The Martian Lie

Chapter 11

Chapter 11 – Pull Yourself Together – Callie & Richard

When we land I see my parents first. It's not that there is a large crowd of people and I recognize them because their features have been ingrained in my mind since birth, although it's true. It's because there is barely anyone there. Most of the passengers on the shuttles are from Earth. There is no family here to greet them. I wonder what will become of them.

It seems that my parents either forgave me, or the thought of losing me in a fiery blaze of comet impact made them forget what I did. Probably the latter. Either way, they are ecstatic. They run to me like they did the first time I came home on holiday from college. My dad swings me into his arms and holds me like the little girl I once was – the one who never lied to him and ran off. The one who placed him as the center of her world and never thought of space travel or love or knew of a place called Earth.

"I was so worried, Callie. You don't know how worried. I'm so glad you're home." He whispers into my hair. My mom comes up behind and hugs me from the other side. When I was a little girl they called me a Callie-Sandwich and did the same thing. Then, it was a goofy, gleeful thing. Now it has a feeling of desperation to it.

They thought they would never see me again.

"I missed you guys." I say. And I realize it's true.

I've learned so much on this trip. And yet it seems there is one last lesson yet to get. That no matter how much you want to get away from your parents and go your own way, there's always a part of you that yearns to be in their arms.

"Take me home." I say. Meaning it. It will be the only place where I can put myself together again.

I lose track of time and lay in my bed in my apartment, going from sleeping to crying to eating in a mind-numbing cycle. I spend at least a week wallowing in my own self-pity like this. My mother knocks at the door from time to time, but I pretend I don't hear her. My father does not. Our blissful reunion was a space out of time where all was forgiven. But I guess it wasn't. It doesn't matter right now anyway; because I need to be alone to put myself back together, if it's even possible.

My biggest regret, the one that continually plays out, is the day that Richard told me he knew I was in love with him. I remember answering him coyly, asking him how he knew. He said it was because he loved me. He told me he loved me. And instead of saying it back, I just assumed he knew. That was the only time we ever mentioned it. After that, when we knew the forces that were tearing us apart were unavoidable, neither of us mentioned it again. I wish that I would have said it.

Then, one day, the constant sadness and pity for myself for having to feel that sadness switches abruptly one day when I see myself in the mirror. Previously, I had not switched on any lights, even to go to the bathroom. I have not taken a shower. I have gone from couch to bed to fridge and back, never looking at myself.

Until I do.

And I feel disgust.

Gone is the reasonably pretty girl Richard was enchanted by. Gone is the put-together, scholarly student. That girl is replaced by something unrecognizable.

Something with matted hair, greasy skin, tear streaks, and even a breakout of acne across my forehead that I've never had before stares back at me. My shirt looks grubby. In short, I look like pictures of homeless people I've seen from Earth. Even a refugee.

When I think of refugees, tears streak out of my eyes again, uncontrollable.

Richard. Who doesn't know I love him. But does that even matter? If you're separated forever, who cares if you loved each other once.