The Infinite Tides (43 page)

Peter related the interview with Tom Chen in painstaking detail, even going back over the individual sentences and filling in nuance and implication, so much so that a half hour of interview time was rendered into an hour-long description and despite the repetition and convolution of the story Keith found that he continued to be interested. The sound of Peter’s voice made him feel calm and normal and the children in the backseat with their handheld games and occasional explosions of boredom and fatigue were welcome diversions
from the long inward turn that had been most of Keith’s time since returning from space, since Quinn’s death, since returning to gravity. Five minutes into the drive the children had begun to ask when they would arrive but now were settled and quiet in the backseat and Luda would periodically bring out little toys from a bag at her feet to settle them during those moments when they became bored with whatever they had been doing.

“You’re a good mother,” Keith said at one point, half turning to look at her.

Luda smiled at him. “I am sorry if they are too loud,” she said.

“They’re not too loud.”

She blushed and smiled, averting her eyes in embarrassment.

“You are right,” Peter said. “She is very good mother. Best mother.” He looked at his wife in the rearview mirror.

Keith told them about the termites and the construction that would need to happen and that he did not know where he was going next or what he was going to do. As if in response, his phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. Jim Mullins again. He might have been interested in chatting with Eriksson about the rumored comet but he was not interested in being lectured to. He let the call ring through to voice mail and then returned the phone to his pocket.

“Tell us story about your being famous astronaut,” Peter said when the conversation slowed.

“I don’t know,” Keith said hesitantly.

“This is what you say but good time for story.”

“Didn’t you get your fill of that yet?”

“Not so much,” Peter said.

“Maybe he does not want to talk now,” Luda said.

“No, it’s not that,” he said. He paused a moment and then said, “What kind of story exactly?” All around them, the gray wastes of neighborhoods and cul-de-sacs and stores and parking lots continued along the interstate.

“Something that everyone will enjoy,” Peter said.

The kids stopped what they were doing and fell instantly silent. “Yes,” the little boy, Marko, said, his voice high and heavily accented. “Yes, please.”

“Hmm,” Keith said. He thought for a long moment and although he knew they were asking him for something about space, the images that came to his mind were of Quinn’s funeral. “Let me think about it for a bit,” he said.

“OK, you think,” Peter said.

After a time the children took up their game in the backseat again and this time Peter joined in and they picked out colors in the landscape and the others guessed which color he was thinking of and Keith was silent in the front seat as Peter drove.

The freeway had been hemmed by walls as if some ever-flowing concrete aqueduct but those walls fell away now, revealing endlessly sprawling neighborhoods and strip malls linked together by familiarly named giant storefronts in faux-Tuscan architecture with arches and olive branch motifs. Then gone again.

He could not imagine an ocean being at the nether end of this epic suburbia but the fact of it was apparently true: there was an edge to the continent where the landmass lapped up against the sea and the shallows broke into the deeper blue of the ocean and while he had known in some dim part of himself that the ocean was a drivable distance from the empty house, it had never occurred to him to actually go there, as if there was some shift in physical dimension or desire that needed to be satisfied in order for the act to be undertaken at all, not in terms of motion but in terms of the idea itself.

He had only been to the beach a half dozen times, all of these when he was doing his graduate work at Stanford and they would drive out Sand Hill Road and through Woodside to the cold Northern California ocean at Half Moon Bay and he and Barb would watch Quinn run back and forth across the surf and he would try to keep his daughter as dry as possible given the near-constant chill rolling in off the Pacific, an impossible goal set along that endless strip of gray sand.
Those were the short days when they were still clearly a family, the three of them, parents with a child, a toddler quickly growing out of those years and unsteadily careening up and down the surfline on sturdy bowlegs. If anything had ever been said between them, husband and wife, he could not recall, the memories mute and blissful and empty. All such memories now seemed spliced into the images of the funeral: the ocean lapping against the heels of the mourners, the tide spilling into the grave.

Now in the front seat of Peter’s car with his wife and children in the backseat and Peter asking him to tell a story: What story was there to tell? Everything in his life had telescoped into guilt and bereavement and a kind of emptiness that he still did not entirely understand. What was there to understand in the end?

Everything you have ever known will one day rise like smoke. The dreams and desires you have had or will have. Even now. This was no different. Nor could it be.

“We want a story,” Marko said from the backseat.

Keith could hear Luda’s voice quieting her son and a moment later the entire car fell silent. He thought he should tell them about how his marriage had failed without his notice, about how the decisions he had made had been the wrong ones, about how his daughter had been killed while he was floating in an oxygen-filled chamber two hundred and seventeen miles above the surface of Earth. He thought he should tell them that the moment he had worked so hard to achieve had only taught him what he could not understand, that the universe was beyond anything he could ever articulate, and that the one person who might have understood that idea was already gone. He thought he should tell them that he had failed her, that he had failed himself, that he had failed his team and NASA and so had failed everyone and there was to be no answer, instead only the thin burning whine and agony of his migraines and the long and unanswerable questions that would extend on before him forever and would never find an end.

The children in the backseat silent and expectant and he could feel their eyes against the back of his head, waiting for him to begin even as his phone began to vibrate once more. He knew there was a story he could tell them—the same story he had told Nicole—but he knew it was not really the truth, at least not as he had experienced it.

The mission had been wrapped into everything to come after but this was only because that was how he had placed it in his memory. The trajectory was simple indeed. But it had not been that way when he was actually there in orbit, when he had had no thoughts of family or of the things of the earth. When even the numbers had fallen silent. And when he simply was—an existence, a being, a man—and there had been nothing else, the situation of gravity falling away as a kind of abstraction. And then he knew he had felt that same way when he had come through the airlock into the space station for the very first time, a feeling of panic that flooded through him and then was gone so quickly that he had forgotten it had even come, forgotten it until this moment. And it had not been fear. Instead it had been the realization that he was finally entering the destiny he had always imagined for himself and yet he already knew that none of it could be described in the language he had spent his life studying. He could have calculated everything there, every physical object he encountered, but what would that tell him? How would that explain the sensation of simply being weightless, with Earth spinning below him as he crested forever into that endless fractal universe? There was no equation. There was simply no equation for such a moment even though all his life he had worked with the numbers in an environment just like this one: in a kind of weightlessness that was his own mind. He might have been able to tell the truth of this to Quinn but he did not know if she would have listened and who else could have understood it? Who else had ever understood him at all? My god. There was no equation for any of it. Not for the universe, not for his loss, not for the decisions he had made or for the feeling of her hand curling into his own.

And when he closed his eyes he could see her in the darkness, her face suspended amongst those tiny diamond stars he held ever within his heart, even with the freeway sounds all around him, could feel her next to him in the car somehow and she was waiting for him to speak. He opened his eyes. Before him the signs of the megastores moved past the windows in the flat white heat of the midsummer sun. “OK,” he said. He cleared his throat. She waited. He could feel her waiting for him. “It seems like a long time ago,” he said to her at last, “but once upon a time I went to space.”

What more is there to tell?

It took them four trips from the car to the beach to unload the various toys, coolers, food, drinks, towels, umbrellas, and chairs. When they were done Keith sat in a beach chair and pulled off his shoes and socks and emptied them of sand and then stuffed the socks into the shoes and set them next to the chair. The two children were already down at the edge of the surf screeching with excitement and Luda called their names repeatedly as Keith and Peter straightened the beach blanket between the chairs and shade umbrellas. Keith’s phone was vibrating again but he did not answer it and did not look to see who was calling him or why and when it stopped he turned it off entirely.

The amount of gear they had amassed seemed enough for an extended family of ten or twelve, an overspilling collection of reds and blues and yellows and greens smearing over plastic and metal and cloth.

“Hungry or later?” Peter said to him.

“Later, I think,” Keith said.

Peter handed him some black-and-white swim trunks and Keith took them. “I don’t know that I’ll go in,” he said.

“In case you want to, now you can.”

“OK.”

Peter wrapped a towel around his waist and exchanged his pants for a similar pair of swimming trunks and then returned the towel to its position across his shoulders. “I am going in,” he said.

Luda had appeared with the children. “Wait for sunscreen,” she said. She hunted through a giant yellow bag and then retrieved a white bottle and squirted the thick viscous fluid into her palm and began the process of applying it to the exposed skin of the children.

The beach was long and crescent shaped and on either side of them the land pressed out into twin and distant points peppered with luxury hotels and the blocky shapes of giant stores. But the beach itself was situated in the center of the crescent and the murmur of the ocean’s quiet rolling all but obliterated any other sound so that the location held the illusion of being isolated. Even the parking lot where they had left the car was separated from the beach itself by a strip of dunes where tufts of grass waved in the breeze. A few small families on either side of them, each with its own separate mountain of multicolored beach gear. In the distance, a single man threw a Frisbee to a black dog. The sand clean and tan and hot in the noonday sun.

“How’d you find this place?” Keith said.

“You look around for a place and this will find you,” Peter said. Then: “Also, it is in Triple-A guidebook.”

Keith smiled but said nothing in response. He was still seated in the beach chair, his feet bare now and pressed to the warmth of the sand. He leaned forward and rolled his pant legs up past his calves.

The children were festooned with a variety of inflatable safety devices, all bright orange, and then Luda moved to Peter and rubbed the sunscreen over his body, his heavy torso and the curve of his belly and then his legs and then returning to his face, rubbing his cheeks
and forehead and ears and leaving enough on his nose that it had become a triangular white monument. The children jumped up and down impatiently at his side.

“I will take Marko and Nadia,” Peter said. “You come when you want to.”

“OK,” Keith said.

He watched as Peter said something to the children in Ukrainian and the sound of their glee was an impossibly high-pitched scream and then the three of them turned and jogged down to the surf, Peter dodging as they chased him then letting them catch up and once again spinning away.

“You will burn,” Luda said.

He looked over at her. She stood with the sunlight directly overhead as if illuminated by some great and magnificent spotlight. He reached his hand out toward her and expected her to hand him the sunscreen but she took his hand in her own and held his arm out toward her for a moment and then turned the sunscreen bottle over and dabbed it across his forearm.

“It is good thing you do for Peter,” she said to him. She set the bottle on his chair and continued to hold his hand and rubbed the sunscreen into the exposed part of his arm.

“I’m glad I could help,” he said.

She did not answer him, releasing his hand and retrieving the sunscreen bottle and moving to the other side of his chair. She reached for his hand and once again daubed the white fluid on his arm and rubbed it into his skin.

“He is selfish man,” she said. Her hands strong and smooth and warm. She was looking only at her work and he said nothing to distract her. “It is true,” she continued. “I know this about him even from start. Lean forward.” She dropped his arm and he leaned forward in his chair and a moment later her hands were at the back of his neck, rubbing between his hair and the collar of his shirt, around his neck, across his chest. “But I love him anyway.”

“I know you do.”

“He thinks sometimes he is only one to make sacrifice but I leave everything too. He forgets there are others. This thing we do is for children, I think, so they grow up here and not in Ukraine where it is too much difficult to make life.”

She passed the lotion bottle to him over his shoulder and he reached up and took it from her.

“You should do face and legs too,” she said. “This I cannot do.”