Lily got home late, long after dark. She’d stayed to watch the launch and then stayed with the other parents and friends to stare up at nothing for a while and listen to the echo of the coordinates being read off by someone on the ground crew. By now, she knew the ascent would be over and the shuttle would be in temporary orbit—she’d read about it in some literature the families had received.
The house was quiet. But also full. She guessed that was why people had housewarmings. Adri had warmed her house.
She put off opening the letter until after she’d put on her pajamas and climbed into bed. She tried to read a chapter of her latest romance novel, Hearts on Fire, to put it off. She wanted to savor this time when Adri still had something to say to her. But she couldn’t concentrate, and finally she put down the book and picked up the envelope, tearing it open slowly.
Lily,
I’m writing this as fast as I can. I’m not much on writing, and I always wondered why some people are so drawn to it. But now as I sit here trying to think of what to say, I think I understand. No one wants to disappear. Words made things real, and they last so much longer than we do.
So, for the record, here are the things that I want to be real. And I hope that words are enough to make them that way: One: Lenore Allstock dies in childbirth but wakes up in heaven, surrounded by angels.
Two: Ellis Parrish tries to bury his memories of Catherine Godspeed in his bunkhouse floor, but time proves love can’t be buried. He sails to England. He follows her.
Three: You are happy and safe, always.
Four: Everyone in the world is happy and safe, always.
Five: We get to Mars safely. We make something new, and we do it right. We pay attention.
I love you, Lily. I wanted to tell you most of all that I think it’s our love that gets passed along.
Onward and forward.
Love, Adri
P.S. You told me to take all the letters with me. But I want you to have this one. It’s just a postscript from Lenore. But it’s my favorite.
JUNE 24, 1920
Dear Beth,
We’re almost to New York, and I’ll have to give you this letter in person. But I wanted to write it anyway.
I’ve been looking in the mirror a lot recently. I can’t really picture what my face looks like to other people anymore. Every time I look I see someone different: sometimes young, sometimes old, sometimes wise, sometimes not. What will you see when you see me again?
So close to arrival, and I keep asking myself, since I have so much time to think, where did we lose each other? Was it when you left for America, in those weeks after the first zeppelin came? Or was it when I didn’t get on that ship? Or does it go farther back? Was it when you took me looking for the Cup and told me where it was even though it wasn’t true? Was it when you told me I couldn’t run as fast as you, so I shouldn’t even try?
I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter, because it’s not true. I haven’t lost you, and you haven’t lost me. I don’t care if there are cracks in us, we are still us. We don’t have to be perfect to be right.
The baby is on my mind all the time, even when I sleep. I am sure she is a girl, for no reason I can explain, and it suddenly seems to me that even the idea of babies is exquisitely, blindingly beautiful. How they arrive knowing nothing at all—what year they live in or where they live or that money exists or what Earth even is. My baby doesn’t know yet that she’s even on a planet at all; she doesn’t know about the sun or that hordes of people can be terrible to each other. I think it’s this innocence that is suddenly so shattering to me. I realize how the world doesn’t seem to deserve this innocence. But we’ll try to earn it, won’t we, Beth?
I think now how strange it is that time moves at all. How logical it would be for nothing to ever change. Do you even remember me like I remember you? Am I keeping a dream alive that’s only a childish memory? Do we know each other anymore, my friend? It doesn’t matter. We are connected, you and me. The baby makes me realize that. The separations aren’t real.
When James and I were together that last night, and he had his new torch, he said that for once, instead of looking at the stars, the spotlight would be on us. He turned it on and it flickered into bright-white light—putting a glow on our faces and casting a glow around our humble and beloved little room. It lit up his face and mine.
I was so nervous when I put my hand on his cheek and felt the scars and said, “You’re a beautiful sight,” and put my lips to his.
It’s shocking, isn’t it, that a kiss could have led to something so big and violent and full of light as a human being? It makes me dizzy just to think of all the things that start that way. Whole families, whole countries, whole worlds. Isn’t it strange how a whole life can begin with a little spark?
I’ll send you a postcard when I arrive in New York.
Love, Lenore