The nurses. The clique. I don't even know how it happened; I don't know when I became the enemy. Maybe it was when I demanded professionalism, had expectations. They keep snickering behind my back, some of them have taken to do this stupid little wave instead of saluting, no doubt inspired by a certain someone I don't even have the energy to think about, and it just irks me so much I can scream. So I do. I am trying so hard to be the leader dad taught me to be, but it just falls flat. I expected there to be a difference, when the scrubs come off, there was supposed to be something more, something in common, but there isn't. I slip into this role, it's not who I truly want to be, but it's all I know.
It's the role I've been given, and I play it so very well.
Margaret heard the laughter halfway across the compound. Great, just great. Why, why were there always other people in the showers when all you wanted was a moment to yourself? It was late, for crying out loud, people should be asleep. Several voices were coming from in there, well wasn't that just perfect, just her luck.
She was just about to open the door and step inside when she heard a voice, louder than the others. Jenkins, Margaret recognized the slow, southern drawl.
"I know, it's so sad! And weird, I mean she's pretty. In a stern, scary kind of way, but still pretty. She could do better, but she goes after that sniveling loser and all of those pudgy Generals. I mean, with all the action she sees, you would think she would be a lot more relaxed, not just jump at everyone who blinks without permission."
"I know!" Abrams, Margaret recognized her voice too. "It's been like a parade in and out of her tent. At that pace, you would think she would have made Brigadier General by now."
"Yes!" Jenkins again. "Did you see the one last week, the one with the droopy face? He could barely stand up straight around her and she was just freaking beaming! I swear, it was like watching a nature documentary. I mean, some part of her was blooming!"
A wave of shrieking laughter hit Margaret, someone in there made an attempt of shushing them all down. Margaret felt like she had turned to stone, her hand still hovering just above the handle.
"Whenever a General is near, she's just… presenting, you know? Like one of those monkeys, you know the ones with the…" Jenkins said, and the others cackled with laughter, wasn't Jenkins quite the comedy queen. "But I guess it's only logical, that is her best asset for sure!"
The laughter again, and once more a muffled plead to keep it down. A hand deep inside Margaret had taken hold of her insides and twisted them. Hard, over and over. She almost tore the door open, ready to storm in and yell. Scream until they were all shivering in a corner. But she stopped herself. She could just hear them, 'But Major, we weren't talking about you, what made you think that', and that would make everything a hundred times worse. She could just imagine them, so innocent, just a bunch of good girls, scolded by an evil bitch monster from hell. Margaret took a deep breath as the laughter continued inside. No, she wouldn't give them that. Would never let them know that their words got to her. She could, however, even the score a bit.
She let her hand made of stone fall down on the handle and yanked the door open.
There were four of them in there. Jenkins, Abrams, Paver, and McMahon. Four heads turned towards Margaret; eight eyes grew wide. She stared at them, kept her gaze firm and cold as she let her eyes move over them slowly. She let them rest on Jenkins, who was standing next to the shower booth dressed in a pink bathrobe that matched the color creeping onto her cheeks.
The silence was pressing, and for a few seconds, no one even seemed to breathe.
"Major," Paver said and grabbed her towel, wrapped it around her quickly as she got out of the shower. "We thought you were asleep."
"I'm sure you did," Margaret said, making her voice as cold as her eyes.
"Sorry, we'll be out of here in a second."
Paver grabbed the sleeve of Jenkin's bathrobe and pulled her with her. They both started to collect their clothes from the bench.
"Oh, Jenkins, I've been meaning to talk to you," Margaret said. "You're on report."
"What? Why?" Jenkins turned to Margaret with her hastily gathered belongings pressed to her chest.
"You've been late for your shift two times this week, that's unacceptable."
"But Major, it was only for two minutes."
Jenkins took a step towards Margaret. The nurse was a good half a head taller, but if there was one thing Margaret had learned from her years in the army it was to puff herself up, make her opponent feel like Margaret was the one looking down on them.
"Really, Jenkins. Just two minutes? Well, that's fine then, nothing could possibly happen to the patients in two minutes, right? Can you even begin to comprehend how quickly a patient can be in serious trouble, or were you absent the day they covered that back in nursing school? I can't have my nurses gallivanting around camp as they please. I swear, it would be easier to manage a flock of monkeys than a group of what is supposed to be professional nurses."
The pink on Jenkins's cheeks turned crimson in a second and it pleased Margaret immensely. She took a step closer.
"One more screw-up, and you're out. Do I make myself clear?"
She could see Jenkins' jaws press together; it formed a hollow in her cheeks.
"Yes, ma'am," she mumbled, her eyes shooting daggers. Margaret stared right back, she was the queen of icy stares, no one could take her down.
"Good. Then we understand each other. Now, all of you better get to bed. It's late. You don't want to be late in the morning, do you?"
There were mumbles of 'Yes, ma'am', 'No, ma'am' and 'Good night, ma'am'. McMahon pushed Jenkins in front of her as they all hurried outside. The door slammed shut, and Margaret was alone.
She heard the hurried steps and hushed voices disappear into the night as the nurses made their way to their tent. Margaret could very vividly imagine what they were saying, the words of indignation that would fill their tent that night, making the walls tremble with the tales of woe about the horrible, evil Major Houlihan, who sucked the joy out of everything.
Well, maybe if the nurses spent a little more time focusing on their work and a little less time gossiping, they wouldn't be in this situation. If they could show just the tiniest bit of respect for a superior officer. Small things, like maybe showing up to their shifts on time, wasn't that a crazy idea. Keep their noses out of other people's business.
Margaret threw her bathrobe on the bench and slammed the shower booth door shut behind her, pulled the lever for the water. Hot, well, wasn't that something. If the nurses had used all the hot water, Margaret wouldn't have hesitated a second to put them all on report in the morning. Insubordinate, big-mouthed bunch of…
She let the water rush over her head, washing their voices away.
Why could nothing in this camp just be private? How she chose to spend her free time was nobody's business but hers. Who she chose to spend her time with was nobody's business. It hadn't even been very enjoyable. Damn!
Margaret slammed her hand against the shower booth wall.
Somewhere along the way, to smile and say yes had become second nature to her.
Margaret let the water run over her face, and without really wanting it, her mind traveled back in time to when it all began.
She had just turned 14 the first time she noticed it. It was at one of the social gatherings on the base. She could still remember how the lace of her lavender dress scratched her neck, it was too stiff. Her mother had ordered her to wear that stupid thing, Margaret herself wanted to wear green.
She was bored to tears. With Lorraine, these events were fun, the two of them usually just sneaked off somewhere. Once, they had taken a whole tray of these puffy little shrimp hors d'oeuvres and snuck up on the roof. The ones they hadn't eaten, they had thrown at the cars parked below. Lorraine had won by somehow managing to get one impaled on the antenna of a very nice Chrysler. They had laughed about that for weeks afterward.
But Lorraine was sick, home with a stupid cold.
Margaret saw Lorraine's parents, arms linked as they made their way around the room, their laughter genuine, the looks they gave each other loving. Lorraine's family was so much fun, Margaret loved spending time at their house. Mrs. Anderson was always laughing, there was always music playing, always something cooking on the stove or baking in the oven. Just a couple of weeks earlier, Mrs. Anderson had taught both girls how to put lipstick on using a fine brush.
As Margaret followed her parents around the room, she rubbed her lips together and felt the smooth, creamy texture of the lipstick she was wearing. She wasn't supposed to wear makeup, and it felt exciting and forbidden. A pale shade of pink, she and Lorraine had picked it out down at the drugstore. Pale pink for Margaret and fuchsia for Lorraine. Her parents weren't as strict.
Earlier in the evening, before they left, Margaret had kept her head down, hoping her parents wouldn't notice. There had been no reason to worry, though, neither of them had looked at her for more than two seconds. They hadn't looked at each other either, the silence in the car had been deafening. Then, in perfect unison as soon as they stepped out, their smiles were in place. The perfect couple with their perfect daughter. The perfect choreography in the perfect play.
Margaret followed them around, smiling politely at everyone while restlessness coursed through her body like a battalion of angry ants.
"Al Houlihan, how long has it been?"
In the corner of her eye, Margaret saw her father shake hands with someone once again. They slapped each other's shoulders in a way that must have hurt.
"Andrew, you remember my wife?"
"Of course I do, I never forget a beautiful face."
Margaret watched the man kiss her mother's hand. Her mother giggled, and Margaret had to force herself from rolling her eyes too hard. That shrill, tipsy giggle always made her skin crawl.
"And my daughter, Margaret."
Margaret put on the polite smile again and looked up at the man. He had steel gray hair and light blue eyes. Very intense light blue eyes.
"No. This is not your daughter, Al! Your daughter is a scrawny eight-year-old, with scrapes on her knees and no front teeth. It can't be this gorgeous young lady. Takes after her mother, I see."
Margaret felt the corners of her mouth twitch and her cheeks turn a little warm. Beside her, her father laughed and slapped the man's shoulder again. It was a proud laugh, it really was. They were few and far apart, but Margaret always recognized them when she heard them.
The man took her hand and brought it up to his lips, brushing them lightly over her skin, just like he had done to her mother. Margaret met his eyes and let her smile grow wider.
The man had turned out to be Andrew Langan, an old friend of her fathers from the cavalry. The way he looked at Margaret woke something up inside of her, something new and unexplored opened its eyes and stretched towards the light. He looked at her for real, not just as Al's daughter, a child who knew nothing, but as a real person. As a woman. He talked to her several times during the night, asked about her interests and her plans, and he actually listened. Like she was an equal, like she mattered. Like he really saw her.
She noticed it more and more after that, how men looked at her. While her father remained a closed office door or a silent presence at the dinner table when he wasn't away, other men were around. It was so easy too, to just let a gaze linger, let a smile grow wide. It was a little scary at first, but the attention was addictive, intoxicating. And then, some time later, a line was crossed, and there was no going back. Not that she wanted to. She didn't think so anyway.
Margaret tore her thoughts away from her younger self and reached for her shampoo.
She had never, ever done anything for a promotion, though. Not that all the gossips in camp would believe it, they would never be interested in the truth when the image they had created of her was so much more interesting. Actually, she could have made both first Lieutenant and Captain a lot sooner if she had just accepted certain offers from certain superior officers. No one in camp knew that, of course, they just assumed and let their tongues run wild.
And even if she had accepted those offers and just paid the price, would that have been so horrible? If sleeping with someone was what needed to be done to simply even the field, put herself on the same level as the guys, was that really so wrong? Men were always just handed things, just being born gave them an advantage in life. Women were supposed to be meek and compliant, put their heads down and work hard, just wait and hope someone would notice them. Not be heard, not be seen, absolutely not doing the one thing that might actually get them one step up the ladder. The thing she hadn't even done. So goddamn unfair!
Margaret realized she was rubbing her scalp too hard and tore her hands away, grabbed the edge of the shower booth, and exhaled. No. No more now.
She would not let the nurse's words get to her, she needed to let it run off her, like water off a duck's back. If the nurses couldn't perform their duties on an acceptable level, if they couldn't stand to be corrected, if they couldn't keep track of the stupid clock, that was on them. They were the ones who got personal, stuck their noses where they didn't belong, they couldn't even handle being corrected for a badly performed job. Like Browers, who had transferred out last week. If you use your patient as a needle cushion because you can't find a vein in more than 5 attempts and can't stand being shown how to do it correctly, then no, maybe you shouldn't be here. In a place where time mattered more than anything. But apparently Margaret was the evil one for demonstrating how in should be done. What was she supposed to have done, given Browers a gold star for trying? None of the others had seen that poor private grimace in pain as Browers failed at finding a vein yet again, they had only seen Browers' tears because Margaret didn't treat her like a vulnerable little princess, hadn't thrown her a parade for just showing up. Didn't anyone here want to be better, why was it such a crime to expect some kind of ambition? Why couldn't people just mind their own god damn business?
The hot stream of water turned into an icy current in a second, making Margaret gasp and reach for the lever. Perfect. She hadn't even got all of the shampoo out of her hair. Why couldn't anything work in this miserable place, just go her way for a second?
But fine, she could endure. The cold water, the incompetent nurses with their big mouths, the insinuations. Margaret turned the water back on and stepped under the cold stream. It would only hurt for a little while, like so many other things in life.
The cold wasn't that bad, really, it felt kind of good. It made her skin hard. Fortified it. Like anger, anger was good like that too. Made her cold, made her the horrible Ice Queen everyone apparently saw her as. When she wasn't running around, what was the word Jenkins had used, presenting? Blooming?
She hoped Jenkins would be late in the morning, make just one mistake. Anyone of them, just one mistake, one misplaces towel, just try and see what would happen.
If they expected cold, that's what they would get.
They hadn't seen anything yet.
Sometimes, at the end of everything, the only option you have is to make it worse.