To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which has been planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance ....  

Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

Sergei:

BACHELOR OFFICER'S QUARTERS
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

I should be exhausted, but I'm not.  Or maybe it's just that I'm still on the high from the adrenaline rush I get whenever I'm up in the air.  It's just after seven in the morning and I feel like I'm on top of the world despite having been awake for nearly thirty-six hours.  Gram says that it's because, like my grandfather, father and brother before me, I have flying in my blood, in my heart and soul. 

The first time she told me that, the day the United States Marine Corps pinned my gold wings on my uniform, she had this wistful, faraway look in her eyes.  I knew what she was thinking about.  As much as flying is a part of us, the men in my family, flying is what took two of those men away and nearly claimed a third.   In 1942, a twenty-two year old woman was left with a farm in Pennsylvania to tend to and a two-year-old to raise.  Twenty-seven years later, that fatherless child, then a man grown, left behind a young wife and a six-year-old son of his own.  Another twenty-one years passed and the six-year-old had grown into a man of twenty-seven and nearly lost his own life because of flying.  Some people might think that this family is cursed.

Sometimes, I wonder if it bothers Gram, the gold wings and the love of flying that is as much a part of this family as our tradition of military service.  It crossed my mind to ask her, but I couldn't risk hurting her by bringing up painful memories.  Nor could I ask my stepmother Trish for the same reason.  She still gets teary-eyed when my father's name is mentioned, even after all these years.  I thought about asking my brother, but some feeling that I cannot name stopped me.  Maybe it was that I wasn't sure he would truly be able to understand and put it into words.  Or maybe I didn't want to remind him of that Christmas day when his childhood was turned upside down.

Finally, I did ask Mac, but even that took courage.  After all, if my brother was still flying full-time, it would take only a cruel twist of fate to put her in the same position as Gram and Trish, mourning her beloved husband while struggling to raise young, fatherless children.  So it was with great reluctance that I voiced these thoughts to her.

After I had asked the question, Mac was silent for a long moment, so quiet that I immediately regretted asking.  I stumbled over an apology as I started to back out of the room, stopping when she finally replied, her voice quiet, steady and sure.

"Flying is a part of the Rabb family makeup," she said, a faraway look in her eyes.  I could see the love that she has for my brother and I hope that someday I will be as lucky as he is.  "Your grandfather, your father, your brother – none of them would have been the men that Gram, Mom and I feel in love with if not for their love of flying."

She paused for a moment and I could almost see the memories replaying in her mind.  Eventually, she continued, "When Harm had surgery and got his eyes fixed, I wanted him to stay so much.  There was a part of me that wanted to take him in my arms and beg him to stay.  But I couldn't make the words come out, because as much as I wanted and needed him to stay, I loved him enough to let him go.  No matter how much it hurt, I knew deep down that if he didn't go back, he wouldn't be the same man that I had fallen in love with."

When she finished, she looked at me and smiled and I could see in her eyes that she thought it was worth it, the risk of loving someone who could very easily be taken away.  I wonder if, as much courage as it took for Gram, Trish and Mac to love an aviator, it took just as much courage for Grandfather, Father and Harm to love them, knowing that they might break their hearts by going away and never coming back.

I smile as I start going through my mail, while my friend and squadron mate, 1^st Lieutenant James Paul, throws himself on my couch.  This has kind of become a tradition with us, sitting down after a mission, training or otherwise, and discussing our mission and other assorted topics.  Eventually, we'll wind down and James will head back to his own apartment and we'll finally collapse into sleep.

"I'd forgotten how much I hate night training flights," he declares, looking over at me.  "I don't suppose they bother you, do they?  You've probably flown many missions at night."

I just shrug.  My time with the Russian Army seems like almost another lifetime ago.  I do miss Russia at times and I miss my mother even more, but I have built a good life for myself here in America.  A life that I have no regrets about.  "A few," I say with disinterest as I pull one particular envelope out of the stack.  I tear open the envelope and barely glance at the outside of the card before opening it and reading the lengthy message on the inside.

"What have you got there?" James asks, glancing at the card in my hand with interest.

"Christmas card from my grandmother," I reply, holding up the card.  I frown a little as I add, "This will be the first Christmas since I have been in America that I will not get to see her."

"Bah humbug to the genius who scheduled training missions all Christmas week," James says with disgust.  "Where does your grandmother live?"

"In a small town called Beallsville in Pennsylvania," I answer as I carefully stand the card up on the coffee table with the rest of the cards I have already received from friends and family.  Gram always picks out beautiful Christmas cards and her card seems to stand out just a little bit from the rest.  "It is not far from Pittsburgh.  She lives on a farm just outside of town."

"So your family always gathers at the farm for Christmas?" James asks, curious.  I remember him once telling me that his family isn't very close, his parents divorced and his grandparents all dead.  In spite of my somewhat unusual family situation, I can't imagine life like that.  In my extended family, you don't have to even be related by blood to be made to feel like you belong. 

"Not always," I say, remembering the first year I was in America.  I was so nervous that first Christmas, finally meeting the rest of the family that I'd only spoken to on the phone prior to that.  Fortunately, everyone made me feel so welcome that I could easily forget that we were practically strangers.  It didn't take long for me to feel like I'd known them my entire life.  "The first Christmas I was in America, everyone came to Washington.  My brother had just gotten married and his wife was expecting twins so it wasn't a good idea for her to travel that late in her pregnancy.  The following year we began the tradition of going to the farm.  It was the twins' first Christmas and Gram didn't want to miss it, but she came down with the flu and couldn't travel."

"So everyone went up to the farm to be with her," James concludes.  "Sounds like you have a great family."

"We're all very close," I say, picking up a framed photo off the coffee table.  It is a snapshot of the extended Rabb-Burnett-Mackenzie family taken last Christmas.   "My father was her only child and .... she says that having my brother and I around is like having my father back, we remind her so much of him."

"So who is everyone in the picture?"

"This, of course, is my grandmother," I say, pointing out everyone in the photo as I name them.  "Next to her is my stepmother Trish and her husband Frank.  That's my brother Harm and he's holding his son Matt.  His wife, Mac, is holding their daughter Sarah.  Next to Mac is her mother, Deanne.  Behind her is Mac's Uncle Matt and sitting in front is Mac's sister Chloe."  In the photo, I'm standing next to Gram, my hand holding hers just out of view behind Harm's back.

At the same time, the phone rings and there is a knock at the door.  As I pick up the phone, I ask James, "Can you get the door for me?  It's probably Lisa.  She said she would stop by this morning."

As James goes to answer the door, I take his place on the couch and say into the phone, "Hello, Lieutenant Rabb."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see James pull open the door and motion in the redheaded woman dressed in the uniform of a Marine 2^nd Lieutenant.  "Hey, Lisa," I hear him say while I'm trying to pay attention to the woman on the other end of the phone line.  "Your boyfriend's on the phone."

I smile and wave at Lisa and my heart flutters just a little bit in my chest.  I met her just after being stationed at Quantico when I finished flight training school and we hit it off immediately.  She's bright and bubbly and fun to be with.  Is she the one I want to spend the rest of my life with?  I'm not sure and that's nothing against Lisa.  She's going to make someone a great wife someday, maybe even me.  Now that I'm out of college and my Marine training is over, various members of my family – mostly Gram and Trish, of course - have been dropping subtle hints about my settling down.  Harm likes to joke that since he is finally married with children, Trish and Gram need a new project and that they don't want to wait until I'm thirty-six, the age Harm was when he married, before I settle down.  Since I'm only twenty-three, I figure that I can easily give them what they want sometime within the next thirteen years.

I manage to bring my attention back to my phone conversation with June Randall, a neighbor of Gram's.  I remember her fondly from my times on the farm.  Like Gram, she is a widow, but her children are scattered across the country and rarely visit.  Sometimes, the attitude of Americans amazes me.  In Russia and most of Europe, elder family members are revered and taken care of.  In America, they seem to often be ignored by children who seem to have forgotten where they came from.  I am so glad that my family is not like that.  Anyway, Mrs. Randall – as Harm and I still insist on calling her, no matter how many times she says we should call her June – loves to bake and often brings over to the farm lots of goodies when we visit for all of us to take home.

In an instant, as what she is saying registers in my mind, I feel like my world has gone spinning out of control and my mouth falls open.  No, this can't be happening.  Just a few days ago .... no, this can't be.  I just got the card in the mail.  It's the last thing I ever expected to hear.  But it is happening.  She wouldn't be calling me otherwise.  "I understand," I say dully, my mind frozen.  I can't believe this.  "No, I'll talk to them.  Thank you for calling."  My voice is almost a whisper as I say goodbye and let the handset slip from my numb hand.  I barely notice when Lisa sits down next to me, putting her hand on my shoulder.

"Sergei," she says, her warm voice full of concern.  "What is it?"

My mouth opens and closes, but I can't seem to form the words.  I pick up the card that I had just set a few minutes ago on the table and stare at the words inside, not really seeing them.  "It's my grandmother," I finally manage to say, closing my eyes against the pain that is settling over my soul.

Lisa seems to understand what I cannot put into words and she leans her head against my shoulder, running a hand through my hair.  "Oh, Serge," she says softly.  "I'm so sorry."

Taking a deep breath, I say, "That was June Randall, a neighbor of Gram's.  She tried to call my brother, but no one was home and she doesn't have his work number.  I need to call him – no, I should go up to DC and see him.  I need to see him.  And Trish and Frank.  I need to call them.  They'll want to get the first flight out from California.  And .... "  I have to keep talking.  If I keep talking, then I won't have to think about it.  And if I don't have to think about it, then I won't feel.

"Sergei," Lisa says, closing her hand over one of mine.  Her hand feels so cold.  Or is that just me?  "Slow down for a minute and take another breath.  Take two or three.  You need to take a moment to digest this.  I know you and your grandmother were close."

I pull away and jump up from the couch, going over to the desk on the other side of the room, searching for the unit phone roster.  I need to call Major Sampson and let him know that I need to take leave.  I need to go to Washington and then I assume to Pennsylvania for the funeral.  I'm not sure what Gram's arrangements were.  Harm would probably know.

I sense Lisa coming up behind me and she puts her arms around my waist, trying to offer some measure of comfort.  "I'll drive you to Washington," she offers as I finally find the phone roster.  "You've been up all night and most of yesterday.  You shouldn't drive."

I'm about to protest, but I stop myself from saying anything.  I don't really want to be alone right now.  I don't want to be alone with my thoughts.

Part 2 - Mac