Home for Breakfast

Ten months ago, I rushed back from school to witness my father’s departure for Mars. The distant steel gantry supporting his rocket is shrouded in steam and illuminated by dazzling arc lights. It’s a perfect evening to watch the countdown outside in our front garden. My mother joins me on the swing chair and leans over to study my drawing.

“Hey,” she smiles, “you’ve really caught the launch pad’s atmosphere.”

“I wanted to sketch Dad’s last moments.”

“That little black book’s captured the whole story, Peter.”

“Not quite, Mum,” I turn to face her, “I’ve got more space for the next chapter.”

“That’s a relief…” Mum clears her throat. “You know, this is like waiting for the fireworks at Rockledge High’s summer party.”

“Slightly bigger crowd tonight, Mum.”

“Millions or a billion, probably.”

“All watching Dad’s lift-off and crossing their fingers.”

#

The day had started like any other in the family kitchen. My father had requested his favourite breakfast; pancakes with maple syrup, a pint of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and ground coffee. Dad was upbeat and joked about his voyage to Mars as if he was going fishing and discussing a delay before returning home.

Our pre-mission meal lasted longer than 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 chuckled.

“Of course, Dad, but-—”

“Come here,” he sighed, throwing his arms around our shoulders, and gathered us into a tight huddle. “That’s better.”

#

I was late for my first lesson. Miss Carpenter smiled at me when I tried to explain.

“Please, don’t worry, Peter,” she whispered, “I know how it is.”

She handed me a history textbook and gestured towards my seat.

“We’re all reading the chapter about Apollo Eleven.”

None of my classmates glanced up as I walked to my desk. The details about Neil Armstrong’s achievements had captivated even the most jaded pupil’s attention.

Our fathers all worked for the Space Agency, but mine was the only one going to Mars. My classmates hadn’t asked how I felt about the mission, and yet they’d all watch the TV tonight and write about it for their homework.

#

The ground below our garden chair rumbled as the rocket engaged its mighty engines. Momentary bursts of static pierced the air, accompanied by status updates echoing from the launch site’s P.A. system.

“Ready?… Ready?… Ready?”

“Check!… Check!… Check!”

I had questions about my father’s mission, and my mother answered as best she could. She avoided any talk about the return journey and assured me he’d be fine once he landed on Mars.

“But how long’s he going for?” I caught her eye.

“It’s so far 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 hugging me.

That’s when I realised she was softening the blow. Neither of my parents ever discussed the mission as a round trip. Coming back was problematic.

#

Plans to colonise Mars started three years ago. I remember the night Dad returned home and mentioned the Martian Colony competition at work. The Agency was considering design ideas for a settlement on Mars.

“Shall we discuss it and enter some suggestions?”

“When’s the deadline, Dad?”

“We’ve got two days.”

“That’ll keep you busy, boys.”

I was so excited; I lay in bed that night and dreamed of Martian deserts populated with ovoid shaped buildings. I envisaged constructions that looked like clutches of incubating eggs linked by a vast network of underground tunnels. I curled up under the quilt with my little black book and a flashlight, and filled page after page with sketches. I was bleary-eyed when I left for school next morning, however Dad loved the drawings.

#

I didn’t know any other eleven-year-olds who built models of spaceships in their bedrooms. The notion of space exploration for my peers had become pointless and boring. In their eyes, the moon landings were history, and nowadays astronauts did nothing of interest. I tried to explain the significance of space exploration to my friends, but they rolled their eyes and groaned.

“Yeah, yeah,” they’d say, “but all astronauts do is bounce about and collect rocks.”

There was nobody quite like my father; he was a proper astronaut who lived for his work. Dad’s knowledge was extensive and his enthusiasm was contagious. We’d spend time together designing our own vessels, and I enjoyed outlining the ideas in my sketchbook. At work, he’d process the drawings and send the construction data to our 3-D printer to generate plastic fuselage components, and I’d assemble all the pieces.

We used invisible fishing line to suspend the spaceship models from my bedroom ceiling, and every night I’d fall asleep watching them hover below the painted starscape.

#

The final countdown is nerve racking for so many people. The Agency needs the mission to be a success. All we can do is sit tight and pray for Dad’s safe return.

“Oh, look! The ten minute warning!”

Above the launch site, four scarlet flares explode into the night sky. They defy gravity and drift aloft for endless moments before tumbling down into the ocean.

“Two minutes…”

“One minute…”

“Thirty seconds…”

“Oh, God, take care, Jim…”

“He’ll be fine, Mum…”

She grips my arm.

“Fifteen, ten, five…”

“Watch!”

“Three, two, one,”

“Yes! Yes!”

We both stand and cry out in relief. A shock wave of raw power pulses through the ground. The sky brightens as the rocket climbs upwards to become another star in the heavens. My mother pulls me close.

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

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

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

“Dad’ll be back.” I squeeze her hand.

“Let’s get a hot chocolate, love.”

“He’s coming back, right?”

#

I had an accident the day they announced who’d won the $20,000 prize for the Martian Colony design. Mum received a call from the school nurse to say they’d taken me to hospital. I’d fallen out of the rotten oak on the playing field during the mid-day break. My father returned from work with the news of our triumph and discovered me with my leg up and my ankle in plaster.

“That better not happen to me on Mars,” he frowned.

“You’d never survive with only one leg, Dad.”

“Maybe you could take a spare?” Mum smiled.

Winning the money wasn’t the most important thing to me. I’d much rather be told my father was out of danger and reassured he’d come home in one piece.

#

I didn’t get to speak to my father on my twelfth birthday. A meteor storm affected his communication system as he approached Mars’ orbit. I couldn’t relax all day until his voice message arrived after midnight. He’d survived the bombardment and wished me many happy returns.

Mum had been short-tempered too, however during the night I heard their favourite piece of music floating through the house. I wandered upstairs to discover her gazing out of an open window at the stars overhead.

#

The next time we attempt a face-to-face conversation, Dad’s three hours away from his E.T.A.

“Hey, Peter, did you have a fun birthday…?”

“… Yeah, but I missed you, it wasn’t the same…”

“… Is your Mum around?” He adjusts his seat.

“… I’m so glad you’re there, Jim.” She can’t look at him.

“… Jeannie, are all right, love?”

“… It’s just the second leg I’m worried about…”

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

“We’ll reconnect as soon as we can, folks.” An anonymous voice interrupts our family conversation. “Please bear with us, we’re preparing for final descent…”

It’s disconcerting knowing every time we speak two hundred space flight technicians are monitoring our calls. We pretend that’s not happening, but it’s awkward to say ‘I love you’ with any conviction in front of a live audience. The Agency’s psychiatrist said it’s vital for Dad to have that affirmation. It’s important for my Mum too; she needs his support as much as he needs hers. From my point of view, I am relieved to hear Dad’s voice, although he doesn’t sound the same. He’s not his old self anymore.

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

“I guess they didn’t want us distracting him, right?”

I’m sure they cut our conversation short so my father could focus on the crucial final manoeuvre. We watch live video coverage of his spacecraft with no glitches; everything’s loud and clear. Dad’s outbound flight climaxes in a swirl of dust kicked-up from Mars’ rock-strewn surface. The world is waiting to see his first boot print in the red dirt.

One first step for my father was about to be the next gigantic leap for humanity. As it turned out, my Dad would experience the gigantic leap for humanity as well.

#

Three months after my father’s arrival on Mars, the media interest has plummeted and the latest virus deaths are headline news again. It’s as if the mission is over and done with. In my mind it’s nowhere near finished, however any day soon he’s due to commence his homeward journey.

My father’s established a base on Mars, and the Agency’s plans are in motion. A small army of robots is following commands from Mission Control. They’re tasked with gathering locally sourced polymer-based materials so that the giant 3-D printer can pursue its construction work. The building program is making solid progress and the Martian Colony is taking shape.

#

The day that my father’s scheduled to leave Mars, there’s frenzied activity at the launch site. It’s as if they’re preparing for an entire fleet of outbound spaceships. There’s been tension amongst the families we know in the space industry. The Mars Mission has been an expensive project that has stretched everyone’s patience. Justifying the money has been a full-time PR exercise, and currently half the employees’ jobs are on the line.

I can’t sleep that night because we’ve waited all day for any news updates about Dad’s progress. Looking back through my little black book helps to put the events into perspective. It’s become my way of coping and escaping the concerns that linger in our household.

My mother has been despondent all day, and we’ve argued about silly things that don’t matter. Respite from media interest is a relief for both of us, but our family needs time together.

#

I wake up in a cold sweat. I’ve had nightmares about my Dad. He was 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. My mother’s voice is lively and there’s a man’s deep chuckle. It’s my father’s laughter.

I appear at the kitchen doorway. He has a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Afternoon, Peter!” he says.

“We didn’t think you were getting up today.”

“Dad? How come you’re here, I thought---”

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

“Get away, you cheeky so and so---”

“They didn’t know the technology would work for certain---”

“You were an experiment?”

“The first two cloning attempts failed and-—”

“How is that even possible?”

“Let’s put it this way,” he shrugs. “I’ve plenty of duplicate body parts here on Earth and the real me is still on Mars.”

“Pancakes with maple syrup, Peter?”

“I’ll squeeze 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