"Debbie's not doing well," said Jack.
"What happened?"
"She had an epidural bleed. Came in conscious and talking. In a matter of minutes, she went straight downhill. I was busy with another patient. I didn't realize it in time. Didn't drill the until ... " He paused and looked away. "She's on a ventilator.
Emma reached out to touch him, then stopped herself, knowing that he would only shake her off. It had been so long since he'd accepted any words of comfort from her. No matter what she said, how sincerely she meant it, he would regard it as pity. And that he despised.
"It's a hard diagnosis to make, Jack," was all she could say.
"I should have made it sooner."
"You said she went downhill fast. Don't second-guess yourself."
"That doesn't make me feel a hell of a lot better."
"I'm not trying to make you feel better!" she said in exasperation. "I'm just pointing out the simple fact that you did make the right diagnosis. And you acted on it. For once, can't you cut yourself some slack?"
"Look, this isn't about me, okay?" he shot back. "It's about you."
"What do you mean?"
"Debbie won't be leaving the hospital anytime soon. And that means Bill ... "
"I know. Gordon Obie gave me the heads-up."
Jack paused. "It's been decided?"
She nodded. "Bill's coming home. I'll replace him on the next flight." Her gaze drifted toward the ICU. "They have two kids," she said softly. "He can't stay up there. Not for another three months."
"You're not ready. You haven't had time -- "
"I'll be ready." She turned.
"Emma." He reached out to stop her, and the touch of his hand took her by surprise. She looked back at him. At once he released her.
"When are you leaving for Kennedy?" he asked.
"A week. Quarantine." He looked stunned. He said nothing, still trying to absorb the news.
"That reminds me," she said. "Could you take care of Humphrey while I'm gone?"
"Why not a kennel?"
"It's cruel to keep a cat penned up for three months."
"Has the little monster been declawed yet?"
"Come on, Jack. He only shreds things when he's feeling ignored. Pay attention to him, and he'll leave your furniture alone."
Jack glanced up as a page was announced over the address system, "Dr. McCallum to ER. Dr. McCallum to ER."
"I guess you have to go," she said, already turning away.
"Wait. This is happening so fast. We haven't had time to talk."
"If it's about the divorce, my lawyer can answer any questions while I'm gone."
"No." He startled her with his sharp note of anger. "No, I don't want to talk to your lawyer!"
"Then what do you need to tell me?" He stared at her for a moment, as though hunting for words.
"It's about this mission," he finally said. "It's too rushed. It doesn't feel right to me."
"What does that mean?"
"You're a last-minute replacement. You're going up with a different crew."
"Vance runs a tight ship. I'm perfectly comfortable with this launch."
"What about on the station? This could stretch your stay to six months in orbit."
"I can deal with it."
"But it wasn't planned. It's been thrown together at the last minute."
"What are you saying I should do, Jack? Wimp out?"
"I don't know!" He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
"I don't know." They stood in silence for a moment, neither one of them quite sure what to say, yet neither one ready to end the conversation.
Seven years of marriage, she thought, and this is what it's come to.
Two people who can't stay together, yet can't walk away from each other.
And now there's no time left to work things out between us.
A new page came over the address system, "Dr. McCallum stat to ER." Jack looked at her, his expression torn. "Emma -- "
"Go, Jack," she urged him. "They need you." He gave a groan of frustration and took off at a run for the ER. And she turned and walked the other way.
Aboard ISS From the observation windows of the Node 1 cupola, Dr. William Haning could see clouds swirling over the Atlantic Ocean two hundred twenty miles below. He touched the glass, his fingers skimming the barrier that protected him from the vacuum of space.
It was one more obstacle that separated him from home. From his wife. He watched the earth turn beneath him, saw the Atlantic Ocean slip away as North Africa and then the Indian Ocean slowly spun by, the darkness of night approaching. Though his body was weightless and floating, the burden of grief seemed to squeeze down on his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe.
At that moment, in a Houston hospital, his wife was fighting for her life, and he could do nothing to help her. For the next two weeks he would be trapped here, able to gaze down at the very city where Debbie might be dying, yet unable to reach her, touch her.
The best he could do was close his eyes and try to imagine he was at her side, that their fingers were entwined.
You have to hang on. You have to fight. I'm coming home to you.
"Bill? Are you okay?" He turned and saw Diana Estes float from the U.S. Lab module into the node. He was surprised she was the one inquiring as to well-being. Even after a month of living together in close quarters, he had not warmed up to the Englishwoman. She was too cool, too clinical. Despite her icy blond good looks, she was not a woman he'd ever feel attracted to, and she had certainly never favored with the least hint of interest. But then, her attention was focused on Michael Griggs. The fact that Griggs had a wife waiting for him down on earth seemed irrelevant to them both. Up here on ISS, Diana and Griggs were like the two halves of a double star, orbiting each other, linked by some powerful gravitational pull.
This was one of the unfortunate realities of being one of six human beings from four different countries trapped in close quarters. There were always shifting alliances and schisms, a sense of us versus them.
The stress of living so long in had affected each of them in different ways. Russian Nicholai Rudenko, who had been living aboard ISS the longest, had lately turned sullen and irritable. Kenichi Hirai, from Japan's NASDA, was so frustrated by his poor command of English, he often lapsed into uneasy silence. Only Luther Ames had remained everyone's friend. When Houston broke the bad news about Debbie, Luther was the one who had known instinctively what to say to Bill, the one who had spoken from his heart, from the human part of him.
Luther was the Alabama-born son of a well-loved black minister, and he had inherited his father's gift for bestowing comfort.
"There's no question about it, Bill," Luther had said. "You go home to your wife. You tell Houston they'd better send the limo to get you, or they'll have to deal with me." How different from the way Diana had reacted. Ever logical, she had calmly pointed out that there was nothing Bill could do to speed his wife's recovery. Debbie was comatose, she wouldn't even know he was there. As cold and brittle as the crystals she grows her lab, was what Bill thought of Diana.
That's why he was puzzled that she was now asking about him.
She hung back in the node, as remote as always. Her long blond hair waved about her face like drifting sea grass.
He turned to look out the window again. "I'm waiting for Houston to come into view," he said.
"You've got a new batch of E-mail from Payloads." He said nothing. He just stared down at the twinkling lights of Tokyo, now poised at the knife edge of dawn.
"Bill, there are items that require your attention. If you don't feel up to it, we'll have to split up your duties among the rest of us." Duties. So that's what she had come to discuss. Not the pain he was feeling, but whether she could count on him to perform his assigned tasks in the lab.