"Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, —
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows;
The young birds are chirping in the nest;
The young fawns are playing with the shadows;
The young flowers are blowing toward the west—
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free."
Elisabeth Barret Browning
The scream pierced the air of the otherwise quiet afternoon, making it shiver. It dug itself into Margaret's skin with sharp claws, down to her bones, and she started to run. Tore the door to post -op open and looked around.
Over to the left were Colonel Potter and Pierce, their voices animated, gesturing at Father Mulcahy on his knees on the floor, reaching in under the bed.
The scream seemed never-ending, like the lungs it emanated from didn't need any air, like there was too much terror that had to be let out.
"What's going on?"
Colonel Potter and Pierce both turned to her.
"It's the little girl," Potter said. "She woke up as I was checking her bandages, and she was not happy to see me."
The scream broke off for a second, only to pick up again, with new intensity. So much fear and sorrow in such a small body. They didn't even know her name, just that this morning the little girl had a mother and a brother, and now she did not. The hut she had lived in was now only a heap of ashes.
"She tried to tear them off and slunk in under the bed."
"So, the three of you decided to crowd in on her and terrify her even more?" Margaret said, while the scream reverberated in her very soul.
"We have to get her out, if she manages to tear the bandages off, the burns are gonna get infected under there," Pierce said. Margaret didn't care for his tone. Condescending. It sounded like he was talking to a child who didn't understand the severity of the situation.
"How do you think that is working out for you?" she snapped and stared up at him.
Did these men have no sense at all? She looked down at Father Mulcahy down on the floor, through the wailing she heard him mumble what she assumed were words of comfort. So well-meaning, but all wrong. He was wrong, all three of them were.
"She has seen men kill her family, men burning her home down, and now all she sees in big boots and men trying to grab her. Don't you see the problem here? It's you, it's the three of you. Can all of you just go away?"
"Major, I'm not trying to… " Mulcahy started, sitting up on his knees, but Margaret cut him off.
"No. I don't care. Just back off and let me handle this."
"I say a woman's touch is very much needed here," Potter said. "Everyone lacking those double X's will step away. "
"But Colonel…" Pierce began, but Potter silenced him with a raised hand.
Father Mulcahy got up off the floor and opened his mouth to say something too, but closed it again when Margaret glared at him. Colonel Potter herded both him and Pierce over to the desk.
The screams from under the bed turned into sobs as they backed away. Margaret could hear the little girl whine, hiccup a little when she drew in a breath. Poor, poor soul.
She buttoned up her white coat quickly, white was a better color than green right now, a kinder one. She took a step towards the bed, and then stopped, bent down and untied her boots, pulled them off, and dropped them on the empty cot next to her. This girl did not need to hear the sound of approaching boots.
She slowly got down on the floor, first on her knees and then on her stomach. It was dark under the bed, but she could still clearly make out the small shape. Long hair over a pale face, eyes like big, black wells. The white bandages on her arms seemed to glow.
"Hi sweetheart," Margaret whispered.
The girl sobbed and hiccupped, but the screaming didn't start up again.
"I know you're scared, honey, but I promise you that you are safe now. I wish I knew how to say that in your language. I'm so very sorry for what happened to you. It's gonna be okay."
No, it wasn't, of course it wasn't, but Margaret kept letting the words flow out of her mouth. Kind words, words of comfort. The few words she knew in Korean that might be calming mixed in there. Time stretched, and it felt like the rest of the world faded away. All that was left were the big eyes staring at her. When she couldn't find any more words, she began to sing quietly. A lullaby her grandmother had taught her, about ships with broken sails out on stormy seas.
About halfway through the song, there was movement under the bed. The child whined a little, and faster than Margaret would have expected started to crawl toward her. Margaret moved backward, wanting to give the girl space, and started to sit up, but in a second the girl had her arms around her neck, and Margaret fell back a little at the unexpected impact.
"Sweetheart, it's okay. It's okay."
She wrapped one arm around the child as she did her best to sit up. Colonel Potter and Pierce came hurrying over, bent down to help her before Margaret could shoo them away. When the girl realized they were there she started to wail again. She threw her upper body backward, only to snap right back again, and her forehead hit Margaret straight over the nose. It sent a flash of white, painful stars through her head, exploding and receding. She felt a warm trickle over her upper lip and quickly leaned her head back. The girl did not need to see more blood. She cradled the back of the girl's head with her hand, and started to hum again, while blood trickled down her throat and she did her best not to start coughing. Pierce and Potter helped them off the floor and then backed away quickly.
"Major, use my office," Potter said. Margaret gave him a tiny nod while still leaning her head back.
"Hey, Margaret." Pierce reached out as she passed him and handed her a handkerchief.
The girl was still sobbing when Margaret sank down in Potter's chair.
"There we go, honey," she whispered. "Calm down now, there's just the two of us. Nothing can hurt you."
She moved her hand in a circle over the girl's back, took deep, calm breaths, and let every exhale be a quiet 'shush'. It felt like the most primal sound, the one used to comfort young ones since the world was new.
It took a long time for the sobs to recede. Even as the girl's body grew heavier and more relaxed, they still coursed through her body. Margaret rocked her gently, the girl's face tucked against her neck, her breathing becoming deeper. Outside she could hear motors, voices. People talking in the other room too, a phone call it seemed.
Her nose still throbbed with a dull pain, but the blood had stopped running down her throat and the handkerchief came back white when she gently pressed it against her nostrils.
When she was sure the child was asleep, she carefully shifted a little to a more comfortable position and checked the bandages. They looked alright; no damage done there. The damage was in the girl's every fiber, though, etched into her very being. The burns on her skin would heal, but what about the rest of her? Margaret leaned her cheek against the child's silken hair.
"I wish I could be there," she whispered. "Make sure you're okay forever."
A light tapping on the door made her look up, and she saw Pierce through the small window. She nodded and he walked in, closed the door quietly behind him. He had her boots in his hand and carefully placed them on the bench by the window.
"She's asleep," Margaret said in a hushed voice.
"Poor thing," Pierce said, stepping a bit closer. "Those screams, they went through marrow and bone, didn't they? No child should scream like that. You did good, Margaret."
"It's just temporary, though. She'll be off soon, and who will pick her up then?"
She could feel the prickle of tears behind her nose and sniffled.
"You got some…" Pierce said and gestured to his upper lip. "Here."
He walked over slowly and produced another handkerchief from his pocket. She lifted her head up towards him and he gently wiped her upper lip clean from dry blood. It made her feel like a child too, small and sad, wanting nothing more than for someone to rock her, just fix everything.
He ran two fingers over her nose, very lightly.
"It's fine," he said. "just a little red. It's still cute."
He let his hand rest lightly on the girl's head and his other one on Margaret's shoulder, squeezing it a little. For a few seconds, the three of them formed an entity. A small circle, of hurt, protection, and healing. It wasn't enough, it didn't undo anything, but it was what they had, what they could offer. Warm hands and safe arms, even if it was just for a fleeting second.
"Everything is fine out there," he said before stepping away. "Stay here for a while, she needs this much more than she needs post-op. "
Margaret nodded and leaned her cheek against the girl's head again, while she heard Pierce leave the room and gently close the door behind him. She felt the hole in her heart grow bigger, the one that had started to build in the OR over the first wounded she had worked on. The hole that had kept growing, its edges getting more and more jagged over every body torn apart. Over the children. The little ones, whose thoughts should be childish, their bodies intact and their souls as well. Their biggest worry should be a scraped knee after a wild game or a dropped ice cream cone. Children whose eyes should be innocent, not old and sad, tired from fear and from living in a world that had claws. Fangs.
Wherever Margaret went, she would always carry the girl with her. A special little room deep inside only for her, filled with stuffed animals and warm blankets.
Maybe one day, when the girl had become a woman, safe and happy with only faint scars on her arms, she would remember a safe embrace. If she carried one memory through life, one memory from this place where she should never have been if the world only had been fair, Margaret hoped it would be this. Warm hands, safe arms, and a lullaby about ships with broken sails. Maybe the woman would lift her head, try to hear beyond the sound of her own children laughing or the wind in the trees, try and catch that little melody. The one echoing from a place she couldn't really remember. Maybe she would smile, hum a couple of notes, and feel a hand against her hair.
While the girl slept, Margaret held her close, breathed deep, and quietly sang the lullaby her grandmother taught her a long, long time ago. She reached her own hand through time and let it touch the old, wrinkled cheek, let her grandmother's quiet presence go through her and out into the girl, making time a bridge.
Maybe it worked, if only ever so little.