Title: Mokena Terrace 1: Sandie Ripka Sings the Blues

Author: Katie

Fandom: MASH

Pairing: Frank/?

Rating: PG-13

Category: post-war, series, humor, angst, drama.

Summary: In late 2002, now handicapped and nursing home patient, Frank Burns is interviewed by the spunky and exhausted, psychiatrist Sandie Ripka. Despite their differences, the two help each other see what needs changing in their lives.

Disclaimer: I don't own MASH, the Dixie Chicks, or Green Day. I do own Sandie and any other character I invented.

Feedback: If you have given my fic a gander, I would you to tell me so. Onlist, offlist, in space-- I
really don't care.

Mokena Terrace
By Katie

Part 1: Sandie Ripka Sings the Blues

Frank Burns gazed out the window. The heat from the sun was a pleasant contrast from the cold seeping in from outside. The small amount of sun was not enough to satisfy him but going outside meant facing the cold. It seemed that you could only get the things that you want by getting the equal amount of things you didn't want.

Off the near table, Frank grabbed his shawl and draped it over himself, the best he could but it fell
miserably onto the linoleum floor.

These days, small things stopped worrying him. All the big things in the world, war, failing economy, terrorists, didn't affect him, either. His thoughts were elsewhere. Another time, another place.

Unless, talked to, he was completely gone. Away at that other place, silent.

The doctors and nurses suspected Alzheimer's but he showed no sign off forgetfulness or insanity. He was calm and cordial when the personnel shuffled in and around him. However, when he was forced to go into the multipurpose room for "socialization" he was completely silent, gone.

Where he was, no one knew. No one knew much about him, in other senses. He was 85 years old. He was anemic. He ate all of his meals. And he was Francis Marion Burns. However, when he first arrived he was *Lieutenant Colonel* Francis Marion Burns *M.D.* and was quick to tell you so. Then, after a month he just Frank or Mr. Burns and still quick to tell you so.

Government funding agencies wanted to know more than that. They couldn't have an unknown living it up on their dollar. Pretty soon a psychiatrist was scheduled for an evaluation.

*****

Sandie Ripka went into psychiatry to be a social worker for children in foster homes. She ended up working with seniors in nursing homes. The job was less than fulfilling. All of the patients were exactly the same. Hoarders. They would steal pieces of paper, buttons, bottle caps, thread and other things with no real value, then keep them hidden until a custodian found them. All of them were children of the Great Depression. Now, they were trying to save their families from poverty with all of their contraband. Sad, but boring.

While she was in school, which was not too long ago, Sandie wanted to untangle the cleverly constructed cobwebs of the human brain. To help people. Preferably, inner-city children. Maybe it was the romanticism of Dangerous Minds, Sister Act 2, and even Welcome Back, Kotter, that made her believe that all it took to reach inner-city kids was understanding and un-orthodox methods. Those things and some-thousand dollars her parents wouldn't supply her with.

Sandie's parents were rich enough to put her through graduate school as many times as they wanted to. Wanting to was the problem. Her father was a surgeon with a high paying private practice and her mother was housewife with a pension for trashy novels and cosmopolitans. Together they were a white upper class powerhouse of snobbery.

"Daaaahhhhling, we just think that it would be to daaaanngerous," her mother said, in her Beacon Hill accent.

Although, it could be a dangerous job, working with possible gang members, the only thing that her mother thought was in danger was the Ripkas' reputation. What would the people at the country club say about the event manager's daughter making less than a quarter of a million dollars a year?

Sandie and her parents managed to do something that they never had one before-- make a compromise. Sandie would still go into behavioral health but as an adult psychiatrist, where appointments were two hundred dollars an hour. But the rebellious nature in Sandie acted up and she went to work the good ol' US Government making a wee sapling amount of a salary.

Now she was in *Indiana*, talking to incontinents all day. Mother truly knows best.

*****

"Mr. Burns?"

Frank spun around in his wheelchair. A 17-year-old candy striper stood in his doorway. The girl walked across the tiny room to him. She looked down at the shawl on the floor and picked it up. "Mr. Burns, did you drop this? Here," "Candy" said, in a voice that expressed the title of her job. She laid the shawl around Frank in an awkward fashion.

When she looked up at him, Frank managed a weak smile. Most of the people who worked at the home really did not want to be there. The nurses seemed to be annoyed by the patient, like they were the nurses new baby neighbor being dropped on their lap needing to be looked after; not their job. The doctors didn't really care, if they arrived two days late they were still going to get paid. The physical therapists were angry at the nurses for being lazy and the doctors for not showing. Except for the occasional parole case and Ivy Leaguer Wannabe, the candy stripers were there on their own free will. Sure, they thought that the patients were sad, pitiful old-timers who were never young and when they were young they were wearing poodle skirts and being abstinent.

"Mr. Burns, don't forget, Dr. Ripka is coming by at 2:30," "Candy" said slowly and loudly. "Do you need anything?"

He knew that she just wanted to hear him talk, something he rarely did. The bitter old man in him
wanted to shake his head but the loveable Grampa said, "No, thank you."

"Candy" cracked a grin and walked out of the room.

*****

"Who doesn't know what I'm talking about? Who's never left home who's never struck out?
To find a dream and a life of their own A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone," Sandie
crooned, along with the music.

"Many precede and many will follow
A young girl's dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out West
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed."

She flicked her car's turn signal and slided onto the Larkin Avenue exit.

"She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes."

Her Honda chewed up the dirt road toward Mokena Terrace. At 2:30 she had an appointment with, most likely, another hoarder. The clerk at the agency was vague about this patient. Okay, Bogart was *always* vague but this time it seemed it was because lack of information not lack of occupation. All of what she knew about Burns was that he served in a war, is a surgeon, and was born in 1918. A Great Depression child.

The worse part of Sandie's job was deciding if the patient should stay at the home or go to an asylum. If the patient was on a respirator or had another physical ailment he had to stay at the home. Otherwise, it was up to her. The asylum was a horrible place to spend your last days but most of the people who she had sent there were so gone that they wouldn't notice where they were. At the nursing home, the patient we be a danger to all of the other occupants and the personnel. Sandie sighed. Sometimes she wished they would just be put out off their misery.

When she was younger this was so much easier. She had felt like a cowboy or Robin Hood, helping the poor to spite the rich. Now, she was just so tired. Maybe she could go back to Boston and start a... no, she could not, not after all that had happened.

"She traveled this road as a child
Wide-eyed and grinning she never tired
But now she won't be coming back with the rest
If these are life's lessons, she'll take the test
She needs wide open spaces
Room to make her big mistakes
She needs new faces
She knows the high stakes," Sandie belted out. She
curved slightly and pulled into Mokena Terrace's
parking lot.

*****

Frank saw her walk out of her car. (That was another advantage of having a room with a window-- you could see what little visitors the home had, come and go.) She was short, had shoulder length brown hair, and was wearing a red long sleeve shirt and a pair of Levi Strauss'. She was a lot better looking than many of the other government workers that had been there. Most of them were cold, over-stuffed shirts with the *same pair of glasses*.

He wheeled himself around. A nurse was yelling at her aid about keeping Mr. Whitman in his room. On a regular day, she wouldn't give a rat's ass *what* room Mr. Whitman was in, but today, that government lady was there. Every time an agent would stop by, it was chaos. All of the rooms were to be cleaned. The games were to be taken out of the cabinets. And the patients
were to be put in places where they would look good. It was like a living pamphlet, with models and everything.

...And Frank was gone. His mind wandered back to something he did to his clerk, long ago. A far away look came over his face.

He was gone. G-O-N-E.

*****

"Sandie Ripka, R-I-P-K-A," she spelled put for the nurse at the front desk.

"Follow me."

The nurse grabbed a chart and led Sandie into a bright white hallway. Patients were lying in their beds like corpses in a coffin, straight as a board, and as pale as the hallway, and lifeless. Nurses rushed in and out of the rooms their aids in hot pursuit. The dry air smelled like lighter fluid and mothballs. Were all nursing homes alike?

She followed the nurse past at least twelve tiny broom closets, and then they were at Burns room.

When they walked in he didn't notice them. That was, until, the nurse yelled, "Frank!"

He snapped back into reality and acknowledged them, yet stayed silent.

"He does that a lot. Just goes off into La-La Land," the nurse said, not attempting to adjust her voice to a level he couldn't here. "I'll leave you two alone." The nurse left.

Sandie dragged a chair to where it was facing Burns, directly. She waited for him to say something. Nothing. She flipped through her papers, trying to find *some* sort of information on this guy. "Dr. Burns...."

"Frank," he muttered.

"Frank... can you remember these words for me? Dog, work, speak, then. You got that? Now, can you repeat these numbers? 5, 8, 3, 4."

He repeated them exactly.

"Could you tell me the date, please?"

He mumbled something about "pinkos" and answered her, accurately.

"Frank, where are we?"

He closed his eyes as if he had to think of something. When he opened them a wave of a new... person, it seemed, washed over him, along with a smirk.

"My room, Mokena Terrace, Frankfort, Indiana, United States of America, the World, the Milky Way Galaxy, the Universe, Existence."

This could be interesting.

"Do you know why I was brought here today, Frank?"

*****

"Frank!"

Frank snapped back. The portly desk clerk was at his doorway with Government Girl. Up close she didn't look a whole lot different except for her face. From the window he could only see an outline out her body and the intricate details of her face was a blur. Now, he could see her clearly, she didn't look like an agent. Her face was creased and there were black droops under her eyes. Her purse hung low and looked like it would drop at any time. She was leaning up against the frame of his door as if it were the only thing holding her up. In truth, Frank could've felt sorry for this child if he weren't so busy feeling sorry for himself.

"I'll leave you two alone."

Government Girl pulled a chair by Frank and sat down. "Dr. Burns...."

He cringed. He wasn't a doctor anymore. No one would let him operate. It was like putting all this effort into baking a cake, having a slice, then having someone take it away. He didn't *want* to be a doctor. Why do something your not good at? People could die. People did die.

"Frank."

Government Girl looked put off by this. "Frank.... Can you, please remember these words for me? Dog, work speak, then. Thanks, I didn't think I could. And now can you say these numbers? 5, 8, 3,4."

Frank wanted to ask if she worked as a kindergarten teacher before going psych.

"5, 8, 3, 4."

"Could you tell me the date, please?"

He glanced at the newspaper on his bed. "September 5, 2002."

"Where are we?"

This was the worst question. Didn't she know you could be in two places a time? Frank Burns couldn't lie. Hawkeye Pierce could. "My room, Mokena Terrace, Frankfort, Indiana, United States of America, the World, the Milky Way Galaxy, the Universe, Existence."

New attention lit up Government Girl's face. "Do you know why I was brought here today, Frank?"

She sounded like a grade school principal asking a naught child why they were brought to her office. What would Pierce do, flashed through Frank's mind like a cheeky slogan. She was serious about this question, he could tell that, but he did not have any form of an answer. Pierce would joke his way out of this. Pierce could charm his way out of this. Pierce could have his buddy, Trapper help him out of this. But Frank could do nothing.

*****

He stared blankly at Sandie. "Do you know?"

He shook his head. This was exactly what she needed. A wild goose chase. For all she knew, he could've pushed the lunch lady into the meat grinder.

"Have you ever taken anything that wasn't yours from the other patients?"

"No."

"Do you collect anything?"

"Stamps."

The answers went on and on like that. Sandie would ask questions and Frank would answer with a "no" or a completely benign tidbit. He continued to show no real clean-cut sign of dementia, except for the drifting. Normally, she would be concerned about the drifting, but he wasn't screaming or acting like he was in a virtual-reality game and he could easily "drift" out of it. It seemed as if he was deep in thought, trying to go way back in his consciousness for something in
had put there for safekeeping. What that something was, Sandie had no idea.

Not that she wasn't curious. It was in her nature to be curious. It had always been. How many times, as a little girl, had she peered into the keyhole of her father's den? Or pick up the phone's receiver and eavesdrop on her mother's conversation? Countless. Had anything good come from it? Nothing. Had she learned anything from it? Too much. Was she going to stop? Not when she could help people.

*****

Frank had thought she was different from the other agents when he had first met her but then the
questions began. She didn't even tell him her name just straight off to the Government procedures. Just like any other agent. The last one he saw, the man who referred him to her, was here to inspect the home, which was even worse. Every once in a while, somebody would come down and interviewed each of the patients, briefly. The agent would sweep from room to room, asking everybody the same questions, not looking up from his clipboard, briefly. He might have to spend a
tiny bit of extra time on the people who were really old but even then all of the operations were done, briefly.

When this guy came in, Frank was in his room, staring out the window, as he usually did, and he was gone. Government Man walked over to the window, his legs moving like scissors, and *clapped in Frank's face*. Two swift ones, like a bitter, tightlipped Boarding Schoolmistress would, to get her young students to follow. Frank turned and the brief interview began.

Frank, as in the interrogation with Government Girl, was purposefully vague. It was "yes" or "no". The other patients gave lengthily accounts of what it was like "back in the day". They were lonely. Frank wasn't lonely, not at all; there was nothing at all lonely about being alone.

After Government Girl's question passed, Frank had figured that his vagueness was probably why she had to be here. He hadn't gone crazy and his brain's parts were all in the right place. He didn't tell her that, though.

*****

The meeting ended in the same fashion as it has begun. Frank was distant, Sandie was reserved yet curious. After a half-hearted, "I think I'm done for today," she was back on her way. Her Volvo thumped down the road, *thump, thump*, slowing taking her into civilization.

"Bogart," she said on her cell phone. "Get me all the information you can on Francis Burns. F as in food. R as in rat. A as in-" He hung up. Sandie muttered a curse word and continued driving.

What had really fascinated her about Burns was his vagueness. Most people his age would talk on for hours about collecting things but he had just said, "stamps". And the drifting, all normal old folk had a tendency to space out but she had the distinct impression that Mr. Frank Burns was not normal old folk.

Sandie flicked on the radio.

"Castaway - going at it alone
Castaway - now I'm on my own
Castaway - going at it alone
Castaway - now I'm on my own
Lost and found, trouble bound
Castaway."

Mokena Terrace 2: Nightly Rounds

I'm addicted to the city lights, I guess you're right
But something changed tonight
I made it through with spontaneity
But this monotony is killing me
It's 2 am man the house is cold, I'm feeling old
Looking back at how time's rolled
I know somewhere stars fill up the night, that must be such a sight
It'd make me whole again inside
I'm getting closer, closer the farther I drive away
I'm getting colder, colder the longer I stay
Don't know how much time I got to spend right here
I've been avoiding but it's time to face my fear, right here
Looks like this episode should end
And I'll miss my friends
-Lucky Boys Confusion

Sandie pulled a pint of Ben and Jerry's Half Baked Frozen Yogurt out of the freezer and let her bones drop to a stool. Referrals, evals, and a whole a buncha what-not to fill out. She was sure that the US Government and their God-forsaken forms was the cause of the lack of forest in the rain forest.

She grabbed a pen (a *black* pen, why was the president so set on things being written in black but so dead-set against affirmative action?) and peered down at the heap of paper work below her. *Hannagan-- safe to go home, Smith-- Institution, Abbot-- stays at the home, Burns--* That man puzzled Sandie.

Before today, in her field of medicine, there was no thin line between illness. Banging your head up against the wall-- ill, talking cordially about your grandchildren-- fit as an ox. That is if you *have* grandchildren. Burns was that thin line. The line between sanity and insanity. He didn't bang his head up against the wall nor did he speak cordially of his grandchildren. That is suspecting he had children and grandchildren.

And that was the hardest Goddamn part of Burns! Sandie knew nothing of him. He wouldn't talk. Anybody who could get him to "open up", no matter what level of education deserves a degree in behavioral medicine! He could be like the Virginia Bar! You pass him you can shrink anywhere!

It seemed that Burns was her cheesy movie or book plot-- Be Careful What You Wish For by Satan, Vishnu, Hades, Stephen King, and Any Other Deity of Wrath You Can Think of. One moment Heroic Yet Conflicted Female was wishing for a non-hoarder and the next a non-hoarder was dropped onto Heroic Yet Conflicted Female's lap. Oh, no, it's not that simple (is it ever?), Heroic Yet Conflicted Female cannot figure out what is wrong or not wrong with Lovable Old Sad Patient. Speed up the story-- Heroic Yet Conflicted Female and Lovable Old Sad Patient learn an important lesson. If only Sandie could speed up *her* story.

Sandie's phone rang. It was 11:47 PM and the Americana within forced her to question aloud, "Who could be calling at this hour." She tip-toed over to pick it up, but her answering machine got to the call first.

A nervous, shaky voice crackled out. "Hi, um... it's Theodore Hampton from Auvdore Boulevard. Um... uh... I'm in... uh... Indianapolis on business ... for two months and your mother said--"

Theodore's message was cut off by a monotone "CURRENT MESSAGE DELETED."

Her mother was trying to set her up again. Almost a thousand miles away from it's target and Cupid could still shoot Horrible Blind Date Arrows at Sandie. Then again, a hunter could easily hit a dear in the headlights.

Sandie would roll her eyes, give a deep sigh, and many other things that should have stopped at age eighteen, whenever her mother "set her up". Oh, how she set her up. She set her up for disaster. She set her up for humiliation. She set her up for a chess game if she felt the need.

It had been this way for years. Ever since Sandie was of contillian age. Her mother was an excellent match-maker. Every match had something to gain from the boy's parents. A membership to the country club's Women's Society. A powerful vote for Father. Or the fieriest demon, publicity.

It was all publicity, really. One giant commercial for William Ripka, Massachusetts' Republican Choice. One giant flop in the outcome. He never won anything. He was president, vice president, or treaserer of anything his wife, Susan could get her mitts on. That's all. When pressed to speak of his unsucess, Susan would say that there were "simply, too many Republican candidates, many of them not deserving", too which Sandie would reply, "too many Republicans altogether".

:: :: :: :: ::

Frank found himself in bed again. He felt idle, being propped up in a tuft of cotton a seven-thirty. At least when his mother sent him to bed he sould read. But no, not here. Too dark. A cold, bleak, empty darkness. A sea of black ready to swallow you up. He couldn't even see the air.

The night time orderlies wafted their way through their rounds, shining their flashlight into each room, just long enough to make the occupant even more senial. Frank wondered why "rounds" was adopted. Surely, if someone escaped the staff would have notice. They would've heard the *squeak, squeak* of the wheelchair. That was another thing. How could some escape when they can't even take a piss alone? They wouldn't be able to get out of bed.

Frank put down the less practical and probable ideas and went into a more "hospitable" state of mind. The orderlies were probably checking if any of the patients rolled of their bed and broke their hip. To Frank it still seemed pointless. Breaking a hip is inevitable, it happens to everybody, therefore there it not a legitimate reason for people to flash lights in people's eyes!

Frank lied there, brooding over nursing home policies and the like. At night, brooding was the main hobby of Frank. For their was nothing else to do but brood. In the day he could be bombarded with thoughts from the other, but they never came at night. (Hawkeye surely could make a joke on how someone could dream all day and think all night.) Frank supposed that the other place had to be triggered, inspired by something. A fishing pole, a beaker, a gaudy dress, a curly haired boy.... However, in the dark void, there was little to be inspired.

:: :: :: :: ::

It seemed that the hardest part of being a psychiatrist was the seriousness of it all. Never could Sandie laugh at Titus' childhood experiences; for laughing at the mentally ill is wrong. And so is this, and so that, and this, and that. The world is becoming too PC. People are walking on eggshells, trying not to seem prejudiced in the eyes of the contemporaries. Sometimes, it appeared to Sandie, that the left wing groups are worse than the right wing. See, when someone does something really shocking and edgy they are labelled a heretic. The "heteric" responds with a gentle brush of middle finger. However, when someone does something Archie Bunker-esque, they're labelled a hillbillies. The "hillbillies" then replies with a very insincere apology, just to keep up appearances. This is all what the world is now, a bunch of heretics and hillbillies. There is no fine line.

As you can see, Sandie was not one for Freudian theoreticy. Sandie figured that every genii she had met were insane, an every insane person she had met were genii. Anybody who could invent or create something bold and different had to a bit insanity to do it; sane folk would be too afraid. Anybody who could twist and contour their mind into such dysfunction was truly a genius.

If Sandie were to analyze Freud she'd howl "homosexual" to the moon. Freud was gay, right? Any man who talked that much about penises was either gay or severly lacking. Makes you wonder what would've happened if Hitler would've turned to psychiatry instead. One of her professors did have a very tiny moustache....

Sandie laughed at that thought as she half-heartedly dropped of her stool and headed toward her bedroom.

:: :: :: :: ::

*Der Captain sat in his chair at Starboard.

A l l w a s c a l m. The boys were no where in site, Mamma was baking in der kitchen, and Der Inspector was off chasing truant fish. Der calm waves of the Meditteranean rocked der ship b a c k a n d f o r t h. Der old seadog sat there, peacefully, with not a care in the world.

Tragedy. Big waves rose in the sky, hurtling toward him. Hans and Fritz were back.

"Addy der fisherman! Addy der fisherman!" der boys shouted, dancing around Der Captian, fast, fast circles. "Addy der fisherman! Addy der fisherman!"

Der words eeped into Der Captain's mind. The same words, same melody, over and over again. Before he knew it, he was at the edge. He wanted to leave. He wanted to stop being Addy der fisherman; he was a Captain not a fisherman. Der only way to leave a boat was to jump and to jump you die. You get swallowed up der ocean. Eader get swallowed up by der ocean or get swallowed up by Hans and Fritz. He jumped.

Der ocean enveloped him. Bya-bya, Addy der fisherman.*

Frank awoke in a cold sweat. He was on an unfamiliar surface. Cold, pale, gritty, the floor. A sharp pain was shooting from his hip. It was clear to him that this was big trouble. He tried to call for help but his blankets muffled the noise. He tried once more. No answer. The meaning of rounds became all too clear right then.

END PART 2