by Marlene Olin
They were stranded in space. Somehow an eight-day test run had turned into a nine-month ordeal. Butch and Suni weathered the circumstances as best they could. But sometimes events spiral. Sometimes the joystick falls out of your grasp. Home or the heavens. Did they have a choice?
This year I turned seventy-two. Old age creeps up on you. One minute I’m schlepping the kids to school. The next minute I’m piling the grocery cart with Dulcolax and Depends.
Being in space gave us a new outlook, said the astronauts. Suni and Butch had remained steadfastly chipper throughout their 286-day stay. Butch had missed most of his daughter’s senior year in high school. Suni said she missed her dogs.
A life can be measured by its time with dogs. My first dog was a miniature poodle named Max. We weren’t a pet family. Max roamed the streets chasing cars and getting other dogs pregnant. I dressed him in a pink tutu, taught him to sit on a chair, watched him catch the red rubber ball I played jacks with. I was devastated when he died of distemper. We probably forgot to give him his shots.
My next dog was an Irish Setter named Shane that my husband and I adopted while in grad school. Everyone in our Michigan apartment building had a dog. He was the least intelligent but the gentlest of all the pets we have ever owned. When Jon was born, Shane kept vigil under the crib. When Rachel was a toddler, she’d ride him like a pony and he’d just lay there, his tongue lolling and his tail wagging, happy.
Years later, when our son was thirteen and our daughter ten, our neighbor’s dog whelped a litter of labs that were hard to resist. Rachel picked one out and named her Shammy. We took in Lucy after Hurricane Andrew. And after those dogs passed, Molly and Maggie graced our home.
Then one day, soon after the pandemic, we found ourselves dogless. Call me crazy to adopt another dog in my seventies. He’ll probably outlive both my husband and me. But one lonely night my fingers found Mr. Pickles on the internet. And miracle of miracles, he was only a five-hour drive away! Pickles, another black miniature poodle, had been rejected by his breeder. The white spot on his chest was a defect, they told us. Despite his flaw, we love him. He’s been the perfect bookend to our lives.
From their windows 250 miles above, the two astronauts looked out on an ocean of blue. As they circled the planet over and over, the mundane took on new meaning. Oil rigs lit up like fireflies. Clouds became marshmallow swirls. From a distance, daily dramas and family fracas became manageable. Time slowed while the universe spun.
Old age gives you a new perspective, too. When I look back on my choices, I wish I had taken more chances. If only I had spoken up instead of staying quiet. If only I had appreciated my talents and discounted the insults. If only I could have stopped the progression, stepped back, stood my ground. Looking back, it would have been easy, like putting a stick in the spoke of a wheel.
Butch and Suni adapted quickly to their new situation. They shelved their old way of doing things and relearned simple skills. Life in space is tenuous. Just the wrong flip of a switch could spell doom. But they approached each challenge like the engineers they were, analyzing the calculus of calamity, dissecting problems with a clinical eye.
I spend each day honing my writing skills. I witness, record, make sense of the nonsensical. When I pore through diary entries or stories I wrote years ago, I’m shocked. They’re chockful of metaphors, flowery language, words pulled from a thesaurus. With age, my writing has ripened. I’ve learned to distil my thoughts.
No one walks in space without being tethered. They’re attached to that ship with a line as strong as an umbilical cord.
There were always obstacles, of course. My parents, right or wrong, demanded obedience. Money was tight and our options few. My husband, committed to his career, deferred to me for everything else.
The rewards of being an astronaut always come with sacrifice. The longer the astronaut is in space, the greater the toil on his or her body. Muscle mass decreases, the eye flattens, fluids move from their feet to their heads.
If only the old me could travel back in time and give the young me advice. I had no idea how fortunate I was. I agonized over my looks, cringed in the mirror, envied whoever was thinner, blonder, tanner. Then the years passed, and it all went to seed. My nails turned brittle. Mysterious bruises tattoo the top of my hands. My back twinges, and my knees creak.
No one knows how long the effects of being in space will last. Exposure to radiation increases cancer risk. Immune systems are impaired.
Some mornings I wake up and forget that I’m old. It takes me a few seconds to get reacquainted. Getting out of bed, I’m still surprised by the aches and pains. Then I spend half of my day waiting at the doctor’s office, and the other half negotiating his patient portal. How fragile, how precarious are our ties to all we hold dear.
Finally, Butch and Suni finagled a ride home. A return to gravity is never easy. Their limbs were noodlelike. Their brains were foggy. Even their inner ears had to readjust. Nauseated and dizzy, they were carried off the spacecraft on stretchers.
I’ve learned to assess every room for potential hazards. Just one misstep, just one slip of the wrist is all it takes. I straighten the rug that’s curled on the floor. I take note of steep stairs. I pick up errant toys. Whoever set the thermostat on sixty-five?
How thin and gaunt they looked! Most people in space lose a few pounds. Their senses of smell and taste are diminished. Food is unappealing. Despite a daily exercise regimen, many astronauts lose half their strength. Back on Earth, even lifting a pencil demands Herculean strength.
One day I decided to move some furniture around. I bent my knees, slid the sofa onto the rug, loaded up on Advil. Despite my best efforts, the next day everything hurt.
While Suni practices Hinduism, Butch is an elder at his Baptist church. I suppose he’s looking forward to his old routine, meeting with his congregation, kneeling in prayer. But now his point of view is different. He’s below the clouds instead of above. He’s looking up at the heavens instead of down. Did cruising the stars make him feel closer to God?
Sometimes I feel like an astronaut, dangling in the void, groping for a path. Meanwhile my mind never stops, the thoughts relentlessly drip drip dripping. If hope keeps us airborne, insight is the weight that pulls us down.
Every Saturday I drive to our synagogue and study Torah. Free coffee and bagels draw a big crowd. They’re mostly my age. Nearing the finish line, so to speak. We’re all a bit world-weary, gray-haired, frayed. Together, we parse the past.
Like most of the gang, I sit with my reading glasses perched on the tip of my nose. I have no problem seeing far away. Far away is easy. But up close I need help. With a shaky finger I follow the lines and trudge through the archaic language. I enjoy the stories. From a distance, there’s a sameness to it all, a repetition of themes, a reminder that life loops. I may not understand the how
or the why. I may not know the answers. But I think I’m learning the questions.
Marlene Olin was born in Brooklyn, raised in Miami, and educated at the University of Michigan. Her short stories and essays have been published in journals such as The Massachusetts Review, Catapult, PANK, and World Literature Today. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of The Net, Best Small Fictions, and for inclusion in Best American Short Stories.