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.