You are the First Woman on the Moon
Where is he?
You don't know the answer to that. He has not come to the launch. He said he would, and he hasn't shown up. At least, you haven't him in the crowd. You look, you can't help yourself, but his face is not to be seen. Not a word of warning or apology. He just isn't here.
Your other friends are, even your mom, who is beaming and preening with pride as if you have already walked on the moon, like nothing bad could happen between now and then. You wave, but the perfect rhythm of your morning is ruined—even your footing on that solid, clean, level pavement of the launch-pad feels off.
You feel jinxed. His absence is daunting. You feel like something bad is going to happen.
Nothing goes wrong on the way up, smooth as silk. It makes you are angry. Your can't enjoy your favorite thing in the universe—flying in space—because something still feels wrong and it is all his fault.
…
The pure oxygen is rich in your throat as you breath it in, and your breath remains close in the confines of your helmet. Your are trying to move slowly to savor every single second of this, but it is too big for you to take in all at once. The best you can do is think of it in small increments. Your heart is pounding, your are shaking, and your mouth is dry. Why does your mouth have to be so dry now? When the next words out of it are going down in history?
Jack is at the top of the ladder, watching you and cheering you on. You can't see him for the glare off the face of his helmet, but you hear his voice is in your earpiece as he says, "Nice and easy... Houston, she's at the bottom of the ladder."
This is it. You take a deep breath and bounce away from the ladder. Your stomach flips, wobbles as you don't drop but glide sort of diagonally down, not falling by any great force; it is more like you just decide to go down and down you go.
You are flying without a plane or a shuttle.
Is he watching this?
The first thought in your mind puffs up just like the powder rising from your first foot fall, and it has nothing to do with the ceremonial line you have prepared. The danger of it is, you almost say it aloud—you don't, but you almost did.
So your first words on the moon sound angry when they were supposed to sound happy and exhilarated. Here you are standing on the face of the moon, looking at the earth as small as a silver dollar, leaving your immortal footsteps in the dust, flying like in your dreams--and all you want to do is get home before there is a malfunction.
"You're rattled, is something wrong?" Jack asks. You snap at him, humble him so that he doesn't bother you again with stupid questions. No you aren't rattled. You are having the best time in your life. Nothing can top this.
Nothing, you repeat to yourself, and you growl out loud in anger when your brain summons the memory of his arms around you and his breath in your hair--as if to ask like a timid child, even this?
You shred the memory, break it down to unrecognizable pieces so that who-hugged-who, colors, smells, and promises are no more distinguishable or significant to you as the hugs and farewells at your Military School graduation ceremony. Without your partner noising into your business, with a list of important tasks at hand, and with the entire experience finally soaking into your bones, it isn't long before you can let go of a little thing like someone forgetting to come to your launch.
You don't feel empty. You might have been sensing a hollow space inside of you in the last months, but you can't feel it now. Riding shotgun over the uneven lunar surface in the Desert RAT, you feel full to the bursting point as you look through the windshield at the stars, and the mountains and the craters, and the lunar sunrise. Your skin is tingling and you feel complete.
…
Your sister and mother meet you when you return to earth. They give you big tight hugs, and can't believe how famous you are, and your mom invites you and your sister to the house for the weekend. You can't go, you say, you have stuff to do. You lie and fudge truths about your month's schedule until she drops it. You could have moved things around, made the time, but the idea of your recovery period vacation does not involve days stuck with your mother—more like a hammock in your shady backyard in Houston.
In said hammock, your eyes closed behind your sunglasses, your glass of root beer sweating heavily on the table a swing away, you listen to the message on your machine for the third, and final, time. He sounds hurried, he keeps his reason vague, he promises to call when you get back. So he didn't forget, his life just didn't allow it; you can respect that. You delete the message and drop the phone into the warm grass below you, with a yawn. In minutes you drop off to sleep, and dream of the usual things; flying…the moon…ham...
The next weeks are full of interviews with several magazines and talk shows. You appear on Opera and talk about how you became an astronaut, playing up the troubled-child-who-got-her-life-together-and-now-look-where-she-is thing. They even surprise you with a clip from the old web show, and you discuss your friendship with the popular new actress.
At work, you have began to help train newer astronauts joining the core, and you and Jack go on a few more dates, still officially just friends. You know he would like to become more than that, and you think you may just let it happen. After all, it doesn't look like any more tech docs need a ride to the space station, and you never do get that phone call. You get another message, commenting on your appearance on Opera and being sorry he didn't catch you when he called, but he had to go test something within the next minute or the experiment would be compromised.
He can't come to the 4th of July BBQ you throw in your backyard, he has a conference. Funny how the scientific circles can be so broad and narrow at the same time. Just because his is focused on life on planet earth, your circles move apart from his.
....
It is dawn and you are awake.
By the grey light tinting the un-curtained window in your house, you make your way barefooted down the dark hallway, around the coffee table and Lazy Boy in the living room, to the kitchen. You don't need the shadowy light of the new day to see where you are going, you know where everything is, that the countertops in this room are covered with the groceries you are too lazy to store properly in your cabinets, and that the sink is full of dirty dishes.
You step over the cold floor vent, and the loose board creaks loudly under your weight as you jerk open the freezer door. A frigid cloud of cold wafts across your face and lifts the hairs away from your face. No light bulb. You don't need one to find the five pound bag of mini Hershey's bars you have stored there. You root a few out for a little pre-morning snack.
You peel away the wrapper and snap a corner off with your back molars. Oh frozen chocolate, is there anything better than the fresh, crisp taste as it melts on your tongue like a piece of heaven?
The sink dripping. An early bird calling. That pesky stray cat snooping around on your deck railing. You stand in silence and watch the world outside your kitchen window come to life as you enjoy your candy.
This is all too familiar to you. You have been battling insomnia and have gotten to know the young hours of each morning far better than you would like. The buzz of your moon walk has finally died down, your next flight is years off, and now you spend most days training new air-force recruits just like when you weren't in NASA. You feel stuck.
You won't take pills to sleep, not even over-the-counter stuff. You used to watch your mother pop them when things were bad, crawl into bed and avoid her problems rather than fixing them, and you promised yourself you would always face whatever curve-balls life threw at you.
Look where's it gotten you: a home; a fantastic job; friends; peace; happiness. It wasn't easy. Damn it was hard, sometimes, to take the steps along this road, but so far you have not regretted a single one.
Until now.
The insomnia is your warning. It's that push, egging you to take another step. One you need to take, but you're hesitating. A voice in your head wants to know what's wrong with what you've got going, it's working! It's right! Don't look back, it says.
Well, you've been listening to this voice and now you can't sleep. Time to try something else. You know how to fix this. You know exactly how to do it; you have to go back…to the place you once called home. She would like to see you again; you would like to see her. She deserves a visit from you; you owe her that much at least—for always getting out of that bed for you.
Already you feel better. The step is half taken. You will go this weekend, you had nothing else planned but a couple of at-home movie nights. The phone rings, pulling you from your reverie.
The sun has risen and glints off the resting pools of water in the pile of dirty dishes. The phone rings again and you cram the rest of the chocolate in your mouth, licking your fingers clean. After the third ring, your machine gets it. You listen to your own voice give the out-going message as you walk into the living room to get the cordless.
Your sister's voice, higher pitched than yours and usually so perky, starts with a wet sniff and a watery question, "Sami, are you in?"
Alarmed, you whip the receiver to your ear. "Mel? What is it?"
Sob. Sniff. Staticy breath. "Mom's dead."
