The View from Mars.
C. W. Bryan

“You’re too sick to take a trip right now. The doctor said you have a fifteen percent chance of remission if we keep up the treatments here, love,” Edmund said, buckling his own seatbelt, then reaching over to do up Catherine’s.

​

Fifteen percent. That number had a weird way of shrinking—just two months ago he could have sworn it was twenty. Edmund was optimistic, though. There had been a fifteen percent chance of rain on their wedding day and he and Catherine had said, “I do,” with their hair soaking wet. Smiling despite himself, despite the cold, pallid light of the parking deck, he felt a warm confidence about that number: fifteen percent. Edmund was never a gambling man, but he would absolutely take those odds.

​

“Please, Edmund. Fifteen percent is too little for the sickness it puts me through. I just want to see one more beautiful thing before I die. I want to see the view from Mars. They just opened it up to the public. We can afford it, I swear.” She was almost pleading now. Edmund bit his lip and readjusted his hands on the steering wheel. It was a familiar drive. Three days a week to the hospital, three days a week back home. 

​

“I don’t think we can afford that, Cat. The hospital bills are already draining the savings. We’re budgeting as it is.” 

​

“Exactly. We’ll go broke at this rate. If we go to Mars, we go on a trip together, one more trip, then there will be no more bills. They just opened up to visitors. I’ve thought it all out. Three or four more months of treatments, if I even live that long, will put us in dire straits, love. Just come to Mars with me. You’ll have enough money when I’m gone and I’ll get to share that view with the man I love. It’s perfect.” She smiled; she really had thought it all out. She could be convincing when she smiled. He kept his eyes on the road in front of him and bit his lip again, thinking.

​

“Why don’t we go to Devil’s Tower? Or we can go to Teton Park again? You loved those places,” Edmund finally said, hoping to move away from the topic of Mars.

​

“You love those places. And I love being there with you. We moved out to Wyoming to follow your dream, honey, to escape the smog of the city. I am happy anywhere as long as you’re there too. But God, Edmund, can’t you see what the treatments are doing? It’s hard to be happy any day. Why can’t you do this for me?” Her voice was thick with desperation. 

​

“For you? I’d be condemning you to die, Catherine. You’d be going to Mars on a one way ticket! That’s the last I’ll hear about it today. Let’s just get home.” Edmund turned the radio up and kept his eyes on the road ahead of him. Catherine just looked out the window, looking past the fields of wheat, eyes turned up to the sky. 

​

Catherine and Edmund sat in silence for the drive home. The hospital treatments were exhausting, and the couple often fell into silence on their commute back. The chemotherapy sapped Catherine’s already frail body, and what energy she did have afterward was used up by her consistent cough. Lung cancer had relegated her to a bystander in her own life, just a passive observer along for the ride. The scene outside the passenger window was getting old—rolling fields of wheat on the same blue background three times a week lost their luster after a while. 

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She wondered where Mars was hidden on days like today. The view from Mars would be hard to get used to, she thought. Wouldn’t that be— A coughing fit took over, the pain in her chest pushing all thoughts from her head but one: breathe.

​

Gravel crunched beneath the pickup as Edmund methodically pulled into the driveway. He parked the car beside their small, ranch-style home. The tin roof was rusted and the porch wrapped around half the house; it was just what he pictured a dream home should look like when he was a child. A sharp breeze blew through the yard, rocking the two chairs on the porch and kicking up loose, rust-colored dirt into the air. 

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“Put your face mask on, darling,” Edmund said as he opened the passenger side door. Catherine placed each loop around her tiny ears. The mask was far too large on her now, no longer snug on her sallow face. Her cheek bones had become more prominent with the weightloss and her face had hollowed out. Her gray hair, what was left of it, hung in wiry strands down to her shoulders. Catherine refused to shave her hair. She held onto each lock to spite the radiation. Edmund was glad for that—her long, blonde hair had been the first thing he fell in love with. 

​

Catherine stepped gingerly down from the truck, placing her foot down hesitantly, like dipping a toe into a pool before jumping in. Edmund ushered her across the yard and up the three steps to the front door. He unlatched it and the wind snapped it open, pinning it to the side of the house. He guided her to the couch and she sat with a sigh. Edmund took off her mask and brushed her few hairs away from her eyes. She assumed her nightly position: shoes off, slippers on, knees tucked beneath a weighted blanket.

​

“Shall I put some tea on, Cat?” Edmund asked. The TV flipped on.

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“Yes, honey.”

​

“You want honey in yours?”

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Catherine smiled and settled deeper into the couch. “No thank you, darling.”

 

The burner clicked and the blue flame leapt to life. The flame danced in the wind as Edmund opened the kitchen door and stepped onto the back porch. The view from there stretched for miles: open country littered with trees, all scaling upward into snowy peaks in the distance. Why worry about some view from Mars when Eden exists right in your backyard? He loved this view, dreamt of this view. In his dreams, though, Catherine was rocking right next to him. What’s a view without someone to share it with, eh Cat? Soon, the backyard sprawl faded from Edmund’s view as he turned his attention to the view in his head. 

​

Edmund had found himself slipping into memories more frequently now. Each round of chemotherapy for Catherine meant more reason to wish things could go back to how they were. Edmund was thinking of Pittsburgh—a memory he revisited often. Pittsburgh came into view in Edmund’s mind the same way every time. He always imagined the city before the smog became oppressive—when the sun could still permeate the dirty canopy and shine upon the glass windows of the familiar cityscape. 

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Catherine sat at the thrifted kitchen table in their crowded, cramped, second story apartment. Her papers covered every inch of the grainy wood and blue ink covered every inch of the college ruled notebook paper. It was the summer after they got married. The publishing season had slowed to a crawl and Catherine was hard at work on her next kid’s book. Her debut story, “One Odd Duck,” had been met with few but flattering reviews. She wanted the second book to be grander in scale now. The advance from her publisher gave her plenty of time and space to explore. 

​

Edmund returned home from a day of editing at the Pittsburgh Pilot, a small newspaper focused on local news and opinion pieces. He opened the windows and kissed Catherine on the forehead. 

“You figure out a title for your best-seller yet, Cat?” he asked. Edmund was a career newspaperman, so watching Catherine write children’s fiction was an enigma to him and he loved her for it. 

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“I’ve got a couple contenders. ‘The View from Mars’ and ‘The Moon is Really Made from Cheese’ are the front runners.”

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“You’ve come a long way from dogs and ducks, eh? Taking in the cosmos is one giant leap for children’s lit.” They shared a laugh, and Edmund set the kettle on the stove.

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“I bet Wyoming has a great view of the moon,” Edmund continued. “Probably Mars, too. Fresh air—clear air. No light pollution either.”

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“I bet it does, dear. One day we’ll see for ourselves. Did you hear the news from Carmine Corp? They’re starting work on a passenger program to Mars. They say it’s a long time until it’s done, though. That’s my Wyoming, Edmund. Just a clear view of this silly blue marble from space.”

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“I did hear about that. Michaels is writing a piece on it for the Pilot. He seems to think it’s a dangerous idea, sending civilians to space and all that. It was pretty convincing.”

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“Michaels? What does he know about space travel? That man is scared of his own shoelaces!”

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Catherine tied up her long blonde hair—she always did when she had an idea. She began to whistle as she wrote. On cue, the kettle started to whistle back. 

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Edmund snapped back to Wyoming, leaving children’s lit and memories behind for the cruel reality of the present. The kettle was whistling loud and mean in the kitchen, and he ran inside to turn the burner off. He poured two cups of chamomile and took them out into the living room. Steam rose in white tendrils from the mugs. Catherine was asleep on the couch already with a faint smile on her face. Probably dreaming of Pittsburgh, Edmund thought. 

​

Orange light from the sunset poured through the window. Edmund picked Catherine’s sleeping body up easily. He walked down the tangerine runway in the living room and set his wife down in bed. She looked so small under the duvet. The plush chair was a welcome comfort to Edmund. The sun slowly slipped behind the mountains and Edmund followed it with his eyes, staring out into the future. He took a sip of tea, and his own eyelids began to feel heavy.

​

​#

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When he awoke, Catherine was in the toilet, vomiting. He put his slippers on and cracked the door. “All good in here?” he asked, and immediately wished he had said something different.

​

“I can’t breathe,” she wheezed. “I can’t breathe right.”

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“Oh Christ, Catherine. Let’s go. We can go to the hospital, I’ll help you.” He wrapped her in a robe and helped her to the car. They moved maladroitly through the hallway and living room. Catherine was bracing herself on white walls with a small right hand and fingers thin as wire, her left hand a vice grip around Edmund’s shoulder. The coughing was so violent it echoed on the hallway as they slowly worked their way outside. He was dragging her by the time they reached the front door. She was in his arms again to descend the porch steps and Edmund struggled with the truck’s door handle, eventually pulling it open with his middle finger. It creaked open and Edmund set her in the front seat like he was putting a child in a booster seat. The seatbelt caught the first few times he pulled it and he cursed under his breath. It finally pulled free and he fastened it tight around her small, bony waist. He started the car and watched her chest rise and fall rapidly from the corner of his eye.

​

“Okay, okay, okay, baby. We’re going. It’ll be okay soon,” he said to her, and to himself as well. She wheezed, and wheezed again. He pressed the pedal hard to the floor. The  typical commute to chemotherapy took twenty minutes, but Edmund made this drive in ten. He sped partly because of concern and partly out of fear. Tall stalks of wheat whipped by the windows, and they leaned after the truck when it pulled the air behind it—sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour. 

​

The hospital emergency room was never very busy; it was a small town. The pick-up truck tore into the parking lot and came to a halt with the screech of rubber on asphalt announcing their arrival. Nurses ran out to meet them and put Catherine’s arms around their shoulders, walking with professional grace through the sliding double doors. Just like that, she was gone and Edmund stood in shock, resting his arm against the warm hood of the car. Sweat began to bead on his forehead.

​

The waiting room was empty and quiet, save for the persistent buzz of fluorescent lights. The white artificial light was aggressive, and it made Edmund almost miss the smog of Pittsburgh before they had moved. He tried to read the paper, but just ended up using it to dab the sweat from his forehead. His tired eyes closed eagerly, and he tried to bring memories of their old life into view. Thinking of Catherine’s lithe, barefoot movements on the linoleum floor as she whipped up dinner for them—remembering the way her laugh filled whichever room she was in. The acidity in his nostrils of overly sanitized floors and chairs kept interrupting him, pulling him back into the present, unavoidable moment. Edmund sat and stewed with his head in his hands.

​

Eventually, the doctor came out from the ER’s double doors, balding with gray tufts behind his ears. There weren’t too many doctors on rotation at the small hospital and Dr. Green had been on duty nine hours ago, when Catherine was getting her latest blast of radiation. The rings around his eyes  were purple with exhaustion. It made him look ancient. A sweet-faced young nurse was with him. Edmund knew. He knew it in his bones.

​

“Edmund? Sir, I’m sorry, Catherine, uhh, she…she didn’t make it,” the doctor managed to get out. Edmund stared at the floor. Lemon scented polish wafted up to him. She’ll never get to smell lemons again, Edmund thought.

​

“You said fucking fifteen percent, Doc! You said there was a chance, damn it. You could have done more. You should have done more! I did everything I could…” his voice trailed off and he could feel his cheeks getting hot and the tears welling up in his eyes. 

​

The nurse reached out a hand and touched his wrist. He snapped his hand away and turned for the elevator, he pressed the button once to go down. He pressed it again and again and again. He hated it. He hated this hospital, the elevator, the world. He punched the button and the door dinged open. He got in and stared once more at the doctor and pressed the door close button. He descended. 

 

#

​

Edmund was driving back from Devil’s Tower. A disappointing trip. What had he seen in a stupid rock? He wished Catherine had been there. She had always laughed when people called it a butte. It was time to pick up her ashes. It had been seven days without her. He parked the car at the funeral home. The parking lot was empty save one car. Edmund thought that was nice, at least: even death had a slow season. The man behind the counter was youthful and chipper, and he smiled as Edmund walked in. 

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“Edmund?”

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“Yeah, that’s me.” The young man put the urn on the counter. Edmund grabbed it with both hands.

​

“Is there anything else I—”

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“No,” Edmund said, and he walked out the door. He set the urn in the passenger seat and buckled it in, just as he’d done the last time they drove together. It was a fifteen minute drive home, but about a three hour drive to the airport. Edmund didn’t mind a long drive, though. He rolled the windows down, bit his lip, and readjusted his hands on the steering wheel. 

​

He was about an hour away from the airport. He filled up the truck with gas, then bought a pack of cigarettes and with as many scratch off tickets he could. He had about twenty-five dollars in his wallet that he wouldn’t need. He left the winning tickets on the counter and went  back to the car. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. He closed his eyes and let the smoke out of his nose. It tasted awful, but the nostalgia was strong. It reminded him of their life in Pittsburgh, when Catherine wasn’t sick, when she was writing for Ironworks, before they left the smog for clearer air in Wyoming. 

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God, she gave up so much for me, he thought.

​

#

​

When Edmund arrived at the airport, he put the car in park and the two tickets in his front pocket. He lit one last cigarette and smoked it quickly while he unbuckled Catherine. The terminal wasn’t very crowded; it was a late flight. He approached the counter and set the tickets down. 

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“I haven’t been here in a while. I don’t know where the interplanetary gates are.” The attendant didn’t even look up. Her name tag said, Kristen. 15 years of excellent service.

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“Just follow the signs. Take a right when you pass international,” she said as though it was a script. She really did provide excellent service. Edmund found it easily. When he boarded the ship, the smell of lemon disinfectant attacked his nostrils. “Bet you’re glad you can’t smell those lemons, eh Cat?” he whispered to her. He found their seats and he buckled her in.

​

#

​

It took forever to deplane. Edmund was surprised; no matter how much things have changed, somehow they always stay the same. How could we fly to Mars and still take an hour to disembark? He held Catherine in his arms and took his suit from the flight attendant. They could change once they got to their rooms. 

​

He made his way down the tunnel, to the fluorescent lit room of baggage claim. He followed the signs to the hotel and reserved a bedroom with a queen. It was a suite; he splurged a bit on the view. It was a first floor room equipped with an airlock and door to the viewing area. When he got in the room, he drew a bath. He set Catherine down on the bed and took his clothes off. 

​

The tub was nice and hot, and he wondered how they had enough water to spend this much on baths. After his soak, he unpackaged the complimentary toothbrush and razor. He shaved and brushed his teeth, combed his hair back with his fingers and smiled big in the mirror, inspecting the gaps between his teeth. I can’t believe you ever found this gap-tooth smile charming, Cat. He first fell in love with her hair; she first fell in love with his smile. She said so on their first date. It wasn’t much of a first date, but Edmund smiled every time he thought about it. It was a little dive bar called Church. The place had peeling black paint on the wood panel walls and sticky red benches that lined the walls. Catherine came in wearing a beautiful summer dress and it was all over in that instant—Edmund was in love. The atmosphere of that bar was dirty and dark; it certainly couldn’t hold a candle to the view out of his hotel window, but God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to buy tickets to go back to that first moment of their life together.

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He put deodorant on and checked the mini fridge. There were plenty of options: nuts and granola bars, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks. He grabbed a bottle of wine and uncorked it. It tasted sweet and crisp straight from the bottle. Holding the bottle in one hand, he tapped on the glass of his window. It felt thick and made a solid sound when he rapped it. There were only a few visitors in the viewing area. There were benches to sit on, sidewalks to walk down to help keep the rust colored dust from getting on your suit. They had put artificial cacti and shrubs outside, too. It looked more like an Arizona park than Mars to him. 

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“Why would they do something like that, eh Cat? They made it look like the damn Painted Desert out there, acting like we aren’t on a different planet right now. If it were me, it’d be bare as a baby’s bottom out there. Just you and the view.” 

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After finishing the bottle, he changed into his space suit. It felt a little too snug, but it was a dangerous world out there without one. He fastened all the straps and put the helmet on. He grabbed Catherine and checked the lid of her urn. He carried her in his right hand and pressed the button of the airlock with his left. The door hissed and slid open. 

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“Here we go, Cat. It’s your view. One last beautiful thing.” He pressed the second button and the door to the viewing area opened. He was outside now. The suit did a wonderful job of keeping him warm. He felt comfortable, just like a spring day in Wyoming. He held Catherine up to his chest and let her see the stars. He spent fifteen minutes walking the grounds, seeing everything. The view really was beautiful. 

​

He thought about Devil’s Tower and laughed at its mediocrity. “What a stupid little butte, eh Cat?” 

He walked to the edge of the viewing area, away from anyone else. He had no fear here. They had made it, together. He unscrewed the lid of Cat’s urn and let her drink in the Martian air. “No smog here, love. We’re a long way from Pittsburgh now, and a long way from Wyoming. I’m glad I’m here with you now. I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier. I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for this.” Edmund flicked the two straps near his neck and pulled the helmet off. He fell, instantly. 

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A cloud of red dust filled the air around him. 

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Catherine’s ashes poured out on the ground beside him.