She looked up at the sky and saw no stars, just the dark November sky.
Early Sunday morning and the city was quiet below. She stood barefoot by the window drinking coffee from her big mug with flowers and birds on it. Back in Korea, she would dream about the slow, luxurious breakfasts she would have when she got back. Warm toast with real butter, strawberry-rhubarb marmalade, and cheddar cheese. Eggs with the perfect, creamy yolk. Waffles. And coffee. Strong, hot, and fragrant. Over a year had passed, and she didn't even have a toaster. But that was okay, she had time. And she did have a big mug full of strong coffee. The silence of a Sunday morning.
And the memory of a dream. She had been out by the minefield. There had been someone standing on the other side, someone with his back turned and his long coat blowing in the wind. He wouldn't turn around when she called out, and she had gotten more and more frustrated until she couldn't stand it anymore. When she took the first step out into the field, she woke with a gasp.

Wandering alone was okay. Preferably, really. Peter had been so sorry he couldn't spend the night. He had spent the better part of the evening, though, sitting with his arm around her in front of the tv. The tv he had bought for her. That had pissed her off, she had told him she wanted to buy one, and one day there had been a knock on the door and there Peter was, smiling like a wolf in front of two men carrying a heavy package. She couldn't tell anyone about it, though, because who in their right mind would be annoyed about such an expensive gift, to be upset that she didn't get to spend her own money.
Peter was so nice. So handsome. "Such a catch," the other nurses would whisper when he came to pick her up. "And rich, he's loaded, isn't he, Margaret?"
And he was so handsome, sweet, and loaded. Just so overwhelming, his energy always taking over the room. He reminded her of Frank, in a way, the way he would fill up her tent with his own kind of nervous energy. Frank had been easier, though, she could just order him to be quiet. Lipless and great at following orders. What a catch.
Peter was lovely and thoughtful, caring and so attentive it made her want to scream. Last night, his arm around her felt like a prison, and the way he always looked at her when something was funny to make sure she was laughing too, annoyed her so much it felt like her entire body was full of crawling insects.
He was everything she could ever want, why couldn't she just be content? A custom fit. Finally.
She liked when they went to the art museum, walked arm in arm through the halls, talking in hushed voices. When Margaret was a child, her mother took her to the El Paso Art Museum. Her mother had been so pretty with her hair done and red lipstick and had talked in that same, hushed voice. Margaret used to wish she could live in a place where people whispered to each other. What was said in a whisper had to be terribly important. Then her mother stopped taking her places, started to yell instead of whisper, her lipstick became smeared, and could Margaret please go play outside, mommy has a headache.
Margaret herself grew up and learned to make her voice shrill and strong so people would have to listen.
She liked how protective Peter was of her, except when it annoyed her. He'd make her laugh with some very good impressions of stuffy, old judges or members of the jury. Sometimes when she'd had a bad day at work, he would make her an ice cream sundae with extra maraschino cherries. She had told him once that was her favorite treat as a child, and it was so sweet of him even though it made her feel like a child all over again. Like maybe he should just adopt her instead of dating her. She had jokingly told him that once, and he did not find it funny.
He would hold her when she woke up from a nightmare, he didn't understand, but he did try.

Her mind felt tangled. She rested her forehead against the window, her breath fogging up the glass. She raised her hand to draw a heart but stopped because she wasn't 14 anymore. She was ancient. The army should have informed them that three years in Korea equaled an eternity.
She had come home ancient and brand new, her walls brought down and her heart exposed, her old beliefs washed away by blood.

She exhaled heavily and drew a heart anyway. An anatomically correct one.

The city was still quiet and Sunday sleepy out there. A few miles away, Peter would wake up soon. Shower, get dressed, and have breakfast. At the kitchen table, of course.
Peter was not one to wander around barefoot with his coffee, that was just not sensible. He would brush his teeth and pick up the suitcase he no doubt had left by the door the night before and be on his way to the airport to fly off to the conference. He was organized like that. Sturdy. She had been too, once.

Her feet were cold, so she walked over to the couch, settled in the corner, and swept a blanket around her. On the shelf underneath the coffee table was a stack of letters. Letters from Hannibal, Mill Valley, and Boston. She had received news about a record-breaking trout caught in White River and a boysenberry pie winning first prize at the State Fair. A little girl being the most precious thing in the world, and the first day of kindergarten. Triumphs in the OR, and fundraiser dinners that sounded so fancy it made her palms sweat.
But nothing from Maine, not even a postcard. Not that she had sent anything either. But she had started a letter. One hundred times.

"Dear Hawkeye." That seemed strange. "Dear Ben." "Pierce." "Hank," maybe.

"Dear Hank, I saw a hideous Hawaiian shirt in a store window today and almost cried."

"Dear Hank, I dreamed about captain Jenkins the other night, you know, the one with the neck. He tried to tell me something, but he couldn't, he just kept choking."

"Dear Hank, I miss you. I miss the way you looked when you snuck into my tent late at night, like you had pulled off the greatest heist ever. I miss the way your arms felt like home, and I miss the way I felt when you told me I'd done well. I miss the way you used to wink at me sometimes, like we were part of a secret club. And we were. I miss our secret club."

"Dear Hank, I'm seeing someone. Someone charming and smart. Nice and safe. Worships the ground I walk on. It should be everything I ever wanted, but I think Korea ruined me. I've been chasing normal, but this is it and I don't like it. Except sometimes I do. I don't really know what we were in Korea. Friends for sure. Lovers, maybe. Do you love a lover? Did I? Did you? Do you ever think about me? Are those thoughts happy? Are you happy? Am I? Are we even capable anymore?"

Oh yes, that would be a wonderful letter to send. The ramblings of a crazy woman.

She got up from the couch, suddenly the soft cushions and the warm blanket annoyed her. While waiting for a fresh pot of coffee to brew, she looked out the window again, the sky showing the first signs of dawn. She stared at her reflection and wondered who the woman staring back at her really was. The one who would form herself, transform, to please whatever man she wanted to impress. Just a lump of clay. A lump of clay with a head full of ghosts and thoughts pointing north. And a fresh pot of coffee brewing.
She would drink her coffee and wander, wait for daylight, and go for a walk. Stroll through morning-quiet neighborhoods, walk on asphalt that hid no mines, let her thoughts get untangled.
Let her mind go blank.