neal. There are no guarantees that life will make sense all the time.”

“You’ve got
that
right!” Neal growled. He wasn’t thinking about the plane crash now; he was remembering his wife. It had been a lousy marriage from the start. They had been too young, too naive, too swept away with emotion to realize that they were not really in love—more “in lust”—when they dashed off to a justice of the peace to tie the knot. Still, Nancy had done her best to make it work. It might have, eventually.

Who knows?
Neal thought. Who would ever know now?

Nancy hadn’t deserved her fate. She had given the guy in the ski mask her money. Why had he also demanded her life? And even then, Neal hadn’t been on the scene to ease her last hours. He had been off in the desert, fighting the good fight, living the soldier’s life that he loved above all else.

Watching Neal’s expression turn from distress to despair, Dr. Kirkwood asked quietly, “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about right now. It might help to talk about it.”

Neal uttered a pained laugh. “Not likely!”

Kirkwood shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t want to rush you.”

Neal glanced around the room, trying to get his mind off the past. He noted the antique furnishings, the tarnished trappings of a former age. Beyond the heavily draped windows, he spied a giant tulip poplar shimmering against the wooded backdrop. Funny, he hadn’t noticed that big tree by the pond before.

“What kind of place is this anyway? I thought I was coming to a hospital. I thought there would be other vets here, guys I could relate to. So far, except for the staff, I haven’t seen anyone younger than the pyramids.”

“Swan’s Quarter is basically a retirement home.”

“You mean a
nursing home
, don’t you, Doc? A place where families dump their old people when they don’t want them around any longer?”

Leonard Kirkwood shook his head, patiently. “We don’t like to think of Swan’s Quarter that way. We do have a lot of elderly people here, but we do everything in our power to make their final years as full and happy as we can. That was the purpose that Mrs. Swan had in mind when she donated the house and the land. This was a fine plantation in the last century. The Swan family were early settlers here in Virginia. Five members of the family—the father and all four of his sons—rode off to the Civil War together. Only two of them returned. At the close of the war, the remaining family member, Mrs. Melora Swan, donated her home to be used as a retreat for aging Confederate veterans. And so it was, until the last one died at an advanced age. At that time, this became a private sanatorium, a rest home, if you will. A place for people like you to come and sort out their problems, or simply a home where those without places of their own could live and feel they belong. As for our golden-agers, we like to think they stay because they are happy here. Our younger patients tend to come, then leave to return to normal, productive lives, as I’m sure you will one of these days, Neal.”

Neal wasn’t listening. Distracted by some movement out beyond the tulip poplar, he kept his gaze trained on a figure dressed in red and white, as she glided up the path toward the main house.

“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing toward the window.

Kirkwood swung his chair around to look. His solemn countenance broke into a wide smile. “Her name is Ginna,” he said quietly.

“Is she a patient here?”

“No. She comes every week to visit.”

“Some of her folks here?”

The doctor shook his head. “No. As far as I know, she has no family. Several years ago, before I came here, she started coming to Swan’s Quarter to visit an elderly patient. I believe she had been Ginna’s foster mother, when she was young. After the woman passed on, Ginna continued her visits. I think of her almost as a member of my staff. She’s made many friends here and does a lot for morale. Her visits give our people something to look forward to. They can count on Ginna. She never disappoints them.”

“I guess she must live nearby? One of those do-gooders, compulsive volunteers?”

“I don’t know where she lives. Actually, I don’t know much of anything about her. But I do know that everyone here looks forward to Mondays because of Ginna. I wouldn’t call her a
do-gooder
, though. That kind usually wants something in return for their good deeds. Ginna seems to come only for the enjoyment she derives from being with the people here at Swan’s Quarter. She’s certainly a ray of light to a lot of our older patients, especially the ones who don’t have any other visitors. I’m glad she’s arrived. I was getting worried.”

“About what?” Ginna had disappeared from view. Neal turned his attention back to Dr. Kirkwood.

“She’s late today. Several of the ladies came to me wanting to know why. Of course, I have no idea what delayed her. But I was afraid she might be ill. She’s here now, though, so I won’t worry about it. She’s probably headed for the veranda to have tea with Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister.”

“The ‘terrible threesome,’” Neal said, with a laugh.

Kirkwood tried to hide a smile. “Where’d you hear that?”

“From old Marcellus Lynch. I don’t think he likes them much. He says they’re stuck-up busybodies. He warned me to stay clear of them.”

Now the doctor chuckled. “Don’t mind Lynch. He’s just jealous. They get to spend more time with Ginna than he does. He’s fallen madly in love with her, you see.”

“That old coot?
In love?”

“Be kind, Neal. You’ll be as old as Marcellus, someday.”

“God forbid! Which brings us back to my main problem. How do I deal with living to a ripe old age? I don’t think I can tolerate this guilt that long.”

“For now, my advice to you is to mix with the others. Get to know them. Share your story and listen to theirs. I think you’ll begin to feel better, once you realize that you aren’t the only one here with problems.”

“I know that, but it doesn’t help much right now.”

“Give it time, Neal. Take each day as it comes. Believe me, things will get better.” Dr. Kirkwood rose, signaling an end to their session. “Why don’t you go out on the veranda and join the ladies for tea? I have it on the best authority that the ‘terrible threesome’ are dying to meet you.”

“Thanks, Doc, but I don’t think tea is exactly my thing.”

“You’d like to meet Ginna, wouldn’t you?”

Neal felt torn. The solitude of his room seemed infinitely safer. “You’re
sure
she’s with the others on the veranda?”

Kirkwood nodded and smiled. “The same as every Monday.”

“Then maybe I’ll wander out there and just have a look around.”

Bald, rotund Marcellus Lynch had joined the tea party by the time Neal Frazier ambled onto the front veranda. For the past few minutes, Lynch had been regaling the four women with tales of his exploits as a young diplomat in the foreign service, dropping names and royal connections as profusely as he dropped cookie crumbs down the front of his well-dated green polyester leisure suit. Every few minutes, Sister would hold up two fingers, her signal to their uninvited guest that she had heard that story before. Of course, Marcellus ignored her and blustered on, trying to impress Ginna with the sophistication and worldliness of his former years. Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister were not impressed. Pansy had sneaked a good look at his file and knew the truth—that he was a retired mail carrier from Hoboken, New Jersey, who had never traveled farther than his trip down to Virginia to be checked into Swan’s Quarter. Seemed he’d had a drinking problem and his only daughter wanted her boozing father removed from the immediate vicinity of his young grandchildren. At least that was Sister’s guess from the information Pansy gleaned from Lynch’s file.

Neal stood by the door, pretending to scan the countryside for several minutes, before he could work up the nerve to make his move. This also gave him a chance for a better look at the group. The three old women were all very different. Elspeth was black with a tight cap of springy white hair, pulled tightly into a knot on the back of her head. She cradled a badly battered doll in one arm, as if it were a baby, from time to time speaking to it, calling it “Miss Precious.” Elspeth was almost as skinny as the one named Sister—“the bossy one,” old Lynch had told him earlier. Her hair was white, too, but she wore it down and chopped straight around at earlobe length, short and severe. Her face was a roadmap of lines, and he couldn’t imagine her ever smiling. Pansy was as plump and pink as a baby. He noticed that even her fingers were dimpled. Her white hair fluffed out about her shoulders, like a girl’s. She smiled almost constantly and seemed to defer to the other two at every turn. Pansy, he figured, had been a follower all her life, never a leader.