Home for Breakfast

Seven months ago, I’d rushed back from school to watch the Mars Explorer rocket on its launch pad. The giant steel gantry supporting my father’s star ship was shrouded in steam and illuminated by dazzling arc lights. It was a perfect evening for his mission; the air was still and no adverse weather expected. My mother joined me on the swing chair in the garden to witness the countdown. She hauled a duvet around the both of us and offered popcorn from a large mixing bowl. 

“If we’re going to be out here,” she smiled, “we might as well be comfy.”

The stars were there, faint at first, but brightening as the Eastern sky darkened. She pointed out the Big Dipper and the North Star as they appeared amongst loose scatterings of rock salt strewn from one side of the horizon to the other.

“It’s like we’re waiting for fireworks at the end of term party.”

“Bigger crowd tonight.”

“You mean all those people watching the TV news channel?”

“Hundreds of thousands,” she turned to me, “or maybe millions.”

“A billion, probably.” I bite my lip. “All watching Dad’s rocket and all crossing their fingers.”

Those far-off worlds seemed somewhat nearer that night. Each starry universe beckoned us with a mischievous twinkle. 

#

The day had begun like any other in the family kitchen. My Dad had requested his favourite; pancakes with maple syrup, a pint of freshly pressed orange juice, and ground black coffee. He was in a great mood and joked about his journey and how he’d miss sitting down to share breakfast with us. Our pre-mission meal lasted longer than I expected, and I fretted about being late for school. Dad said he’d drop me off outside Rockledge High on his way to mission control. 

“I’m counting on you to look after your mother,” he frowned.

“Of course, Dad, I just want-—”

“Come here,” he chuckled, throwing his thick arms around our shoulders and drawing us into a tight embrace. “That’s better.”

We’d avoided talking about his voyage during our meal. I guess he couldn’t reveal too much, and he simply wanted to have a normal start to the day.

# 

I was late for my first lesson. It was History class and my classmates were quietly reading a chapter about the moon landing in 1969. She smiled at me when I tried to explain. “Please, don’t worry, Peter,” she began, “I know how it is.” She handed me a textbook and gestured towards my seat. None of my classmates glanced up as I walked to my desk. There was silence as my chair scraped across the wooden floor and back again as I adjusted its position.

#

I sensed the earth vibrating below us as the rocket engaged its mighty engines. 

Momentary bursts of static pierced the air, accompanied by status updates. We heard exchanges between the command centre and my father in the cockpit. 

“Ready?… Ready?… Ready?”   

 “Check!… Check!… Check!”

Those distant echoes from the launch site P.A. system became the background sounds that haunted my dreamscapes for years to come. 

“How much longer?”

“Almost time.”

I was full of questions about my father’s voyage, and my mother explained what was happening as best she could. She patiently answered me, saying nothing specific. I realised she was trying to soften the blow, but I was insistent: how far, how long and when would he be coming home?

My mother couldn’t talk about Dad’s special work, but she convinced me it was important. It wasn’t a secret mission, the world knew about it, and we could watch live broadcasts on the TV. She said not to worry because he was always very careful. She’d tell me when more about it when I was older.

“But how long’s he going for?” I looked her in the eye.

“He’s got a long way to travel, Peter,” she began and turned towards the rocket.

I squinted my mouth to one side. “Please tell me, Mum.”

“He’ll be back before you know it,” she said, pinching my nose and giving me a big hug. It occurred to me she never wanted to discuss the entire voyage. It was as though getting there was more important than coming back. Somehow, the return never figured in our conversations and she never calculated it into the duration of the round trip.

At the time, I didn’t know any other eleven-year-olds who had models of spaceships in their bedrooms. The notion of space travel for young kids had become boring and pointless. Moon shots were a thing of the past, because spacemen did nothing interesting when they got there. One pile of old rocks is very much like another, unless you’re into geology, that is. I tried to explain the significance of space exploration to my friends, and they’d respond by rolling their eyeballs and sighing.

“Yeah, but when they landed in the Sea of Tranquility,” they’d say, “all they did was bounce about, collect samples and leave again.”

“Well, that’s not everything they---”

“Did anything useful come from the moon, apart from non-stick frying pans?”

I wasn’t like other kids; my Dad was in the business. He was a proper astronaut and had lots of stuff to say about space travel. Getting there was the exciting part for him and his enthusiasm was infectious. We’d spend time together designing our own space rockets. He’d finish them at work and send the construction data to our domestic 3-D printer. We’d print out the fuselage components in plastic, assemble all the pieces and paint them together. He’d make it fun by launching them from home made platforms and suspending them above my bed using a fine filament fishing line. You could hardly see thin cords, and so the models hung in mid-air as if by magic. I loved to lie down and watch them float below the starscape painted on my ceiling. Once my light was switched off at night, their features would take on a luminous glow and keep me company until I drifted off. 

Dad had been in training for years to go on this mission. The hardest thing, he said, would be coming back to Earth. I didn’t know what he meant, but assumed he thought it would be an anti-climax. He’d told me about life on board the space station and the difficulties of weightlessness. He explained the effects on the human body and convinced me he’d get used to it. 

#

“What time is it now?”

“Eleven minutes to nine by my---”

“Oh, look! The ten minute warning!” 

Above the launch site, four crimson flares explode upwards, challenging gravity as they ascend. They are defiant and hover for a moment before tumbling earthward to splash down and be extinguished by the ocean’s icy grasp.

“Eight minutes to go…”

The final countdown was an interminable. 

“Six minutes…”

This was everything my father had worked for. 

“Four minutes…”

All we can do was wait and pray for his safe return. 

“Two minutes…”

How would we manage between those precious moments of conversation? 

“One minute…”

Would he travel out of the range of communication and be isolated in space?

“Thirty seconds…”

“Oh, God, take care, Jim…”

“He’ll be fine, Mum…”

She gripped my hand.

“Fifteen, ten, five…”

“Watch!”

“Three, two, one,”

The rocket lifted from the ground.  

“Yes! Yes!” We both rose and cried out in relief. The shock wave of raw power pulsed through the ground. On our feet we swayed like a multi-legged turtle huddled within a soft duvet shell. The sky brightened with an explosion of sheer power. The rising comet rushed ever upwards and climbed away in a flash of firelight to become another star in the heavens and disappear into the sprawling Milky Way.

My mother put her arm round my shoulder and pulled me close. 

“He’s made it, he’s done it.” She wiped a speck from her eye and looked away.

“I knew he’d be all right, Mum, are you---”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs. “I’m missing him---”

“He’ll be back,” I try to catch her eye, “he’s coming back, right?”

“Let’s go in, love.” She wraps the quilt around her for warmth. 

“Mum?” I follow her.

“We need a hot drink.”

#

I didn’t get to speak to my Dad a week ago on my twelfth birthday. He’d lost communications when he was caught in a meteor storm two days away from Mars’ orbit. I was cheered up when I received a text wishing me many happy returns. The message contained data to build a Mars Rover model. It was exciting to receive the present and assemble the model, but my birthday wasn’t much fun without him. My mother was anxious all day too. Later in the evening, I heard her favourite music drifting through the house. I wandered upstairs to discover her at the bedroom window, staring at the night sky. 

The next time we heard from him, he was three hours away from his ETA on the red planet. We received an invitation to engage in a two-way transmission with him. He wished me a belated happy birthday on the live video call from his spacecraft. The time lag in the conversation made a normal exchange very disjointed. I thought that I’d got used to the strange delay, but I’m surprised by the fragmentation on this occasion. 

“Hey, Dad, thanks so much for the Rover kit…”

“… Did you figure it out…?” 

“… Yeah, it was perfect…” 

“… Is your Mum around?” he shifts his position. “Jeannie, how’s things…?”

“… I’m so glad you’re there, Jim.” She can’t look at him. “It’s just the next bit…” 

“… Jeannie, are all right, love?” 

The signal’s not great. We lose the picture feed.

“… I’ll try again in ten---”

“We’ll to try to reconnect as soon as we can, folks.”

An anonymous voice interrupts our family conversation. 

“Please bear with us, everything’s fine…”

It’s disconcerting knowing every time we speak two hundred space flight technicians are monitoring our calls. We pretend that’s not the case so that we can interact in a relaxed and familiar fashion, but we know we can’t fully express what we really want to say. It’s impossible to say I love you with any conviction in front of an audience, even if you have been told by a psychiatrist how vital it is for him to hear it out loud. It’s important for my Mum too; she needs his support as much as he needs hers. From my point of view, I was relieved to hear my Dad’s voice, although he doesn’t seem real anymore. He’s not his old self.

#

“Hey, we can see him on TV,” I grab the remote. “They’ll have the latest---”

“What about your father’s call back he’ll-—”

“It’s his busiest time right now, Mum.”

“I guess he doesn’t need us distracting his final descent, right?”

Looking back, I’m sure our conversation was cut off on purpose. They probably wanted Dad focussing on the crucial finale. During the landing, there’s live video coverage from everywhere on board and there’s no problem on the news channel reports; everything is loud and clear.

We hear the spacecraft’s retro jets kick in and cushion the descent. Dad’s Martian voyage ends in a cloud of dust kicked-up from the rock-strewn surface.

The world is waiting for that iconographic boot print in the dirt. The moment when he steps onto the red planet was about to be captured forever. 

One first step for my Dad was about to be the next gigantic leap for humanity.

As it turned out, my Dad was destined to experience that gigantic leap first as well. 

#

Three months after my father’s arrival on Mars, the media interest has disappeared and the latest virus deaths are headline news again. It’s as if the Mars Mission is over and done with. 

As far as I’m concerned, it’s nowhere near finished. My father’s still on Mars although, any day soon, he is due to begin his return journey to Earth.

He’s established the base on Mars, and the agency’s plans have been set in motion. There is now a small army of robots following instructions from Mission Control. They’re mining for minerals, clearing rocky debris, and laying foundations in order to construct habitable dwelling spaces using giant 3-D printers.

#

The launch site has had more activity than usual today, as though they’re expecting incoming space traffic. There is a tension locally amongst the families we know in the space industry. The Mars mission has been an expensive project that has stretched everyone’s patience and put stress on everybody’s lives. Justifying the money has been a full-time job for hundred’s of people and half the work force’s jobs are on the line.

#

I’ve had a busy time at school with end of term tests and endless days of revision. 

I can’t sleep the night that Dad’s scheduled to set off from Mars and return to Earth. My mother is short tempered and on edge all day. The model spaceships suspended above my bed need dusting. I’m glad to get some respite and time away from all the media coverage. The entire experience has warped our family relationships and hindered our ability to communicate.

#

I wake up in a cold sweat after having nightmares about Mars. My father is trapped on the red planet and unable to return. There are voices echoing downstairs, they’re coming from the kitchen. I wander out of my bedroom and haul on my dressing gown. My mother’s voice is lively and there’s a deep chuckle, it’s my Dad’s laugh.

I appear at the kitchen doorway.

“Afternoon, Peter!” he chuckles. “We didn’t think you were around today.”

“Dad? How did you---”

“What would you like for breakfast, love?”

“I don’t get it, I thought it’d be next year before---”

“I couldn’t resist your mother’s pancakes.” He winks at Mum.

“Get away, you cheeky so and---”

“Mum, how long have you known about---”

“They didn’t think it would work for certain---”

“You were an experiment?”

“The first two times the cloning didn’t work well and-—”

“How is that even possible?”

“Let’s put it this way, I’ve plenty of spare parts and the real me is still on Mars.” 

“Pancakes with maple syrup, Peter?”

“I’ll press him some fresh orange juice, Jeannie.”

“I think he needs one of your special coffees, Jim.”

“There’s always a first time for everything, love.”

The End