9. On a Thursday #4
The week before they were set to leave, Charlie asked for time off from JPL.
She told her supervisor that her Mom wasn’t doing well, discussing her diagnosis and rapid decline, and that she wanted two weeks to be there.
Her supervisor didn't even hesitate, just told her to take as long as she needed.
She thanked him, saying she would be back as soon as she could.
He wished her well when she left, offering his condolences.
Charlie accepted them silently and walked out of his office.
She and Katie drove to Shelbyville together in Katie's car. The drive was more solemn than it had ever been. The tapes still played in the tape deck, Rumours on repeat. but somehow, each of them knew it was going to be last drive they would make to Helen's house while Helen was still in it.
Helen was at the door when they pulled up. She was thinner, and she moved with a deliberateness that Charlie recognized as the careful motion of a person conserving energy. But she was dressed, her hair was done, and she had lipstick on.
"You're late," she said.
"We're here when we said we'd be," Charlie said.
Helen smiled, and for just a moment, she was fully herself. "Early is on time—"
"And on time is late," both girls finished.
"You bet your ass," Helen said, and pulled them inside.
On the last Thursday of November, they made Thanksgiving dinner together.
All three of them in Helen's kitchen, the yellow table set with four places the way it had always been set, the fourth chair empty but present, because Frank's seat was still Frank's and he spent every holiday with them in spirit.
Helen directed from her chair when she needed to rest, and stood at the stove when she wanted to cook.
Katie handled the turkey because Helen had taught her well.
Charlie handled the sides because she'd finally learned that cooking was just engineering with less precision and more faith.
Helen made the pie, because nobody else was allowed to make the pie.
They ate and talked about California and JPL and Katie's graduate research on indigenous cultural preservation methods.
They talked about Frank with laughter first and ache second, Helen telling them a story about Frank trying to repair the oven in 1962 and nearly burning down the kitchen.
The girls laughed until their sides hurt.
Helen laughed too, and for a moment, the kitchen was full again.
After dinner, the three of them sat at the yellow table with the dishes pushed aside and the pie half-eaten, the house quiet around them.
Helen reached across the table and took both their hands.
"I need to talk to you about something," she said.
Charlie felt her stomach drop. Katie's hand tightened in hers.
"In the hall closet," Helen said, "on the top shelf, there's a box. Brown and old. It has Frank's handwriting on the outside."
Charlie nodded. She'd seen the box when she'd helped Helen and Katie clean the house for the reception after Frank's funeral. She'd seen it, never forgotten about it, but never opened it.
"Those are our letters," Helen said. "Every letter Frank and I wrote to each other during the war." Katie gasped. "They're all in that box. Every single one. I kept his and he kept mine. We put them together after he came home, and they've been in that box ever since."
Helen looked at them both, her eyes trailing from one to the other.
"I want you to have them."
Charlie's throat closed. "Mom—"
"I've thought about this a great deal," Helen said, her voice steady but her eyes bright.
"Those letters are the story of two people who loved each other across a distance that should have broken them.
They're the story of how you hold on when the world is trying to pull you apart.
" She squeezed their hands. "I can't think of two people who would understand that better than my girls. "
Katie was biting her lip, her eyes full.
"Read them when you're ready," Helen continued.
"Not because you feel like you have to. Read them when you need to remember that love doesn't stop just because someone isn't in the room anymore.
And when you're done..." She paused, and her voice went softer.
"When you're done, you'll know why Frank and I kept the door open and the table set.
Why we made room for two girls who needed a home.
It wasn't charity. It was the same thing those letters are about.
" Helen's gaze was unwavering. "It was love, choosing to show up. Every single day."
Charlie couldn't speak. She held Helen's hand and nodded, and that was enough.
Helen's last days came in the first week of December.
She didn't go to a hospital. She stayed in their home, in her bed, the one with the quilt that she and Frank had bought on their honeymoon, and the curtains open so she could see the sky. A hospice nurse came in the mornings and evenings. Charlie and Katie stayed.
They took turns sitting with her. They read to her when she wanted and were quiet when she didn't. Katie brought her tea and Helen drank it because Katie had made it and that was everything.
Charlie fixed everything in the house that could possibly be fixed, including the leaking faucet in the bathroom, the loose hinge on the back door, and the light switch in the hallway that had been flickering for years.
Her hands needed to be busy while the alternative was sitting still when the most important woman in her life was disappearing in front of her.
One evening, it became clear they were near the end. Helen was awake and lucid but kept drifting in and out of consciousness, occasionally saying things that made both girls realize time was getting shorter. Before the nurse left for the night, the girls spoke with her.
"Is it as bad as it seems?" Katie asked the nurse. The woman looked at Katie, then at Charlie, and nodded her head slowly.
"I'm so sorry, girls. But I think tonight may be time to say your goodbyes.
" Both Charlie and Katie nodded their heads, fighting back tears.
Charlie brushed one away that escaped without her permission.
"I can make sure she's comfortable and in no pain if you'd like.
I can set her morphine drip to ensure she feels peace. "
"That would be perfect," Katie replied. "Thank you."
"Of course," the nurse said. "Let me set that up and then I'll leave you both to be with your Mom.
" The nurse turned to go, then looked back.
"Stay with her tonight. The whole night if you have to.
Talk to her, try to get her talking about her favorite memories or things that have always made her happy.
It always seems to make it easier for them to move on when they know they're family is happy around them.
" With that, she touched each girl's arm, then moved back to Helen's room to begin the setup for the night.
Half an hour later, the light through the window was amber and low in Helen's room. Charlie sat in the chair beside the bed. Katie sat on the other side, holding Helen's hand.
"Charlie."
Helen's voice broke through Charlie's thoughts, leaning forward in the chair and taking Helen's other hand.
"I'm here, Mom."
Helen's eyes found hers. They were clear. Tired, but clear.
"There's my girl," she said, smiling big. Then her face turned stern. "But I have a bone to pick with you, you nincompoop."
Charlie let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and something broken. Katie did too, her hand tightening around Helen's.
"You listen to me and you listen good, Charlie Wickett.
" Charlie sat up straighter, her hand tightening around Helen's.
"You look out that window." Charlie gave Helen a look.
"I said look out that window, Charlie." Charlie knew when she was beat and turned her head to look out the window. "Do you see that?"
"See what?"
"The sky out there."
Charlie smiled. "Yes, I see that sky."
"You know what it is, right?"
"Technically, it's a mixture of gases and water vapor forming an atmospheric layer that protects us from—"
"Not that, you smart ass." Helen gave her a look that could have wilted flowers. Charlie turned back to Helen, laughing.
"Then no, Mom, I don't know what it is." Helen's face became solemn, and the feeling that passed from Helen to Charlie made Charlie give Helen her full attention.
"It's a barrier, Charlie," Helen said. "It's a barrier that needs breaking. And you can do it, my love. You." Charlie took a deep, staggering breath. "Charlie Wickett, the smartest woman I've ever known. You never stop reaching for the stars beyond that barrier," Helen began to cry. "You hear me?"
Charlie's tears couldn't be stopped then.
She twisted her body back to fully face Helen, bent down, and wrapped the frail woman in her arms. She held her close, tenderly, but with all the love she felt for this incredible person who, along with her incredible husband, had saved her and her sister and taught them they mattered.
"I hear you, Mom," Charlie whispered. "I won't stop. I promise."
And she meant it, not just as comfort for a dying woman, but as the truth she'd been building toward since that Tuesday in January three years ago, when the Challenger had shown her the cost of reaching for the sky.
Helen was telling her to break through the barrier.
Charlie would, and she would do it in engines she'd built herself, ones strong enough and safe enough to carry that promise all the way to the stars.
"That's my girl," Helen whispered into Charlie's hair.
Charlie pulled back from Helen, and held her hand close. "Will you do one thing for me?"
"Anything, baby. Anything."