Chapter Forty-One: Trish Burnett's Son
JUNE 1979
BURNETT RESIDENCE
A JOLLA, CALIFORNIA
"You can forget about borrowing the car for the rest of the school year-for the entire summer too, for that matter. And if I didn't like Coach Carter as much as I did, you'd be forgetting about baseball next year, too."
"Is that all?" Harm asked. His question was partly rooted in sarcasm and partly rooted in genuine wondering. He'd been sitting at the dining room table for almost an hour, listening to Trish and Frank read him the riot act. Well, Trish was reading him the riot act. Frank was standing behind her for moral support, occasionally nodding his head in agreement.
"No," Trish paused for a moment, trying to find an additional punishment to tack on. "You're...you're going to call Janie Harris and apologize to her."
Harm raised his eyebrows. "Apologize for what?"
Trish gasped. "Harmon, she was supposed-to be your prom date!"
"Oh," Harm looked down, clenching and unclenching his fists underneath the table. Suddenly he felt his cheeks burning. He found it ironic that he felt worse about missing prom than he did about running off to Vietnam for a month without telling his parents.
Trish began to pace. Again. "I can't believe you thought this was okay, Harmon. You ran away from home to Vietnam, of all places! You didn't even tell me, or Frank. You also stole six hundred dollars from Frank, by the way. Don't think I haven't forgotten that-"
"Mom-"
"I thought you were dead, Harmon!" Trish shouted. The tone of her voice actually scared Harm a little. Trish was never one to raise her voice. "I had no idea what had happened to you! Do you have any idea how much you scared us?"
Harm looked down. He was starting to feel bad about running off to Vietnam, too.
"No ma'am," he said quietly.
"And today-this morning, you show up over breakfast like nothing happened!" Trish stopped pacing and placed her hands on the dining room table. "You scared me to death, Harmon! Do you think I could stand losing you? Especially after losing your father."
Harm couldn't help but let a smirk slip out. Trish's eyes narrowed and Frank took a step forward. "What exactly is so funny?" Trish asked, folding her arms over her chest.
"You. Acting like you care about what happened to Dad."
Harm had never been hit by his mother, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. It took him a few seconds to register the sting of the slap across his cheek.
"Trish…" Frank said gently, placing a hand on her upper arm. Trish sighed, and Harm noticed her hands were shaking.
As his mother opened her mouth to apologize, Harm stood up and walked out of the room.
"Son-" Frank reached out to catch Harm with his other arm, but Harm blew past him.
"I'm not your son."
Harm made his way to the front door but, upon realizing his car privileges were revoked, he turned around and headed out to the back deck with a frustrated huff. Once on the deck, he didn't know what to do. There was no place he could go, unless he wanted to create an even bigger scene and storm back inside to go into his room, or dive over the balcony railing into the rocky surf below.
He was stuck. He was being suffocated by the pure, white hot anger he was feeling in that moment. Having no other viable outlet, Harm grabbed one of the deck chairs and hurled it, chucking against the deck railing.
Then he was sitting. Sitting on the ground because the other deck chairs were too sensible of an option for that moment. He sat on the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest like a child. In fact, he'd had an outburst similar to this one when he was child. It had been a few days after his father's 'funeral', five-year-old Harm had thrown his dinner plate on the floor in a fit of feelings he didn't understand, sat down on the floor next to that plate, and sobbed.
This time, he wasn't crying. This time, Harm just wanted to scream at God, at the universe. Crying would come later.
He heard the french doors open and shut gently with a soft squeak. Then he heard the soft clicking of heels against the stone tiling-his mother's heels.
"Harmon," she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off.
"I don't want to talk," he said, keeping his eyes trained on the stone tiles.
Instead of leaving , Trish sat down next to Harm on the deck. Harm looked away from her.
"I shouldn't have hit you," she said. "I'm sorry. I just-"
"Don't," Harm cut her off. "It's okay."
"No, it absolutely wasn't," Trish reached up to smooth Harm's hair down. He always ran his fingers through it when he got stressed and it got messy.
Trish took a deep, shaky breath. "I know I'm not as...vocal about it as you are, but I miss your father every single day. You know that, right?"
Harm slowly nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the tile and listening to waves. The sun was beginning to set.
"I'm thinking about applying to the Naval Academy," Harm finally said. "In Annapolis."
He felt the arm Trish had wrapped around his shoulders stiffen. "Oh," she paused. "Really?"
"Yeah," Harm nodded.
Trish pursed her lips. "What happened to college?"
Harm shrugged. "Annapolis is like a college, Mom."
"For the Navy."
Harm finally looked up at Trish. "I'm going to fly, Mom. You may as well just accept it."
"I know, I know," Trish sighed. "It's just-" Harm started to get up. "You deciding to fly isn't going to bring your father back."
"I want to."
"I just want to make sure you know that it's not your only option, honey. You could go to an art school. I've seen you paint-"
"I want to fly, Mom!" Harm jumped to his feet. "What's your problem?"
Trish sighed and looked up at him. "Sometimes it just feels like you're not my son, that's all."
NOVEMBER 2001
BELLEVILLE, PA
"Here we are," Trish flicked on the light. "My gallery before I had a gallery."
They were in the room at the end of the upstairs hall, the room opposite to the one Harm and Mac were sleeping in. It was a fairly large room, but it looked smaller because of all the clutter. Mac supposed clutter wasn't the appropriate word, because the stuff in the room certainly wasn't junk. It was definitely art, just a lot of it. The close quarters made Mac feel like she should have a 'wide load' sign draped over her six, but she followed Trish inside nonetheless.
"Sorry for the mess," Trish told her. "I haven't had time to actually sit down and go through some of this stuff. I haven't been up here in ages, not since Harm's injury."
Mac knew Trish was talking about the ramp strike, but she wanted to ask Trish about it anyway. Of course Harm had relayed the basics of what had happened ages ago, but there was still so much Mac felt like he left out. She wondered if Trish would be more forthcoming.
I still probably shouldn't ask though, Mac thought, What mother wants to talk about that one time her son almost died?
"How long have you been using this room to paint?" Mac asked, looking around. The shelves lining the walls were filled with a rainbow of paint jars and brushes. Canvases were stacked against each other, propped up against the shelves, and the table in the center of the room was covered with papers.
"Ever since I married Harm's father," Trish answered. She ran her finger along one shelf, frowning at the dust her fingertip picked up.
"Can I look?"
"Knock yourself out."
Not having a better place to start, Mac found herself walking towards the table in the middle, deciding that working from the inside out would be the way to go.
Some of the papers were in leather briefcases, but many of them were just laying freely in loose stacks. Mac made sure to be gentle when rifling through some of the older sketches, which were yellowed and brittle with age, some of them likely older than Harm.
There was one sketch in particular that caught Mac's eye. The sketch was of a baby, done in pencil. The marks were a little faded, but the details were still visible. Mac was about to ask Trish who the baby was until she saw the date on the corner of the paper. November 5th, 1963. Harm would've been ten days old.
Mac looked up. "Is this Harm?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
Trish smiled and nodded. "Yes, back when he couldn't object to me drawing him."
"His mouth is the same," Mac traced her finger over the paper. "I mean obviously his mouth wouldn't change that much but-"
"No, I get it," Trish said with a light chuckle, "He's not exactly a baby anymore."
"He isn't," Mac nodded. "He is going to have a baby, though."
"So are you."
Mac smirked. "Don't remind me."
"Oh don't worry," Trish waved her hand. "Motherhood will be fine."
"So it's not terrifying?"
Trish laughed. "Now, I never said it wasn't terrifying, but it'll be fine. You'll do fine."
Mac went back to flipping through the sketches while Trish looked at some of the canvasses lining the shelves. She came to one in the corner, which was still on its easel. It was covered by a sheet, and when Trish pulled the sheet off, she gave a small gasp.
"I forgot about this one."
"What is it?" Mac asked.
"This painting."
Mac made her way towards the corner where Trish was standing. Stopping at her side, Mac looked at the painting. It was a landscape-or seascape, rather-of a roaring ocean at nighttime. It was a bit of a cliche, but Mac wasn't about to critique Trish's art in front of her. Even if it was somewhat basic, it was still very good. The technique and vision was definitely there.
"Harm did this one," Trish said. "While he was recovering from the ramp strike accident."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Took him all six months."
JUNE 1991
BELLEVILLE, PA
Trish knocked on the farmhouse door, feeling like she didn't belong there. Harm had made it clear during their argument in the hospital that he didn't want Trish to visit him at all. Or call. Or write. But Trish, determined to mend fences with her child, like any mother would want to do, had written and called.
Her letters had gone unanswered (and assumedly unread) and all calls had been answered by Grandma Sarah, so now Trish's only option was to come visit.
Grandma Sarah was the one who showed the door. "Trish," she greeted in surprise. Her snow white hair was in curlers and Trish could hear breakfast sizzling on the stove. She'd taken the first red eye flight she could get out of La Jolla, had gotten the first rental car the guy showed her, and had driven straight out there.
She was incredibly tired, but she needed to see her son. She needed to know he was okay. Or at least as okay as he could be.
"Hi Sarah," she said. "Can I come in?"
"Of course. I was just getting breakfast started."
Over coffee and pancakes, Trish and Sarah spend the majority of breakfast skirting the reason why Trish had abruptly shown up on her doorstep that June morning. Occasionally Trish would hear some thuds of footfalls coming from the second floor - the only evidence Trish had gathered so far that her son was even there.
"How has Harm been?" Trish finally asked. She watched as Sarah pursed her lips, her wrinkled hands tightening the grip on her mug.
"He's doing better," Sarah nodded. "Some days are better than others."
"That's-that's good," Trish tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Sarah reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
"Patricia," she said. Sarah was the only one who could get away with calling Trish by her full name. "I know Harm said some things to you that were uncalled for."
Trish nodded. She tried swallowing again but the lump in her throat was still there. "He did."
"He's going through so much right now; he didn't mean any of it."
"I know."
"He was just taking his emotions out on who was closest, and that person happened to be you."
"I know, Sarah."
"He just feels so lost, Patricia. Flying was his whole life-"
"There's more to him than flying!" Trish snapped. "There's always been more to him than flying, Sarah!"
A few beats of silence passed after Trish's outburst. Sarah sighed and peered down into her coffee cup. "I never said that," she said quietly.
"Where is Harm?"
"Upstairs."
Trish took one last sip of her coffee and stood up. "I'm gonna go talk to him," she said. "Has anyone else been here to visit?"
"Yes," Sarah waved her hand. "That girl came to visit a couple of weeks ago."
"Which girl?" Trish asked. She immediately thought of at least five different possibilities, and that was only counting the girls Trish knew.
"The one he's in love with but won't admit it. Delilah?"
"Diane?"
"Yeah," Sarah nodded slowly, as if the name sounded vaguely familiar. "There was also a boy with her. Keifer?"
"Keeter?"
"That sounds about right."
The first room Trish checked was his bedroom, but Harm wasn't in there. That left one more viable option; the paint room.
Harm was there, with his back to the doorway. He was sitting at one of the easels. He was painting. His crutches, which he still used when his knee was bothering him too much, were propped against the wall. Trish stood there for a moment in the doorway, watching him. She smiled to herself. She knew there was more to her son than flying. She just knew it.
Now she hoped he knew it, too.
Trish gently knocked on the doorframe.
"Grandma, I said I'm not hungry-"
"Honey, it's not Grandma. It's me."
She tried to ignore Harm's shoulders stiffening. He turned around, which proved to be a little awkward on account of the boot still on his left leg.
The boot was a massive improvement from the last time Trish had seen him in the hospital five days after the accident, three days after he regained consciousness. He was on such a high dosage of pain meds that he may as well have been unconscious. His pelvis was shattered, his right femur was broken. The surgeon said he was lucky the femoral artery hadn't been severed-if that had happened he probably would've bled to death on the carrier.
He also had a concussion and a handful of fractured ribs. Trish had hated sitting there, watching Harm just sit there, something unusual for someone who was usually never still. But she supposed it was for the best; the sleep kept him from feeling all the pain he was in.
Trish did sit there. For over a week until Harm was awake and coherent enough to hold a conversation.
Once that happened, Trish wished he was still sleeping.
She knew things would be bad, that they-Harm had a long road ahead of him. She knew that he would be confused, in pain, scared, and probably angry too. Trish just wasn't expecting Harm's anger to be directed at her.
He'd let her fuss over him for a little while, letting her do all the motherly things like fluffing his pillows, getting him water even though he didn't ask for it, asking if he was hungry, if he was cold, if he wanted her to go get the nurse in case he was in too much pain-
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He'd finally asked her, with much more venom than Trish thought he'd be able to muster. Harm looked at her with a look in eyes that she'd never seen before.
She blinked at him. "Honey, I'm here to help."
He sneered. "Haven't you done enough?"
"What?" Trish asked, her pleasant demeanor melting into confusion.
"This probably makes you happy, doesn't it?" Harm asked, gesturing down at his broken body with his good arm. The other one was in a sling.
Trish laughed in disbelief. "No, of course it doesn't. What are you talking about?"
"Does it make you happy?" he repeated. "To know that you were right? That flying was a bad idea? Because guess what? You were right, Mom. You were fucking right."
"Harm-"
"Why don't you just go? I don't need you here," Harm looked away from Trish to stare out the window.
Trish pursed her lips to try and keep the tears from springing up in her eyes. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry after he'd just torn into her like that. "Fine," she nodded as if to reassure herself, grabbing her purse from the bedside table.
As she turned to go, she heard Harm mutter something under his breath. It was so quiet that Trish barely caught it.
"I wish Dad was here instead of you."
The doctors told her later that it was the medication he was taking. That was what gave him such bad mood swings. Despite that logical explanation, Trish couldn't help but think that those were words he'd actually meant.
"Mom, what are you doing here?"
Dragging herself back into the present, Trish looked up at Harm's questioning gaze. She smiled-a very tired smile, she hardly slept on the plane.
"Coming to visit," she answered, taking a step into the room. "I wanted to see how you were doing."
"Oh."
"I've missed you, you know."
Harm merely nodded, and Trish had to ignore the irritation she felt rising up inside her at her son's cold shoulder. Why do you hate me? She wanted to shout. I tried my best. All I ever did was try my best.
"Yeah," he said. "Grams told me about the calls and the letters."
Trish couldn't help but let some of her anger show. "And you didn't feel the need to respond to any of those calls or letters?"
Harm sighed. "Ma, I needed time to myself, you know that."
"But you let Diane and Keeter see you."
"That's different-"
"I'm your mother, Harmon."
He gazed down at his paint-speckled jeans. Him moving his head gave Trish an opportunity to get a better look at the painting. It was truly one of his best.
"I know that," he answered quietly. Trish noticed the embarrassed look on her son's face, and suddenly it all began to make sense.
"Honey, if this is about what happened at the hospital."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"I forgive you," Trish said before Harm could talk over her.
He faltered at that. He finally looked up at her. "You shouldn't," he told her, and the pained expression on his face made Trish forget the bulk of her anger.
She took another step closer to him. "How come?" she asked softly. Maybe this was it. Maybe now the barrier that had been between them for months would finally come down.
Trish instantly chastised herself. What kind of mother was she? Making a positive spin on her child's pain?
Harm was looking down again, his embarrassment replaced with shame. "The last thing I deserve is anyone's forgiveness."
"That's not true,"
"Yes it is," Harm snapped.
Knowing this was about more than just his outburst at her in the hospital months earlier, Trish decided to go out on a limb, something that had a 50/50 shot of working with her son.
"This isn't just about me, is it?"
"What do you mean?" Harm asked, even though he knew exactly what Trish meant.
"This is about your RIO more than it's about me."
"I said, I don't want to talk about this," Harm's voice was low.
"Honey, you know therapy's still an option. I think it would be good for you to talk about this. Especially after everything that's happened-"
"Mom-"
Trish took another step forward. She didn't care what it took, she was going to get through to him. "None of this was your fault-"
"Could you just stop?" Harm shouted, jumping to his feet. Trish jumped, taking a half step back. Harm getting up so quickly caused him to forget that his foot was still in a boot. Losing his balance, he staggered, catching himself against the nearby shelf.
Trish looked at him with wide eyes, and Harm quickly looked down. She walked towards him. "Do you need help?" Trish reached out to take Harm by the arm, but he held up a hand, making her pause.
"I'm fine," he said, sighing. With his free hand, he ran his fingers through his hair. "But-for the love of God, Mom, could you just stop? Stop trying to help me. I don't need it."
Trish knew, at that exact moment, that the wall between her and her son wasn't coming down that day. "Alright," she said, nodding. "I'll stop."
She turned her back to go, and had just reached the doorway when she heard a crash. Expecting Harm to have fallen, she whirled around. There was a broken jar of paint on the floor, jostled from its place on the shelf by Harm's stumble. The black paint spread out between Harm and Trish like an abyss.
NOVEMBER 2001
BELLEVILLE, PA
Mac looked at the painting. While it still held its beauty, it took on a new meaning now that Mac knew its origin. She looked at Trish, who looked as though she was remembering things she wished she could forget.
"Harm never told me he could paint," Mac said, making a casual observation because she didn't know what else to say. She didn't feel right demanding to know all of Trish's pain, especially since Mac knew she wouldn't ask for anything in return.
"I suppose he didn't want you to know," Trish replied.
"It's wrong," Mac said. She wasn't opening the door for Trish to share anything, but she was offering what she could in the way of support. "He shouldn't have cut you out like that."
Despite the fact that Mac had no relationship whatsoever with her mother, Deanne, the fact that Harm had the opportunity to have one with his mother and just…didn't was something that made Mac unreasonably angry.
"I was just doing what he asked," Trish shrugged, her voice suddenly thick. "He wanted me to leave him alone, so I did. I left my son alone."
The baby had been relatively still until then, probably eavesdropping on his mother and grandmother's conversation. Suddenly though, Mac felt a sharp kick. She winced, her hand going to her stomach.
Trish looked up. "You should probably get to bed," she said. The smile on her face was betrayed by the tears shining in her eyes. "You need the rest."
"I do," Mac nodded. "But, before that-Trish? Can I tell you something?"
"Of course."
"None of this was your fault."
When she went back to their bedroom, Mac was surprised to see that Harm was still awake. He was laying flat on his back, with one arm bent behind his head. He looked at Mac as soon as she entered.
"You didn't have to wait up for me," she said softly, trying not to disturb his peace. Even though she was sure that the last thing Harm felt was peace.
"I wasn't. I was just thinking."
Mac sat down on the edge of the bed. Awkwardly, she swung her legs around and moved onto her back. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asked, burrowing under the covers so that only her head was visible. While the farmhouse was beautiful, it was almost a hundred years old, so it didn't exactly have state-of-the-art heating. Mac was freezing.
"Depends on how much you already know," Harm looked down at her. "I overheard you talking to my Mom."
"Oh," Mac paused, not quite sure where this conversation was leading. They were still in the process of reconciling their last big fight; she wasn't sure if they could weather another one so soon.
"I know enough to think you should apologize to her," she said. Harm opened his mouth to respond, but Mac kept talking. "And that she should apologize to you. You both need to move past this."
Harm nodded. "You're right."
"You're about to become a father, Trish is about to become a grandmother. It's time you guys buried the hatchet."
Harm nodded again, thinking back to the conversation he had with Mac a week ago, the one where she basically called him a hypocrite for acting like he and Trish had a good relationship when it was clear that they didn't. As much as he now hated to admit it, Harm knew she was right.
"I got to see the painting," Mac said after a few moments of silence. "The one you painted while you were here, recovering."
"Oh, that?"
"Yeah, that. It's beautiful."
"Thanks."
During the six months Harm was at the Rabb family farm recovering from the ramp strike accident, half his time was devoted to fixing up the biplane, Sarah, and painting. What Mac didn't know was that the painting she saw was the sole survivor of many that had gotten painted and then thrown out, after being deemed not good enough by Harm. He was never really sure of his reasoning for being so picky about his designs-he was a pilot, not a painter after all-but now he had some theories why.
Harm believed that, deep down, he knew his mother would come visit him while he was recovering, despite his clear efforts to ignore her. Harm had gotten a lot of traits from his mother, but one thing he shared with his mother was persistence.
He wanted to have something to show her when she finally came-something to show her that he was still her son. Trsih Burnett's son.
"I'll apologize tomorrow," Harm finally said.
"Good," Mac stifled a yawn. "I was getting worried my Thanksgiving dinner would be ruined."
THE NEXT MORNING
0630 EST
RABB FAMILY FARM
BELLEVILLE, PA
Without discussing it, Trish and Harm both got up early on Thanksgiving with the mutual goal of burying a hatchet. They were also going to get a head start on Thanksgiving dinner, with Mac and Frank set to provide moral support once they woke up.
Harm found his mother sitting in the swing on the front porch, bundled under a huge quilt, a mug of steaming coffee in her hands. Harm was dressed in an old Annapolis sweatshirt and sweatpants. He'd come straight down from bed, hair still messy, eyes still bleary with sleep.
"I made coffee," Trish held up her mug. "You should go get some."
"I will later," Harm sat down beside her on the swing. "Can we talk?"
Trish untucked the quilt from underneath her, draping some of it over Harm's legs. "Sure," she nodded. "What did you want to talk about?"
"Well uh, it's more of an apology, actually," Harm pulled the quilt up further. He was beginning to wish he'd taken up his mother's offer on the coffee. His chilled fingers would probably appreciate it.
"Oh really?" Trish passed her mug to Harm, who took it with only minimal protest.
"Yeah," Harm nodded. "Listen Mom, I-"
"You don't need to apologize," Trish interrupted.
"I do need to," Harm said, taking a deep breath. His breath came out in a small cloud when he exhaled. "I know things haven't been the best between us."
Trish nodded. "They haven't."
"And we never really talked things over after-you know, after everything that happened."
Trish nodded again. "We didn't."
"I'm sorry," Harm said, the words a lot easier for him to say than he thought they would be, especially after all those years of not saying them. "Really, I am. For everything,"
"I'm sorry too," Trish smiled. "But there's just one problem."
"What?" Harm asked, his eyes widening. Trish laughed at her son's bewildered expression.
"I already forgave you," she said.
"Really?"
"Yes," Trish reached up to smooth over Harm's messy hair. Even though Harm was grown, she still did it out of a force of motherly habit. "I forgave you a long time ago," her hand moved down to cup his cheek. "You are my son, and you'll always be my son. I'll always forgive you. Do you forgive me?"
Harm's brow furrowed. "For what?"
"For forgetting to be your mother."
TWO DAYS LATER
NOVEMBER 24TH, 2001
2030 EST
RABB FAMILY FARM
BELLVILLE, PA
"Do you think he's going to have time to pack?" Frank asked.
"Oh yeah," Mac replied. "He's used to doing everything last minute."
"I just want to know what he's doing."
"Painting," Trish said as she entered the kitchen. They were all getting ready to sit down to dinner, but Harm was nowhere to be seen. Over the past two and a half days, starting right after Thanksgiving dinner, all of Harm's time, other than time spent with Mac and his parents, was spent in the painting room. He was doing something; no one had a clue what, though.
Frank frowned. "How do you know?"
Trish shrugged. "What else would he be doing?"
"I'll go check on him," Mac said, standing up. As she climbed the stairs, she mused about what her sailor could be doing. She didn't like when she couldn't see what he had up his sleeve.
Gently, she knocked on the door of the painting room. "Harm? We're gonna have dinner soon, and-" she glanced down the hall at the open door of their bedroom. "You haven't started packing yet. We leave in ten hours, eighteen minutes-"
The door opened. "Hey," Harm greeted. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," Mac said. "I was just checking on you," she tried to peek around Harm's shoulder. "What are you doing?"
Harm looked down either side of the hall, making sure Mac was the only one there. "Come in," he opened the door wider. "It's a surprise."
"For who?"
"My mom."
Mac walked into the painting room, and the first thing she noticed was another easel set up next to the one that had Harm's first painting. That easel had a painting on it. It was a landscape of the ocean, like the first one, but it was different. The sky was blue, and the sunlight was shining down on gentle blue waves.
"Do you like it?" Harm turned to look at Mac, trying to judge her reaction based on her expression.
Mac smiled, taking Harm's paint-stained hand in hers.
"I love it."
This was one of my favorite chapters to write. I felt like, for it being such a pivotal moment in Harm's character arc, the ramp strike accident wasn't really discussed much on the show outside of how it affected Harm's flying career. I wanted to take the opportunity in this chapter to really explore the more personal aspects of it, and I figured that I may as well tie in Harm and Trish's dynamic while I was at it. Another thing I wanted to bring up in this chapter is how Harm just ran away at the age of sixteen to look for his dad in Vietnam, because that just seemed a tad bit...unhinged. I thought to myself, How did Trish and Frank just...let him do that? and so I decided that he did it behind their backs, just to add a little bit of extra drama - as if there wasn't already enough.
Anyways, hope you enjoyed!
-Harper