“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 Ngãi 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 ofCatch-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.
