You’ll probably notice that, in this fic, there is another language used. I tried my best to make the Serbian passages correct, but for all I know, they could be entirely wrong. If anyone (who speaks Serbian or otherwise) notices major errors in my Serbain, just blame it on the crappy translator!
For all those who can’t speak Serbian, I’m gonna include a small reference so you can understand what the hell the characters are talking about. Now, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Is this going to be too much work? Cuz if it is....” Fear not. There are only a few words, and even without this wee dictionary, you’ll still get the gist of it. So here goes:
Moj - my
glava - head
Skripac - fix
Kuda - where
Majka - mother
Nijedan - no
Završen - finished
Sick - sit
boravak - stay
Jhest - yes
As with my stand alone fic ‘Wasted Memories, there is a homemade graphic that goes along with this. Its not very good, but if you care to take a look, here’s the address:
http://www.geocities.com/dougandcarol_tlf/onecandlegraphic.html
Songs used in this fic are: Hold on by Sarah Mclachlan and Bye Bye Blackbird by a whole bunch of different people.
A humongous THANK YOU goes out to Kitty, my wonderful beta, who’s put up with my rantings and sorted through my wild, haphazard ideas. If it wasn’t for her, I would have never finished this thing, so she deserves a big chunk
Thanks also, to Tara, for “sped”. Lets hear it for scary washing machines!
Important: Views of the Kosovo situation expressed in this fanfiction are very BIASED. Short explanation– the Serbians are not completely to blame for this tragedy, although Milosevic was a big part of the situation. Albanians killed a lot of Serbs too. I basically wrote this from a biased Albanian point of view because its much easier to appoint a ‘good guy /bad guy’ status than explain everything. If you’re interested, e-mail me, and I’ll give you a full account of the Kosovar War.
‘Field of Blackbirds’
March 4th, 1999 –
Hold on, hold on to yourself
This is gonna hurt like hell...
___________________________________________________________________
Glossy, black feathers flapping rhythmically, tiny scaled feet pointed towards the earth so far below, dark lucid eyes fixed and steady. He flew up, into the clouds, wind currents billowing over his sleek little body, wings pumping ambitiously. When the taste of the wind grew balmy and the misty air formed dew drops on his velvet plumage, the beating of wings ceased and the bird let the gentle current carry his tired body.
This part of the sky was reserved for only blackbirds – so high up that gulls couldn’t breathe the thin air, and the sparrows flimsy wings couldn’t endure the long flight. It was where the wisest of creatures retreated to keep tabs on the events of the world.
The bird could see everything from his breezy, blithe vantage point. There was a tornado tearing through a northern Kansas town, and a forest fire searing through Southern Canada. But the activity that caught the blackbird’s critical eye was a vicious war unfolding in the Serbian area of the middle east. He was about to release himself from the wind current to take a closer look, when a splitting, battered sound erupted from the earth beneath him. He watched as Chicago and Kosovo rumbled and shook in unison, then a blitz of fire flashed, first in the Slavic country, then in the American, and a florid billow of smoke rose in tendrils from the respective explosions.
The blackbird cawed in excitement. Stupid people destroyed each other with such carelessness and neglect. But two bombings in the same instant? It had to be the work of a higher power. There had to be a reason.
With a frenzied flap of his wings, he dipped out of the cloudy haven, out of the sky, on to inspect the recent events.
___________________________________________________________________
Hold on, hold on to yourself,
You know that only time will tell
___________________________________________________________________
Doug wasn’t really sure whether it was the agitated rumbling shaking his cot, or the deep, wild, frenzied sound surrounding the small tent that woke him from a light sleep. Either way, the loud disturbance sent him sprawling from beneath the canvas cover he was sleeping under, his feet slamming against the rough dirt floor, his head painfully hitting the metal pole holding up the tent.
“Christ,” he cursed, rubbing his scalp. The shaking of the fragile earth had stopped, but the excruciatingly pretentious noise coming from above him persisted. It was a huge, encompassing, flapping sound, like all the angels in heaven had descended upon his tiny tent.
Pulling a shirt over his head and slipping his feet into the beat-up runners hiding under the cot, Doug ducked under the canvas flap and out into the thick morning air. Looking up, he gasped, his mouth agape.
The beautiful blue of the sky had been replaced with a traveling, flapping blanket of black noise. The bestial cawing and fervid beating of wings seemed to swallow up the sky, only thin shafts of sunlight escaping, painting the barren earth with specks of yellow bursts.
“My God,” he breathed. “What the hell is that?”
“Migrating merula,” a voice from behind him said. “Blackbirds.”
Doug swivelled around to find a grinning Dr. Bill Gregory. His cotton-white hair was sticking up recklessly from a bedraggled baseball cap, the lines on his thin, tanned face deepening with his smile.
“Bill...,” he greeted. “I... I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Pretty spectacular, huh? They do it every year around this time. I’ve only seen it twice, myself.”
“There’s got to be thousands of them,” he shook his head in astonishment. “This is incredible.”
Bill paused. “You know, Kosovo means blackbird in Serbian.”
Doug starred at the doctor for a moment, then motioned to the mass of blackness blanketing the sky. “Because of this?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” Bill shook his head.. “Hundreds of years ago there was a huge battle on this land. It was called Kosovo polje, which means field of blackbirds. It was the origin of conflict between the Serbians and Albanians. Many of both cultures were killed. To my thinking, the name Kosovo comes from that battle.”
“Field of Blackbirds...” Doug murmured, staring up at the multitude of birds above them.
Abruptly, the muffled, scratchy sound of a portable radio belted its broken announcements through the loud racket of cawing birds.
Bill plucked the radio from his back pocket, snapped the antenna out and pressed the contraption to his ear. Doug furrowed his brow as he tried to make out what was being said.
The radio was snapped back to his back pocket as Bill quickly scribbled something onto a sheet of paper.
“A shopping mall in Shajnik was bombed. Took out the whole block,” He shouted, already jogging towards the cluster of tents. “C’mon, Ross, they need us!”
Shocked, for a hushed moment, Doug stood there until Dr. Gregory’s words registered. A bomb. A shopping mall.
*Oh God.*
___________________________________________________________________
If there hadn’t been a styrofoam cup brimming with tepid coffee in her hands, Carol may not have noticed the rumbling under her feet that sent tremors through the walls and made the metal instruments clink together. As it was, she’d just gotten the bitter drink from the Roach Coach, and was heading into the lounge to curl up on the sofa for the last five minutes of her break, when a peculiar shudder traveled from the floor, and up her legs. She watched, transfixed, as rippling waves fanned out in circles in her coffee, causing a few excited droplets to skip over the rim and slide down the smooth styrofoam and settle on her thumb.
With a small frown, she wiped the sticky drop off and stepped back into the hallway.
“What the hell was that?” She shouted to Malik, who was bent over the pile of charts, furiously scribbling on the soft pink paper.
“What?” He looked up and raised an eyebrow.
“What was that? That... shaking? Didn’t you feel it?”
“I didn’t feel nothin.” Malik shrugged and went back to his chart notes.
Carol sighed and took a gulp of her coffee, dismissing the rumble as a small earthquake. She took a slow breath to calm her palpitating heart and chastised herself for being so jumpy
“Carol!”
She turned quickly to see Mark running towards her, followed by Elizabeth, Kerry and a handful of nurses.
“What is it, Mark?”
“The Biochemistry lab was bombed. They need us on-scene.”
“The Biochemistry Lab? Isn’t that beside an elementary school?” Carol swallowed and dropped her half-empty coffee into the trash as her pulse began to accelerate again.
Mark pursed his lips and nodded. “You coming?”
“Let me get my coat, I’ll be right out!” she shouted, already running to the lounge as her thoughts raced. A bomb. An elementary school.
*Oh God.*
___________________________________________________________________
The precise stench of demise hung over the rubble in a dejected humidity. The strangled, terrified cries of hundreds of suffering people stabbed through that humidity with wrenching thrusts.
Doug felt the air rush from his lungs as he took in the mess. The bomb site was alive with action; medics rushing victims out from the debris, volunteers dragging large pieces of building away with trucks– and yet, it all seemed to be happening in a bleary haze. The scene in front of him was unfolding in a succession of surrealism– loud noises muted, bright colours dulled, fast movements stilled.
“Ross!”
Doug shook his head, closing his eyes for a lingering second, and turned to Bill, who was calling his name.
“Let’s go, man!”
He nodded, swallowing hard, and followed the doctor over the side of the jeep and onto the dusty ground.
Ten feet in front of him, a woman was sprawled face first in the dirt, her hair charred and smoking, a growing stain of red marking her side. Instinctually, Doug bent over her and felt for a pulse.
“No, no, Ross.”
He looked up. Bill was motioning for him to continue on.
“We can only save the ones we can help, man. We can’t help her.”
Standing up on shaky legs, Doug sighed his agreement with resignation. The still bodies of people they couldn’t help littered the Kosovar streets carelessly, like a bomb in the middle of a hugely populated city was the most common occurrence in the world.
“Where do we start, then?” The two men were jogging, along with a corp of ten other medical volunteers, towards the heart of the hostile situation. Spitting bursts of fire rose up in patches, integrating hazy tendrils of smoke into the air.
“Just look for the nearest moving body, and work your way through.” Bill gave a palled, wary grin, and headed off with the other medics. Doug was left standing– staring with an overwhelming sense of catastrophe, on the edge of the site, rubble and bodies fanned out in front of him, waiting for his help. Waiting for him to build it all back up again.
___________________________________________________________________
What is it in me that refuses to believe?
This isn't easier than the real thing.
___________________________________________________________________
A lonely crane had dipped its long mechanical neck into the scattered, broken mass that had once been a neat row of buildings, and was unsteadily lifting a chunk of ceiling into the air.
Firemen were struggling to rip open walls that hadn’t already been demolished, while paramedics frantically transporting casualties on makeshift gurneys, and bystanders dove into the action to lend a helping hand. The collective noise of it all was deafening, a dull roar that echoed through the brain in a delusive fog. No one sound could be separated from another, piercing screams and howling engines merging into one awful monotone.
Carol resisted the urge to cover her ears.
The site in front of her was like nothing she’d ever seen. A pile of rubble and half-fallen structures lay where proud buildings stood only hours before. The scene was alive with people; rushing in to rescue victims, rushing out to escape the chaos and danger. Flailing limbs jutted out from the debris here and there, calling in pain and fear. But the most jarring sight was that of the fallen elementary school.
A yellow school bus was lying haphazardly in the middle of the road, collapsed onto its side, the windows blown in. Volleyball nets were twisted around cars, hundreds of books ripped and thrown in every direction. The school itself was in tatters, lying in a jagged, junky, flat square around a courtyard. In the courtyard, a playground set stood, perfect, gleaming, untouched. Not a piece of debris littered the green grass, not a scratch donned the brightly painted seesaw or swing set. A soft breeze blew through the small, quiet space, causing one swing to sway back and forth eerily.
Carol sucked in her breath, thinking of the children trapped inside the broken school.
The ambulance she’d been riding in jerked to a stop and Carol jumped out. Mark stepped from the back doors, and came to stand next to her.
“God, Mark, where do we start?”
Mark sighed, pulling on a pair of gloves and handing her a set. “Just find someone who needs help and jump in.” There was no one to give out directions. No one to control the chaos. No one to organize the rescue efforts. The needy and the needed– each was on their own.
“Shouldn’t be too hard,” she breathed, shaking her head and grabbing a medical supply sack.
Mark started towards the collapsed school, and Carol followed to assist him. Two paramedics were lifting a limp little boy, not more than six years old, out from under a slab of concrete. His blood was horridly evident in a pooled stain on the gravel.
She shuddered. How much blood would be needlessly shed? How many young lives would be carelessly lost? And for what...?
___________________________________________________________________
“Who would do something like this?” Doug shook his head as he leaned over an elderly man who was crying out madly in Albanian, and wrapped a thick gauze around the man’s bleeding temple.
“Probably Milosevic or one of his Serb parties.” Bill shrugged and cut the surgical tape. “But maybe not. There are quite a few Serbs in Shajnik. It could have been the Albanians, or even NATO.”
“NATO? Why would they bomb a shopping mall? I mean, all these innocent people...”
“They get fed up with Milosevic’s civilian barriers, so they bomb anyway. Causing quite a controversy.”
“If they only knew,” Doug bit his lip as he looked away from his patient and scanned the harsh environment around him. “If they could only see what this is like...”
“I know man,” Bill grinned. “They do the damage, and we’re left to clean up.”
“So who are the good guys in this thing?” He patted the bleeding man’s shoulder, and signaled to the transporters to come and take him. “I don’t get it.”
“There are no good guys in war, Ross. Especially not like this.” He motioned to the acres of clutter surrounding them. “This kills a lot of people, senselessly.”
Doug picked up his supply bag and slung it over his shoulder as he followed his supervisor away from the elderly man. They were about to assist a lady whose arm was pinned underneath a brick, when a flash of pink appeared in the corner of Doug’s eye.
“Bill... hey!” He ran to the object and dropped to his knees. To his conscious horror, it was a pale pink sock, adorning a small, delicate foot, sticking up out of a pile of broken, charred furniture and wood scraps.
“Christ,” Doug cringed as he carefully gripped the biggest plank. “It’s a little kid.”
“On three,” Bill directed, taking the other end. “One... two... three!”
Doug braced his feet and lifted. With their combined strength, they were able to hoist the piece off the child enough to lever it out of the way.
A small girl was curled up in a ball in the gravel, smudges of dirt and blood smearing her tiny face, two skinny, olive coloured arms clutching at a tattered stuffed bear. She was tranquilly still and unmoving.
“Ross...” Bill implored as Doug bent over the girl. “Lets move on...”
With a quick jerk of his head, he looked up at Dr. Gregory. The raw, compassionate anguish in his eyes blazed, his jaw set firmly.
Bill sighed in resignation. “Is she alive?”
Doug pressed a gentle finger into the child’s neck, feeling a feeble, thready pulse flutter against it. “Yeah,” he nodded, his eyes wide and darting, shining with pity. He felt a raging need to help this fragile girl that he couldn’t explain. “Yeah, she’s alive.”
“Take her up to the grounds. But be quick about it. We need you out here.”
He flashed a quick smile of gratitude to the doctor, then gently slipped a hand under the girl’s head, and one under her small knees. Bringing her close to his chest, he carefully lifted her out of the rubble and into his arms. Setting a pace somewhere between a quick walk and a cautious jog, he started the few yards to the tents set up for sheltering the wounded.
___________________________________________________________________
“On my count,” Mark instructed as he gripped the edges of the canvas sheet they were using as a gurney. “One... two... three!”
Carol grunted as she and Mark hoisted the woman off the ground. They’d found her screaming feverishly, her foot pinned under a car. When the rescue squad had finally come to lift the vehicle off of her, she’d passed out.
“Where to, Mark?” she asked, looking at the woman. She was wearing a white lab coat, a spattering of blood accentuated against the starchy, pristine colour. ‘Lab technician,’ she figured.
“Uh... we’ll drop her off at the holding bay, wait for an ambulance.”
Carol nodded, and was silent for a moment, concentrating on balancing the woman’s weight on the sheet. When they’d set her down, secured her bandaged foot, and placed a yellow tag on her wrist, they went back to digging through the rubble for trapped victims.
Mark sighed suddenly. “This is really horrible, Carol.”
She stood up and placed a hand on her hip, looking out over the mess one explosion had caused. “Yeah,” she shook her head slowly. “I mean, who would want to blow up a school? Its barbarous.”
“I think the damage was meant for the biochemistry lab.”
“Who would want to blow up a lab? Do they test on animals or something?”
“Maybe... but I read about a cloning project they were working on. That could have something to do with it.”
“Cloning...” she furrowed her brow, trying to justify a fear of cloning with blowing up half a city block and killing hundreds of people.
Abruptly, she gasped and bent down. “Mark... look...”
A tiny, chubby, pink hand was poking out of a junk pile. The sight was so unnerving her mind didn’t process what it was right away. Then she felt her stomach heave and churn and she closed her eyes . Carol took a deep breath, trying to compose herself, then reached in to help Mark dig the child out of the rubble.
When the last scrap was lifted off, the small form of a boy was visible, lying limp in the icy snow. He had no coat, and only plastic running shoes covering his feet, a navy blue sweater hugging his body.
Carol dropped to her knees and took the small wrist, searching for a pulse, then gently lowered her ear to his chest. She looked up to Mark, who’d taken off his coat and was lying it over the boy.
“He’s got a strong pulse. Good breath sounds.”
Mark put his hand on the boy’s forehead and swiftly checked for nerve-command reaction while Carol removed the child’s shoes and traced a finger nail up his foot and watched his toes wiggle. His feet were only half the size of her hand. He couldn’t have been more than 3 years old.
“He looks ok. No spinal damage...probably a concussion.” He concluded “But his belly’s a little distended. There could be internal bleeding. Better take him to the docking area. See if you can get an ambulance.” He paused. “It might be some wait.”
Carol nodded and handed Mark’s coat back to him. “I can get a blanket for him. You could be out here awhile.” She scooped the small boy into her arms and stood up. “I’ll get back as soon as I get him to the hospital.”
He smiled gravely, and shrugged into the parka. “Good luck, Carol.”
“You too.” she nodded and headed out towards the sea of flashing lights and wailing sirens, the child in her arms, and only one clear thought coursing through her mind.
*I wish Doug were here.*
___________________________________________________________________
“Whatcha got, Ross?” One of the medics from his team called as Doug approached the relief tents.
“Little girl... probably 4 or 5, unconscious, pulse was weak, but its pretty strong now. She probably hit her head with the force of the explosion.”
“Ok, put her down over here.” He pointed to a stack of burlap bags laid out over the dirt.
“There aren’t any beds left?” Doug implored.
The medic shrugged and shook his head. “It’s the best we’ve got.”
Doug gently placed the little girl on the canvas sacks and knelt beside her. His breath caught in his throat as a tiny whimper whispered from her lips.
“She’s waking up– Tony... get me some ice and gauze will ya?”
He was handed the supplies – a chunk of melting ice in a tattered towel and a few inches of gauze.
“We got any epinephrine?”
Tony laughed. “Right. Thats a good one. We don’t even have aspirin. And if we did, someone would steal it. Or it’d be used up the second it got here. That gauze there is the best you’re gonna get.”
Doug sighed. Then something cold and soft was touching his arm. He looked down into the wide, frightened, black-marble eyes of the little girl he’d rescued. Her small hand was clutching his shirt sleeve so tightly her knuckles were white.
“Well hey...” he drawled gently and smiled.
She whimpered again – a sound so sweetly piteous that Doug’s heart jumped into his throat. Then her brown hand went to her forehead and she was crying in a slew of Serbian words.
“Oh, man... anyone speak Serbian?” he shouted to the sea of people under the tent.
A man in a business suit and a bandage over one eye stepped up.
“Doctor needs Serbian?” He asked in broken, slurred English.
“Yes, yes,” Doug nodded. “Can you tell me what she’s saying?”
“Moj glava, moj glava!” The girl shouted, clinging to Doug, her eyes full of confusion.
The man listened for a moment. “She say her head hurt.”
“I know... sweetheart. I know,” he gently unfurled her fingers from his sleeve and eased her onto his lap. The he pressed the towel-wrapped ice to her forehead. “You’ve just got a bit of a bump.”
Doug looked to the Serbian man. “Will you tell her she’ll be alright?”
He nodded, smiled and took the girl’s hand, explaining to her that the doctor would fix her head.
“Skripac moj glava.” She nodded, seeming contented by his reassuring and ceasing her crying somewhat. “Kuda moj Majka?”
“What did she say?”
“She want her Momma.”
“Oh.” Doug sighed and removed the cold compress from the girl’s bruised forehead and smoothed back her mousy jet-black hair with one hand. A dark smear of blood had appeared on the back of her head.
“She has a laceration on her scalp. Will you hold her while I bandage it?”
The man nodded and pulled her from Doug’s lap.
“Nijedan, nijedan!” she screamed and tightened her hold on his shirt.
“I’ve just gotta fix your head, sweetheart,” he soothed, and the man repeated in Serbian.
She gulped and reluctantly let the man take her.
“My name is Vladimir Zobak,” he said as Doug began to unfurl the small length of gauze and searched out an almost-empty bottle of antiseptic.
“Doug Ross,” he gave him a small smile.
“You are doctor? From England?”
“Doctor, yes. England, no. I’m American. From Chicago.”
“Ah, Chicago.” Vladimir smiled. “I am trade associate in Shajnik.”
“Do you work in the mall?”
“No, in trade building. Across street.” He pointed.
Doug couldn’t help but shake his head. The bomb had taken out half of the block.
“Ok, all done,” he smiled at the little girl.
“Završen.” Vladimir told her.
She pursed her lips and reached up to finger the bandage. Then she held out her arms to Doug. “Sick s te?”
He looked to Vladimir.
“She want to sit with you.”
Doug nodded and picked her up. “She should really be lying down. She has a serious concussion.” The business man shrugged.
“How do you say name in Serbian?”
“Ugled.”
Doug turned to the little serbian girl and pointed to himself. “Ugled, Doug.” Then he pointed to her. “Ugled...”
She giggles at his strange accent and looked up at him timidly through thick, black eyelashes. “Anka.”
He smiled and patted her bony brown knee. “Well, Anka, I have to go back out there. You’ll be ok until I’m done, right?”
She smiled up at him, oblivious to his language.
Doug gently levered her off of his lap and back onto the burlap sacks, and started to stand.
Immediately, she grabbed his arm, eyes wide, and wailed.
“Nijedan!”
“Its ok, Anka, its ok. I’m going to go find your parents.”
“Nijedan! Doug!” she sobbed, clinging to him ferociously.
“Majka,” Vladimir offered.
“Majka?” Anka raised a hopeful eyebrow in between sobs, never releasing her grip on him.
“Uh huh,” Doug assured. “I’ll find your Majka. I’ll be back.”
“Nijedan... Doug...boravak...Doug, Doug!”
“It’s ok, darlin. It’s alright.” He couldn’t stand it. He stood up straight and pulled the little girl into his arms, her head on his shoulder, her back trembling under her torn purple sundress as she cried.
He looked at Vladimir over her head. “Would you stay with her?”
“Yes, of course,” he assured, and Doug gently lifted the child off of his chest and onto Vladimir.
He patted her back lightly and turned away. The only sound he could hear as he stood at the edge of the rubbled site was her screams of protest.
Doug sighed deeply and closed his eyes to the sight of pain and death and sorrow and grief. He ached to feel a comforting hand on his shoulder. He longed to hear a reassuring voice. But all he could hear was Anka’s cries.
He had a job to do. He was here to save people, and he knew it, and he wanted it... but he couldn’t deny his exhaustion. His mind was muddled. Yet, one clear sentiment was very present in his thoughts.
*I wish Carol were here.*
___________________________________________________________________
It was cold in Chicago. The wind was bitter and biting, and Carol held the unconscious child close to her chest as she made her way through the mess and to the ambulance holding bay.
He was a beautiful boy. His skin was fair -swept with pink from the cold, gold sand-coloured hair growing in soft tendrils around his chubby face, pouted rose-tinged lips and delicate eyelashes that brushed his round cheeks.
He laid still and quiet until they were only a few steps from the ambulances. Then one started its engine and let a loud wail of its siren permeate the air. The boy jerked awake in Carol’s arms and looked up at her.
His eyes were big and ocean blue – so clear she was sure she could see herself reflected in them. For a moment, he stared at her silently. But when he realized he didn’t recognize her, and that he was cold and in pain, he let out a howling cry.
“Oh...” Carol groaned, partly in pity for the little boy, partly in pity for herself. Her head was pounding. “Ok....” she soothed, shifting his weight in her arms. “Ok, hon.”
“Mamma!” he cried, his arms flailing, struggling against her, his feet kicking, his hands pushing her away. “Mammaaaaa!”
“Shhhh....” She resisted his thrashing and held him firmly. The docking bay was a flurry of noise and people. The ambulances were following an endless cycle of trips, from the hospital to the site, loading up the criticals, and back to the hospital..
“Hey... hey!” Carol flagged down a paramedic who was opening the back of his rig. “I’ve got a kid, concussion, possibly bleeding internally. He needs to get to the hospital.”
“Yeah, get in line.”
“What?” she stared, taken aback.
“I’m serious. There’s a line. Look.” The paramedic pointed to a long cleared area where hundreds of people were sitting and standing and lying, bleeding and crying and screaming.
“But he’s critical.”
“So are they.”
“Can’t you take him with another patient?” She sighed. “He’s just a baby.”
“Sorry, we’re overcrowded already. We have to follow regulations or there’ll be no order to this.”
“Order? What order?” Carol huffed. “People are dying here because there aren’t enough ambulances. How can you call that order?”
Defeated, she looked down at the boy, crying still. He’d given up his resistance and was now clinging to her coat. “Can I at least have a blanket? He’s got no jacket.”
He sighed heavily, shrugged and, taking pity on them, handed Carol a grey blanket.
She left the paramedic, wrapped the blanket around the child, and told her story to the next set of firemen, with a similar response.
She looked down at the tiny, red, tired face. “Sorry kid. Looks like we’re gonna have to wait.”
They trudged towards the cluster of wounded people and, finding a section that had been covered with rubber mats, sat down.
Slowly, she began to rock the little boy, singing softly, hoping to quiet his bawling.
“Pack up all my cares and woes, here I go, singing low, bye bye blackbird.”
Immediately, his crying eased into a set of dispersed whimpers and he looked up at her curiously.
“Where somebody waits for me, sugar’s sweet, so is he, bye bye blackbird.”
Suddenly, his rosy face broke into a small grin and he reached up and patted her face.
“Oh you like that, huh?” Carol smiled. “Or are you just laughing at my singing?”
“Birdie.” Came the child’s giggled answer.
“Thats right,” she agreed. “Birdie.”
“Birdie!” he squealed again, pointing away from her.
She followed his finger, and sure enough, a big, shiny blackbird was siting on the edge of their mat. “Well there you go,” she laughed. “Thats a big birdie.”
“Big, *BIG*,” he agreed happily, reaching out for the bird.
The blackbird opened his beak, cawed loudly and flew off in a flurry of flapping wings.
The boy settled back against Carol. “Mama?” he asked suddenly.
“I don’t know, hon. I don’t know where she is. But as soon as I can get you to the hospital,we’ll find her, ok?” Carol took the opportunity, while he was quiet, to check him over. Externally, he looked fine. He had nothing but a few bruises and abrasions. Carefully, she put a hand over his abdomen and pressed down with as little pressure as she could.
“Owww!” came the boy’s piercing protest.
“Ok, alright.” she soothed quickly. “I’m sorry. Its ok.” She needed to get him to the hospital. Soon.
“Whats your name, honey?” she asked softly as she turned him around to face her.
“Birdie.” He replied, happy and smiling again.
“No, silly,” she grinned back. “Your *name*.” She pointed to herself. “My name is Carol.”
“My name is Carol.” he repeated, giggling, teasing her.
She sighed in exasperation, but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re a little sneak, aren’t you?”
“Sneaky Jacob!”
“Ah! Jacob! Thats your name.”
He grinned.
“Well then, Jacob, we have to go to the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because you hurt your tummy in the explosion. Do you remember the explosion?”
“Boom!” Jacob’s hands flew up in his enthusiasm.
“Well... yes, thats basically it.” Carol smiled and ran a hand through his fine golden curls. “Do you want to come to the hospital with me?”
Jacob thought for a moment, his little brow furrowed, his lips pursed. “Is Mamma there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We can look for her.”
“OK.” He was happily playing with her shoelaces.
“Ok,” Carol repeated softly and, shifting his weight in her arms, stood up to find a phone and call a cab. If no one would take this child to the hospital, she would do it herself.
___________________________________________________________________
“Hey, Ross, you’re back!” Bill greeted him with a casual smile as he handed a woman who’d lost three of her fingers a few tablets of morphine.
“Yup,” Doug smirked halfheartedly as he stepped over a cracked porcelain toilet.
“How is the little girl?”
“She’s fine, for the most part. Just bumps and bruises – I can hardly believe it.”
“Great, Ross. Good job.”
Doug nodded and pursed his lips. “Thanks.” Why did he feel so dejected? “I think her parents are here somewhere. Ya think you could radio the other tents, see if they’ve got anyone by the name of Shanghei?”
“Sure, I’ll do that.” Bill dug his radio out of his pocket and spent a moment talking to medics in another relief tent. “Sorry man,” he told Doug after a moment. “They haven’t got ‘em.”
“Alright,” Doug shrugged. “They’re probably out here somewhere.” He drew his hand to his forehead to shield the sun’s hot glare and glanced around. “I think I’m gonna go look over where we found Anka.”
“Thats fine. I’m just about done here. I’ll come with you. I don’t think they’ve combed through that area very well yet.” Bill shoved the rest of the morphine back into his pack and followed Doug to the site where they’d found the little girl under the debris.
They started about 100 feet away from that spot and worked their way in, ransacking the area thoroughly, all the while calling out the Shanghei’s names, sifting through each pile of rubble until they were almost at the exact patch where they’d found Anka.
Under a piece of dry-wall he’d lifted up, Doug found a ratty, pink stuffed bear. One of its eyes was hanging by a thread, and a splatter of blood dotted its fuzzy, pathetic face.
Breathing deeply, Doug closed his eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so much death and pain in one day. He was tired. His soul felt heavy and soiled. All he wanted to do was go home and curl up with Carol in front of the fireplace, lying his head in her lap so that she’d twirl his hair around her finger...
“Oh... Ross... over there.”
Doug looked up quickly, his warm daydream shattered. “Where?”
“There,” Bill pointed and began to walk towards it.
Doug looked. A big, shiny, blackbird was perched atop a huge plank, propped up by something smaller underneath it. “It’s a bird.”
“No, no, underneath the plank.” The doctor heaved the slab of wood out of the way, then hunched over something, taking a pulse. “I think I found them.”
Doug dropped the stuffed bear and hurried over to him. What he saw made his stomach churn, and he suddenly felt sick and cold and sweaty. A man and a woman where lying, almost side by side. The man’s chest was crushed and he was, evidently, beyond saving. The woman’s right leg was also smashed something fierce, and a deep laceration was the source of a long river of blood staining her soft face.
“Are you sure?” Doug choked.
Bill held up a wallet he’d found in the man’s pocket. “Milo Shanghei.”
“Pulse?” he managed to ask. “Either of them?”
Bill shook his head. Not wanting to accept that, he bent over the woman himself and pressed a finger into her neck.
“She’s still warm, Bill, we’ve got to try. That little girl... she’ll be all alone...” he mumbled as he straddled the woman and began chest compressions.
Bill stared at him.
“Please, Bill, Dr. Gregory.... please!.”
With a sigh he was at the woman’s head, his mouth over hers, breathing for her, aiding Doug’s efforts.
And so they worked, for half an hour, pumping and breathing rhythmically, periodically checking her pulse with no change.
All Doug could hear was the pounding of blood in his temples, and Anka’s echoing cries of ‘Majka, majka!’.
Almost every survivor had been pulled from the wreckage by that time, and the bomb site was in a quiet, eery lull. The only moving figures were of two men, furiously trying to save a mother.
“Ross...” Bill implored when he’d breathed for the woman so long his own breath came in short puffs. “Ross... Doug.... she’s dead.” He stood up slowly, shakily, and put a hand on his shoulder, urging him up. “Come on man, she’s dead. She’s gone.”
Doug grunted and unconsciously slowed his pumping until he stopped. The air was still. He bit his lip and stood up, wiping his hands on his pants, leaving two streaks of the woman’s blood.
“She never had a chance, Ross. She was already gone. You saved the little girl. You did well.”
Doug stooped in one swift motion and picked up the little pink bear. He lightly ran a finger over it’s soft fur. Then, clutching it tightly, he tilted his head back, into the sun, where the lone, lustrous blackbird was circling overhead.
___________________________________________________________________
Am I in heaven here or am I in hell?
At the crossroads I am standing.
___________________________________________________________________
The ER was a madhouse. The phones were ringing off the hook, people– doctors, nurses, patients, and everything in between rushed about chaotically. Every trauma room was full, as was every exam room, and curtain area. The cafeteria had been converted into a makeshift trauma center, and triage was bubbling over with patients. The morgue was overcrowded, and the rest of the bodies were being stored in a tent outside the ambulance bay.
It was pandemonium. More so than unusual.
“Ready, Jacob?” Carol asked the boy in her arms. The ride over had put him into a hushed, half-asleep state, and his small head was resting on her shoulder.
“Hmmm...” he murmured and patted her chin.
She smiled, pulled the blanket a little tighter around his small body, and stepped through the ambulance bay doors.
“Connie...” she called to the nurse as she hurried up to the admit desk.
Connie looked up from her frenzied scribbling. “Carol... weren’t you at the site?”
“I was... but I need to get this little guy settled. Its crazy over there.” She paused. “Are there any beds?”
Connie shook her head. “Not one, and we’ve got patients lined up to snatch up the next free spot.”
“Are there any about to be discharged?” Carol walked around the admit desk and struggled out of her coat off as best she could with Jacob in her arms.
“Uh.... no,” she answered, checking the board. “But there’s a woman in exam 2 about to be moved to the burn unit.”
“Ok, I’ll get that bed then.”
Connie made a face.
“Come on,” Carol balked. “I’ve got to get back to the site, and there’s no one to take care of him.”
The nurse sighed, and Carol smiled. Yes, there *was* some power in being charge nurse.
She and Jacob arrived in front of curtain 2 just as the woman was being wheeled out. Quickly, Carol set the boy on the bed and started a chart for him. Then she took off his shoes and looked inside them. A little tag on the tongue read “Jacob Harrison.”
“Ok Jacob Harrison,” she grinned at the child. “I’m gonna find your parents.”
“Mamma?”
“Uh huh. I’ll be back, hon.”
She dug a phone book out from under the admit desk and looked up “Harrison.”
“Great,” she mumbled. There were 57 Harrisons in Cook County.
****
Every Harrison in the area had either never heard of Jacob, or didn’t answer their phone. Carol left about 10 messages on different answering machines.
After calling the last number, she sighed and retreated back into Jacob’s room. She’d been asked more than once to fetch a few CCs of lydocaine or O-neg or to irrigate someone’s knee lack. But she felt a strange obligation to the little boy with the golden curls and round blue eyes.
“Hey Bud,” she rubbed the top of his soft head affectionately. “How are you feeling?”
“Owie in my tummy,” his lips pursed in a pout. He put down the colouring book she’d found for him.
*Where is that surgical consult?* she thought angrily, her brow furrowing. He could have had a bruised spleen... or internal bleeding.
“I know, hon. We’re gonna fix that soon.”
“Cawol?”
“Yeah, Jake?”
“Stowy?”
“I have to get back to the bomb site, so that I can help people. But when I get back, I’ll read you a story, ok?”
“Bye bye.” Jacob looked up at her as she stood in the doorway, coat in her arms, scarf around her neck.
“Bye, Jake,” she smiled.
He waved at her with his chubby pink hand – a kind of clumsy one-handed clap– and went back to his colouring.
___________________________________________________________________
Her face lit up when she saw him walking towards the tent. Doug’s stomach heaved.
*How would he tell her? He felt so responsible. He’d let her down.*
Anka was sitting on the burlap bags with Vladimir, drawing pictures in the sand with a stick.
“Doug!” she squealed when he came up to them, and reached her arms up.
“Hi Anka,” he smiled gravely and sat down beside the man and the little girl. She immediately hoisted herself into his lap. He handed her the blue bear he’d found and cleaned off.
“Rosa!” she cried and hugged the stuffed animal tightly, delight evident on her face.
“You’re feeling better then,” he commented, mostly to himself, knowing full well she couldn’t understand him.
“She does good,” Vladimir nodded.
Doug heaved a sigh and looked at Vladimir over Anka’s head. “We found her parents. They’re both dead.”
The man’s eyes grew wide and he gasped. “Oh... poor girl. You wish me to tell Anka?”
“No...” he shook his head. “I should really tell her.” He looked at the child settled so comfortably in his lap, hunched over to draw squiggles in the sand. “Why don’t I tell her, and you can translate for me?”
Vladimir nodded. “Ok. I translate.”
“Anka,” Doug called the girl soberly. She glanced up, almost startled to hear the serious tone in his voice. “I have to tell you something very difficult to hear. Something bad happened.”
He waited while Vladimir translated.
“I found your Momma and Papa. They were hurt very badly in the explosion, and they died.”
He waited again, until Vladimir finished, then gauged her response. She only stared at the two men.
“Do you know what dying means, Anka?”
She nodded, slowly, as Vladimir translated. Then she softly told him what she’d been taught about death.
“She say ‘when someone die, they don’t come back and you miss them... and momma cry.” Then, without warning, the large man in the suit and the bandage over his eye began to weep. He didn’t bother to hide his face, but cried openly and put his big hand over the little girl’s.
As soon as she saw this, Anka began to associate what Doug was telling her with what had happened as best she could. *She would never see her momma and papa again...?*
With one trembling sob, a wave of tears flooded her tiny body, and Doug reached out for her. His arms – so big and strong next to her petite, fragile frame– encircled the little girl, and he rocked her slowly.
___________________________________________________________________
“Has anyone been in to see the boy in exam 2 yet?” Carol shouted to Lydia as she burst through the doors and jogged to the admit desk. She’d been working at the disaster site for more than five hours. She was freezing and exhausted and worried about Jacob.
Lydia shook her head. “They’re really backed up in surgery.”
“Is Mark back yet?” she huffed. Waiting four hours for a surgical consult was unacceptable. Even if there had been a tragedy. Even if they were backed up. The child was critical...
“No. But Doyle and Carter are around here somewhere.”
Carol thanked the nurse with an exasperated smile and, after stuffing her coat into her locker, went to check on Jacob. Her shift had ended ages ago, and she’d been on her feet for almost 24 hours. The hospital crew had worked hard to get all the casualties out before dark. They had just succeeded, getting everyone out – or at least all that were alive– as night fell and the temperature dropped.
The lights in the child’s corner of a room were dimmed, and she wondered fleetingly if Connie had been in to check on him.
At first, she thought he was sleeping. His eyes were closed lightly, his small form unmoving under a bunched heap of sheets. But his eyes fluttered opened sleepily when he heard her footsteps.
“Mamma?” Came his drowsy voice.
“No, honey. Its Carol.” She stepped up to his bedside. An IV had been inserted into the fine skin on the back of his hand.
“Owie.” He told her, showing her his hand.
“I know, I know,” she cooed, and stroked his silky honey-coloured hair away from his damp forehead. “Does your tummy still hurt?”
Jacob nodded feebly.
“I’ll be right back...” Carol promised as she fled his room. She was tired of waiting.
Running out into the hallway, she snagged the first doctor she saw by the arm.
“Carter, I need a consult.”
“I’m busy, Carol. I have 7 patients to see.”
“This’ll just take a second,” she explained as she dragged him by the elbow back to Jacob’s room.
“Carol...” he protested, but he was no match for her.
“3 year old, in the bombing, was unconscious for about half an hour. His abdomen is distended and painful in the lower quadrants.”
“How long’s he been here?”
“About 6 hours.”
Carter sighed as he gently applied pressure to the boy’s abdomen. He hadn’t been a surgical consult in many months...
Suddenly, Jacob let out a loud, trembling whimper and tried to push Carter’s hand away.
“There’s probably an internal bleed,” Carter concluded. “He needs a laparotomy.”
“So get him up there!” Carol exclaimed, frustrated.
“The ORs are all booked. He’s stable. I’ll never be able to get him up.” He shrugged and glanced at the softly beeping monitors the child had been hooked up to. “I’d say another few hours at the least.”
“Dammit,” she cursed quietly and looked to Jacob, whimpering quietly, staring at them.
Carter gave her a sympathetic smile and left with a flip and a swish of his lab coat.
Trying to rub the exhaustion from her eyes, Carol pulled a plastic chair to the side of the bed and eased into it.
“You’re being a very brave boy Jacob,” she told him earnestly.
“Stowy?” He asked hopefully.
“Yeah, sure. I’ll go find us a book.”
She left and rooted around in the lounge until she found a stack of Rachel Greene’s old picture books, and brought them back to Jacob.
“Which one should we read, Jake?” She eased herself onto the narrow bed and settled beside the little boy.
“Dat.” He pointed to a tattered copy of ‘Clifford the Big Red Dog’.
Carol opened the book and began to read.
After awhile, the soft, lulling rhythm of her voice grew fuzzy in the child’s ears, and he leaned back to gaze at her face as she read to him.
Breathing a gentle baby sigh, he reached up and snagged his little hand in her soft mass of curls, twirling a finger through it, delighting at its texture.
“Oh...” Carol gasped and smiled as she felt the tug. She leaned down farther so he could play with her hair without pulling, and continued the story.
When she’d read through most of the books, and felt Jacob’s tiny form relax beside her, she put the stack on the floor and stretched out as best she could without disturbing him. Her body felt heavy and sore and burnt out. She was having trouble keeping her eyes open. She felt so tired....
All of a sudden, Jacob’s body stiffened tightly and his hands began to tremble. Carol was instantly wide awake, hovering over him, shaking his shoulder.
“Jacob? Jacob, whats the matter, hon?” She glanced anxiously at the monitor. His heart rate was low and dropping.
In seconds she was off the bed and hooking up the rest of the monitors. She ripped into the hallway, shouting.
“I need some help in here! I need a doctor, somebody... now!”
People looked at her and passed by, leaving her shaking in the middle of the hallway. No doctors... no one. She frantically flew to the admit desk.
No one was at the phones. She swirled around, searching, frantic and shuddering.
“Mark!” she almost screamed as he stepped through the ambulance bay doors.
“What, Carol? What is it?”
“3 year old in exam 2, I think he’s hemorrhaging!” she was already dragging him to Jacob’s room.
As soon as Mark saw the child’s SATs and heart rate, he flew into action.
“Page Lucy and Carter, we’re moving him to trauma 2!”
She obliged and rushed to the phone and paged the doctors, then grabbed the end of the bed and pushed it into the trauma room as she’d done so many times before.
Hearing the commotion, a handful of the other nurses came to join the entourage, and soon, the room had erupted into the blast of energy that was a trauma.
“Carol?”
Mark’s voice rang in her ears with an irritating vibration.
“Yeah?” she was breathless, fighting for oxygen, trying to keep her composure, knowing she’d already lost it. Her hands shook as she tried to open a syringe package for the eppy.
“Is this the kid...?”
“Uh huh.” She nodded, feeling numb.
The sheets were thrown from the bed and Jacob’s limp body was lifted onto another gurney.
“Yep, he’s hemorrhaging!” Mark yelled as blood began to poor from the small child, gathering underneath him on the gurney, soaking his thin gown.
Carol gasped when she saw, and closed her eyes fleetingly, panicked.
“I need 5 of O-neg, now! We’ve got to transfuse, and get him to surgery!” Mark was shouting over the low hum of busy nurses and technicians.
Carter and Lucy rushed in and joined the efforts.
“Sats are down,” Chunni informed him. “Heart rate’s almost at 40.”
Carol shoved the eppy she was struggling with towards Lydia and grabbed Jacob’s chubby pink hand. She leaned over and pressed her lips against his ear. “Jacob, I’m here. Its gonna be ok honey. Its ok.”
“He’s in V-tach!”
“Hook up the O-neg. We need to stabilize before we can send him up!”
“V-fib!”
“Get the paddles,” Carter instructed. Chunni handed them to him as the defibrulator charged. “Clear!”
The paddles were pressed to the child’s fair skin and he jerked horrifically on the table as electricity was sent in waves through his broken body.
“Still V-fib!”
“Dammit, he’s bleeding out!” Mark cursed. Carol was still clutching Jacob’s small hand in hers, crouched down so that her head was level to his, softly whispering into his ear, trying to block out the sounds of the trauma. She watched in horror as the catheter bag filed with blood.
“Blood in the foley,” she told Mark evenly.
“Shit. This kid’s not going to make it if we don’t get him up to surgery! Charge the paddles again!”
And again, they were charged, and again, Carter took them, and again, electricity was sent through Jacob’s body, and again, he jerked sickeningly, lifelessly.
And again, the v-fib status was announced.
Mark bent down and checked the amount of blood in the excess canister.
“Ok,” he sighed quietly. “Thats it guys, we can’t transfuse now. I’m calling it.” He paused to look up at the clock. “ Time of death, 7:48.”
“Oh... Mark...” Carol stood up, the little boy’s hand still cupped between both of hers. “Couldn’t you....” She trailed off and bit her lip.
The staff was slowly dropping their gloves and leaving the trauma room.
“Carol...” he stepped closer to her and placed a compassionate hand on her arm, just above her elbow. “There’s nothing we can do. We waited too long.”
“It was just.... so busy.... there were no ORs available....” she looked at Jacob. He looked just as he had the first time she’d seen him. Still, calm, eyelashes gently brushing his fair cheeks. It had happened so fast. It was almost incomprehensible.
“Its not your fault, Carol. You tried your best. There were just too many victims and not enough hospitals.” His words didn’t seem to be consoling her any. “You tried your best...”
Finally, she let go of Jacob’s hand.
“He’s just a baby,” she whispered, almost inaudible, and reached up, and twirled a finger through her hair.
___________________________________________________________________
So now you're sleeping peaceful
I lie awake and pray
That you'll be strong tomorrow
And we will see another day
And we will praise it, And love the light that brings a smile across your face...
___________________________________________________________________
“You ok?”
Doug glanced up, fleetingly, then looked back down at the sandy ground. He was perched on the back of a supply jeep– leaning back, his legs hanging off the edge, fingers curled tightly around the rubber ledge. He cleared his throat and ticked his head to the side.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You not hungry?” Bill eased himself onto the jeep beside him and opened a rumpled brown bag. It had been almost 6 hours since the bombing, and the medical teams were taking short breaks in shifts to eat and rest. The immediate work was done– there was no longer the mad rush of casualties emanating from the rubble. But cadaver crews would work for days to pull the dead from the site.
“Nah,” Doug’s stomach was tied up in knots, and he couldn’t deny the sick feeling lurking in its center.
“Want an apple?” Bill held the small, pitiful excuse for a piece of fruit towards him.
He shook his head. “I’m fine, Bill. I’m just not real hungry.”
“Ok, but.... you should still eat something. We’ve got a long haul ahead of us.”
Doug looked up. “What do you mean?”
“They’re gonna use these jeeps to transport the rest of the criticals to a hospital on the other side of Shajnik.”
“How are we getting back to the base?”
Bill grinned and raised an eyebrow. “We walk.”
A trickle of a laugh rippled from Doug’s throat, tinged with exasperation. He was exhausted. His feet were blistered and sore and tired.
“Aw, don’t worry Ross. We’re only hoofin’ it as far as the UN party stationed at the edge of the next town. We’ll bum a rig off of them.”
He nodded, and the doctors were silent for a moment. Then, Doug raised his head enough to gaze in the direction of the relief tents. “How many dead?”
“102 so far,” Bill answered softly
“God...” he shook his head slowly as the scene of violent wreckage in front of him blurred. Doug passed a hand over his face and sighed heavily.
“Had enough of Kosovo, huh?”
“I just– I didn’t really expect this.... Its different from Chicago.”
“You think so?”
Doug looked to his friend, startled. “Well sure. There is so much suffering here. Violence... and... innocent sacrifice... and... hunger, separation, genocide...”
“And you don’t see these things in Chicago?”
He thought for a moment. “Its not the same.”
“How so? Just because you see it everyday doesn’t mean its any different from this.” Bill put his lunch down and sat back, looking out over the scene of broken, half-standing buildings and dusty debris. “The way I see it, suffering is the same wherever you go. People are people and evil is evil. You know what I mean?”
Doug shrugged. “Maybe... I think so. I guess I’m just not used to this stuff.”
“You work in the ER, right?”
“Yeah. I’m an attending.”
“What about the homelessness and poverty that is so abundant in America? Don’t you see a lot of that? Thats hunger and suffering. And what about the GSWs that fly through those doors... all the stabbings and beatings... thats genocide, my friend. And I don’t know if that is any more brutal that whats going on here. How about MVAs and drive-bys and disease? They kill innocent people, just like this bomb killed many righteous bystanders.”
Doug stared at the middle-aged doctor, shocked at his wisdom and insight. “I never really thought of that...”
“I’m not saying that this isn’t a tragedy. Whats going on here... with Milosevic and the Serb/Albanian conflict – this is barbarous. And these people need our help– thats why we’re here. But violence and suffering is ample everywhere.”
Doug nodded in understanding. The surrealism that had suffused his outlook on the day had faded with the death of Anka’s parents. But Bill’s words were showing him a view of his work that he’d never seen. “How do we stop it?”
“One step at a time, I guess.”
He took a deep breath. “It feels right, Bill. Being here– it feels like the right thing to do.”
“But...” Bill smiled, his serious demeanor fading.
“I miss her like crazy.”
“Your wife?”
“Hmmm...” Doug shook his head, grinning a little. “Not yet.”
“Whats ‘er name?”
“Carol. She’s a nurse at the hospital I work at.”
“Ah. She pretty?”
He smirked and with a swift flick of his wrist, extracted his wallet, and pulled out a picture.
“Oh, you lucky dog! She’s one helluva looker.”
“Yeah...” his voice sounded distant. A soft smile played around the corners of his lips.
“Looks to me like you’re head over heels, Ross.”
He laughed and looked at Bill, tilting his head. “I dunno. Maybe...”
“Oh yeah, you’re lost to the world.” Bill chuckled.
“What about you? You got someone back home?”
“Ah... no. My home’s here, on the plains with the medic brigades. I spend too much time overseas to get attached.” There was a hint of sadness in his voice that evoked a wave of sympathy from Doug.
“You’re from the US, right?”
“Yeah, my family’s in Maryland.”
“Going home soon?”
“Yeah.” Bill smile again. “Next month, for Easter. My Ma’s always cooked a big turkey and the relatives bring potluck.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is.” He pursed his lips in a tight, quick smirk and hoped off the end of the jeep.
“Hey... Bill?”
“Yeah Ross?”
“That little girl... Anka... she’s all alone.”
Bill nodded, knowing where this was heading.
“But she told me she has family – grandparents, on the far east side of Shajnik, near the community center. That’s not too far from the UN base, right?”
“Ross.... we can’t be responsible for–,”
“I’ll take full charge of her. If anything goes wrong, you can blame it on me. I just want to see her safe, Bill. Please... can we bring her?”
The doctor shook his head, marveling at the man’s charms. “If you don’t let her wreck anything, I suppose we can arrange something.” He suddenly reached back into the rumbled paper bag he was holding and fished out the tiny apple.
“You sure you don’t want this?”
“Alright.” he huffed. “I’ll eat the damn apple.”
He bit into it’s tart flesh and a drop of juice ran down his chin.
Bill smiled.
___________________________________________________________________
Her day was over. Finally. After 26 grueling, harrowing hours on her feet, Carol was going home.
She wrapped her scarf around her neck and shut her locker and passed the admit desk, heading for the door.
“Carol!” *Dammit.*
“What is it, Mark?”
He was walking towards her, charts in hand, pen behind his ear.
“Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, I’m beat.” She adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag and shifted its weight.
Mark looked at her carefully. “Are you ok...?”
“Sure, I’m fine.” She did her best to smile brightly.
“Really? I mean, I know you’d gotten pretty close to that boy...”
“Yeah.... he was... I just...” Carol looked to the floor before any emotions could swell. “I just didn’t expect that. It caught me off guard.”
“You gave him a chance, though, Carol. You pulled him out of the rubble and gave him a chance to live.”
“But it didn’t matter.” She shrugged, her voice quiet. “I pulled him out, and I got him here, and I learnt his name, and I held his hand. But I couldn’t save him because the system was overcrowded. We neglected a 3 year old boy, and now he’s dead.”
“That isn’t your fault.”
“I should have tried harder... you know? I could have demanded a consult right away... I could have hauled him up to surgery myself. Someone might have taken him...”
“No, I don’t think they would have. You went beyond the call of duty, Carol. You did your best.”
“It wasn’t good enough.”
“That was out of our hands.”
Carol nodded. She knew, of course. She knew that she did all she could. But that didn’t ease the guilt and grief percolating in her stomach.
A man and a woman rushed past them to the admit desk. The woman was clutching a ratty, stuffed blue rabbit and her hands were shaking. Carol watched them with a plaintive curiosity.
“Excuse me, excuse me!” Her voice was etched with franticness. Randi lifted her head.
“Can I help you?”
“There was a message on our answering machine.... from a nurse Hathaway... she said our son was in an explosion....? Is he alright?”
“Uh.... nurse Hathaway is right over there,” Randi pointed to Carol and Mark a few feet away. “She’ll be able to help you.”
Carol swallowed and closed her eyes.
“Go ahead home,” Mark told her quietly. “I’ll get this.”
“No. I want to do it.” She shook her head, pursed her lips and walked up to the couple, leaving Mark a few paces behind.
“Nurse Hathaway?” The man asked, looking to his wife, then back at Carol.
“You’re Jacob’s parents?” she asked softly, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
“Yes, I’m Marie Harrison. This is my husband, Roger. Is there something wrong with Jacob? I heard about the bomb at the bio lab... was he injured?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Harrison, your son was found at the bomb site and brought to the ER a few hours ago, where he was treated for a mild concussion...”
Marie Harrison gasped lightly and reached for her husband’s hand.
“Due to the great number of casualties from the bombing, there was no equipment or doctors available right away to test Jacob for other ailments. Half an hour ago, we discovered that he had a massive internal bleed when he hemorrhaged.” She fought for control of her voice as it wavered and the urge to cry swelled in her throat. “ The doctors did everything medically possible to control the bleed, but his injuries were too severe and.... and they couldn’t save him.” Carol looked down, lifting a hand to her face, and wiping away a tear. “I’m sorry, he– Jacob died.”
The Harrisons looked at each other, their faces contorted in confusion and shock and grief. Then Marie held up the little rabbit she’d been clutching.
“I– uh... I brought him his rabbit... he was at preschool.... and he forgot it... he was....he...” And then she broke. Her knees buckled and her hands trembled and a sob ripped out of the woman so violently her chest heaved inwards. Roger held her with one arm, his jaw tight, his chin trembling.
“My little boy...” he said so softly Carol could barely hear him. “How... how could this happen...?”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, biting her lip, tasting blood.
Then Mark was behind her, his hand was on her shoulder.
“Would you like to see him?” He asked the Harrisons.
Roger nodded, and Carol watched as Mark led them down the long hallway, until they disappeared into the sea of patients and nurses and doctors.
She took a deep breath, clearing her head, and wiped her eyes, and headed for the door again.
“Carol!” Randi was calling her. She sighed and closed her eyes in exasperation.
“What is it?” she turned around to face the admit desk.
“Call for you on line one.”
“Take a message. I’m going home.”
“I... uh...think you’d better take this.”
Carol raised an eyebrow clenched her teeth in frustration. All she wanted was to go home and forget about bombings and death and little boys. She slapped her bag down on the admit desk and grabbed the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart.” The sound was crackling and faint, the connection shaky from the distance.
She was immediately grinning, the load that had accumulated during the day lifting somewhat, her mood brightening.
“Doug... hey,” her voice was tinged with joy, and excitement bubbled up inside of her. She pulled a chair from under the admit desk and sat down, cradling the cold receiver against her cheek.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nope... everything’s fine. Why?”
“You just... kinda sound like you’ve been crying.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“I called home... you weren’t there. Are you on overtime?”
“No, there was an... emergency. I stayed to help out.”
“Oh... are you sure you’re ok?”
“Uh huh. Its just been a really long day.”
“Yeah.” She heard him sigh. “For me too.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Shajnik. I’m on a guy’s cell phone.”
“You haven’t called in awhile.”
“I know. Its hard to get access to a phone. And sometimes, if we’re too far from a station, the cell transmission doesn’t work.”
“Will you have access for a few days?”
“Well, we’ll be at the base all day tomorrow, so I’ll call you then, alright?”
“Sure,” Carol smiled. “Thats fine.”
There was a pause in the conversation and she could hear him breathing heavily.
“How have you been, Doug?”
“Ok, I guess. Its really hot here, and the bugs are irritating at night. And... I’m really dirty.”
They both laughed.
“No showers, huh?”
“Not too many.” She could hear the smile in his voice.
“Well, make sure you find one before you get home. Can’t have you stinking up the place, now.”
“Oh, don’t worry. If I have to, I’ll take a dip in Lake Michigan before I come home.”
“And.... when exactly will that be?” She asked sweetly, her voice light.
“Oh.... next Saturday...”
“Doug, really? Thats in a week!”
“I know. The team’s disbanding Saturday and new volunteers are being flown in. So... I can come home.”
“Thats great... thats really fantastic.”
“Oh, you miss me, do you?” he asked slyly.
“No, I miss your back rubs. Damn, I’m sore!”
He laughed out loud then, and the line grew raspy with static.
“Bill says hi.”
“Bill Gregory?”
“Yep.”
“You two becoming friends?”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy. And he thinks you’re gorgeous... so his taste isn’t too bad either.”
“Really? He said that?”
“Uh huh. Hey, Carol, I’ve gotta go.” She could hear voices in the background.
“Ok. You’re calling me tomorrow?”
“Yup... it’ll probably be morning in Chicago.”
“I’ll be home.”
“Alright. I’ll talk to you then. I love you.”
“I love you too, Doug.”
“Bye, Carol.”
“Goodbye.”
The line was consumed in a snarling wave of static, and then went dead.
Carol turned around to face her gawking co-workers, who immediately went back to looking busy.
“He’s coming home Saturday,” she told them with a small smile and picked up her bag.
She headed for the door a third time.
___________________________________________________________________
“Ready, Ross?!” Bill was shouting from the tents, a few yards away.
“Yeah!” Doug shouted back and closed the small cell phone. His conversation with Carol had left him rejuvenated. It was so wonderful to hear her voice. He was more anxious to see her on Saturday than he’d ever been for anything in his life. He knew how fulfilling it would be. She would be waiting at the airport, and he’d see her from the plane, standing at the terminal, looking up, her hair blowing in the wind, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun. Then he’d get off the plane and she’d run to him and kiss his face, and he’d wrap his arms around her and...
“Ross!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming!” He quickened his pace and turned his attention away from images of Carol.
“You talk to her?” Bill asked as Doug jogged up to the tents.
“Yup.”
“And...?”
“She’s fine. I think something happened at work today... but other than that... yeah, she’s fine.”
“Great, great, Ross. We’re ready to ship out. You set?”
“Uh huh. Let me get Anka.” He handed Bill the cell phone. “Give Tony back his phone, will ya?”
He nodded and Doug walked under the tent to find the little girl.
“Anka...?”
She looked up with eyes wide as saucers when she heard his voice.
Carefully, he kneeled down beside her. Vladimir had gone to the hospital to have his eye stitched up, so she was sitting quietly by herself, still on the burlap bags.
Doug gently put his hand on her small head. “Does your head still hurt, sweetheart?”
She stared at him.
He patted her hair softly, trying to recall the words that Vladimir and the girl had used earlier. He’d picked up a bit of Serbian since his arrival in Kosovo, but only a few choice words. “Ok... um.... glava...toj glava?”
“Jhest, moj glava.” Anka nodded and placed both of her little hands over his on the top of her head.
Doug couldn’t help smiling. She was adorable.
He checked her ears for bleeding and make sure her pupils were reactive.
“I think you’re ok.” He told her, and sat back.
“Anka?”
“Doug.” she grinned and patted his knee, inspecting the rough texture of the canvas material.
“I’m going to take you with me across the city to see your Deda.”
“Deda?” she asked, her eyes lighting up. It seemed to Doug that she had already forgotten about the death of her parents. It showed just how little she really understood about it. He sighed softly. She would understand later.
“Yep, that’s right. You ready?” he reached a hand out to her.
Of course, she didn’t understand a word he was saying, but the happier tone of his voice and the smile on his face left the little girl reassured.
“Jhest.” she told him and clasped her hand into his.
“Jhest,” Doug agreed and led the child out from under the tents, and into the sun.
___________________________________________________________________
The house was so quiet that the sound of her key in the door echoed as loud as gunfire.
Carol pushed it open and burst into the house. Even though the temperature was mild for March, it was still cold outside, and she was anxious to retreat into the shower.
It was at this time every day or night, when she would come through the door, and throw her bag on the kitchen table, and take off her coat, that she missed him the most.
During the day, she could absorb herself in her work. There were patients to help and family to console and messes to clean. She could forgot that Doug wasn’t there, imagining he was only in the next room, busy with someone’s child.
But when the hustle of the ER was over, and the noises faded, and the patients disappeared, and the white-washed gurnyes and walls and equipment dissolved, and she was at home, alone, there was nothing to do but miss him.
Usually, they’d leave work together, or when they had different shifts, he’d be waiting for her when she returned home. And then there would be the wonderful aroma of coffee when she walked through the door, and strong arms to relax into, and a soothing voice to work the quills and knolls of stress from her mind.
But for the past two and a half weeks, there’d been no coffee, and no relaxing arms, and no soothing voice.
Only silence.
Slowly, she trudged through the cool, dark kitchen, and into the bathroom. Reaching into the shower, she turned on the water to let it warm up, and set out a fresh set of towels.
After combing through her thick hair, Carol reached up to unbutton her scrub jacket. When her hands touched the fabric, she stopped. A spot of blood had stained the collar, glaring red against the gentle pink material.
It was Jacob’s blood. She hadn’t even noticed. God...
Hastily, she removed the top and the rest of her clothes and stepped into the shower.
The water was too hot, but she didn’t turn it down. It was as though the hot spray might wash away the memories of the day, as though it would cleanse her mind of dying babies and crying children and the disastrous evil she’d seen.
Carol closed her eyes and roughly ran the washcloth over herself, trying desperately to get rid of the filth of death so imbedded in her skin.
****
Shivering as she wrapped a towel around her torso, Carol wiped down the fogged bathroom mirror. She stared fleetingly at her reflection – dark smudges under her eyes highlighted by her fair skin- flushed from the heat of the water, full lips dry and cracking from being outside in the winter air all day, hair wet and limp around her face.
She sighed, feeling unattractive in her exhaustion. Her body ached to curl up in bed, with the covers pulled around her shoulders. But the knowledge that when she reached over to spoon up against Doug, she’d be greeted with a hollow, cold space had made her wary of her bed, and she’d taken to falling asleep on the sofa.
So she went into the kitchen to calm her growling stomach. Having had only coffee in her system for the past 24 hours, she was more queasy than hungry, but something solid would banish the hypoglycemia.
Pulling a small pan from the rack overhead, she cracked an egg into it, set it down over an element and went into the living room to turn on the TV.
Carefully avoiding the ten o’clock news, she flipped through the channels, finally settling on an old I Love Lucy rerun.
Then she waited, lips pursed, brow furrowed, until Ricky raised and eyebrow and, hand on hips stated “Lucy, you got some splanin to do!” And when he did, she couldn’t help but hear Doug’s voice, ringing with gentle tantalizing, when he’d smile and tease her with that famous line.
Suddenly, a peculiar smell wafted in from the kitchen. Carol furrowed her brow, and then sprang from the sofa and raced into the kitchen.
“Dammit,” she cursed as she picked up the smoking pan and tossed the burnt eggs into the sink. “Piece–a–shit frying pan!”
The kitchen was hazy with smoke, and smelt awful. With a tired slump of her shoulders, she heaved open the window and shivered, her hair still wet, as cold air rushed in.
Too weary to try cooking again, she curled back up on the sofa, pulled an afghan over herself and turned the channel. Something familiar caught her eye and she stopped flicking.
When Carol realized it was the news showing scenes from the day’s bombing, she almost switched the channel again. But something stopped her, and she leaned in close to listen to the dark haired reporter.
“The bombing of the downtown biochemistry lab was a shock and tragedy for the city of Chicago today. Situated right next to an elementary school, 21 of the 102 dead were children...”
“102...?” Carol’s voice came out in a stricken croak. She’d known that the death toll would be high but... 102?!
And Jacob was only one of them. One baby out of 21. One human being out of 102. One dead out of so many. One victim from a senseless tragedy. One more reason for her to cry.
She succumbed to the stinging tears pooled in her eyes then, released herself to the tightness in her chest, and wept, until her temples throbbed and her eyelids were too heavy to keep open.
___________________________________________________________________
The dusty, sand-blown trail spread on for miles, the only sign of civilization a twinkling city just visible on the horizon. The trees grew low to the ground, their branches reaching up towards the sun blazing low in the sky.
A band of 5 medical volunteers and one small, dark haired girl made their way down that dusty road, laughing, talking, whistling, releasing the tension of their long, harrowing day.
Anka was perched atop Doug’s shoulders, her little brown arms resting on the top of his head. His hands were clasped loosely around her ankles, swinging gently.
Bill had his portable radio stitched on to an oldies jazz station. Some of the songs were in Serbian, but most were strange jazz tunes Doug had listened to as a child.
“Hey Tony,” Doug called to the man trudging along next to him.
“Yeah?”
“Whats that up ahead?” There was a vehicle, a long way off, sending reddish dirt and dust out in misty clouds on either side of it. The truck looked to be heading towards them.
“Hey... might be the other medic team... maybe they’ve come to pick us up!” Tony grinned.
“Probably come to their senses and taken sympathy on our poor feet,” Doug agreed with a nod, his spirits rising a little more as he recognized the song playing.“Bill, turn up that radio, man!”
His friend obliged and turned it louder.
“Pack up all my cares and woes...Here I go...Singin' low...Bye, Bye Blackbird,” Doug started and Anka giggled madly at his interpretation of the song.
“No one here can love or understand me, ...Oh the hard luck stories they all hand me...” The rest of the crew joined in, their deep, rough voices echoing gloriously as they walked along the quiet trail.
“Make my bed and light the light... I'll arrive late tonight, ... Blackbird, Bye, Bye.” Doug sang loudly, grinning as Anka hummed along.
Then suddenly, the music was switched off.
“Watcha do that for?” Was the resounding response.
Bill didn’t answer. He was staring straight ahead, his lips pursed into a tight line, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” Doug asked. “Whats the matter?”
“Thats not the other medical team...” Bill said, his voice hushed and low. The truck was now just a mile or two away, and the symbol on the side of the vehicle could clearly be seen.
“Its.... a Serb troop?”
Bill nodded. “Just relax, guys. Keep walking. They shouldn’t bother us, we’re on Albanian land, but we’re medics, we’re neutral. They... they shouldn’t bother us.”
The team nodded, slowly, in silence, and trudged on.
“Doug? Doug...?” Anka’s small, confused voice asked softly. The music had stopped, and the men had gone quiet. She wasn’t having fun anymore.
Doug patted her leg reassuringly as he felt the flare of concern rise in his chest. They medical brigade watched as the soldiers in the back of the truck shifted and a few of them stood up. The guns strapped to their backs were menacingly visible.
When the truck was only a few yards away from the team, it halted to a stop and 7 men dressed in army garb jumped out, shouting in Serbian, running at them with their guns in hand.
“Oh shit,” Bill cursed under his breath, slowly reaching for his pistol.
One of the soldiers shouted something at Bill as they surrounded the team, pointing to Anka, then at the truck.
Bill shrugged and shook his head, trying to communicate the fact that none of them spoke Serbian.
This only seemed to make the men angrier, and the one who’d shouted, who seemed to be in charge, pointed at Anka again.
“Ona Srbija?”
Again, Bill shook his head, and Doug, afraid for her, slowly lifted Anka off his shoulders and into his arms.
Then, in a flurry of Serbian and English cries, the situation escalated dangerously. In one swift movement, the barrel of a gun was pressed violently into Doug’s back, and a sharp stab of pain shot through his spine from the assault. The soldier wielding the gun was shouting in his ear.
“Ross!” Bill’s voice shouted through the havoc. “They think we’ve kidnaped the girl!”
Fear had gripped him so tightly, he couldn’t process for a moment. ‘Kidnaped...?’
“Give Anka to the Serb!” Bill instructed frantically.
4 of the 7 men surrounded him then, barrels pointed in his face, prying Anka from his grasp.
“Doug! Doug!”
She was crying, clinging to him, kicking at the soldiers.
The sounds of gunfire cut through the air and Anka screamed.
Doug looked around frantically, feeling drugged, still clinging to the little girl, the scene unfolding in slow motion before his eyes. He saw a Serbian soldier fall, and three others turn, their weapons drawn, and fire. He felt Anka being ripped form his arms, heard her cries, felt his arms forced painfully behind his back.
“Bill?!” His voice was slow and disjointed to his ears as he searched for his friend. His mind was whirling, his hole body was shaking, resisting the soldier’s attack. “Bill!”
Then he saw Dr. Bill Gregory lying face down on the dusty trail, his hand still loosely fixed around a pistol, three patches of deep red appearing on the back of his shirt.
Along with the other 3 medics, he was forced into the back of the truck and pushed to the floor.
‘I’m sorry, Carol...” he uttered softly before his face was slammed into the rough metal. The sound of Serbian shouts and Anka crying and Tony moaning and gunfire dissolved and he saw only blackness.
___________________________________________________________________
Oh God, if you're out there won't you hear me.
I know we've never talked before,
Oh God, the man I love is leaving
Won't you take him when he comes to your door
___________________________________________________________________
An icy cold wind blew across Carol’s face like an apparition, and it stroked her awake with its bitter touch.
She glanced at the blinking, neon 5:30 of the VCR clock. The TV was still on, droning a blatant sound that caused her ears to ring. Looking into the kitchen, she saw the culprit of the draft. She’d left the window open. With a shiver and a sleepy sigh, she got up and wrapped the afghan around herself.
Carol almost shrieked when she noticed the big, shiny blackbird sitting on the open window sill, staring at her mutely.
“Stupid bird... get out of here!” she shooed it away with a wave of her hand, and it flew off into the night with a flap of its wings.
Pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, she closed the window with a bang, and went to her bedroom. Something didn’t feel quite right. It was too cold in the house. She was freezing.
It was then that she noticed the candle on her dresser. She’d been keeping it lit, all hours of the day, to calm some of her worries. It was a sort of silent vigil for Doug she could conduct without feeling paranoid.
But even though her door had been closed, and her windows locked tight, it had blown out.
“Thats strange...” she murmured and walked over to the thick wax church candle. Furrowing her brow, she picked up a match and lit it, then let it touch the wick.
It flickered for a moment, then went out.
She tried again, and kept it on longer.
Nothing.
Frustrated, she lit a third match and held it over the wick. Blowing gently, she melted the wax around it, and finally, a small flame was conceived, and she blew out the match.
Carol stood back a step and watched the candle burn in the darkness. The room was still so cold.
A piercing shiver ran up her spine and she shuddered.
___________________________________________________________________
Glossy, black feathers flapping rhythmically, tiny scaled feet pointed towards the earth so far below, dark lucid eyes fixed and steady. He flew up, into the clouds, wind currents billowing over his sleek little body, wings pumping ambitiously. When the taste of the wind grew balmy and the misty air formed dew drops on his velvet plumage, the beating of wings ceased and the bird let the gentle current carry his tired body.
The blackbird cawed once at the full, silver moon, and looked down at the earth below. 24 hours ago, two disasters had pummeled this world. And though they had happened so far, geographically, from each, they had really been quite the same.
They were born from the same human evil. They were manifested from the same human hate. They killed many innocent people.
And many innocent people were saved. They were saved from the same human kindness. They were saved from the same human love.
The cycle had repeated itself in both countries, kindness offsetting evil, evil offsetting kindness. When kindness won out, it was another step. Another step in eliminating genocide and poverty and hate.
With a frenzied flap of his wings, the bird dipped out of the cloudy haven, and out of the sky.
It was all part of the cycle.
And that was why. That was the reason.
___________________________________________________________________
In a small house in Cook County, Chicago, a television set, left playing, rattled on to a dark, empty room.
The flashing screen made the room dance with bright, winking colours. The blinking pictures played upon the walls in a flourish of lighted flares.
A dark haired reporter appeared on the screen, her pale green suit brushed and perfect, her brooch adjusted, her papers stacked.
She looked up into the monitor and cleared her throat.
“We interrupt this program for a special news bulletin. We have just been notified that an American Medical Brigade of volunteer doctors were taken prisoner by Serbian troops in a critical situation. Their current status is unknown....”
In the small house in Cook County, Chicago, a television set rattled on to a dark, empty room.
___________________________________________________________________
Hold on, hold on to yourself
This is gonna hurt like hell...
___________________________________________________________________
Well, I do hope you liked it. All comments and complaints are welcome and encouraged.
I’m thinking of possibly starting a mailing list of sorts, so if you’d like to join, give me a shout.
-Sam
Part 3
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