Taking Off (18 page)

CHAPTER 42

I
woke thinking of
Challenger
, with odd images and colors from my dreams floating through my head: Christa and Tommy riding in the Love Bus together, NASA Boy with his freckles telling me he wanted to fly, bits of the shuttle in an ugly red sky. I pressed my face deeper into my pillow and let myself fall back asleep.

The ringing phone woke me, but I ignored it.

My door opened. “Annie, are you awake?” Mom asked.

“No,” I said into my pillow.

“It’s ten o’clock, Annie. And Mark’s on the phone. He’s called several times.”

“I’m not awake.”

There was no shutting of the door. I opened the eye not on my pillow. Mom was still there, looking at me.

“Fine,” I said, dragging myself out of bed and into the kitchen. I picked up the receiver lying on the counter. “Mark?”

“Hey! Your mom said you were still asleep,” he said. “Aren’t you working today?”

I put my hand to my throat, convincing myself it felt sore. “I think I’m sick.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Go back to bed, Annie. I’ll call in for you.”

“Thanks, Mark.”

“You want me to come by later? After work?”

“Sure,” I said.

I crawled into bed, but couldn’t go back to sleep. I felt guilty. Guilty for calling in sick when I (probably) wasn’t. Guilty about Tommy.

I pulled out my Vincent van Gogh book, studying his eyes on the cover: so tormented, as if he too had seen a friend die right before his eyes. I read another of his letters. Vincent was distressed. His mentor had become irritated when Vincent had told him: “I am an artist.” He thought his mentor was upset because claiming you’re an artist suggested you were “always seeking without absolutely finding.”

I too was seeking—and absolutely
not
finding.

Christa had seemed to be a seeking person, but also a finding one, a person satisfied with what she achieved. If she’d arrived safely back home, I believed she would have been filled up by her week-long experience of living among the stars, filled up by sharing that experience with her students.

I was a stargazer and a dreamer. But I had wanted the road trip to help me find peace and answers—instead I felt restless and unsure.

Was it Van Gogh’s constant seeking that created his body of art? If he’d been finally satisfied, finally contented, he might not have accomplished what he did. I thought perhaps if he’d found a way to capture all the colors in his head, all the stars in his heart, we wouldn’t have his paintings. Was he sacrificed for his art? Was Christa sacrificed for her desire to see and share the stars?

My head hurt. I put the book down.

Mark came by later with Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream. I gave him a kiss and brought two bowls to the den and sat by him while we ate.

He put his hand on my knee and watched television, stealing kisses with cold ice-cream lips when Mom walked out of the room.

“You might get sick,” I told him, teasing.

“You look good for a sick girl.”

Mom came back in, a book in one hand.

“It’s Saturday night, Mom,” I said. “You and Donald don’t have a date?”

“Not tonight,” she said, looking at me and then going back out.

“Is something wrong?” Mark asked. “She looks worried.”

“She is worried. About me, since we got back from Florida.”

“I’m worried about you too.”

“No one needs to worry about me. I’m fine.” I put my hand on my throat, saying with a fake scratchy voice: “Except for this sore throat.”

He held my hand, playing with my charm bracelet. “How was the trip to Florida, by the way? I mean, before the accident.”

“It was fine,” I said, feeling nervous, suddenly wanting my hand back.

“What did y’all do? I know you went to Disney.”

My stomach clenched. “Yeah, we went to Epcot and Magic Kingdom, hung out on the beach a little.” I frantically tried to think of something to change the subject. “Dad was taking freezing dips into the ocean. You know how crazy he is. What did you do while I was gone? Any surfing?”

I knew he was looking at me, but I lowered my eyes. I grabbed my knitting from the basket by the couch just wanting to feel the yarn in my hands, to hear the click of the needles.

He didn’t say anything else. I knitted, knowing I was lying to him.

CHAPTER 43

H
i, it’s Tommy.”

I couldn’t help the excited, sweet feeling that shot through me. “Hi, Tommy.” I switched the phone to my other ear.

“Is it okay to call?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah.”
Probably not
, I thought.

“I know it’s only been a few days, but I’ve missed you.”

I hesitated. “I’ve missed you too.” It felt good saying it. It felt like the truth after days of lies.

“How are things? Are you okay?”

“It’s been weird,” I said.

“How so?”

“The trip and everything that happened,” I said. “And then coming back home feels like nothing’s changed.”

“Has anything changed with you and Mark?” he asked quietly.

No
, I thought.
It’s exactly the same.

Although Mark hadn’t asked about Tommy directly, I knew that he wanted to, that he was waiting. I could feel it. My stomach was torn up with confusion.

“Annie?” Tommy asked.

“I’m sorry. I just …” Suddenly, I felt like crying. I was so much on edge, with all these intense feelings fraying my nerves. I didn’t know what to do with them. They were complicating everything.

Tommy was quiet. “It’s all right, Annie,” he said finally.

“I just can’t think right now,” I said. “I’m sorry, Tommy.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for. Not at all.”

I took a deep breath. “Thanks.” But he was wrong. I may not owe him an apology, but I owed one to Mark.

“Have you been writing poetry?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, relieved he’d changed the subject. “I’ve been trying to work on poems about Christa, but it’s too fresh.” My eyes stung. “It hurts.” I didn’t like to talk about her to anyone, although many people had asked at school today, including teachers. My grief felt private. But Tommy had been with me when it happened. He understood.

“Write about other things until you can write about her.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I have this idea, actually, for a collection of poems. I’ve been thinking about that, writing a little.”

“That’s cool. What’s it about?”

I paused. “I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

“Sure,” he said. “Annie, I’d like to take you somewhere.”

“I don’t know, Tommy—”

“Not on a date,” he said quickly. “We can go in broad daylight.”

“I don’t think it would be right,” I said, conflicted.

“I want to show you something.”

I knew Mark wouldn’t like it. But I wanted to go so badly. Tommy made things seem light and fun. I needed fun right now.

“When?” I asked.

“This Saturday. About ten? I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay,” I said quickly, before I could change my mind.

When I hung up, I realized I was smiling for the first time in days.

CHAPTER 44

I
’d fallen asleep last night on the couch with the TV on. Mom had woken me up, and I’d climbed into my bed and burrowed under the warm, soft covers. Now it was five a.m. and I was wide awake. I lay there, thinking of Christa, trying to push her out of my head. Finally, I gave up.

I grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and got the newspaper from the driveway. While drinking the Coke, I started the coffee going for Mom. I liked the smell of coffee. It made me think of my grandma.

There was a photo in the
Houston Chronicle
showing Christa’s husband, Steven, and their nine-year-old son, Scott, leaving her funeral in Concord. The caption said that their six-year-old daughter, Caroline, had also attended. I remembered Christa talking about her wedding, where she wore daisies in her hair and danced until dusk.

I hoped I wouldn’t always feel such sadness when I thought of her. People who lost others couldn’t live with this heavy emptiness every day; it
had
to get better. I still missed my grandpa, but the ache had lessened as the days went by.

It wasn’t just me Christa had affected. She’d pulled an entire nation into her heart. Probably because she was so fearless, but also because she didn’t just reach out for what she wanted; she called on each of us, wanting us to do the same.

“Coffeeee,” said Mom, coming in. “Thank you, Annie!” She poured a cup and sat beside me. “You’re up early.”

“How can you drink that black?”

Mom took a sip of the steaming cup. “Mmm. Perfect.” She grabbed some of the paper while she leaned over to see what I was reading. “Who’s that a picture of?”

I hesitated. “Christa’s husband and son.”

Mom frowned. “Don’t look at that, Annie. It’ll just make you more sad.” She pulled out the Lifestyle section.

I wondered at my mother’s ability to shut out the world and only deal with the pleasant things. Sure, Dad irritated the crap out of her, and she complained about it. But she didn’t let it affect her life, not really. This was partly how she did it: ignore the headlines, ignore the sad things.

And then I saw it. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before.

“What?” Mom asked, staring at me.

I looked down at the ring.

Her left hand immediately closed.

“Were you going to tell me?” I asked.

“I was waiting until the time was right.”

“And you didn’t think I would notice the ring?”

“I hoped you’d be happy for me, Annie.”

“Oh, I so am,” I said sarcastically. “When’s the wedding? Am I invited?”

“I know you don’t like Donald now—”

“I don’t
dislike
him, Mom. I just don’t care. And you want me to embrace him like he’s my long-lost papa.”

“Annie,” she began, “do you remember when I told you there were two reasons why I wanted you to let Donald pay for your college?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I didn’t tell you the second reason. I … I just want you to feel like you’re part of a family. That you have people who will take care of you.”

“I already have a
family
, Mom. I have more family than most of my friends with you and Dad and all my aunts and cousins living right here in town. I don’t have a problem there.”

“But you don’t have a responsible dad—”

“I do have a dad, and it’s not Donald.”

A look of irritation crossed Mom’s face.

“Now, see, what’s that face about, Mom? Just because
you
hate my father—”

“Annie, I don’t hate—”

“—doesn’t mean I do. Sure, he’s irresponsible and thoughtless and just a mess, at least to you, but he’s my dad. And I like being with him. I mean, even though the car kept breaking down, he kept getting it fixed and even fixed it himself when he had to—just to get me home. And he’s fun. Sometimes it’s exciting to be around that.”

I pretended to read the paper, wishing Mom would go away. I looked up, irritated to see a smile on her face. “What’s up with you?”

“I was just thinking. When your dad and I were kids, just a little older than you …”

I put the paper down.

“… we drove down to Padre Island …”

I took a drink of my Coke. “Grandma let you?” Mom was the youngest and the only daughter, very close to her mom.

“I was a strong-minded girl.”

“But Grandma is too.”

“There was some clashing there. But it was 1965. And I had plans.” She looked wistful for a moment, younger. “So anyway, your dad and I parked on the beach in his old beat-up Mustang. We pitched a tent and went for a long walk, picking up seashells, playing in the waves. It was … perfect. And your father was so … young, so happy all the time. Fun.”

She had this dreamy look on her face. She never brought up Dad at all, except to complain about him. “Then we came back to the car.” She pressed her lips together and her eyes watered.

“What, Mom?” I asked. Was she upset?

“The tide had come in.” Mom’s eyes were lit with glee.

“So?”

“Well,” she said, “your
father
had parked the car right on the beach. And set up the tent at the edge of the water.”

“Oh no.”

“The tent was
gone
. Floating out to sea, along with our sleeping bags, our pillows, my little stuffed cat,” she said, “that I used to sleep with and brought everywhere with me.”

“Oh, Mom, you had a little stuffed cat?”

“I didn’t actually see the cat float away, but I knew it was out there in the Gulf of Mexico somewhere.”

“And the car?”

“We couldn’t drive it out. It was flooded up to almost the top of the wheels.”

“What did you do?”

“I was so freaked. I screamed, pointed at the tent. I yelled and yelled about my cat. I was so mad,” she said, shaking her head. “People on the beach were laughing. One guy was taking pictures. And your dad,” she said, a smile creeping up on her lips, “yelled, ‘I’ll find Maples!’ ”

“Maples?”

“My cat. And he ran into the waves and swam out. I thought he was going to drown. Well, of course, he didn’t find the cat. He came back out all wet, wading through the water to the car, and he opened the trunk, and came back with two cold beers in his hand. He popped the top of one and gave it to me, and said, ‘I’m sorry about Maples, babe.’ ”

I smiled.

Mom was watching me. “I don’t hate your dad, Annie.” She got up and poured another cup of coffee. Leaning against the counter, she took a sip of her coffee and looked off like she was still remembering. Then, she smiled. “But he is such,” she said in a most loving way, “an idiot.” She looked at me, her eyes a little teary. “I just got tired of being the only grown-up in the room.”

“Yeah,” I said, sad for all of us. I got up and stood by her, leaning against the counter, suddenly wanting to be near her.

She hugged me and then let me go. “It’s all right, Annie. It’ll be all right.”

“I’ll think about taking Donald’s money
if
I go to college,” I said. “But I’ll need to talk to Dad about it first.”

“Ah,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s very brave of you. Are you sure? Because I can tell him.”

“I’m sure.” I smiled. “See, you’re not the only grown-up in the room.”