15

 

Ginger and Mouser look at me.

“I don’t care that Dr. H is waiting. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

I should be happy. If Ginger’s pups take care of the cost of Ángela’s treatment, I can go home without it costing Ángela her life. But I’m not happy. I feel confused, stuck, like my gravity is off and I don’t know what thruster is malfunctioning.

That spawn of squirrel sweat wants me to continue the mission. He’s got something in his letter to entice me. He doesn’t care that I’d be a hermit in space, never seeing people again, never having a sky overhead. He doesn’t care that I’ll never get a sixth date with Marsha.

When I was growing up, I wasn’t like other kids. The first time I ever felt like I fit in was when I got to NASA. There, if I said something worth listening to, they paid attention.

Marsha was even more attentive. I didn’t have to be busy with her. I didn’t have to say anything. I could sit in silence and still feel she was with me, paying attention. Sometimes in the muted silence, it felt like there was a soft humming coming from deep within her.

Jepler, that’s why I’m done with you. You stuck me up here, away from Earth, away from Marsha. You don’t care about me.

Mr. Mission-Comes-First, Disease-of-Squids Jepler, this mission wasn’t designed to seed planets. What if the four target planets are methane-heavy, their blanket of oxygen floating over poisonous air? What if they have land and water, winds and tides, but an atmosphere that’s oxygen deficient? Does my fabulous two-hundred-pound package contain stores of prokaryotes to give the planets a massive infusion? Am I supposed to watch videos for centuries while they crunch CO2 to set O2 free? Or am I supposed to hope it will happen in the blink of an eye?

The ecosystem is more complex than any computer code. Yes, clover enriches the soil, but you need bees to pollinate the clover. I know, we’ve got bees. But they need all sorts of flowers, early blooming to late, plants that we don’t have on the Galileo.

Jepler, no one knows what we’ll find out there. Maybe those planets are bursting with life. But what if they’re sterile rocks?

Where will kestrels roost if there are no trees? I know there are trees in the rings. But what do you expect me to do, redesign farm bots so they can drive off a landing ship and plant orchards? I suppose while they’re at it, they could unroll acres of sod and put up boxes with time-release pouches so seeds explode over the turf at the proper time. And I could just circle the planet for a couple of years, waiting for the seeds to grow and the oxygen to surge. Then I could send the animals.

Yes, people would be drawn from Earth to a world with dogs. But that doesn’t get fish in the ponds and earthworms in the soil. Do I send compost heaps down to these planets? Maybe I could have a twenty acre plot of rich loam and mangrove muck, full of worms, teeming with mice. And it could soar to the ground on a glider as big as Houston.

For crying out loud, it’s one thing to go exploring for planets. But how do I stock them with life? How do I get kestrels and mice to the ground safely? Do I ferry them on paper airplanes? Do I make the dogs edible parachutes?

I know we have landing craft. But they were built to take mobile labs to the planet for soil analysis, air testing, surveying. They aren’t air tight. Animals couldn’t breathe and survive the trip. Do you understand I’d have to tear out an airlock and fit it in the lander? Do you think one man can do that?

Besides that, I’m not a pilot. I can’t learn that in some virtual helmet. What if I blacked?

And, pus-laden, turkey-spit Jepler, spawn of toxic-waste dumps, it’s a one-way trip. You can land, if there’s a stretch of beach or a smooth length of ground. But once you’re down, all the horse-trading in the universe can’t get you back to the Galileo. You need fuel and fuel tanks and booster rockets. They didn’t stock that stuff in zero-g storage in the center of the Galileo. Do you hear me, you hyena snot? One man can’t do all this!

I can’t get Billy’s voice out of my head. So I flip the comm switch back on.

“Houston, Grant here. Is Dr. H around?”

Ferris says, “He thought you’d call back. Hold on. Here he is on a private circuit.”

When I hear his voice, it’s like a spring breeze. I don’t feel as angry and stressed out.

“Grant, you got the pulse comm fixed. And Ferris is telling everyone about your space walk. You were out there for over five hours and you almost ran out of oxygen?”

“I couldn’t go back in the main air lock. SINDAS let Ginger and Mouser in there, and they would have died.”

“So you were outside, in space, and you nearly ran out of oxygen because you had to get to another air lock?”

“Yes.”

“Great job, Grant. Amazingly clear thinking in a crisis.”

“Dr. H,” I’m hesitant, but I’ve got to tell him. “I had an experience out in space.” I struggle to find the words. He’ll think I’m crazy if I tell him I met the One with a crown who loves me.

“Grant, what kind of experience?”

“Not a scientific one, that’s for sure.”

“Tell me about it.”

His willingness to hear draws the words out of me. “Dr. H, I met God.”

“Oh?”

“Are you going to doubt me? Tell me I’m crazy?”

“Why should I?”

With his question, I’m hit with another one of those unsettling thoughts that don’t come from my mind. You’re afraid he’ll say you’re crazy because that’s what you’ve said when other people told you they’d met God.

“Grant,” he says, “it’s probably difficult to talk about, but it’s important. Tell me what happened.”

So I tell him about how the universe blinked and I didn’t know where I was, but I was with the sturdy One, Who filled me with warmth, Who bore the thorn-marred crown, and Who had a patient, unshakable love for me. As I’m telling him, I feel foolish, vulnerable. He’ll think I’m crazy.

The words burst from my lips before I think of what I’m saying. “Do you think this is hogwash? Do you believe in this bleeding man wearing a crown?”

“He has a name, Grant.”

I know He has a name. Uncle Ralph and Aunt Clara taught me His name. But I can’t bring myself to say it.

Somehow, Dr. H understands. “We can leave that until another day. You’ve opened a new part of yourself, so I’ll do the same. Yes, Grant, I believe in Him. I met Him, in an experience that was nothing like yours and everything like yours. I was six years old. I was in church with my parents and grandparents, and the minister talked about a man sent from God with love that only God could have. He said that man loved me. And I saw Him in that church, standing behind that minister, looking at me. And I knew He loved me and that His love would never let go of me.”

“That’s what I felt.”

“You can trust it.”

“By myself, I can’t, Dr. H.” But hearing him say that he believes has made a difference. And, for a moment, a touch of God’s light warms me, and I know that what I experienced was real.

The words rush out before I know what I’m saying, “He wanted to take my nightmares and my dad’s abuse.”

Dr. H’s voice is calm, “What did you say?”

“I couldn’t let him. They’re mine.”

“Yes, Grant, they are.”

“But, I turned Him down. Don’t you think that was wrong?”

“What do you think, Grant?”

“He told me nothing could ever change how He feels toward me.” As I say the words, I remember the moment, the otherworldly love of the Son of God warming me.

And, with that, I know there’s something I have to talk to Dr. H about. “I’m getting too angry. I’m not blacking as much, but I kicked Ginger. I don’t like it. It’s not safe.”

“So what’s next, Grant, punching SINDAS in the gut?”

I laugh. “That’s a null capacity.”

“So you’ll become the terror of the ag biome, a goat-stomping, poodle-kicking, chicken-throttling maniac of wrath.”

“Dr. H, this is serious.”

“So you want to shove Billy Jepler…”

“Into a live volcano. That I could do. Or carve long slits in his skin and fill them with leeches, or tie him down in the desert and let buzzards gnaw on his bones.”

Dr. H laughs.

My thoughts are tangled, and I struggle to find words. “But what if I blew Jepler’s brains out? What kind of beast would I be? I get angry like my father. I’ll lose it and be cruel like him.”

“I’m not afraid of that, Grant. I’d put you in a room with Billy and a bazooka and never worry for a moment.”

“But…”

“Hold on, Grant. Hear the lecture first: there’re four ways people deal with compassion and anger, how they treat other people, and how they stick up for themselves.

“Some people trust only anger. They fill themselves with it and reject compassion. The only thing that matters to them is what the fire of their anger drives them to do. Life is all about them. They don’t care about others. They become users, abusers, and murderers. That’s your dad.

“Others are enablers. They have what they think is compassion, and they totally block off anger. In the name of caring, they let others walk all over them. Other people matter to them, but they don’t matter to themselves. They never stand up for themselves. They become doormats.

“Some people don’t trust anything. They reject both anger and compassion. Other people don’t matter and they don’t matter. There’s no fire in them, no life, nothing. They become shriveled husks.

“But the fourth way: people trust God. They put themselves in His hands and risk both love and anger. They care about others and stand up for themselves. When they get angry, their compassion keeps their anger from being destructive. This is maturity. It’s also a gift from God. We don’t come to this on our own. The Almighty opens the door and helps us.

“Grant, you’ve been given that gift. Before you ever asked for it. You’re not as mature as you want to be, but none of us are. It’s good that you’re getting angry. It’s even better that you’re expressing it. But you’re no murderer. You’re too grounded in compassion. You risked your life for Ginger and Mouser. You’re worried about Carmen’s niece.”

Hearing his words, I feel shaky, like the floor is wavering. My vision narrows, and for a moment, I’m afraid I’ll black. I replay his words in my head. I don’t know how to take them in. I have never seen myself like this. Then something jolts inside me, like a door opening and a dark closet filling with light. I lashed out at the dogs, but I care about them. I care about Carmen’s niece. My father didn’t care. Not about his life, my mother’s, or mine.

For a moment, I feel sky overhead. I can almost see vast heavens, thick with masses of cumulus clouds. I feel wind in my face and smell the scent of clover. I look down and my hand is full of seeds, little fellers full of life. I feel warm and safe. That vast, warm presence of the Son of God is with me, watching me. Then, it’s gone. But something in me is changed; something is different. I’m not my father.

 

****

 

May 20, 2052 (Launch plus 121 days), 02:29 GMT.

My father was high and drunk. He grabbed me by the arm, shoved me up in a tree. He screamed in my face, “You useless brat. You ruined my life. Everything was OK until we had you, you worthless moron. I’m never coming back. I’ll never take you down. The only way you’ll get out of this tree is to fall and break your neck…”

Suddenly in the dream, I was a grown man. I climbed down from the tree. I swung my fist, nailed my father in the face and broke his nose. “You’re the useless moron,” I shouted. With every word, my father got smaller and smaller. “What kind of a father are you, always drunk, always high?” He kept shrinking. The words made me stronger and bigger. “You don’t protect me. You don’t provide for me. You don’t teach me. Fathers are supposed to take care of their kids.”

He looked at me like I’m a brick. Not a word that I’ve said has registered. I clenched my fists and screamed in his face, “Don’t you understand how much you hurt me?”

He shrank again, but nothing registered on his face. It was as if I wasn’t there.

If I kept on shouting, he would shrink to the size of an ant and I could step on him. “I’m never going to have anything to do with you again. I’m not going to think of you. I’m not going to dream of you. I’m not going to live on the same planet as you. You’re nothing to me.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want to step on him. It wasn’t worth the energy.

He was tiny, a .0000001. He screwed up his mouth like he was going to spit on me. “You do,” I shouted, “and I’ll squash you like a bug.”

He swallowed and looked away.

I turned and climbed the tree. I climbed so high I couldn’t see that bug. I climbed so high I would never need to climb down again.

 

****

 

18:00 GMT.

Before they put Jepler and Dr. H on, I hear the president’s voice. “Dr. Chapman, you risked your life because there were dogs in the air lock?”

Suddenly, I’m weary. I’d rather scream at Jepler than deal with the president.

“What in the world were you thinking?”

I really don’t need this. Suddenly, my anger flares and the dam breaks inside me.

“Mr. President, Ginger and Mouser are Dr. Dremenev’s poodles. He was one of the Seven who kept me alive, resupplying my feeding tubes, monitoring drug levels, giving me physical therapy. Do you understand that? They kept me alive. Even when they knew they were going to die. I promised the Seven I would care for the Gal. I promised Dremenev I would take care of his dogs. And I will.”

“Well, that’s noble, to be sure.”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s not about being noble. It’s the debt we owe those whose courage and sacrifice kept us alive.”

“Yes, of course.”

I can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn’t get it. I hear a click and realize the president has signed off.

Then I hear Jepler’s voice. “Grant, please go to the Beta Ring and read my letter before we talk.”

“Jepler,” I shout, “I’m not your blasted puppet.” If expressing anger is good, I’m one of the healthiest men in the universe.

“There are things you need to know.” Billy’s voice is calm.

“I’m not falling for that. Tell me about the bassoon.”

I hear the rapid clicking of his pen. “The president’s shutting down NASA. The mission isn’t good news right now. I talked to a dozen potential buyers, but no one wants to pay the full twenty-five million.

“Here’s what I’m working on: selling food that you bring back: rice, sweet potatoes, peanuts, even herbs, cocoa, and coffee, stuff you could save during the return voyage. I could get millions for a new variety of apple developed in space. I have five lawyers preparing legal briefs giving you the right to sell food you’ve grown on the Galileo. It may not work, but I’m not giving up.”

I don’t say anything.

“I suppose,” he continues, “you want to see me eaten alive by gators.”

“Too good for you.”

“Torn apart by rabid wolves?”

“Over too soon.”

“You’re pretty steamed at me.”

“Do ya think? Everything’s a bargaining chip to you. Apples, puppies, people, it makes no difference. I thought I was your friend, but I’m a chip you traded for the mission.”

“You were never a chip!” Billy fires back. “I had two other options. I chose you because you were the overwhelming best choice. If you’d get off your high horse and read the letter I wrote you, maybe you’d understand.”

I hear rapid ballpoint pen clicking. “Frankly, Grant, both other options would have been easier, if all I cared about was barely meeting NASA’s minimum standards.” Billy sounds calmer now. “But they weren’t best. You were the best. Not just because you’re the best at smoothing code. Not just because you got the two-hundred-pound packages for the others. But because…well…Dr. H, how can I get him to read the letter?”

“I’m not reading your manipulative letter.”

“Grant, how are you doing?” Dr. H asks.

“I’ll make it.” One of those thoughts comes to me, that I’m not done changing. I have the unsettling warmth of God in me and it’s making a difference. I’m not sure what to make of that.

“Does it matter that Billy chose you over others?”

“Yeah, now I’m the person he’d most like to betray.”

“But look how well you’re doing,” Billy shouts.

“That’s not the point, you backstabbing beetle carcass. Friends don’t do that. You stuck me up here, just like my father…”

“But, I wasn’t mad at you. I wasn’t punishing you. You believed in the mission and I believed in you.”

I can’t get through to him; he’s dumber than hamster lint. “Jepler, you didn’t ask me, didn’t give me a choice. You abandoned me up here. You did this to me. Now, if I come back home, I’m a coward; I betray my friends. Carmen’s niece doesn’t get the bassoon money, and she dies. How can I do that?”

“You can come back home. If you can’t bring me a poodle born in space, I’ll figure out something. Just come back. I promise you Ángela won’t die.”

I erupt. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to come back home. I want to finish the mission. Now I’m just like my father, stranding myself up a tree. I’ll never get home. You did this to me.”

“Grant if only you’d go to the Beta—”

“Hold on, Billy,” Dr. H interrupts. “You’ve just given Grant the most helpful thing anyone’s ever given him. Quit now while you’re ahead.”

I hear Billy’s ballpoint rapid firing. He says, “I don’t feel like I’m ahead.”

I snarl at him. “He means, quit now while you’ve got a head. I’d like to tear it off you and shove it in the wastewater lagoon.”

Dr H laughs. “You’re doing well with this anger stuff, Grant.”

“Jepler brings out the worst in me. He’s turning me into my father.”

“Really?”

“I’m going to abandon myself up here…”

“Then come home.”

“I can’t. Even the poodles know that.”

“Why can’t you come home?”

“Because the crew stood by me. Because the mission’s worth it. Because the president wants to shut down NASA. I paused for a deep breath. “Dr. H, I don’t know what to do.”

“So, you can’t come home because you’d be abandoning the mission, but if you stay in space you’re abandoning yourself like your father did.”

“When you say it, it sounds crazy.”

“Grant, we all have crazy things in us.”

“Dr. H, I’m like him and I’m not like him.”

“How?” I imagine Dr. H squinting his eye and bobbing his head forward.

“I was furious with Mouser and Ginger. I lost it; I was out of control. My father was just like that. But I was upset about being angry. I felt horrible.”

“How do you know he didn’t?”

“He didn’t see how he’d hurt me. He didn’t notice me. He never apologized, never changed.”

“He didn’t let it show, Grant. But somewhere, he knew he was hurting you. And, knowing that, he kept on hurting you.”

I feel another jolt. It’s as if I’m somewhere else. There’s a Presence beside me, the vast God of the stars Who wears the painful crown. His warmth trembles in me, and I see what I’ve never seen before. “I’m not like my father. I’m not vicious and cruel.”

“No, you’re not.”

Beside me, the bleeding King nods in agreement. And I know it’s true. “I’m really not like him.”

“Go on.”

“My dad was an addict. He was always drunk, high, and angry. He took things out on me. I’m furious at Billy, but I wouldn’t do to him what my father did to me. I’m not like my father.”

“But you’re thinking about continuing the mission.” Dr. H’s voice is calm and assured. “You might abandon yourself in space.”

The One with the thorn-covered crown looks at me. In His eyes, I see love that can never be shaken, that can come only from God. A great feeling of peace washes over me. And I know that whether I return to Earth or continue the mission, He will be with me and see me through.

I pause. There are tears in my eyes. I’m feeling a great relief, as if tight bands have been cut away from my chest and I can breathe fully for the first time. “Why did Jepler do this? Why did he put me on this ship?”

“Grant.” Dr. H’s voice is still calm. “If I could push the undo button and bring you back before this happened, would you want that?”

“That’s not fair.”

Mouser barks. I look down. He and Ginger are studying me. I know what they’re asking. “It’s not that…it’s not fair. Blast it, Dr. H. No, I wouldn’t want that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

My throat is tight, and I force myself to speak. “Because I met Him here.” The words come out like croaks. I don’t even know what they are until I hear them. “Because I fixed the plasma thrusters. Because I’m an adventurer. I walked in space with the stars.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then Jepler’s voice comes across the speakers. “Well, I disagree with Dr. H. You are like your father. You’re mad at me and you’re pushing me up a tree. You won’t go to the Beta Ring or read my letter. I’m trying to get you crucial information, things I can’t say in public, and you won’t listen. How different is that from shoving me up a tree?”

I’m stunned. Billy’s right.

“But here’s the difference between you and your dad. You’re not doing it because of drugs and addiction. You care about people, and even though you’re furious at me, someday, you’ll read my letter. It may be too late, but someday you’ll read it. That’s why I call you my friend.”

I hear Billy take a deep breath. “Grant, I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“Forget it, you beetle pus.”

“I mean it, Grant. I should have found another way.”

“There wasn’t any other way. If you’d given me any kind of choice, I would have said no. If you hadn’t shanghaied me, I’d have fought you fang and claw.”

“When you weren’t taking deep breaths and counting your pulse.” I hear Billy’s pen clicking. “Seriously Grant, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

It sinks in: Billy is telling the truth. Something dark and angry slips away from my soul. I feel lighter, more alive. Ginger jumps up and snuggles in my lap.

Billy starts to speak, but I cut him off. “Wait. Don’t say anything.”

In my mind, I’m seeing my father.

I’m up in the tree. He’s below me, his face contorted with anger. He’s furious, screaming, “I’m leaving you in that tree, you rotten brat. I’ll never come back for you. You’ll never get down!”

I climb up out of his reach. And I tell him, “I’ll stay up here. I don’t need you anymore.”

He keeps on screaming, but his words don’t reach me. They have null capacity.

Suddenly, the thought comes to me that my dad had a father. And I see my dad in a new way, burdened by a myriad of black 899s, heavy chains weighing him down.

“I could beat you like my dad beat me,” he shouts, “leave you with bruises all over your face and blood running down your back. I could break your arm year after year, like he broke mine.” He rolls up his sleeves. His tattoos fade away and the needle marks disappear, leaving his arm covered with long, slicing scars. “You see what that animal did to me?”

It stuns me. I want to turn away. He’s damaged goods, my father. I never knew.

I feel Him with me, the One who’s a man and more than a man. His warmth surrounds me. He’s not angry. He’s concerned for me, and His care is like a calm, steady sea. “My dad doesn’t take care of me,” I tell Him. “I have to do it. It’s all up to me.”

“Grant, you don’t have to carry this. Give Me that burden. I’ll give you rest.”

In His presence, I see things differently. My dad was wrong. But I was, too. I thought I had to handle it by myself. I could have told a teacher at school. I could have told my best friend’s mom, or that policeman who helped us get on the bus after school every day. I didn’t have to believe my dad; I didn’t have to think that I was so bad and my problem was so impossible that no one in the world could understand or help.

No wonder I blacked out. I was just a little kid. It was too heavy for me.

Suddenly, I’m five years old, stranded up in a tree in the dark.

My father’s cursing. “You ruined our lives, you worthless brat.” He stoops down, gathers a few rocks, and then stands and throws them with all his might, breaking the streetlight. I’m swallowed by darkness. I can’t see the ground, my dad, even the tree. I cling to the trunk, my ears alert for a sound. Screams of fear rise in my throat, but I force them down. If I scream, my father will leave me up here longer. I’m trapped in blackness. I can’t tell if my father is there or has slipped away.

A burst of wind shoves the tree and the screams rise in me again. I clamp my mouth shut so I don’t make a sound. The tree sways. I hold to the trunk, terrified.

Then I feel a Presence with me. It’s not my father. A shaft of warmth touches me and the screams fade from my throat. A ripple of warmth passes through me, faint shreds of warmth clinging to me, settling within. In the darkness, I see Him, the One who’s a man and more than man. He walks up to the tree. I see the concern in His eyes and know that He’s not going to yell at me. He presses a gentle hand against my back, holding me steady so I won’t fall. His other hand rests on my shoulder. The warmth of His hands soaks into me until I’m glowing with warmth.

I start to cry. “Why did my dad do this? Why did he treat me like this? He hurt me. He abandoned me.”

And this One who’s steady and patient answers. “He can’t love you.” He lifts me out of the tree and sets me on the ground. I look up at his face. His eyes are full of tenderness and warmth. “You are a precious, wonderful miracle. You are mine.”

I nod.

He smiles. “Now, about that badgering, bargaining Billy Jepler. You don’t have to fight him.”

I’m not five anymore. I stand at eye level with the One who lifted me out. And I see Billy differently. He’s dishonest in his deals. He gets caught up in what he calls negotiation mania. He cons, barters, and trades, but he was never against me. I was the one who betrayed our friendship. I doubted and accused him.

I feel ashamed and miserable. I don’t like seeing ugly things in me. The One who’s with me is going to hate me for this.

He says, “Grant, nothing in My heart will ever change toward you.” His voice is not like my dad’s. There’s no anger, no frustration. All I hear in His voice is love.

“Jesus,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

Then I realize part of me is willing to forgive my father.

After all he did to you? an inner voice cries out. I’m tired of that voice. I’m tired of carrying the hurt.

I step around the One who’s claimed me. My father paces at the curb, muttering under his breath. I walk over and stand face to face with him. The pain of all that he’s done to me sends searing bolts of heat flashing through my chest.

He opens his mouth to scream at me.

“Shut up.” My voice surprises me. It’s firm and steady, not angry or out of control.

Then, another searing-hot bolt of anger flashes through me. I want to grab my father by the neck and choke the life out of him.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. I’m not going to strangle him. I don’t want that.

I feel Jesus standing beside me. His warmth eases me. My vision clears and I see my father. He’s a trembling number 1. His lines aren’t solid. They’re wavering, splintered, and bruised. He’s filled with gray 7s and twisted black 66s and blazing scars of 592s. I see his anger and cruelty weren’t ever about me.

I don’t want his viciousness and hatred in me.

“Dad,” I draw strength from the warmth and let the words come to my lips, “You’re an addict and a kid-beater. And…and…”

Beside me, Jesus holds out His hands. I see the ragged, blood-streaked wounds. I know He’s asking me again. Will I give Him the twisted, scarred numbers in me? Will I release my nightmares to Him?

Aunt Clara and Uncle Ralph said the Son of God went willingly to the cross, taking our place, being nailed to a tree. And it hits me that His Father put Him up a tree. He knows every time my father hurt me. He knows my anguish being left up there alone. He knows, and He’s come to take my place. If I give my broken painful mess to Him, He’ll smooth and straighten the code in me. He’ll bear my father’s hatred and give me His warmth.

I take a deep breath. The thought comes to me that I can trust Him, that He’s the only one I can trust. Like seeing a pure strand of code, I know this is true. So I put the hurt and betrayal and rage I have from my father into His bleeding hands. And He takes them and they’re gone.

I look at my father, at the weight of the jagged gray 7s and black 66s, at the pain of his scars, and I find the words: “I forgive you.”

He doesn’t get it. Not a word of it reaches him. He stands there furious and trembling, his face grotesque with rage. But I feel different. I’m weightless, soaring. I can fly forever.

I climb up the tree into the Galileo, leaving him below me. He finds his voice and screams at the empty tree.

Mouser scampers over and licks my hand. Ginger wriggles comfortably in my lap. And I feel different inside, cleaner.

I take a deep breath. “Dr. H, my father’s been dead a long time, but I’ve been carrying him around. Not anymore.”

“Forgave him, did you?”

“He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“He hurt you badly.”

“Yes, he did. But I don’t want my life to be about the hurt.”

“Good.”

“It feels good. Something dirty and foul is gone; I don’t have to be sick anymore.”

“I’m glad for you, Grant.” Dr H. pauses a moment and I find myself wondering if he’s choked up. “Billy still needs to talk to you.”

“OK.” The thought comes to me that I have something to say to him.

“Billy, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, Grant. It was nothing.”

“No, it wasn’t nothing. I shouldn’t have doubted you, been furious with you. You wanted what was best for me. I’d never want to undo it. Thank you for being a good friend.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. I wonder if something went wrong with the transmission. Then Billy sighs. “Thanks, Grant. You mean a lot to me.” He rushes on, as if he needs to get all the words out before they burn him, “We bought you land outside Houston. Before you left, Marsha helped me pick it out. She said after two dates she knew you’re the one for her.”

“What?”

“It’s good land, Grant, near the southeast corner of Lake Houston, on a hill that catches the breeze. It has a view of the lake. The land’s fertile, not too hilly. We just planted an acre of peach trees. Next year, cherries. Then Jonathans. Then Melrose. Every year, an acre. When the trees bear, the fruit goes to the Houston Food Bank.”

“What kind of wire fraud did you commit for this?”

“No cons in this one. It’s all from donations here at NASA. From the bigs to the custodians. They all wanted to say thanks, to give you something to come home to. I figured when we’re on Earth, we need dreams to take us to space. And now that you’re in space, you need dreams to bring you home.”

He pauses, and, as sure as weeds grow, I know what’s coming. “Grant, you need to read my letter. The situation’s not what you think.”

It’s all I can do to say goodbye and break the transmission. Ihor said the poodles mirror your emotions, but now Ginger and Mouser look up at me with questions in their round eyes.

“You don’t get it, do you? Neither does Billy. It doesn’t matter that trees are growing near Houston, or that Marsha says I’m the one for her. I never told her what she meant to me, that she brought out things in me that I didn’t know were there. And what if I had told her? People don’t wait twenty-five years for someone.”

Mouser lifts his head and howls.

That’s how I feel.