The first time isn't planned.
She sees his name on the attendee list a couple of weeks before the conference and feels an odd mix of happiness, excitement, and uncertainty. Happy to see her old friend again, with Korea in the rearview mirror, but uncertain of how to act around him. She knows how to talk to Chief Surgeon Pierce of the 4077th, knows their rhythm. Bickering, arguing, joking, laughing. Staggering out of surgery together in the early mornings, squinting at the light, and the late nights in her tent, doing their best to stay quiet. She doesn't know Doctor Pierce of Crabapple Cove.

She half expects him to turn up in his old Hawaii shirt and cowboy hat, but no. He is in a pair of nice black pants and a blue shirt. He looks good. A bit tired, but good. When he smiles at her from across the room, she feels good.

They go out to dinner that night. She dresses up a bit, black cocktail dress and hair up, and the way he looks at her when they meet up in the hotel lobby makes her feel even better.

They have drinks and talk. He tells her about his job at the clinic. Crabapple Cove. His father.
His eyes do not light up the way she thought they would when he describes his long-awaited civilian life.

She talks about her job. Her apartment. How happy she is to have started a brand new life, on her own terms. She does not tell him that her new life scares her; how she is afraid she has made a big mistake.

Their conversation is oddly polite. After spending so much time together in the mess tent, eating slop off trays, often so tired they couldn't even look straight, it feels strange to sit at a nicely set table, with candles and flowers and crystal glasses.

When their entrees arrive she half expects him to sniff his food, but he doesn't. He is behaving very well and seems a bit subdued. When she looks into his eyes, she can still see the haunted look in there, the one from the last days in Korea. After he came back, when his eyes had lost that menacing streak they had before they took him away.
They toast to old friends and new beginnings. Begin to relax. One "do you remember when" leads to another, and when dessert is finished and they are on their second bottle of wine, her sides hurt from laughing, and his eyes sparkle.

When they walk back to her hotel, she is more than a little tipsy. Unsteady on her very insensible heels, she takes his arm and it feels so natural. It's late November, the Christmas lights are up and there are soft flakes of snow falling, making the city look ridiculously pretty. It's like walking through a movie.
He follows her to the hotel, up to her room. Standing outside it, she is suddenly unsure of what to do. Shake his hand? Hug him? Invite him in for a nightcap? On an impulse, she reaches up and gives him a kiss on the cheek, a thank you for a lovely evening. Without knowing how it happens, they are kissing for real. Kissing, touching, and stumbling into her room.

Later, entwined under tangled sheets, they speak of other things. Things you can only tell an old friend in the dark. He tells her how people keep asking him if it isn't wonderful to be back, and of course the answer is yes, but also no because nothing seems familiar anymore, not even his father's voice. Of how his hands still shake every time a child comes into the clinic, how the tongue depressors seem so big and the children so frail.
She tells him how her father's hands shook in rage, as she told him her decision to work in a hospital in the States, out of the army. How his breath smelled of scotch when he said things that still hurt. How she is afraid that however cruel he was, maybe he was right.
They talk of nightmares and drinks that take the edge off.

They fall asleep in each other's arms, and no bad dreams reach them. They skip lectures and order room service. The room is a bubble outside of the real world, and a short break from the real world is just what she needs.

When it's time to say goodbye, they do so with a kiss, but exchanges no promises of any kind, because they are two very different people who would never work in the real world.


For a while, she feels better. It helps to know she is not the only one having a hard time shaking Korea off. She works, she decorates her apartment. Buys plants, silk sheets, and long curtains that can billow in the breeze in the summer. Discovers that the dating scene in the States is far more conservative than it was in Korea. She tries to make new friends but finds she's too busy missing her old ones to put any real effort into it.
She cares for her patients, grows fond of them, and is happy to see them go home to recover in safety, not having to go back to a front somewhere.
She dreams. Of hands grabbing her, of pleads for help. A baby crying somewhere in the dark.
Winter turns into spring, and she doesn't feel at home in the life she has made for herself.


The second time is planned. He calls her in April, his voice tired and strangely hollow.
Asks if she wants to meet up, and she does, she really does.

They are supposed to meet at the hotel, but he's waiting for her at the airport, tall and brooding in the crowd. He looks drained but lights up when he sees her, and without a word pulls her into a tight embrace.
In the cab they hardly speak, he just holds her close, resting his head on top of hers. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, enjoying his scent and his arms around her. Up in their room, they go from dressed to undressed, standing up to lying down, apart to joined, with the same flow they always have together. Starting back in Korea, all those stolen moments, the rhythm they had in the OR translating so well into other aspects of life.

Afterward, he tells her about Rebecca, who wanted promises he couldn't make. About his father's eyes following him with concern. Crabapple Cove feeling too quiet, too small. The dreams of a baby not crying.

She tells him about colleagues who are competent but lack passion. Men who want sweet and obedient, not opinionated with a past. Old friends settling down, starting families. How the dreams follow her into the real world, how she sometimes needs to take a moment to realize where she is.
They talk of the drinks that take the edge off, and there, in the bed of a very nice hotel, they take the edge off for each other.

They dress up and go out to dinner. He gets a mischievous glint in his eyes and tells the waiter it's her birthday, which gets her cake, and he gets a kick on the ankle when the staff sings her happy birthday in several different keys. She starts to laugh when he leans over, scoops up some frosting with his finger, and licks it off in an incredibly over-the-top sultry kind of way.

The next day they look out the window at the clear blue sky, decides it looks like rain. Orders champagne with breakfast and spend the day naked and tipsy, enjoying the big city pleasures in their own way.

Back at the airport, she kisses him goodbye and walks away because they are two very different people who would never work in the real world.


Spring turns into summer, and on hot afternoons she opens her windows, letting the summer breeze blow through the rooms. She remembers the humid heat in Korea, where the air got so hot it felt almost like an entity of its own. The smell of unwashed bodies, infected wounds, and rotting garbage. The way his hair stuck to his forehead. The tank top she used to wear. She remembers him taking it off her on late, dark nights in her tent.
She meets someone. Someone who is sweet and kind in many ways, and in others doesn't understand anything, and as the last of the autumn leaves fall off the trees, she's alone again.
She dreams. There are the good dreams, dreams of blue eyes and safe arms, but more often her nights are inhabited by the broken, the screaming. The ones they couldn't put back together. She wakes up with the sound of rattling, last breaths filling her head, or with the memory of those who slipped away so quietly, one moment there and the next they had gone somewhere else.


The third time isn't planned. Only it is. The conference is an annual event, every November, and she signs up. She does not look at the list of attendees this time but packs the black dress she knows he likes. Gets her hair and nails done. She needs to look her best and be a good representative for her hospital, nothing else of course.

And there he is. His hair a bit more salt than pepper now, his body even thinner. It's not even lunchtime, but she can tell he is a little drunk. But that's okay, so is she. That's only part of this whole conference scene anyway, isn't it? To get day drunk and have a good time?
His eyes are tired, but his smile is genuine, and his arms strong and familiar.

They sit through the first seminar, his hand high on her thigh in a gesture that feels both tantalizing and a bit possessive.

They find a small Italian place for lunch. She tells him about John who couldn't cope. Who couldn't deal with the dreams, who pretended to be asleep when she woke up with a gasp, heart racing, the smell of blood and viscera still filling her head, along with the screams for mercy or god or mother. John, who wanted uncomplicated. Who was sorry Korea made her sad, but thought she could get over it if she only tried. Dear John who looked for a woman but found a tattered soul and was disappointed.
She tells him about the doctors at work who wants respectful and un-opinionated. Who stand too close and doesn't look her in the eyes.
He tells her about women who have come and gone, a Linda the latest in line. About trying so hard to play the part of a man getting on with his life, adjusting. Playing the part of a man who doesn't exist anymore, and how it's so exhausting it makes him want to scream.

They skip the afternoon seminars, and back in his room he messes up her hair, and she scratches his back with freshly manicured nails.
On Friday, when the conference is over, they kiss goodbye at the airport and go their separate ways, because they are two very different people who would never work in the real world.


She works through Christmas and New Year, doesn't even bother to decorate her apartment.

The year begins with grey skies and freezing winds. She buttons up her jacket and thinks of the winters in Korea. The late night poker games, playing for scarves and gloves. Charles looking like a marshmallow in his polar suit. All the frostbite limbs they couldn't save. Her current patients are warm and safe, and yet she finds herself looking at their toes and fingers for signs of discoloration, tucks the blankets around them a bit tighter.

In March, she gets an invitation to Lorraine's wedding. They have kept contact sporadically since Korea, but it's hard being so far apart. Working. Living. It's been like that her entire life, friends being so close for a little while. And then it was time to move, and staying close is difficult when you don't share all the everyday moments of life. No big fall out, just experiences, jokes, disappointments, and joys you don't share anymore.
She is so happy for her friend, of course. So very happy. She goes out that night to have a drink and celebrate - absolutely celebrate, nothing else - and in the bar, she runs into Martin, a cardiologist from the hospital. He's handsome and charming, or at least handsome and charming enough, seen through the filter of several Old Fashioneds. A couple of hours later she is on his couch, his weight on top of her, his breath hot on her skin. Suddenly she feels panic rising. She can't breathe, has to get him off, get away from his breath that reeks of something rotten, and his hands that keep grabbing and pinching.
She pushes him off, slaps him hard when he won't let go, and while he is momentarily stunned by the force of the strike, she gathers her purse and coat and gets the hell out of there.
Down on the street, she's not sure of where to go, wasn't really paying attention to where the cab was going, so she starts walking in the direction that seems most likely. It's drizzling. A miserable, cold wetness that reaches her bones in just minutes. Her eyes sting from running makeup. A blister is forming on her heel from her pumps. Her dress is too short, her jacket is too thin, and she feels every bit like the kind of woman Martin called her when she was scurrying out of his apartment.
If this is the real world, she wonders if she wants to be part of it anymore.

She has a couple of days off from work, and when she comes back, it is clear that Martin has told everyone about their encounter, only his version is far different from hers. The looks she gets are not pleasant. The comments and suggestions, whispered or spoken aloud, are worse.


Two weeks later, her father dies. The phone call comes early on a Sunday morning, she is standing by the window, drinking coffee, and is startled by the signal.
The voice on the line tells her there isn't much time, that she should come as quickly as possible. The voice on the line doesn't say he has been asking about her. For the last year, she's been expecting this call. Considering how her father has been treating his liver ever since the divorce, it came as no surprise it was there the cancer started to grow.

She makes the arrangements. Calls work to tell them she needs to take a few days off, a family emergency. Books the plane ticket, she is in luck and manages to get a flight that afternoon.
Packs her bag. She feels like she should call someone, tell someone she's leaving. There is really only one person she wants to call, but this is the real world, and they don't do the real world. Do they? But she misses him, she really does, and the fact that she is more upset about missing him than the news she just got makes her cry.

She leaves for the airport way too early and ends up sitting in a bar nursing a scotch. The smoke-filled air reminds her of her father's cigars, and the smell is oddly comforting.

On the plane, she stares out the window, another scotch in hand, and allows herself to engulf in fantasies about what their goodbye will be like. She can see herself come running into the hospital room, her father pale and week in bed. She can see his eyes light up at the sight of her, how he grabs her hand, and with the last of his strength tells her how proud he is of her. How she is the perfect daughter, that he loves her so much and is sorry he hasn't been able to show her that. They cry in each other's arms and with his last, dying breath, he tells her to be happy.
She snaps herself out of the fantasy, silently scolding herself for being childish, and orders another drink.

The voice on the phone told her there wasn't much time, so when she makes it to the hospital, she half expects it to be over. But it's not, he is still there. Pale and thin in the hospital bed, a still breathing body that doesn't seem inhabited anymore, just a husk. She sits down next to him and takes his hand. His big hand, never there to hold her. To catch her when she fell. There are so many things she wants to say, so many things she wants to ask. She wants to know why she was never good enough, no matter how hard she tried. She wants to tell him how small he made her feel. How all the years of looking for affirmation elsewhere took something from her she can never get back.
How he has always been a shadow in the back of her mind, stopping her from being her true self, forcing her to keep walls up around her. She wants to tell him how it took a war for those walls to start and come down.

She remembers the time he came to visit her in Korea, how excited she was to spend time with him. But he was too caught up in the aftermaths of the divorce, too caught up in preserving the image of the unflappable Colonel Howitzer Al Houlihan. A tiny crack in the fa?ade as he was leaving, and an empty promise of meeting up in Tokyo was all she got out of that visit. As it turns out, a small moment of recognition does not make up for a lifetime of dismissal.
She doesn't tell her father that, though, what's the point? He is a dying man, aged beyond his years due to his long-time love affair with anything that came out of a bottle and could make him forget.
Instead, she holds his hand and tells him she's there. Talks about anything. Work. Her apartment. Memories. About the time they lived in Oregon, and there was a big oak tree in the back yard, complete with a squirrel family. She doubts he ever noticed the squirrels, but to her they seemed like something out of a fairy tale. She talks and hopes her voice somehow reaches him. She sends words of love and kindness into his darkness, not accusations and questions.
She sits in a hospital room with her father, his hand in hers, as the night is dark outside. Then there is only her left.


The ceremony is lovely. At least she thinks it is lovely, she feels strangely distant. The priest speaks about honor, dedication, and pride. She has trouble concentrating, keeps staring at the incredibly tacky arrangement of light blue hydrangeas and baby breath her mother sent, the priest's voice a mere mumble in the background.

At the reception, the faces of the guests all blend together. They wear too much aftershave and perfume, making her nose itch and her head spin. They all say lovely things about her father, and she finds herself wishing she had known the person they are talking about. But she didn't, not really. The room is too hot, her blouse is new and itches, there are hugs she doesn't want and handshakes leaving her feeling sticky, and after a while all she can think about is washing her hands for a very long time.

Faces of relatives pass by, people she is supposed to be close to, but really only knows from Christmas cards and the occasional, awkward phone call. They never were a tight-knit family.

There are the faces of her father's friends, so much older now. She has known many of them since she was a little girl, who with wide eyes would sit quiet and well behaved during dinner parties and listen to stories of military bravery and comradery. Some of them have continued to see her as that little girl through the years, and some of them have been far more interested in getting to know her as a woman.

There is a hand on her shoulder, and when she looks up at the gray-haired man standing beside her, it's like she's traveled back in time, back to a summer night when she was fourteen.
Fourteen years old, sitting in the passenger seat of a very nice Buick, looking into the dark eyes of the man leaning in close.
"You're so pretty, Margaret," he said, touching her cheek. "So special." No one had ever told her she was special before, and dear God it felt good.
Afterward, when the dark-eyed man had dropped her off at home, her father was sitting in the living room, reading.
"How was babysitting?"
"Fine. Colonel Harden drove me home."
Her father held her gaze for a little while, and she wondered if he could tell what had happened. But then he looked back down in his paper with a short "Good night, then," and she walked upstairs. In her room, she stared at herself in the mirror for a long time, trying to see if she looked any different.

This afternoon, seeing the man who was the first to tell her she was special, she wonders again.

"Do you think he knew?" The words are out before she realizes she is going to say them.

He looks confused, and before he can reply, she excuses herself and goes straight to the Ladies' room. After washing her hands for a very long time with cheap, pine-smelling soap, she once again stares at herself in the mirror.
She sees the girl who would wake up early, sit at the window and look out at the squirrels in the tree, pretending she was a fairy tale princess. The girl who would look for her father at dance recitals, but never once saw him there.
The girl who too early on discovered she could find another kind of affirmation from men in uniform that weren't her father.
She sees the woman who stepped out of a helicopter back in Korea 100 years ago, so sure of herself, so full of ambition, so proud to serve her country. The woman who slowly found out that the world wasn't as black and white as she had thought, who started to see herself from the outside and didn't like what she saw. Who slowly began to let her walls down, to let people in. Opened her heart to an impossible man who was her exact opposite, only he wasn't, not even at all.
The woman who has tried so very hard to settle down and make a life for herself, but has failed. Maybe there is just something missing in her very constitution, making it impossible to form long-term relationships of any kind. Maybe there is something wrong with her. Maybe her father was right.


She steps out on the balcony, and the cool March air feels like a rough caress. She takes a deep breath, the salt-tinged air so cleansing, revitalizing. Her hair is still wet from the shower; she pulls it up and enjoys the breeze on her neck. Her skin is finally cool, clean, free from the confinement of the black suit she has been wearing all day. The skirt, blouse, and jacket are still on the floor where she dropped them. Chances are she will only pick them up to throw them away.

In the darkness, she can barely make out the ocean down below, but she can hear the waves crashing in. The sound makes the buzz of the voices that have filled her head all day fade away
She finally feels present, like she is in her body and not just watching herself from the outside. Here she is, on a balcony of a hotel a bit too fancy for her budget, wrapped in a fuzzy white robe, breathing in the ocean.

"I buried my father today," she says out loud.

She feels a chill run down her spine, but she can't tell if that's from hearing the words spoken aloud, or if it's because of the night air. She wishes she could be sure, just for once be sure about her feelings.

"I miss him," she says to the night, and doesn't mean her father.

She wants to feel his arms around her, hear his laugh, look into his eyes. But he is so far away, and besides - they are two very different people who would never work in the real world.

"I want to go home," she says to the ocean, and doesn't mean the city where she currently resides.

That actually shakes something loose in her, and she starts to cry. She cries because she doesn't want to go back to the life she was so damn stubborn about starting. All she wanted was a place to settle down, to call home. But then came the nightmares that didn't want to let go. The men who wanted sweet and pristine. She cries because all she wanted was some goddamn stability and normal relationships, but instead, all of the relationships in her life are fucked up, and she didn't mean for them to be. And now one of them is over, and she can never fix it.
She cries because she is standing on a hotel balcony in the dark, fatherless, with nothing waiting for her, except an apartment full of dying plants. She needs to hear the voice of the impossible man, the one who understands, the only one who can make things better.

The fourth time is a phone call.

His voice is deep and gravelly from sleep, full of concern, and it makes her cry even harder. When her tears subside and she is able to form words again, they talk for a long time. He tells her to come. She says yes.

Who cares about the real world anyway?


Authors Note:
I do not own the characters, I just love them.
English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammatical errors.
I have used a line from a swedish poem, Dagen Svalnar by Edith S?dergran, and modified it a bit.
Other than that, this story is very dear to my heart, I have really enjoyed writing it, and I hope someone out there will enjoy reading it.