Writer Wrong: Part Two

Cue Sidney

By: Helen J. Lake

Disclaimer: M*A*S*H belongs not to me, and no money was made by writing this. Dangit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Kellye was gone by the time I woke up. There was another nurse, the one I’d seen when Potter had been here. Her eyes snapped up as I shifted and she stood to go to the doors near the desk. She motioned at someone and a man with dark curly hair and a calm expression stepped inside. Pierce was with him. They muttered to each other as they approached.

“Miss Lightfoot,” Pierce said cheerfully. “This is my associate, Doctor Sidney Freedman.”

I narrowed my eyes at the newcomer. “You’re a shrink,” I accused.

He seemed surprised, but not upset. “Yes, that’s right,” he said smoothly.

“How did you—?” Pierce sputtered.

“My family is full of loons, I can spot a psychiatrist a mile away,” I explained. “They all have that same collected expression, with eyes that see everything, down to your dirty little secrets…at least the good ones do.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he agreed warmly.

I grunted and waited to see what he’d do next. Unfortunately, he mimicked me—just waiting patiently. Pierce began to sigh and shift his feet. Despite myself, I smirked.

“Doctor Pierce,” I said, looking away from Freedman. “Can you tell me about my leg?”

“Oh sure!” He seemed relieved to have something specific to do. “The bullet went through the skin here—” He pointed at a spot on my thigh. “And around the bone in an arc, and came out behind here.” He gestured beneath me.

“When can I get up?”

“Well, you’re free to use a wheelchair or crutches to explore the camp,” he said, checking the bandages. For a moment my eyes were captivated by his hands—I’d always had a thing for hands, and these were surgeon’s hands!—and the touch of his fingertips…My eyes snapped up to his. Brilliant blue orbs…deep, warm, full of laughter…I blushed and looked away, damning myself for giving Freedman something to capture.

I remained silent, looking down at the frayed edges of the blanket. Pierce excused himself. I turned to gaze at Freedman. He was a pleasant-looking man, with an infinitesimal smile constantly on his lips. At the moment, he sat casually, leaning back, his left resting over his right knee…

“Did you cut your hair yourself?” he asked suddenly.

I blinked, surprised. Touching the short curls, once long enough to touch my waist, I felt a pang.

“Yes,” I admitted. “They kept telling us about the lice and I didn’t want to bother with it anymore anyway…”

“A lot of women cut their hair as a symbol of growing up.”

I didn’t reply. I had donated the hair to a Korean woman who would make a dozen dolls with real hair to pass out to the orphanages. I dropped my hand into my lap and sighed silently.

“Would you like to go outside for some fresh air?” Freedman offered. I stared at him. “It’s a beautiful spring afternoon…”

I let him wheel me outside to get my first look at the MASH 4077. I hadn’t known it would be so big—maybe I expected pup tents and small shacks…

“Heads up, Sidney!” a voice called as a football came towards us.

Instinct kicked in again, and I flung myself to the ground. Gasping and crying, someone was screaming, Oh God, my leg, who is touching me, no, get away! With a jolt, I realized the screaming was from my own throat. In the sudden silence, I saw a crowd surrounding me. The hands on my shoulders belonged to Freedman.

“Go!” he barked at them. “Give her some air! Go!” When they began to scatter, he murmured to me, “I’m sorry, Miss Lightfoot.”

Trembling, I climbed back into the chair, dusting myself off. He looked so concerned.

“I’m okay,” I said firmly. “I just…wasn’t prepared.”

“Klinger!” Freedman hollered, his hands touching my shoulders, my face, and my legs. “Didn’t you see her?”

“The ball didn’t touch her!” he (Klinger, I assumed) protested. I winced and looked up at him. I was surprised to see he was dressed in…a dress; a lovely deep maroon and wore a mink stole.

“She may have torn her stitches!” Freedman chided.

“I’m—“ I began to repeat, but gasped as I touched the throbbing wound. “I’m fine!” I got out.

“I’ll get a second opinion, if you don’t mind,” he rebuffed, wheeling me back inside quickly. Klinger followed closely, practically hopping from one high heeled-foot to the other in his worry. “Max, make yourself useful and go get Hawkeye.”

Klinger disappeared in a flash. Freedman pushed me into a small room and turned me to face the door, just as Pierce ran in. He looked at me, blinked, then turned his gaze up to Freedman. He sighed heavily.

“The way Klinger came running, I thought she was bleeding out!”

“I’m fine, dammit!” I declared.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” he retorted, bending to check the bandages. I refused to reply. He glanced up. “She’s fine,” he stated, standing and winking at me. I flashed a triumphant grin at him, but quickly smothered it. “You really should smile more often,” Pierce said. “It suits you. See ya kids!” he called over his shoulder as he left.

I reached for the wheels and started out the door. Freedman followed me silently. Getting the hang of steering, I went back outside. The football game was on again and I watched silently…wincing at each tackle. Klinger was playing too, much to my amusement. I even laughed when he slid and skid in the dust—he ended up kicking his heels off and running around in his stockings.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Freedman sit on the lip of a nearby metal barrel. He was watching me more than the game, but I tried to ignore that. I wasn’t even that interested in the sport—I just needed to be around people…

“Doctor Freedman,” I said suddenly, quietly, as a thought occurred to me. “Why did they call you here?”

He hesitated, as if he was considering my question. “You went through something terrible, something most civilians never witness directly.”

“And you’re here to make sure I didn’t lose all of my marbles along the way,” I concluded, glancing at him. He just smiled. I slouched into the chair. “You don’t even know what happened,” I said darkly.

“I’d like to know,” he said—so sincerely, I startled. “I wish you’d tell me…”

So I did. It hurt so much to talk about them, the others…I felt terrible that I didn’t know them better; that they’d died before I could learn…but slowly, the pain was fading into relief, and even gratefulness. I realized it had hurt more to keep it all to myself…

The Troupe of Truth, we’d called ourselves—our motto was “Kiss our Mass-achusetts”, unofficially of course. We were an eclectic group: different religions, political standpoints…even the difference in the sexes seemed blatant.

None of that fazed us—we all agreed on the ultimate goal: truth in journalism. Yellow journalism had encouraged a horrible trend of half-truths (and full-out lies) in the mainstream news world. The snowball effect frightened us. More frightening was how much the people took at face value, never questioning or wondering if the journalist had slanted the facts.

I paused in my rambling—ranting?—and pictured their faces. The memory turned into a trigger and I flashed to the attack…

“Tell me about Irvin,” Sidney interrupted before I could descend into that madness.

Blinking, I shrugged. “He and I didn’t get along all the time.”

“Why not?”

I considered that. “He was…one of those guys who thinks he knows a lot more than he actually does. But don’t try to tell him that he’s wrong about anything.” Pausing, I laughed humorlessly. “The most annoying thing he did was to finish people’s sentences—and he always got it wrong!”

Sidney smiled slightly. “Did you fight often?”

“Fight? No…only a few times. But argue? Disagree? All the time. He was a general pain in the ass…” Suddenly feeling wary, and realizing that my pad of paper had disappeared, I peered at him suspiciously. “That’s how I described him before…but you already knew that.”

To my surprise, he didn’t deny it—instead, he held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty, I’m afraid.” He slid the pad out from between files he held on his lap. “What is this; how would you describe this?”

I stared at my handwriting on the page. “I…don’t know,” I murmured, unsure of how to say it.

“I think you do,” he prodded. “The final words about the deceased…”

“A eulogy?” I said, shocked that he was right—though I hadn’t realized it at the time. “I just…wanted to tell someone, anyone, about them…I hardly knew them at all, it seems,” I admitted. “Putting it on paper made it…more real somehow.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. At least one of us understood it all. He flipped to another page on the pad.

“Tell me about this,” he said, handing it to me. I read in silence the short letter I had written to their families. “We have a name for this…”

“Survivor’s Guilt,” I declared.

“It’s not uncommon,” he added.

I laughed sharply. “Is that supposed to make me feel normal?”

“No,” he replied, his eyes warm. “That will take time…”

I didn’t reply.

“I’m curious, though,” he said quietly, flipping the pages around again. “When you describe yourself, you said you took this job to put bread on the table…”

I winced. “Okay,” I said evenly. “I admit that I accepted this particular job because of that. But I do believe in everything I said before.”

“Why this job?”

Sighing, I shifted my position. The game had ended, the people had scattered to go about their business, but I didn’t feel like moving. The warm morning sun felt too good on my neck.

“I…knew Irvin,” I stated finally. “Before…any of this. We were from the same small town in New York, but he wanted to act as if he had come from money. I’ve never cared what people think about me, and I just couldn’t understand why he cared so much. I fought like hell to get assigned to someone else’s group…”

“So you two had a history,” he concluded.

I snorted. “You make it sound like we were lovers!” I laughed, glancing over my shoulder at him. “I was on my way to becoming the same kind of journalist that he was. He saw me as a threat, and made that quite clear. It wasn’t until after this, when we’d long settled into a mutual dislike, that they told us we were going to be in the same Troupe.”

Neither of us spoke for several minutes. I vaguely wondered what he was thinking, and could feel his eyes burrowing into the back of my head. I ignored him and watched the camp. To my surprise, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

That night, there was a party—no reason, just an excuse to drink, socialize, and dance. Freedman—Sidney as I’d apparently started to think of him—had asked me to attend.

“It will be good for you,” he’d insisted.

“Will you be there?” I’d asked, suddenly afraid.

He smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world…”
“I have nothing to wear!” I pointed out, gesturing at the thin gown.

“I know just the person to talk to…”

That’s how I found myself in Klinger’s tent, one foot resting on a stool and trying to keep my balance long enough for him to put the pins in place.

“Thank you for giving me a dress to wear,” I said again. “I haven’t worn anything feminine in so long…”

He glanced up, pins between his lips. “Don’t worry about it, Sharon,” he mumbled. I had insisted that he call me by my first name; being called Miss and Ma’am was getting annoying. “I’m just glad I have an opportunity to make up for what happened earlier.” He shifted beside me and I wobbled, grabbing the top of his head for balance. His eyes were wide as he made sure I was okay, and I laughed as he added, “At least my head is good for something!”

Someone knocked on the door. “Come in!” Max called lyrically.

Sidney came in and paused to study the bright red dress. “Lovely, Max…I remember when you wore this one!”

Max smiled and put another pin into place. “I’m just glad there isn’t too much altering to do!”

“Hey!” I exclaimed, laughing again. “What’s that supposed to mean about my figure?”

“I’d be more worried about what it means about Max’s girlish figure!” Sidney objected.

I laughed again, enjoying the way the light caught in Sidney’s dark eyes. He was smiling and sat on the edge of the bed quietly.

“Okay, Sharon,” Max said, standing. “Time to get this off so I can sew it properly.”

It took all three of us, wriggling and shifting to get the dress off of me. As it went over my head, I was suddenly very aware of my state of undress. Max didn’t seem to notice as he turned and hung the dress. Sidney’s eyes roamed the room, never looking directly at me as I snatched my hospital gown and put it on.

“Give me an hour or so, and come back for a final fitting,” Max was saying.

“Thank you, Max,” I replied, sinking into the wheelchair.

“Shall we get some coffee?” Sidney suggested. I smiled and nodded, allowing him to push me outside. “You seem to be doing well,” he commented. I grunted and he continued, “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

I looked up at him. “What now?”

We entered the mess tent and he placed me at the end of a table in the corner. I waited while he fetched two cups of coffee and returned with them.

“You asked me before,” Sidney began, sitting on the bench to my left. “Why I was here.”

I nodded, sipping the coffee. The taste was horrible—I hate coffee anyway—but this was beyond disgusting. I promptly put it down. When he didn’t continue, I looked up and met his eyes. Without a word, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper. He placed it in front of me. Curious, I unfolded it and stared down at my short letter.

“This again?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I thought we covered this. Survivor’s Guilt and all that jazz…”

Sidney held his coffee cup between his hands as if it held all the answers for the world. His eyes never left mine, even though I flicked my own gaze away.

“We’re afraid you might try to hurt yourself, Sharon,” he said in a voice barely loud enough for me to hear.

I closed my eyes, bowing my head, and felt the tear squeeze out. There it was, laid out for our scrutiny…

“I considered it…” I said slowly, my volume matching his. “The gun I had…it wasn’t so much for my protection, or even for trying to hunt for food…if I couldn’t find some Allies…Americans…someone on our side…I would have…” Biting my lip, I looked up.

“Promise me something,” Sidney said solemnly. For the first time, that constant smile was nearly gone from his lips. “Promise that you won’t hurt yourself…”

Why should I make a promise to him? I hardly know him. And yet…He looked so earnest about it; like he truly cared.

“I…promise.”

Onward to Part Three…