JANUARY 1991
LANDSTUHL REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER
LANDSTUHL, GERMANY

Through the haze that envelops my mind, I think I hear someone crying.  Why would there be someone crying?  You’re not going to find a sailor breaking down in the middle of a carrier in the Arabian Sea, not with a possible war hanging over our heads.  There’s too much to do, too much to focus on.  What the….?

I try to move and with the blinding pain that spreads throughout my entire body comes the memory of what happened.  The stormy skies.  The tilting carrier deck.  Mace’s panicked shout as the deck rose up to met us.  The searing heat as our Tomcat exploded in a ball of flames. 

I try to push aside the pain, fighting towards awareness.  There isn’t a part of me that doesn’t hurt and the agony surrounds me, clouding my mind.  After a few moments, my mind clears a little – I find it hurts less if I don’t try to move – and I hear something else….voices.  It takes longer before I recognize the voices and can grasp what they’re saying.

“He’s alive,” a male voice says.  Frank.  If he’s here, then so is Mom, and likely Gram as well.  Finding comfort and safety in this recognition, I try to focus on what’s being said.  “That’s all that matters right now.  We can worry about the rest later.”

“Frank’s right,” another voice says, one that brings to mind breezy meadows and the smell of hay in the barn.  Gram.  “Let’s just thank God….”

“Thank God for what?” another voice demands, the same one that I’d heard crying earlier.  “That my son so much wanted to be like his father that he nearly followed him into an early grave?  Is that what I’m supposed to be thankful for?”

Mom.  I move my arm, trying to reach out to her, to assure her that I’m here and that I’m not going anywhere.  I want to scream as the throbbing intensifies, blinding me to all else, but I can’t.  It just hurts too much to do anything but groan.

“Trish.”  That’s Frank’s voice again, cutting through the agony of my thoughts.  “We can….”

I start to panic, wondering why I don’t hear him anymore, but then I feel it, the warmth of skin on skin, fingers curling around mine.  I fight through the pain to tighten my fingers, trying to reassure whoever it is that I’m here. 

“Trish, Sarah,” Frank says insistently, his voice closer.  I hear him breathing as he leans over me.  “I think he’s waking up.  Trish, come here.” 

After a moment, I feel other fingers, slender and feminine, clasping mine.  I realize that it was Frank’s touch I felt first and that he’s placed my hand in Mom’s.  It’s a struggle, but I manage to tighten my fingers around hers to reassure her.  I feel another touch, this time on my other hand, this one Gram’s.  I squeeze there to, receiving a gentle squeeze in response.

“Oh, darling,” Mom cries.  “Mom’s here, baby.  Just open your eyes.  Please, Harm.  Let us see those beautiful eyes of yours.”

I try to do as she asks, but my eye lids are too heavy, won’t respond to my mental command.  I squeeze again, trying to let her know in my touch that I’m trying.

“I know, baby,” Mom says.  “I know it hurts….Frank, press the call button.  Get the damned doctor in here….It’s okay, darling.  I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere until you open your eyes, no matter how long it takes.”

I hear footsteps, and then Frank says, “Doctor Ellison, we think Harm’s waking up.  I think I heard him groan and when I held his hand, he squeezed it.”

“Harm,” Gram says, “open your eyes before this doctor decides to launch into a lecture about involuntary movements in unconscious patients.”

If I could, I’d laugh.  That sounds like Gram, half order and half joke.  I fight again and this time I manage to open my eyes enough for the light above to blind me.  I quickly close them again.

“Sorry about that, Lieutenant,” an unfamiliar voice says.  It must be the doctor.  “I’ve dimmed the lights in the room.”

I open my eyes again, finding it easier than before.  I struggle to focus for a moment before Mom’s face swims into view, her eyes red and swollen.  “Mom,” I whisper, my mouth dry.  “Sorry….”

“Shhh,” she says and I feel her hand on my forehead, her fingers running through my hair like she used to do when I would get sick as a child.  It feels so comfortable, so familiar.  “It’s okay now.  Everything’s okay now.”

8 MAY 2009
JAG HEADQUARTERS
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

I stare at the phone, as if it can make the call that I’ve been putting off for the last few days for me.  Talking to Sarah last night helped clarify some of the things I’ve been feeling, but it hasn’t put me any closer to figuring out what to do for Mom on Sunday.  My attempt at writing her a letter sits on my desk at home, still blank but for the salutation and yesterday’s date at the top.  And Sarah’s idea of taking Mom to lunch somehow seems inadequate as it’s nothing we haven’t done before.

I’m startled out of my reverie by an insistent voice calling my name.  I look up to find Jen standing in the open doorway, one hand braced against the frame, folders cradled in her other arm.  “Captain Rabb?”

I shake my head as if to clear it, forcing myself to focus on work.  I nod towards the files in her hands.  “Is that the discovery I requested on the Kennison case?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” she says, stepping into the office and handing me the files.  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

“How about an idea of what to do for my mother for Mother’s Day?” I joke.

“Sorry, sir,” she says with a laugh, shaking her head.  “Can’t help you there.”

“No one can,” I say with a sigh.  “That’s the problem.”  Time to stop thinking about this and get back to work.  “That will be all, Petty Officer.”

As I open the top folder Jen just handed me, I start counting in my head.  I’ve reached forty-nine when there’s a knock on the open door.  “I suppose Jen stopped by your office?” I ask as Sarah enters and settles into one of the chairs in front of my desk.

“She said you were distracted and hadn’t even noticed that she was standing there,” she replies.  “Good thing that it was her and not the General.  I thought the talk that we had last night had clarified some things for you?”

“Clarified my feelings about everything Mom and I have been through,” I counter, “but that doesn’t help me figure out what to do for her Sunday.”

“Harm, it’s Mother’s Day,” Sarah says.  “It doesn’t require the tactical planning of D-Day.  You’re trying to make something simple too complicated.”

“It’s one of my many talents,” I joke with a grin.

“So I’ve noticed,” she retorts.  “Anyway, just call and invite her out to lunch, or even better, go over to your parents and make lunch for her.  I’m sure she’d love something homemade, especially if you make it for her.”

I ponder that for a minute.  “Only if you and the kids come with me,” I say.  “Mother’s Day is for grandmothers and grandchildren, too.”

“That will work,” she agrees.  “I’ve invited my mother over for dinner Sunday night, and a little birdie told me that my Mother’s Day gift involves something about ‘brefast’, so the kids and I would appear to be free for lunch.”

“Elizabeth,” I say with a knowing grin.  One of the twins must have said something in front of her and she repeated it, like a parrot, to her mother.  That was the reason why I limited what I say about Mother’s Day around her.  She’s not old enough yet to know how to keep a secret.  I’m surprised that she hasn’t let slip about the collage yet, which I’d managed to avoid talking about when telling Sarah about the incident between Matt and Elizabeth, describing the reasons behind the fight in the most general terms only.  If Elizabeth does spill the beans, I’m sure that Sarah will still act surprised, just as I know she will about breakfast.  She’s not about to spoil the day for our children.

“So that you’re not obsessing over it the rest of the day,” she says, “give your mom a call and set it up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I tease.  She gives me a saucy smile in reply before returning to her own office.  My eyes follow her, marveling as I have more times than I can count at the wonder that is my wife.

Once she’s out of sight, my thoughts return to my dilemma.  After considering for another moment, I finally pick up the phone.  I don’t dial my parents’ home number, but different one.  After two rings, the phone is answered.  “Hello?”

“Dad,” I say, “how are you doing today?”

“I’m doing great, Harm,” he replies, “just doing some work around the house.”  I can’t help smiling at that.  Dad’s as much of a handyman as I am, especially since he retired and they moved out here.  If he’s not puttering around his own house, expanding or renovating something, then he can often be found at Sergei’s these days, helping put together the nursery for the baby that Lisa’s expecting.  “Speaking of which, why didn’t you just call me on the land line?”

He would pick up on that.  I have picked up the habit of always trying my parents at home first when they’re not traveling, before calling their cell phones.  Dad knows me too well after thirty-four years.  “I didn’t want to call in case Mom answered the phone.  I need your help with something, and I don’t want her to know about it just yet.”

“What can I do?” he asks. 

“I’ve been trying to think of something to do for Mom for Mother’s Day,” I try to explain, “something special.  I’m still not sure about that part, but Sarah suggested that we get together for lunch.”  I stop, something else occurring to me.  “She doesn’t already have plans for lunch with Sergei and Lisa, does she?”

“No,” Dad assures me.  “We’re going over there for dinner.  Later in the day is better for Lisa these days.”

Sarah’s pregnancies had been blessedly problem free, with the exception of the shooting during her first pregnancy and even that wasn’t as bad as it could have been, so it had never really occurred to me how difficult pregnancy could be until my sister-in-law became pregnant.  A family history of diabetes on her side has led to Lisa developing gestational diabetes and a very difficult pregnancy, including morning sickness which still persists into her seventh month.

“Sarah just gave me a wonderful idea,” I say, quickly outlining her suggestion of a home cooked meal, “but I need time to prepare it.  Can you get Mom out of the house for a few hours late Sunday morning, say around 1000 hours?”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” he replies.  “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind hitting a few stores to shop for the baby and maybe we can get a head start on Elizabeth’s birthday next month.”

“Now, Dad….” I start in a half teasing, half warning tone.  She may not be related to my parents by blood, but the future Tatiana Rabb is destined by be spoiled by them as much as my kids are.  And I don’t even want to think about what they have in mind for Elizabeth’s birthday, considering their overabundance of gifts to the twins back in February.

“It’s our job as grandparents,” he jokes, laughing.  “Just read the job description.”

“Is there something in there about leaving the parents to deal with the aftermath?” I retort, tongue in cheek.  After everything that we’ve all been through, I’ve come to the realization that I wouldn’t trade my family for anything.  Being able to laugh and joke with Dad like this just reminds me why.

“Anything else I can do for you?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I answer.  “I haven’t planned out the menu yet, so I’m not sure what time lunch will be served yet.  I’ll have to get back to you on how long you need to keep her away.”

“That’s fine,” Dad says.  “Just let me know.  Or we could arrange a signal, like a text message, when you’re ready for us, just in case something unforeseen happens.”

OCTOBER 1998
LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

I stand on the porch for several minutes, trying to compose my thoughts before I have to face the conversation that’s coming.  It’s going to be one of the most difficult that I’ve ever had, and that’s probably saying a lot considering everything that I’ve been through in my life.

Taking a deep breath, I finally ring the doorbell, hearing the chimes echo behind the closed door.  It’s a couple of minutes before the door opens.  “Harm, thank God,” Frank says.  He hesitates a moment before pulling me into his arms.  In the past, I would have pulled away, but today I welcome it.  None of this would have been possible without him and I owe him for that, a debt on top of all the others that I now realize that I’ve owed him for so long.

After a moment, he steps back, tilting his head up to look me in the eye.  “I don’t have to tell you how scared your mother has been,” he says.

“I know,” I say.  On the flight back to Washington, Admiral Chegwidden had told us the story of how he’d ended up in Russia, how our deaths had been reported on ZNN.  No names had been mentioned, but those who know us knew who they were talking about.  He’d also told me about an anguished phone call he’d received from Mom just before he’d left for Russia, berating him for letting me go on that “fool’s errand”.  I’d called from Moscow to let Mom and Frank know that I am okay, but there are things I left unsaid, things that I have to tell them face to face.  “I’m sorry that I scared both of you.” 

Frank smiles at that last statement, accepting the acknowledgment, a long time coming, of his place in my life, my overdue consideration for his feelings.  He steps aside and motions me in.  “Your mother’s out back,” he says.

“How is she?” I ask.

Frank sighs heavily as we slowly walk through the house.  “She’s coping,” he replies.  “Or she’s trying to.  It was very hard on her, seeing that report.  In a way, it was harder than back in ’91.  There may have been no men in blue uniforms at the door, but hearing it on the news gave it a kind of finality, even without names being mentioned.  Then hearing from you….I think with everything you’ve been through, she’s wondering in the back of her mind if the day is going to come when it really is final.”

“I’m sorry,” I say simply, unsure what else to say.

“I know you are,” he says, pausing at the doors leading to the patio.  He studies me for a long moment.  “You found what you were looking for?”

I nod sadly.  “That’s what I came to talk to both of you about,” I say.

“Then it will be okay,” he says.  “I know it may not have always seemed that way to you, but all your mother has every wanted – all either of us has ever wanted - is for you to find some peace.”

“Thanks, Frank,” I say sincerely.

He opens the patio door, leading me out into the back yard.  Mom is on her knees in the grass, weeding one of the flower beds.  She usually has a gardener come in and take care of things while she’s busy with the gallery, but when she needs to distract herself, she takes to the garden with a vengeance. 

“Mom?”

She freezes, her back still to me.  It seems like an eternity before she finally turns around, lifting her eyes to meet mine.  “Hello, Harm,” she says, her voice trembling.

I quickly cover the distance between us, holding my hand out to her.  She hesitates a moment before taking it, allowing me to pull her up.  “Mom, I’m….” I begin before she shakes her head, silencing me.

“Was it worth it?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply quietly.  “I now know what happened to Dad.”

Turning away, she makes a show of pulling off her gardening gloves, laying them down on the ground next to the flower bed.  She turns back to me, her eyes moist.  I reach out and brush a falling tear from the corner of her eye as she offers me a trembling smile.  “Then I’m happy for you,” she says.  “I’m glad that you’ve finally found what you’ve been looking for.”

9 MAY 2009
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

“Harm, this isn’t D-Day,” Sarah reminds me again, coming up behind me and placing her hands on my shoulders as I sit at the dining room table, pondering my half-completed menu for tomorrow.  I’m now down to less than twenty-four hours to make this everything that I want it to be.

“I know, I know,” I protest with a grin.  “I’m over thinking this.  You’ve told me that already. I just want everything to be perfect.”

“What’s important is that it’s coming from your heart,” she insists, settling into my lap and wrapping her arms around my neck.  “That will make it perfect for your mom.”

“Yeah,” I say unconvinced, rolling my pen around on the table.

“I’m still not convincing you, am I?”

“I get what you’re saying,” I say, “at least intellectually I do.  She’s my mother and she loves me, warts and obsessions and all.  She doesn’t expect some grand production.” 

“When you were a kid, did you ever try to do something special for your mother and make kind of a mess doing it?” she asks.

“You mean,” I whisper, glancing around to make sure there are no miniature eavesdroppers hanging around, “like making her breakfast in bed?”

“Something like that,” she confirms, her eyes alight with laughter.

“Not just me,” I reply, smiling at the memory.  “Dad and me.  It was a few months before Dad left….on his final cruise.  It was Mom’s birthday and we’d decided to surprise her with breakfast in bed.”  I laugh, shaking my head.

“What’s so funny?” Sarah asks.

“Let’s just say that I didn’t get my ability to cook from him,” I reply.  “I think the coffee that he made was probably the best part of the meal for her.  At least, I don’t remember her grimacing when she drank it.  I burnt the toast because I was playing with the knob on the toaster; Dad overcooked the eggs and burnt the bacon.”

“I imagine that she still ate every single bite,” she suggests.  I nod.  “It was good because it came from you.  The taste really had nothing to do with it, and I’m sure that she didn’t care how simple it was.”

“I know, I know,” I say, holding my hands up in protest.  “I’ll try not to obsess so much over it, okay?”

She laughs heartily, her body shaking with mirth.  “Might as well ask for the moon and the stars,” she teases, burying her face in my neck.

“Hey,” I protest, “I’ve gotten a lot better over the last few years.  I don’t obsess about *everything*.”

“No, not everything,” she agrees, still laughing.  “Just every other….Harm!”

Taking advantage of her eyes being hidden, I let one hand slip under her t-shirt and start tickling her mercilessly.  She struggles in my arms, attempting to pull away, but I tighten my hold on her with my other hand, pressing her against me.  As her body moves against mine, my body can’t help but react to the closeness of hers.

She’s quick to realize and to take advantage.  One of her hands slides down my chest and lower as she lifts her head, pressing kisses along my jaw line.

“Sarah,” I groan, my hand stilling on her waist before sliding down over her hip, pulling her even closer.  Even as I do, I know this has to stop.  We’re sitting in our dining room, our young children around here somewhere.

“I know,” she acknowledges the unspoken message even as one of her hands tangles in my hair and her lips find mine.  I could never get tired of these feelings that only she can elicit in me.  I groan deep in my throat as my free hand slips between us, sliding up under her shirt

“Oh, yuck,” a voice says from behind us.  “Mom!  Dad!”

We chuckle as we break off our kiss, resting our foreheads together as our eyes turn to find our son standing in the doorway, a look of disgust on his face as he covers his eyes with one hand.  Reluctantly, I pull my hands from Sarah’s body and motion Matt forward as he peeks at us from behind his hands.  “Trust me, kiddo,” I say, reaching out to ruffle his hair.  He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t pull away as he might if we were in public.  “Someday, you won’t think this is so yucky.”

“Harm!” Sarah protests, smacking me on the arm.  “You don’t need to tell him that, not for a while yet.”

“But it’s true,” I counter.  I wink at Matt.  “When I was your age, I thought that girls were pretty disgusting too.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Sarah asks, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t know you back then,” I remind her in a soft voice, recovering nicely, if I do say so myself.  Matt just shakes his head at us.

“Did you need something, Matt?” Sarah asks.

“I’m bored,” he announces.  “Can I go outside?”

Sarah and I exchange a glance.  By my estimation, it took him about six hours longer than usual before he started chafing about his grounding.  “Why don’t you play with your sisters?” I suggest.  “They’re upstairs.”

“But they’re playing with Elizabeth’s dolls,” he protests, a pout on his face.  “I don’t wanna do that.”

“I’m sorry, Matt,” Sarah says, “but you’re grounded for a reason.”

"You know that you shouldn’t have pushed your sister,” I add.  “She could have hit the coffee table when she fell.”

“But she didn’t,” Matt protests, and then looks down, knowing that’s not what we want to hear.

“Regardless, you need to learn to live with the consequences of your actions,” I continue.  “After a week of not going outside and living without video games and the computer, you’ll remember to think about the penalty before you do something like that again.”

“I’m really sorry,” he pleads.  “If I promise not to do it again, can I not be grounded?”

Sarah and I look at each other and hold a wordless conversation.  He does sound sorry, but we have to be firm about this.  “No, Matt,” Sarah finally says.  “Maybe in a few days we can discuss time off for good behavior, but at this time, you’re still grounded.”

“That’s a lawyer answer,” he mutters.  I have to smother a laugh at that.  Having two parents who are lawyers, our older kids certainly have a better idea than most their age about the concepts of crime and punishment.

“It may be,” I tell him, “but if you understand that, then you can certainly understand why Mom and I expect you to pay for what you’ve done.  It doesn’t mean that we love you any less.  We just want you to be able to learn from your mistakes.”

Matt stares at us, clearly not quite convinced.  Right now, all he sees is that he’s being punished.  He doesn’t really understand why it’s supposed to be good for him.

“Do you want to handle this?” Sarah whispers.  I give her a long suffering sigh.  “I just think that you could share with him the benefit of your experience.  You know, you told Sarah about Grandpa Harmon the other day.  Maybe it’s time you share part of that story with Matt and how it affected you and your mom.  Maybe you could tell him a little about your trip to Southeast Asia.”

I nod.  She does have a point, and if I can share some of my experience with him, maybe he will start to understand.

“Will you be okay if I get up?” she asks.  I don’t have to guess what she’s thinking about there. 

“I’m fine,” I promise.  “I’ll just hold that thought for later.”

Smiling, she gives me a relatively chaste kiss, bringing a groan from our son, before she climbs off my lap.  She pulls Matt against her in a quick hug before leaving us alone.

Matt stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring down as he scuffs the floor with his sneaker.  “Matt, Mom and I aren’t mad at you anymore,” I say.  He looks up at me, an uncertain expression on his face.  I pat my leg.  “Would you like to sit down over here?”

He pauses and I think for a moment that he’s about to protest that he’s too old to sit in his parent’s lap, but then he comes over, climbing into my lap, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his head against my chest.  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” he says, his voice tentative.

“I know you are, Matt,” I say, tightening my arms around him.  “But do you understand why you’re being punished?”

He nods against my chest.  “Because I was bad,” he says.

“Well, there’s a little bit more to it than just that,” I say.  “Part of being punished is realizing that there is a penalty for your conduct, so that you will hopefully learn to avoid being punished by not repeating what you did wrong.”

“Were you ever grounded when you were little?” he asks.

He’s just given me the opening that I need.  “A few times,” I admit.  “And believe it or not, I once did something much worse than you’ve ever done, although I was a lot older than you are now at the time.  Your Grandma Trish grounded me for it, and I was mad at her because I thought that she refused to see my side of it, to understand why I did what I did.  Grandpa Frank understood, I think, but he was on her side on the whole punishment thing.”

“What did you do?”

I pause a moment before replying, “I ran away from home when I was sixteen.”

Matt lifts his head, staring at me in wide-eyed shock.  “You mean like AJ did a few years ago?” he asks.  I’m surprised that he remembers that, since the twins were only three at the time that it happened, although I suppose that they may have overheard someone mention it since then.

“Yes,” I reply, “but it wasn’t quite the same.  AJ was mad at his parents because he thought they weren’t paying enough attention to him.  I ran away for a different reason.”

“So why did you run away?” he asks.

“Do you remember me mentioning your Grandpa Harmon?” I ask.

“Your first dad,” he replies, nodding.  When I’d first explained to the twins why we sometimes visit the Wall – I think they were six at the time – they’d had a hard time understanding why I call two different men ‘Dad’.  Trying to explain, I’d called them my ‘first dad’ and ‘second dad’, which has stuck with them ever since.

“We didn’t know what had happened to Grandpa Harmon,” I explain.  “His jet had been shot down over a country called Vietnam in December 1969, but we didn’t know if he’d been taken prisoner or had died in the crash.  Mom thought that after all that time, he had to be dead, but I knew that he was still alive out there somewhere.  I wanted to try to find him.”

“So you ran away to try to find him,” he concludes.  “Did you find out what happened to him?”

“Not at that time,” I say, “but eventually.  Anyway, when I came home, Grandma Trish grounded me.”

“Because you’d been bad,” he says.

“Yes,” I tell him.  “Even though I thought that I was doing it for the right reasons, I was wrong to do what I did.  You know, I thought that my mom hated me because I’d run away.”

Matt looks down silently.  I imagine that thought has occurred to him, that we’re punishing him because we hate him.  I understand that.  That’s a typical response from a child who doesn’t know any better.  I was older, and should have known better, but I thought that in my situation as well.

“But my mom didn’t hate me,” I continue.  “I scared her, badly.  I scared both of my parents, and my grandmother, too.  My mom may have been angry with me because she was so scared, but she never hated me.  It took me a long time to realize that.”

“Did I scare you?” he asks tentatively.

“It’s not quite the same, but yes,” I reply.  “When I ran into the living room, I was scared that your sister was hurt.  And I was scared that you thought getting physical with your sister was the right thing to do.”  For a brief moment, Joseph Mackenzie and everything that he put his wife and daughter through crosses my mind.  No, I think, banishing the thought from my mind.  My son is better than that.  “She’s smaller than you are.   You’re supposed to help Mommy and Daddy take care of her.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he says again.  I hold him tighter.

“I know,” I assure him.  “Eventually, I was sorry that I’d run away, but I’d never told my mom that.  It took me a long time to realize that I was wrong and that she’d done the right thing to punish me.”

“How long did it take?”

I chuckle a little at the question.  “Oh, much longer than I care to admit,” I reply evasively.  Those waters are a little too deep for us to go swimming in right now.  “But you know that tomorrow is Mother’s Day and we’re going over to Grandma and Grandpa’s for lunch?  I’m finally going to tell her that I’m sorry.”

Part 4