Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 217(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Dressed to impress in a black pantsuit, I arrive at the airport an hour and a half early, shocked my mother hadn’t called me, nor is she waiting for my arrival. I check my ticket to be certain I’m not confused but today is the day. I’m antsy when I can’t reach her, and eventually decide she must be on the other side of security, and the airport cell service is the issue.
But when I get to the other side of security, she’s not there. Time ticks, and I’ve dialed her phone a good half dozen times. I finally call my father, but his phone goes to voicemail, which is not a surprise. He’s probably in the underground section of the military base.
Boarding starts and I’m pacing, worried now. I walk to the counter. “Can you please page my mother? She’s supposed to be on this flight.”
It’s then that I’m paged. “Addie Lawrence, please come to the service desk at concourse B.”
My heart races, a horrible, clawing feeling in my gut. “Where is that desk?” I ask the woman.
“Go right and follow the signs to gate ten, but if you leave now, you’ll miss your flight.”
I barely hear what she’s said to me. I’m already running toward gate ten, breathless when I reach the service area, to find a uniformed officer talking with the woman behind the counter.
“I’m Addie Lawrence,” I pant out. “You paged me? Is this about my mother? She’s supposed to be here for our flight.”
The officer speaks up then, “Let’s step over here please, Ms. Lawrence.”
I see it in his face. I know what he’s going to say. “No. No. No.” Tears are already streaming down my cheeks and I’m trembling all over when he steps in front of me and starts speaking. I can’t feel my limbs. I can’t draw air into my lungs.
“There was a car accident. I’m sorry to tell you Ms. Lawrence that your mother—”
The floor sways, and I collapse.
***
The funeral is a rainy day with full military service that honors my mother’s service long before I was born and all but destroys me. It’s the trumpets and the gunfire that shred me inside and out. I think it can’t get any worse until I stand in my parents’ kitchen, people milling around and chatting about what a great person she was, and my mind conjures the smell of her famous spaghetti, at least famous to me. The grief that seizes me is equal to the sheer force that is the Army my parents once served together, where they met.
I hurry through the room and the house, then exit, rushing down the steps to end up staring at my mother’s flower garden and that’s it. I’m in tears again, sobbing uncontrollably and I end up sitting underneath a big oak tree.
When I finally gain my composure, my father appears and kneels in front of me. “You have to stay here with me. I’ll get you a grant for your work. Just give me a little time. We need to be together.”
“It wasn’t what Mom wanted,” I say, replaying their argument in my head. “I overheard you fighting. She believed NASA has to come first before whatever you’re planning. So honor her, Dad. Honor her wishes. I’m going to even if you don’t. I leave for Houston in the morning.”
***
Houston, fifteen months later…
I exit my office in the NASA facility where I’ve been working, defeated at best at the realization that the grant I’m working on is running out and doesn’t seem likely to renew. I feel as if I’ve made little progress on my research, even if objectively my mother would say that’s not at all true in the big picture. But I’m not where I wanted to be at this point. I feel as if I’ve let my mother down. The red tape that is NASA has been cumbersome and contributed to a slower progression of my work in ways I didn’t expect. Of course, the truth is my mother’s absence on the project is more than a little obvious. While I might be able to mimic her skills in some ways, her years of experience will take me years to match. Not only was she trained to evaluate the mental health of the astronauts exposed to alien microorganisms, both literally and hypothetically, but she was also a brilliant researcher, her dual role one that would have led us to far more comprehensive data performance.
I’m just passing security when the guard flags me. “This came by courier for you earlier today.” He offers me a FedEx package I accept, curiously noting the empty return address spot.
“Thanks, Joe,” I say, and hope it’s the data I’ve been hoping for, which might just seal in at least a six-month extension on the grant.
I reach my car and frown when I find a huge yellow envelope sitting under my wiper. It’s unmarked, and I wonder if it’s in the wrong place but I grab it anyway, and desperate to escape the scorching heat, climb in my car, which is, of course, burning up.