Before dawn on her last day in-country, March 14, 1969, Frankie reflected on her transformation during two years of wartime nursing as she packed mementos—photos of friends and soldiers, a bracelet, a charm, and keepsakes tied to Barb Johnson, Ethel Flint, Jamie Callahan, and Rye Walsh. She acknowledged fear about returning to a stateside life that might no longer fit her.

Rye met Frankie at her hooch and flew her to Saigon for her departure. On the tarmac amid distant gunfire and explosions, Rye tried to speak an unspoken fear before parting; Frankie cut in with “I love you,” and they embraced. Avoiding the word goodbye, they separated, and Frankie boarded as soldiers watched the door in tense silence until the plane lifted clear of Vietnamese airspace. As others cheered, Frankie felt unexpected sorrow, recognizing that Vietnam had made her feel alive and purposeful.

After a long journey and a layover at Travis Air Force Base, Frankie landed at LAX. There, protesters confronted her with derision—spitting and calling her a “Nazi bitch” and “baby killer.” Two Marines flanked and helped her retrieve her bag, but cab drivers refused her fares; she resorted to buses and endured more spitting and hostile stares. The indifference of bystanders deepened her sense of alienation.

Reaching Coronado after hours of travel, Frankie took in familiar seaside sights and childhood memories, briefly soothed by the sounds and smells of home. She envisioned the comfort she had longed for—hot baths, safety, and simple walks—then entered her parents’ house, eager for a warm welcome.

Her father, Dr. McGrath, appeared first, startled and stiff. Displeased by the surprise, he offered a brief hug and quickly left for a meeting. Frankie offered a photo for the family’s “heroes’ wall,” which he barely acknowledged. Her mother, Viv McGrath, embraced her and urged rest, noting Finley’s death and Frankie’s departure had changed her father. The contrast between the house’s curated perfection and Frankie’s wartime self—underscored by her childhood bedroom and hope chest—made her feel out of place.

Exhausted and unsettled by strangers’ hostility and her parents’ reactions, Frankie shed her wrinkled uniform, crawled into her childhood bed, and told herself tomorrow would be better, even as she sensed the widening gap between the woman she had become and the role expected of her at home.