The Martian Lie

Chapter 11

I've spent days playing out his possible fates in my head. Did he become a refugee? Did he lead people to safety? Did he die? I suppose that at some point there might be a way to find out. I am not sure yet which belief is the easiest one to hold on to.

But this time, I wipe the tears away.

I am sick of feeling this way. It reminds me of when I was on the ship and anger kept me going.

Temporarily abandoning the endless cycle of sleep, eat, cry, and imagine the possible fates of Richard, I decide that there is absolutely nothing to be gained from this and resolve to push it out of my mind.

It seems to me that one can only be in a stage of extreme grief for so long. After a while, disgust takes over and you have to pull yourself together. I've heard of the five stages of grief. I've been through bargaining, denial, anger, depression... could I be inching toward acceptance? This theory has been largely abandoned because it's been determined grief goes in waves. At the moment though, I seem to be a textbook case. Acceptance becomes my new mantra.

I turn on the shower and undress. Another wave of disgust hits me when I realize the days of no activity and comfort food have turned into an extra layer on my midsection. Gross. But, in the way of a shower that comes when one is especially dirty, I begin to feel alive. The water washes away the grease and tear stains. I actually groan out loud at one point as I bend over to shave a leg and the hot water massages my lower back.

I emerge with the steam and wrap myself in a cushy towel and sit on the toilet, taking time to clean and file my nails that have grown ragged with days of neglect. I dig through the cupboards and find some long-unused acne cream from my teenage years. I apply it generously. I brush my tangled hair and let it air dry as I pick out new clothes to wear. Nothing fancy, but clean.

The disgust hits me again when I see how disheveled my apartment has become. There are mountains of dishes by the sink. Blankets all over the couch and my bed. Cups and plates on the coffee table. I spend the next hour straightening it all out. At some point in this I place an order for a food delivery. I only order healthy items – a green salad and a chicken breast – no more comfort food.

I figure that at some point this surge of energy is going to stop, and I'm going to crumple into a pile on the floor and all the effort will be for naught, but I intend to ride the wave as long as I can.

I need a task.

I look around helplessly, trying to think of something to do that will propel me along this path of productivity. I'm already feeling it start to slip at the prospect of spending a whole day, clean and ready for nothing, in this apartment. I've technically graduated, and they exempted us from the capstone paper detailing our experiences on Earth because they don't want us to have to relive the trauma. I won't be placed into a career for two more months. This begs the question. What on Mars to do I figure out to busy myself with?

That's when I spot my luggage, which I have yet to unpack. I have, in my grief and self-pity-spiral, rifled through it for clothes and other odds and ends over the past few days. At some point, I knocked a few things out of it and they lay, abandoned, on the floor beside it. One of them is Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and his three companions - the first four books of the series. I read them all during my trip. I forgot all about them on the return trip and at home in my grief. But, they give me something to do. I'll return them to Jackson Connor! He told me to visit when I got home - I'm even invited!

Also, he told me to tell him all about my visit to Earth, and he had advised me to go out on my own, which I most assuredly did. And he's going to want to hear about it. I shrug off that inconvenient fact. I'll just not stay long and keep that conversation topic at bay. The important thing is that I get out of the house.