I'm trying to make the best of it, I really am. I expected things to be different here than other stationings, more chaotic, but not like this. The doctors here, the work they do is beyond belief, true miracles, but out of the OR? They are beyond belief there too. I know they are draftees, but there should be a difference between draftees and outlaws. Or so I thought.
She closed the door, pulled her cardigan closer around her and took a deep breath. So endlessly tired, it was in her bones, in her very being. Her shift had ended a while back, but she had stayed. Lingered. Insisted on doing the paperwork herself. It had happened so fast. One minute he was there, talking about the red record player he had bought before he left and his Hank Williams collection. The next minute he was gone, just a shape under a sheet. Growing cold. She could never get used to it. It was unacceptable.
Her legs felt strange as she started to make her way to her tent. Like they didn't even belong to her. Like she was moving through high water.
There were voices, laughter, soaring through the air. Pierce and McIntyre, sitting outside their tent. The Swamp, such a suitable name for that horrible, stinking place. Frank was a hero for not going insane in there, that was for sure.
They were drinking, of course. Of course, they had to do it outside, had to let everyone know how much fun they were having, what rebellious jokesters they were. She truly didn't have the energy to deal with them tonight, why did she have to pass them on her way to her tent? Maybe she could just walk around and come back the other way. No, she'd be damned if she'd let a couple of juvenile delinquencies dictate where she went. She straightened her back, set her jaw firm, and her eyes on her tent.
"Ah, what do we have here, a lovely lady of the night drifting by."
Pierce. His voice slurred and so loud, ripping the stillness of the night apart. In the corner of her eye, she saw him get up from the crate he'd been sitting on, heard his steps in the gravel as he hurried to catch up to her, his boots dragging.
"Why, if it isn't the majorly gorgeous Major Houlihan, coming directly from post-op where she has spent her night filling the heads of all American boys with improper thoughts and naughty dreams. Here she is now, gracing this dirty compound with her best wiggle walk, making two weary warriors' night that much more exciting."
"It is shaping up to be a very shapely evening, indeed", McIntyre said in a faux British accent, catching up to her too.
Why were they so intent on making her uncomfortable, to get a rise out of her? Why was it like a sport to them? And why did they affect her like this, it wasn't like she hadn't come across their kind before. Growing up on army bases hardened you in many ways, but there was something about these two that made her shrink, made her words get caught in her throat. Comments and insinuations had been thrown at her since she was 12, but it shouldn't be that way anymore. Her rank was supposed to protect her.
It was Pierce, especially, with his damn eyebrows always raised, oozing content, looking down on everyone who didn't share his exact views of the world. So used to having everything his way. But then again, so was she. Pierce was like an octopus, he latched on to a person's weakness and just drowned them, drowned everything in his word tentacles.
Now, he was walking so close behind her he was practically stepping on her heels.
"Hey, Major, you look really stressed, doesn't she Trap?"
"Very much so, very tense indeed. What's the matter, honey, has Frank's performance been lacking lately? Has he been slacking off his duties?"
They both laughed, and it sent shivers down her spine.
"Major," Pierce continued, "did you hear about this new way of releasing tension? It involves two doctors, one nurse, any horizontal surface…"
They laughed again. Stupid, brawling laughs, the kind she had heard all her life. The 'boys will be boys'-laugh, the 'oh, calm down, they are just letting off steam'-kind of laugh. The kind that made you walk faster at night, but never run, never let them know you're afraid, just keep your head down, clutch your keys between your fingers, and hope.
No. No more. Not one second more would she put up with their disgusting jokes, their filthy insinuations. Enough. Just enough.
She stopped. Turned on her heel and stared Pierce straight in the eyes. She could hear McIntyre giggle still as he caught up with them. Pierce's grin grew wide, like a wolf, the shadows on his face made it look like a mask.
"Oh, look, she's intrigued by this new method," Pierce said, bumping McIntyre with his elbow. "Well, fair lady, me and my partner here will be more than happy to show you. If you just step this way…"
"He died, you know", she said before he could continue. "Corporal Hayden. I sat with him. Major Burns called it."
Pierce's grin disappeared and his face fell slack. In just the blink of an eye, he looked ten years older. Only fair, for every last breath, every sheet pulled over a young face, she felt herself grow older too. Grow heavier. And for every comment out of their dirty mouths, she felt her skin grow harder.
"Well, if Frank called it, maybe we should…" McIntyre started but Pierce stopped him with a motion of his hand. His eyes were dark, his gaze still held hers. The moment stretched and it felt like they were suspended in time, his eyes burning into hers, looking for an answer she wished she had.
"Fuck!"
His yell was loud and sharp, it made her flinch. He threw the martini glass he was carrying, it made a bow in the air and shattered against a barrel.
"Goddammit, I thought I had it!"
"Hawk, you did everything you could." McIntyre put his hands on Pierce's shoulder, but he shook it off.
"It wasn't enough, was it? It's never enough!"
Margaret turned around and started to walk away, she couldn't stand to be in their presence anymore. Of course, Pierce was the one who got to have the glorious tantrum. Of course, it was all about him, his frustrations, his suffering. Of course, he felt entitled to break something. Benjamin Franklin Pierce, the Great White Surgeon, he was the one who got the comfort. Not her. When she got upset, she was just a bitch. Even though she was the one who had been there, the one with the memory of Hayden humming "The Old Country Church" and then just going quiet.
She was supposed to keep her mouth shut while Pierce got to smash glass, no thought that it might hurt someone else, maybe someone with paws. Maybe one of the scrawny cats that ran around camp. She needed to go out and pick up the shards later. That was what nurses were for, wasn't it? To pick up the pieces, while the surgeons moved on, just another step on the ladder to fame and glory. She was so tired. And she was sick of looking at him, his dirty hair, his disgusting robe, his foul mouth.
"Hey, Margaret." Pierce caught up and got in front of her.
"What?" she snapped. "Am I walking away too fast? Should I slow down, for your viewing pleasure?"
He shook his head.
"No." His voice was low and deep, the grin on his face long gone. "Thank you. For sitting with him. And you were perfect in the OR before, you were handing me instruments before I even knew I needed them. I could swear there was a little bit of Radar in you."
She bit her teeth together, fully expecting him to turn what he just said into a dirty joke, but he didn't. He kept her gaze again and the look in his eyes was something she hadn't seen before. Lost. He looked lost. It made her feel lost too.
"In my book, Hayden couldn't have asked for a better nurse. Neither could I."
She swallowed, and it felt like something big and sharp was caught in her throat. Like she was full of shards too. Full of cracks. She wanted to be alone now. Brush her hair and put on her own robe, clean and soft. Look at the picture of her and Helen from the beach, big grins, and straight American teeth. No blood on their hands.
"Thank you, doctor," she said, the lump in her throat made her voice hitch a little, and it ended in more of a sigh.
She started to walk towards her tent again, she still felt Pierce's eyes on her, but it wasn't in the same way anymore. For once, his gaze didn't make her want to speed up.
Finally, she could close the door behind her. She turned on the bedside lamp, slipped out of her clothes and into her bathrobe. It felt like a soft whisper against her skin. She sat down in front of the mirror and looked at herself. Her eyes were cast in shadow, making it look like she too was wearing a mask, just like Pierce. Maybe she was. Maybe they all were, how else was it possible to survive in this place?
She grabbed the brush and started to run it through her hair while humming a song she last heard on the lips of a young man who was now growing cold under a sheet. In whose room, in a place far, far away, a red record player stood waiting for its owner to come home. Somewhere, two parents walked around, not yet aware that their lives had changed forever. Or maybe they did know, somehow.
Her motions got slower as she stared at herself, wondering if it ever would be easier. If a time would come when she didn't feel so much. Got attached in a second. It was their eyes. She shouldn't look into them, should just stare at their charts, their dog tags. But she looked them in the eyes and gave away a little piece of her heart. Pieces to the blue. To the green. To the brown. The grey ones that reminded her of the mist over the lake by her grandmother's house. She gave away pieces of her heart to eyes that would never open again. Soon, there would be nothing left, just a vacuum in her chest. A black hole.
She sighed and picked up the pace again. 100 strokes, every night. Routines were good. Safe. It was control. She couldn't control bullets and shrapnel tearing young men apart, but she could control her appearance. It was futile and stupid, but she would be damned if she didn't do it. It was an incantation. A spell to keep the walls tall and strong. To heal the cracks. The many, many cracks and a disintegrating heart.