Title: Turn Back the Clocks

Summary: A post-Paraguay story. Mac is forced into counseling, and comes to terms with Paraguay, Harm, and her life in general.

Notes: Mac has her therapist and her new friendship with Sophie to help her deal with her ghosts and demons. I've thought a lot about who could confide in. He doesn't have anyone to order him into therapy, and doesn't have close friends. Then the answer hit me like a ton of bricks: he has his grandmother.

Part Twelve – Harm

There is just something about the air here. It feels crisp and clean, and when it fills my lungs, I feel almost like myself again. I grab my overnight bag, quietly shut the car door, and begin walking to the old, stone farmhouse.

This house has been in my family for almost two hundred years, and the land even longer. Six generations of Rabb's have begun their lives in this house – this house with the beautiful wood beams, clawfoot tubs, and hardwood floors that creak with every step. It's not a huge house, but it's too big for one elderly woman, and I've always wondered if my grandmother has remained here all these years because she wants to, or because she feels obligated to. This land and house were her husband's, and I imagine she thought they'd fill the five bedrooms with children. But her husband died young, and then it was only her and my father. She probably thought that my father would at least give her plenty of grandchildren to dote on, but there was only me. And lately I haven't been the grandson – or the son – that I should be.

I walk up to the front door and knock gently. Well, I intended to knock gently. But the giant pineapple shaped brass doorknocker she has doesn't let anyone knock gently. While I wait for the door to open, I run my fingers over the old brass. Once upon a time Sarah Rabb had been Sarah Beaumont. She had been born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina, where the pineapple was the symbol of hospitality. And when she married Peter Rabb, one of her wedding gifts from a southern family member had been this brass knocker.

I hear footsteps approaching and take a step back. The door swings open, and the smile I had forced quickly turns into a frown. A stranger has opened the door. A stranger with a kind face, but a stranger nonetheless. He's close to my grandmother's age, with a remarkably thick head of white hair, warm brown eyes and ruddy cheeks. I imagine with a little extra padding and a long fake beard; he would make a remarkable Santa Claus.

"I – uh… Hello."

He gives me a once over and then his eyes widen. He turns to look into the house. "Sarah! You have a visitor!" He turns back to me and smiles warmly. "Hello, Harm. It's so nice to finally meet you."

I feel lightheaded and uncertain. Who is this man? Why is he answering my grandmother's door? How does he know who I am? I open my mouth to ask these questions, but then he steps aside and holds the door open wider.

"Come in, come in!" We both step into the house and I swallow as I take in the familiar room. "Sarah didn't say you were coming."

"She didn't know."

We both turn at the sound of her voice, and I can't help but smile. My grandmother is nearing eighty, but doesn't look a day over sixty. She's tall, with silver hair was cut in a bob, and was currently being held back with a gingham bandana. She wore jeans tucked into her red wellington boots and a navy blue and white flannel shirt. I instinctively step closer to her. "It was a last-minute decision. I can go stay at Mary Howley's inn if you-"

"Don't you even suggest such a thing!" She closes the space between us and takes my face in her hands. "It's so good to see you, sweetheart." She lets her hands drop and pulls me close for a hug. I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck the way I have since I was a little boy. She smells exactly the same; like cinnamon and butter. When we part, she takes my face in her hands again and studies me without words for a minute. Then she drops her hands and turns to the strange man a few feet away. "Paul, come meet my grandson."

He comes closer and extends a hand to me, which I hesitantly shake. "Paul Reynolds, good to meet you." He smiles again, and the warmth emanating from him makes me thaw a bit. "I've heard so much about you I feel like I know you already." He steps away from me and grabs a red coat from a peg by the door. "Sarah, I'm going to run home and give you two a chance to catch up."

I feel the need to be polite and tell him he doesn't need to leave on my account, but I can't do it. I want him to leave. I don't want to make small talk with a stranger. I need my grandmother, and her blunt advice, and her warm reassurances. I look at the ground while she tells him goodbye and insists that he come back later for dinner. I look up once the door shuts, and I swallow as her eyes meet mine. "Hi Grams."

She shakes her head and heads back into the kitchen. I follow her, feeling like a repentant child and not a grown man. I sit on a barstool and watch as she moves around the kitchen. She pulls a jar of olives out of the fridge and pours some into a bowl. Then she grabs a jar of some kind of jam, a package of prosciutto and a chunk of cheese and sits it all on a cutting board. She goes to the pantry and comes back with a package of crackers and brings them to the island and sits them next to the board. She looks at me, as if she's daring me to tell her that I'm not hungry. Instead I take a knife and cut off a slice of cheese. I close my eyes at the bite, enjoying the taste. She watches as I eat for a few minutes, enjoying everything but the prosciutto. Finally, she rolls her eyes and sits down at the bar stool next to mine.

"What are you doing here?"

I swallow and take my time spreading the pepper jelly onto a cracker. "I don't really know."

My voice cracks on the last word, and I set the cracker down. I run a hand through my hair, and then meet her gaze. Her eyes are warm and sympathetic, and the love I feel for her is nearly overwhelming. "I'm tired of feeling the way I've been feeling, and I – I just needed to be here."

"So?"

She looked up from her glass of wine and shrugged. "So, what?"

My eyes widen and I sit up straighter. "So, what should I do? What do I do next?"

My grandmother shakes her head and pushes her glass aside. She leans forward on her elbows. "Sweetheart, everything that has gone wrong in your life lately is terrible. Really, it is. But it's never going to get better unless you start taking responsibility for some of what went wrong."

I recoil as if I had been slapped. I stare at her for a moment with my mouth open. "I-" I search for the words, but nothing comes. I don't know what to say. I had come here for comfort and support, and instead she's laying the blame at my feet and making me feel worse. She covers my hands with hers, and when I start to pull back, she tightens her grip. I momentarily think that a 79-year-old woman shouldn't be this strong, but then I remember that she spends her days on a working farm, and is probably stronger than I am. "I don't understand what I need to take responsibility for."

She stands and takes her glass to the sink and refills it with water. "Well, for starters, why did you feel the need to meddle with that poor woman's pregnancy?"

I flush. That really is when everything started to go wrong. "I thought it was Sergei's child."

Grams shrugs and sits back down. "So? What if it was?"

"If it had been Sergei's, it would have been your great-grandchild. Another link to dad. You wouldn't care about that?" She takes a deep breath, and I watch her face as we sit in silence.

Finally, she shakes her head. "Harm, that child would have been of no more significance to me than the infants in the nursery at my church." She flattens her hands against the worn butcher block countertop, and my eyes go to the only jewelry she wears – a birthstone ring. It has three stones; an opal for me, an emerald for my dad, and a sapphire for my grandfather. It had been a gift to her from my mother, and as far as I knew she never took it off. She catches me staring at it, and a finger brushes over the stones. "I'm glad my son found companionship and some type of family while he was in that godforsaken place. But there is so much more to family than shared DNA." She shakes her head sadly. "I met Sergei exactly one time, and I didn't feel a connection to him. I'm glad to have met him, but he's not my grandson." She looks up at me, and her eyes sparkle. "He's not you."

I nod, and a part of me does understand. "I just wanted to save the baby. I couldn't save dad. I couldn't find a way for Sergei to stay in the country. I thought maybe I could at least save this child."

She shakes her head again. "None of those things were your responsibility to begin with. You have always held the weight of the world on your shoulders, and you have to stop."

She may be right about Singer and Sergei and my dad. But what about Mac? I close my eyes for a second, and think about Mac in that shack in Paraguay. "She would have died. No one else was going to help her. I had to do it. It was my responsibility to save her."

"Of course, it was – you're in love with her." My eyes go wide, and she chuckles. "You love the girl, Harm. You have for a very long time."

"I- No, I-" But I can't bring myself to say those words – 'No. I don't love her.' It would be a lie unlike any I've ever told. Oh, don't get me wrong. A part of me hates her. A part of me blames her for the fucked-up condition of my life. But I also love her. I have for so long and I can't make it go away. No matter how much I want it to. I think back to her last message. "I slept with Webb." I heard those words and I felt so much rage. For about five minutes. And then I was full of so many conflicting emotions. If anything could have made my feelings for her go away, it would have been that sentence. But it didn't. And here I am – hating her and loving her at the same time.

"How was saving her my responsibility, but not dad, or Sergei, or the baby?"

"If she would have died, a part of you would have died with her."

It's a simple sentence, but it's one that floors me. And she's right. If Mac had died, part of me would have died with her. When I went after her, I wasn't just trying to save her. I was trying to save us, and the future I had always thought we'd one day have.

She reaches out and touches my hand again. "I'm sure you're both hurting right now. I know you feel lost and uncertain, and while it is so good to see you, I'm not who you need. You need her. The two of you need each other."

I walk into my apartment and immediately drop my bag on the floor. The drive from the farm isn't typically a bad one, but thanks to three wrecks and traffic backed up for miles, getting home took forever. But, while the ride home was terrible, the past few days had been good ones.

I hadn't realized how much I had missed my grandmother. And after a day with her I finally called my mother, surprising both of us when I told her to get Frank and put the call on speaker phone. Their love and support helped, and I felt better than I had a few days earlier.

It's Tuesday, and I can't help but glance towards the answering machine, and I take a deep breath when I notice the blinking light. I press play, without my normal hesitance, and I close my eyes at the sound of her voice.

"Hey, it's me. Mac. I have to ask – would you know it was me if I didn't say that it was? We didn't talk for so long when we got back, and I've wondered about that. Anyway. I… I accepted a job offer today. I had a message when I got back from therapy. Will you think I'm pathetic if I tell you I hoped the message was from you? The job is a good one. It's a non-profit that offers legal assistance for veterans in need. The pay isn't great, but it's enough. And I think it'll feel really good to actually help people. My therapist told me to call a friend and brag a little. And you're still the first person I want to tell good news to. I miss you, Harm."

I save the message and stare at the machine. And then I think about what my grandmother had said.

'If she would have died, a part of you would have died with her.'

And before I can change my mind, I grab my keys and my coat, and head back to my car.

I knock on her door, filled with impatience. There's no answer, so I knock again. And again. And again.

There isn't an answer, and I reach into my pocket for my keys. I finger the one with a green cap for a moment before shoving them back into my pockets. No. I'm not going to just let myself in again. I knock one final time, and when there isn't an answer, I turn and head back outside. I jog across the street to my car and unlock it. I'm about to move out of my parking space, when I see her.

I feel something tighten in my chest at the sight of her. She looks happy. Her friend is getting into the car parked directly in front of the building, and Mac calls out something and waves. We both watch the small, blue car pull out of the spot, and then she notices me. I don't move, but neither does she. And then I realize that I have to move. I have to go to her.

I open the car door, get out, and look both ways before jogging back across the street. She's still standing there, watching me. Her arms are wrapped around her middle and her teeth working her lower lip.

"Hey."

"Hey."

We stand there, awkwardly staring at one another for another minute. Finally, she clears her throat.

"Want to come in?"

I do. I do more than anything. So, I nod. And we silently make our way into her apartment.

End Part 12