Chapter 2

Margaret woke up early. She always did. So much time had passed, but it still seemed impossible for her to sleep past Reveille. She didn't really mind, though. Ever since she was a child, early mornings had been her favorite time of day. A secret little nook of existence, where the air was different, the sounds of the world had softer edges, and you could breathe at a different rhythm.
She turned over on her back and watched the pink hue of morning paint the ceiling a warm, pretty color. The air was quiet, just the sound of breathing and the faint whoosh of waves that crept in through the window left open a crack.
In the back of her head, she could still hear the sounds of camp, though, she did almost every morning. It was like those sounds had eaten their way into her skull and refused to let go. Noises from another lifetime. The sound of boots against gravel, muffled voices, a jeep starting with a rumble. Those were the good morning sounds, too often the stillness had been shattered by an announcement over the speakers and the sound of rotor blades tearing through the morning air.

She hadn't dreamed about camp, though, she had been sure she would, had been certain she would meet Colonel Potter there. Straight back, firm gaze, in his Class A uniform, perhaps. Or maybe he would sit on her bed, calm and quiet, eyes full of wisdom and stories. But there had been nothing but rest. How very fitting, Colonel Potter always had that effect on her, knew how to calm her down. Even from early on, before they were friends yet. Before he moved into her heart, became one of the people who made that muscle she had protected so fiercely turn soft and open up. One of the people who made the ice melt.
Colonel Potter, never Sherman, even though he had insisted every time they spoke back in the States, and she had tried. Those syllables felt too strange in her mouth, like she tried to force her tongue into formations it didn't like. They simply didn't go with the image of the short man with the kindest eyes.
Colonel Potter, it was almost like an incantation, like the name itself had mystical powers.
'I'll go talk to Colonel Potter', Margaret had thought so many times, always certain it would change things for the better. And so very often it had. Sometimes his mere presence helped quell whatever darkness was growing inside of her, made it retreat and soften. Sometimes his voice, barking some homemade proverb, made the clouds of her mind scatter. The power of a name.

Hawkeye moved beside her, sighed, and burrowed his head deeper into the pillow. After just a couple of seconds his breathing deepened again, and Margaret knew he wasn't even close to waking up yet. Maybe he was back in camp. Playing poker in The Swamp, perhaps, or having a drink in the O-club, Colonel Potter sitting across from him at the small table.

Hawkeye. His name was a thing of mystery too, how it had changed, evolved during the years she had known him. He had most often been only 'Captain', in the very beginning, when she had been so eager to mark his place in the order of things. The word had left her mouth with a sharp taste of disdain, a subtext of 'what are you up to, and how can I stop it'.
'Pierce', that was a good name for anger, it could explode out of your mouth in a red cloud of wrath.
When they met again after Korea, at Charles' wedding, she had hesitated for a second before she introduced him to Peter. Peter, the man she was sure she would have married if the world hadn't tilted once again and sent her in a new direction. If the impossible man with the piercing, blue eyes hadn't stepped back into her life, those eyes once again able to see through the façade, the one she thought she was doing such a good job of upholding.
'This is Benjamin Pierce', she had said to Peter, 'we worked together in Korea', and the sentence tasted foul as soon as it left her lips. The name sounded wrong, and 'worked together' reduced what they had been through to a tiny ball of nothing.
Hawkeye. It was strange that she had landed on his old nickname, eventually. It was the name she had heard whispered so many times among giggling nurses. Sobbed by others. Moaned on a couple of occasions when she had walked by The Swamp late at night, or when Hawkeye and his date had had the same idea as Margaret and Frank for a good place for a secret rendezvous and had gotten there first.
But Margaret herself had rarely used his nickname back then, and when she did, it was always special. On those few occasions, it always felt like she tapped into the source of him, and it had made the bond between them grow stronger, even if she hadn't realized it back then.

Margaret turned over on her side, reached her hand out, and let her fingertips rest against his. He still had beautiful hands, that hadn't changed. Other things had.

The Hawkeye she had gotten to know back in the States was someone new. All that restless energy in him had calmed, the way he had always been trying to figure out where his next kick would come from, where he would find an outlet for whatever itch was gnawing at him.
The Hawkeye she got to know had a different look in his eyes, one she recognized from her own reflection in the mirror. His eyes had the look of someone trying to play a part he was supposed to want, was supposed to fit right back into. The look of someone who couldn't quite figure out how to live in the real world anymore. To rest her eyes in his had helped, and that old connection between them, the strange chain, had shaken the rust off and started to pull them closer again.
Hawkeye. Still Pierce when he deserved it, Ben when he needed it. Rarely 'honey', or 'darling'. Margaret had wasted all of her 'darlings' on Donald and Frank a long time ago. On other boyfriends and lovers whose features seemed to dissolve more and more as time went by. She had wasted those words on gray-haired men with brass on their shoulders and lust in their eyes, some of them with memories of the pigtailed little girl Margaret had once been. Most of them wanted her to call them 'Sir', though. Or 'General'. At the height of intimacy, when their faces were red and sweaty, their eyes glossy, they wanted to be reminded of their own importance, hear it moaned by the young woman in their bed, the one who was nothing more to them but a vessel to feed their egos.
But then again, that was all they were for her too.
A way to get some sort of affirmation, where other kinds were out of reach. A way to feel powerful for a little while, driving those important men wild with desire.
But not Colonel Potter. Never had Margaret felt so safe around a superior officer. A 'Major, I need to talk to you in my office' meant exactly that, and for each passing day, she had felt herself relax more and more around him.

Margaret herself had many names now. Nurse Pierce to the hospital staff. Technically, Nurse Houlihan-Pierce, but that was such a mouthful. Nurse Pierce sounded so strange, like something from a foreign language. Which was fitting, in a way. Just Margaret was fine, that was a change for sure. One she quite liked.
She was Maggie to Daniel. My heart. 'Maggie, my heart, you are the cure for what ails me'.
Hawkeye never called her Maggie, though. Never 'honey', 'darling', or 'sweetheart'. He had wasted those words too. They had left his mouth in hot breaths of contempt back in Korea, only spoken to make Major Houlihan feel small. He called her wife, sometimes, in a soft tone, with a voice filled with love. Or Wayward. He had heard Mrs. Mullins say it to Ms. Wright out in the waiting room at the clinic one day, back when Margaret had just moved to Crabapple Cove. In hushed, but upset, voices they had whispered about that strange, wayward blonde woman who was living with two single men, only God knew what could be going on up at the Doctor's house.

Margaret chuckled quietly to herself. Both ladies still very much disliked her. Ms. Wright did her best to avoid even looking at Margaret, and Mrs. Mullins always pressed her lips together in an angry, tight little parody of a smile whenever they met, the wrinkles around her mouth making her look like a disgruntled mouse.

All these names melted together and formed a person Margaret was still getting to know. Born, no, reborn, on the day she stepped off the bus up in Portland, where Hawkeye was picking her up to drive her to the mythical place that was Crabapple Cove. There to visit her old army buddy. Make-up freshly applied, newly brushed hair that blew around her head as soon as the Maine wind caught it, making her smile as it spread its scent of the ocean. Of freedom and promises.
Spending time alone with him, getting to know him all over again in a new place had been strange and almost frightening. Out of control. She had walked by his side, around the small town she had heard him talk about so many times, remembering how soft his voice always got when he spoke of home. Hearing how soft his voice still was. And full of questions, and so was hers. Both of them, two big question marks walking around, hunched over with uncertainty, until the pull between them got too strong and something shifted again. Fell into place.

To reinvent yourself, to break free from the person you didn't want to be anymore. What a rush, what a thrill. How absolutely terrifying. The Margaret who came back from Korea was not the one who arrived there. Hawkeye broke back there. Shattered. So had Margaret, but it happened differently for her. Slower, one shard here, one there. So, she had done what she could to protect herself. To hide the pieces. To save the different versions of herself.
The part of herself that wore her face, said what she was supposed to say, followed the script. The part that carried her thoughts. The part that carried her heart. Then, afterward, she had tried to put those pieces back together, and realized how difficult it was, that some pieces were lost forever. There were hollow places, ones that were to be filled with new experiences, new life, but would just stay empty forever, she came to realize. And learned to live with that.

All of a sudden, she and Hawkeye had memories together, ones that weren't covered in blood and dust. Their 'remember when' weren't all balancing on a thin line between good times and living nightmares anymore, they were set in diners and restaurants. On picnics, and road trips. Down on the beach, or in the living room, or out on the porch. In ordinary, everyday places, and having that together had been so thrilling, so addictive. So restful. All the new memories with soft edges made the hollow places a lot less daunting.
Korea had enhanced the worst qualities in both of them, and with that washed away they were able to find each other's essence. All those little quirks and personality traits that only comes out when you're comfortable. When you're relaxed and safe, when you don't have to be on guard.
All the things they got to discover about each other, so many things they didn't know. They had lived separate lives back in Korea, in many ways, even though they had shared so much. Sometimes words got tangled up in their throats, though, but there was always the physical connection between them, that always came easy, even when their minds were dark and thorny.

Margaret felt a small body move against hers, looked down, and met Lily's big, brown eyes as the dog crawled closer and yawned.

"Good morning, sweet girl," Margaret whispered and stroked the dog's soft ears. Lily always woke up early too. It was their thing, their own little nook of the day.

"You wanna…" Margaret began, but before she could continue, Lily was up on her feet with her tail wagging. Yes, she did wanna. Wanted to go down to the beach, run along the shoreline, and get the tips of her ears wet. Just the two of them. No boys allowed.
Hawkeye liked to sleep in, and that was good, he needed it. Still. It was like his body still hadn't quite caught up; all the sleep lost back in Korea still not made up for. Like he was still afraid the restful nights would be taken away from him, and he would make sure to enjoy them while they lasted. They weren't all restful, though, the nightmares still came back to the both of them, but they were different now. The blind panic wasn't there anymore, not the screams and the cries for mercy, not the inability to help that made them wake up sweaty and disorientated. Margaret rarely woke up with her heart pounding anymore, not in fear, but with a lingering sadness. A melancholy over things that couldn't be changed.

She placed her index finger against her lips, and then gently touched it against Hawkeye's cheek, before lifting Lily down to the floor and carefully getting out of bed herself. She grabbed her cardigan from the couch by the window and tiptoed across the carpet on silent feet. Before she left the room, she turned and looked back at the shapes on the bed. Not all of them were sleeping. Seamus had lifted his head and was looking at her longingly. He loved walks on the beach too, but he loved his master even more, and would never leave him behind.

"It's okay, see you soon," Margaret whispered, knowing how much he disliked when his pack wasn't close together.

Lenny was sprawled out on his back; early morning walks a concept he could simply not comprehend. He understood breakfast, though, and Margaret knew that if she was to go down to the kitchen and open the fridge, she would hear his hopeful panting behind her in seconds, his feet doing a happy little dance in anticipation of whatever tasty treats that were for sure coming his way.

Lily was already waiting by the stairs when Margaret made her way down the hallway, pulling her cardigan on over her nightgown. The early morning sun painted a pretty pattern on the wall in the guest room as it filtered in through the old lace curtains, and Margaret stopped for a second to look.
The last guests that had stayed in there had been Helen and her family, in the early summer. Helen's husband William, with his big beard and quiet sense of humor, and their daughter Aubrey, a tall six-year-old with freckles on her nose and wild, auburn curls. She and the dogs must have run several marathons down at the beach, while Margaret and Helen talked and talked and talked, and Hawkeye and William set up obstacle courses for the wild ones and formed a friendship of their own.
It had been glorious, the lazy, hazy, crazy days of early summer. Helen had been so calm, so happy. Root beer, juice, or water in her glass, a smile on her face as she peered over her sunglasses, making sure Aubrey didn't run too far away, too close to the water. The girl had great watchers, though, Seamus always made sure that no one in the pack strayed too far, and Lenny never wandered too far away from his owners, the source of treats and belly rubs.

For the major part of its existence, though, the guest room was an extra office. A place to put all the things that didn't go anywhere else. Or Margaret's yoga studio.
Yoga, she had loved it so much when she first discovered it back in Korea. When she had figured out the breathing, the focus it required. It had been a way for her mind to just stop for a while, stop trying to figure out the duty roster, thinking about the nurses constantly complaining and swapping shifts. It had kept her mind from wandering to everything wrong in camp, everything that could run smoothly if she wasn't surrounded by idiots, and it had kept her thoughts away from her frustrating love life for a little while. It had kept her from thinking about death, the frailty of the human body, and how much it could be made to endure. And she had loved the effect yoga always had on Frank. Whenever she wanted something from him, all she had to do was put on something skintight, strike a pose that showed off her physique, and Major Burns could be talked into almost anything.
Taking yoga up again back in the States had felt like falling in love all over again. It had taken her a while, though, she hadn't even thought of doing it when she lived in Richmond, there were too many sounds, too much to get used to, and then, there was always the risk that Peter would show up unannounced. Her mind had still been going way too fast, and it wasn't until she moved into the house in Crabapple Cove it started to calm down, making her long to focus on only her breathing, the movements of her muscles, feel them wake up inside of her, coming back to life.
Yoga had a very similar effect on Hawkeye as it had on Frank, she had discovered. Not too long ago, a perfectly timed downward dog had ended a drawn-out argument she couldn't even remember how it had started. It was a cheap trick, and she wasn't very proud of using it, but hey, it had worked, and everyone was happy in the end.

Lily whined from over by the stairs, and Margaret frowned and shook her head. She did not care to dwell on any kind of similarities between Hawkeye and Frank. She so rarely even touched upon the thought of Frank, she had filed him away in her mind. Under 'T' for 'Temporary Insanity'. Or 'B' for 'Better Than Being Alone'. But in the frailty of early morning, just a few hours after Mildred's call, everything about Korea felt so close again, as if it happened only yesterday. Margaret wished Frank well, though. Hoped that he was happy, that his experiences back in Korea had made something inside of him soften too. She hoped he loved his family and that they loved him back.
Would he come to Colonel Potter's funeral? The thought coursed through her and left a chill in its wake. She couldn't imagine seeing Frank again, not ever. No, he wouldn't come, he never liked Colonel Potter, and the feeling had been very mutual, she knew that. If she was completely honest, though, she was curious. Curious about what had become of him. And she was even more curious about his wife, what was she really like? From the very beginning of their relationship, Margaret had known that his stories weren't true, all the tales about the distant, cold woman who didn't understand her husband, never saw what a sensitive soul he was, never understood his needs. If Margaret had a dollar for every time a man had told her something like that, she would be… well, not rich maybe, but still have a somewhat fatter bank account. And yet, she had made the choice to play along, to quell the inner voice telling her to get out before the web of lies and delusion got too tangled. She had chosen to play the role of understanding mistress, offering comfort and closeness, and settling for the empty promises of a real relationship Frank sometimes threw her way. Tiny scraps, feeding her fantasies of a house with a picket fence, barbeques with the neighbors on summer evenings, and a person who was just hers, who would stay by her side forever.
The thought of her old obsession with becoming Mrs. Frank Burns made Margaret embarrassed, angry, and sad in equal measures, and she wished she could reach through time and punch herself in the face. And maybe give herself a hug too.

Margaret shook her head again, trying her hardest to banish Frank Burns from there for good, while she continued down the hall and down the stairs, careful not to anger the two steps that always creaked, Lily trotting happily in front of her.

Out on the porch, Margaret shoved her feet into an old pair of sneakers, after knocking the backs of the shoes against the boards of the porch. Once, when she had only been in Korea for a couple of weeks, she had stuck her bare foot into her slipper and felt the soft body of a tiny field mouse move against her toes, and from there on she never put on her shoes without making sure they were free of inhabitants.
She loved her old, raggedy sneakers; they always made her feel free. She could walk anywhere she wanted in them, hardly making a sound. Never worry about what might hide below, never having to keep to the road if she didn't want to. Or she could run as fast as her legs would carry her, her shoes an extension of her legs, not trapping her feet and pinching her toes like her old army boots did. Always covered in dust, mud, and blood, impossible to keep clean no matter how much she polished them.
Her sneakers had dust on them too, and soil. Dust from winding country roads, soil from long strolls in the woods. A red spot that refused to come out, from a dropped bite of strawberry pie, eaten down by the boathouse on the first warm day of May. Lenny had been more than happy to clean up the mess. Happy and fast like a crocodile.

Margaret walked down the steps of the porch on light, silent feet, then she and Lily crossed the lawn and took the old, familiar path down to the beach.