Taking Off

by Jenny Moss

  I hugged Mark, not saying anything.

  He held me tight, kissing the side of my forehead. I wouldn’t turn my head toward him. I heard the doors of the car open, and I let him go.

  “Hey, Mark,” said Dad, shaking his hand. Tommy got my bag out of the trunk and handed it to me. I didn’t look at him, but I reached for the bag. He held on.

  I pressed my lips together and glanced up at him, pleading with my eyes for him to let it go. I could sense Mark standing behind me. Tommy released the bag.

  Mark grabbed it from me and flung an arm around my shoulder. The early morning was cold and still. My street was empty and dark except for the occasional harsh lighting of a street lamp.

  Dad gave me a kiss on the cheek, which startled me. “Bye, Annie.”

  “Dad?”

  He looked at me, concern in his eyes.

  “Thank you for taking me, Dad.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out like we thought,” he said.

  I kissed his cheek then, startling him. “Bye, Dad.” I walked to the door with Mark. I didn’t look back, but heard the car drive away.

  Mark came in and pulled me down on the couch with him. He lay down along the length of it with me against him. I leaned into him, trying not to think about anything at all.

  CHAPTER 40

  Mark ate Cheerios. I ate toast over the sink.

  Mom was gone when we woke. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep in Mark’s arms on the couch, that Mom had seen us together and left us there, and that we hadn’t woken up until noon.

  We’d said little to one another. I thought Mark must have figured out I needed quiet, but he didn’t know the real reason. He thought it was Challenger. And it was the accident and losing Christa and all the astronauts, and being there when it happened, and not being able to get that image out of my head.

  But it was also, I hated to admit, fear. Fear of what might happen if I followed my heart—of what I could lose—of what anybody could lose at any time. And it was guilt for liking Tommy, for kissing Tommy.

  All the pressure I’d felt before we left for Florida had ramped up since the launch. I felt like I was going to explode.

  I had thought this trip would help me figure out things, and that maybe I’d come back and be a different person, a more together person, someone who knew what she wanted and fearlessly went for it. Like Christa. I’d wanted her outlook on things and her bravery to rub off on me. And then my path would magically appear before me, like the yellow brick road.

  But now after Challenger … I was fighting the feeling that bad things happened when you reached too far. Had Christa reached too far?

  “So you’re going to the memorial service tomorrow?” Mark asked.

  “Right. I called Lea again last night from the road. Her parents are getting us in.”

  “Come sit down, Annie.”

  The phone rang. He shrugged with a small smile.

  It was Mom.

  “I know I was supposed to wake you—,” I began.

  “I was awake when you got home.”

  “What?” I asked, confused. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I know. I saw Mark waiting out front in his car. I wanted to give you some time with him.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Anything you want special for dinner?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, not caring at all.

  “Okay,” said Mom. “I’m sorry about Christa. It’s awful. Just terrible. I know how much she meant to you, Annie.”

  Meant to you: past tense. It seemed more real when my mom said it.

  “I’ll be home early today,” she was saying. “We’ll talk then.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  I sat at the table and took Mark’s hand.

  “Let’s go for a drive,” he said. “Anywhere. You name it.”

  “Galveston.”

  We got in the car, and I put my feet up on the dashboard. I rolled down the window and leaned way back in the seat. Mark cranked up the radio. An old Bob Seger song from the seventies was playing, which was just fine with me.

  I watched him as he drove. He looked at me with his kind eyes and squeezed my hand. I thought of the summer before our junior year, when we went from good friends to more.

  All we wanted that summer was each other. We got jobs at the original Clear Lake movie theater and asked for the same schedule. On slow days, we shared long kisses in the ticket booth. When we weren’t working, we hung out at my house, sometimes with Dad, sometimes completely alone. We took long drives, like this one. It had been a sweet summer that extended into junior year.

  I was so comfortable with Mark—being with him felt right, like it was where I belonged. I felt safe. I needed safe right now.

  CHAPTER 41

  The memorial service for the crew of Challenger was the next day, a Friday.

  I looked at the many faces around me, a true sea of faces. Most were NASA engineers and other employees. I was glad to be here around people who really cared about the astronauts and the space program.

  Standing here with them made me feel like I was part of their NASA family too. I watched their faces, so many of their eyes hidden by sunglasses, and wondered if they all felt like they had failed in some way, that they were each to blame.

  Thousands stood around the three ponds in the middle of the white 1960s buildings of the space center, the mood somber. A speaker’s platform had been built for the ceremony. It was surrounded by folding chairs in a roped-off area. We were outside the ropes. An Air Force band played heavy, solemn music.

  Lea’s father had gotten us a good spot under a pine tree on a little hill right behind one of the ponds. It was a pretty day, clouds drifting in the sky. It felt like March, not the last day in January. Despite all the formality and the size of the crowd, it had the same feeling as my grandpa’s small funeral.

  Mrs. Taylor said that many famous people were there, including U.S. senators and President John Kennedy’s children, Caroline and John. The families of the astronauts came in last with President Reagan and his wife. They sat in the front row of the folding chairs in front of the platform.

  I could barely see President Reagan, but I could hear him through the loudspeakers. He talked about each member of the crew. My eyes stung when he spoke of Christa. His words described my own experience with her:

  “We remember Christa McAuliffe, who captured the imagination of the entire nation, inspiring us with her pluck, her restless spirit of discovery; a teacher, not just to her students, but to an entire people, instilling us all with the excitement of this journey we ride into the future.”

  I pressed one finger to my lips trying not to cry, remembering that very gesture was what Christa had done when she’d been announced by Vice President Bush as the Teacher in Space. I closed my eyes and said silent words of my own to her, thanking her for her kindness and for making me feel like I mattered.

  The hardest part for me was when Reagan said: “Dick, Mike, Judy, El, Ron, Greg, and Christa—your families and your country mourn your passing.” A woman beside me began to cry then. To these people at the space center, standing around me, this wasn’t a public event with a president and a dead president’s children there. It was the loss of family. I let my tears flow then, not trying to be strong anymore. Lea put her arm around my shoulder, and I leaned into her.

  I thought of Christa’s students, those I had seen interviewed on TV, who had been watching when she died. One girl’s face still haunted me. Her words had been so quiet, so lost, so without the hope that had seemed to flow out of Christa effortlessly.

  I was sorry that girl couldn’t be here. Christa’s students should be here. I wasn’t one of them either. But I felt like I was, and that was because Christa had made me feel that way. She had a gift for talking to people, especially those who were my age.

  I would have liked to be in Concord at the mass they were holding for her on Monday at her church, impossible as that was for me. B
ut I wanted to be with people who’d known Christa as their teacher and had a connection to her that I wished I’d had.

  Four jets flew in formation overhead. All eyes went to the sky. A lone plane pulled up and away, bringing to my mind W. H. Auden’s grieving lines:

  Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

  Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead

  This was not how it was supposed to end.

  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

  Hi, 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.