Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

It was some good looking trash. My husband and I were out for our early morning walk and we were a city block away, but I could tell from the outline that there was some mighty fine trash picking ahead. I'm not usually a trash picker. In fact, I can't remember the last time I hauled anything home from someone else's junk, but this trash pile was something to behold.

"That's a trash pile to be proud of." My husband's so cute when he's coveting someone else's trash. But I had to agree. What a bunch of interesting stuff and most of it was from someone's garden.

A brand new trellis was propped up against the homeowner's garage door and the old trellis--with a yellow, shabby chic look--why, they'd tossed it out along with a bunch of perfectly good pots. (I usually have to pay extra for things that look like this.)

I knew exactly where I'd put the trellis in my flower garden, but it was too heavy to carry home, so I was going to have to come back with our trailer. But what if someone got to this great junk before I got back? Then again, since we were walking in the really-rich- folks-who-live-on-the-water-in-Florida neighborhood, there probably wasn't going to be much competition for this junk.

But just in case, "Let's step up the pace dear." And my husband and I power walked home.

Rattle, rattle. It's easy to hook the trailer up to the back of our car and it's a handy thing to have, but when there's nothing on it, oh my gosh, does it make a lot of noise. The rich folks were definitely going to hear me coming.

The high-priced trash was waiting for me and I loaded up the trellis and pots. But when I got home and looked at my flower garden, I wasn't so sure about that "perfect place" after all. Oh, well. The worst case scenario--I can always "re-trash" the trellis!

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Atmosphere: A Novel by Taylor Jenkins Reid. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

December 29, 1984

Joan Goodwin gets to the Johnson Space Center well before nine, and Houston is already airless and muggy. Joan can feel the sweat collecting along her hairline as she walks across the campus to the Mission Control building. She knows it's the heat. But she also knows that's not all it is.

Her job today is one of her favorite parts of being an astronaut. She is CAPCOM on the Orion Flight Team for STS-LR9, the third flight of the shuttle Navigator.

The role of CAPCOM—the only person in Mission Control who speaks directly to the crew on the shuttle—is one of many that astronauts fill when they aren't on a mission.

This is something Joan often has to explain to people at the rare party she agrees to go to. That astronauts train to go up into space, yes. But they also help design the tools and experiments, test out food, prep the shuttle, educate students on what NASA can do, advocate for space travel in Washington, talk to the press, and more. It's an exhausting list.

Being an astronaut is not just about getting up there. It is about being a member of the team that gets the crew up there.

Plus, Joan has already been. She has, in her nightstand at home, that elusive talisman that every astronaut aches for: the gold pin. Evidence that she was one of the chosen few humans who have ever left this planet.

She has seen the spectacular shimmering blue of the seven oceans from two hundred miles away. Cerulean? Cobalt? Ultramarine? There was no shade vivid enough that she could name. Ninetynine point nine percent of human beings who have ever lived have never seen that blue. And she has.

But now she is home, both feet on solid ground, and she has a job to do.

So when Joan walks into the Mission Control building that morning with a black coffee in her hand, she is at ease. She is not anxious or terrified or heartbroken.

All of that will come later.

Joan enters the Mission Control room through the theater. She watches for a moment as the crew from the last shift prepares two of the mission specialists for their spacewalk.

Her boss—the flight director of Orion Flight, Jack Katowski—is down on the floor already, getting debriefed by the previous flight director.

Jack has a crew cut, graying temples, and a reputation for being particularly stoic, even in an organization known for its stoicism.

Still, he's long supported Joan in her role as CAPCOM. And they make a good team. That is something Joan prides herself on. That she is an excellent team player.

Especially with the crew on STS-LR9, which is composed almost entirely of astronauts from her class.

Commander Steve Hagen had been one of their instructors, but the rest of the crew—pilot Hank Redmond and mission specialists John Griffin, Lydia Danes, and Vanessa Ford—are the people Joan's come up with, trained with, learned how to do this job alongside.

Vanessa Ford has had biomedical sensors all over her body for hours. They have been sending her vitals down to the flight surgeon, who monitors every breath she takes. But even well before the electrodes were placed on her body, Vanessa has been aware that someone on the ground is always watching.

Mission Control knows everything that happens on the shuttle-every temperature, every coordinate, the status of every switch. Everywhere Vanessa turns, there is Houston, hearing and sensing everything around her.

This does not seem to bother anyone else on the crew as much as it bothers her. But knowing that everyone can see her heart rate-that they can see how her body reacts every time Houston speaks up—makes her feel like she has nowhere to hide.

"Nice to hear your voice, too, Griff," Joan says. "Good start to the day here."

She can hear Joan smiling. She can hear it in the lilt of her voice.

Vanessa reaches out and puts her gloved hands on the airlock hatch to the payload bay. She feels a vibration in her chest. With the payload bay doors already open, this is all that stands between her and space.

There's no data on the airlock hatch. It is one of the few things on the shuttle that doesn't send its own signal. Which means one of them has to notify Houston that they are about to open it.

Vanessa looks at Griff. She's glad she's doing this alongside him. She's always liked him. Not just because they are both from New England, although it helps.

"Houston, we are opening the airlock," Griff says.

Vanessa begins to open the hatch. She tries to keep her heart rate steady. She's been working toward this moment for five years, dreaming of it most of her life.

Space.

She and Griff both inhale when they can see through the hatch.

They've looked through the window, but nothing quite prepares them for the sight of it now.

Vanessa's mind goes blank. There are bright lights from the ship, but beyond that everything is black. There is no horizon, only the edge of Navigator and then nothingness with the brilliant colors of Earth in the distance.

"Wow," Vanessa says. She looks to Griff. He's lost in the vision of it himself.

She lets go of the ship and moves through the hatch, to take her first step into space. Her legs feel steady as she wades into the darkness. Her eyes widen at the intensity of it, a void unlike anything she's ever seen.

She looks up, past the payload bay doors, to see Earth in the distance. Clouds streak across the deserts of North Africa. For a moment, Vanessa stops and looks at the Indian Ocean.

For so long, she has loved to be above the clouds. But to be this far above them knocks her breath from her chest.

"My God," Griff says.

(continued on Tuesday)

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