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Part 5
Cate had been right; the temperature had gone on to soar that afternoon. He had continued to sweat away, digging the tracts of ditches, while Cate returned from another trip to the market. Looking up, Harm noted how she looked much cooler than he did, despite the fact that she was carrying what looked to be forty pounds of food supplies in a wicker basket balanced on top of her head.
"Enjoying your sauna?" she shouted over to him, teasingly.
"Yeah," Harm jibed back, "You won't be laughing when you're a good three inches shorter! You're vertically challenged as it is!"
Cate's short stature was a point of much of the joking among the aid workers at Sepedan. She was constantly complaining about how her height, coupled with her youthful looks, made it virtually impossible sometimes to get alcoholic drinks whenever the group made the journey into KL, on a night out.
Harm continued working away until he was interrupted by his boss and old friend, Barry Delaney.
"Let's call it a day, Harm," Barry announced, "As dedicated as I know you are, tomorrow's another day. Get a quick wash and something to eat, then everyone will be congregating on the jetty, ready for the speedboat trip back down river."
Harm proceeded to have something to eat, but he didn't get washed up, intending to leave that until he got home, where there was hot running water. Instead, he made his way to the jetty, where Cate was perched in her usual balance along the jetty's handrail. This time, Harm's protective instinct kicked in.
"Hey," he told Cate, "You're going to fall if you're not careful."
"I'm a big girl, Harm. I can handle myself," Cate replied, rolling her eyes and for a second transporting Harm back to another time and place.
"I'd still prefer you get down and use one of the seats over there," he insisted, helping Cate down from the narrow, flimsy handrail and guiding her over to the seats by the pontoon of the jetty.
Once they were seated, Cate approached the situation cautiously.
"Where were you, just then?" she asked, obviously having noticed that he had drifted off in thought, "Were you back home?"
"Something like that," Harm evaded.
"You don't talk much about it," Cate persisted, "How come you ended up here?"
"I might ask you the same question," Harm dodged, again, "You don't talk about why you decided to come here."
"It was as far as I could get, on my one-way plane ticket," Cate replied, honestly.
Harm looked at her for a second then ventured, "You might say that I came here to forget."
"Then I'd say that we're birds of a feather," Cate commented.
Harm just smiled, then questioned, "So where exactly is it that you call home?"
Cate's Scottish accent had been the first thing that he had noticed about her. The mere fact that it wasn't too strong and that he could understand her, suggested to him somewhere in south to mid-Scotland, although he really didn't know much about the country's geography.
"Glasgow," Cate told him, then questioned, "And you?"
"Washington D.C.," Harm replied.
That was as far as either of them were willing to venture, that weekend, although it took them one step closer together.
They both remained in silence, seated on the pontoon, waiting for the small speedboat that would whisk Harm back to the city.
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It was in a deep sweat that Harm jolted awake, later that night. It was a recurring dream about Paraguay, which had woke him out of a sound sleep. Only this time, he hadn't arrived in time to save Mac. Each time he had the recurring dream, it was a different variation. Mac had been stabbed in the chest, or shot in the head or any variation of a very grizzly, very graphic ending to such a vibrant, lively spirit. And every time, Harm had sobbed whole-heartedly, even after he had woken from his nightmare. Tonight was no different and he couldn't wipe tonight's image of Mac hanging from a roof beam by her neck, blue in the face while Clayton Webb lay gasping for breath in the corner. Even though Harm knew it to be just a figment of his imagination, he cried for the woman whose memory had tortured him over the last few of months. It was almost as if he really had lost her to death and was now only just allowing himself to grieve for her.
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It was a sunny day, at around the same time that Mac drove along the long driveway and up to the enormous, beachside house. Trish Burnet had invited her up for Thanksgiving dinner and feeling the need to be close to a surrogate family at that time of year, she had readily accepted. She ignored the little voice inside her head, which added that she would also be close to the memory of Harm, too. Ever since she had made her decision to give him the time that he needed, Mac had decided that it might be easier if she just put all thoughts of Harm out of her mind. It was easier said than done, when everything in her life reminded her of him: his mug that still lay in the cupboard at work; the large courtrooms where she used to argue cases against him; McMurphy's, where they had spent some of their best and worst times together. Together being the focal word. No matter what had been going on in their lives, good or bad, they had always been together. Now, she even missed the supportive sensation of his hand on her back, when they were jostling through the crowds of press reporters outside the courtrooms. God, she had to admit to herself, she missed him terribly!
It wasn't long before Mac was welcomed into the warm atmosphere of the Burnett household. Trish had allowed her a few hours to settle in, after her early morning flight into La Jolla and her car ride from the airport. Mac wasn't sure whether it was done purposely, but Trish had also put her into the room next to Harm's childhood bedroom. And Mac couldn't help going into his room, just to try and get a bit closer to the memory of the man she still loved with all her heart.
It seemed a little strange, at first. She did feel a little like she was an invader of this peaceful snippet of time. There was an old Thunderbirds duvet on the bed and Mac smiled as she imagined a young Harm climbing out of it each morning, his hair still mussed and unkempt. There were also lots of photos around the room, each one in a photograph frame. One of baby Harm with his Mom and Dad, taken before Harm Senior went missing. One of him and his old friends Luke Pendry, Jack Keeter and Dianne Schonke. Looking at this old photo made Mac realise with a little jolt just how much she and Dianne had resembled each other, even at that age.
Right by his bedside was a more recent photo of Harm and his Mom and Stepdad, taken around the time of the first trip to Russia, judging by the way Harm looked in the photo. Looking around his room was like being in a time warp, seeming as if not a day had passed since Harm had spent much of his childhood and teenage years here.
However, before Mac left, she noticed the small Poleroid photograph taped to the corner of his desk, with 1981 written in the top corner of it in pink highlighter ink. It seemed to show a young Harmon Rabb, probably about seventeen or so, seated in an old hospital chair. After a second of close perusal, Mac realised that in it he was holding the tinniest little baby in his arms and gazing down on it in awe. She had no idea whose this baby could have been whom he was holding, but it was clear to see that he was enraptured by the tiny child, who was on a respirator and was surrounded by coils of snaking tubes and drips. Mac sensed that this was not something that she should ask questions about. If Harm had never told her himself, then there was probably a good reason for it.
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