Test Pilot's Daughter II: Dead Reckoning

by Ward, Steve

  “No, Dad. Don’t! Don’t give up! Don’t. . .” She couldn’t say it.

  Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews, war hero, father and one of the best test pilots who ever lived, shuddered, rolled to one side and breathed his last.

  * * *

  It was too much for her; she fainted in a heap. Her tormented mind revolted against the trauma and retreated into the depths of subconscious. What some used to call a “nervous breakdown” drove her into a coma, and Michael couldn’t wake her. She was on the ragged edge, and nurses were having difficulty getting control of her vitals. Doctors screamed orders and scared Michael half out of his wits. She couldn’t be moved, so she was admitted to the very same hospital where her father had died. He would be buried in a pine casket at Edwards Air Force Base, but Christina wouldn’t be there. Like so many other heroic test pilots who had “bought the farm” before him, Lt. Col. Patrick Matthews would leave his legacy on a street sign in front of Hanger C, “Matthews Avenue.”

  As Michael had promised weeks before, he stuck with her, sitting by her side every day squeezing her hand and talking to her, looking for any kind of response. He even read stories and books aloud to maintain some level of auditory stimulation. At first the doctors told him the prognosis was good. There was no brain damage, and she would pop out of her coma as soon as she was good and ready. They were stunned when she remained comatose for two weeks. But, soon, two weeks turned into two months, and Michael was beside himself. He was granted a paid leave of absence from NASA as long as he was willing to stay by her side. After ten weeks, he wanted some answers, so he set up a meeting with her neurologist, Dr. Leonard Williams.

  “Doc, it doesn’t make any sense; she was perfectly healthy. It’s been 75 days now. Why? Why is it taking so long for her to wake up?” Michael pleaded.

  “I’m sorry Michael, we don’t have a good explanation. In the beginning her EEGs were good, brain quite active and all, but in the last few days it seems that it’s slowly shutting down. I can’t tell you why; I wish I could. There’s no rational explanation. It’s as though she doesn’t want to wake up. Now, I’m almost afraid to say this, but the truth is, well, the prognosis is poor.”

  “She’s gonna die?” Michael implored.

  “No, we can keep her alive, but she has drifted into a state where she could be stranded for a very long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Could be years.”

  “Oh God, no!” Michael gasped. “She doesn’t want. . .”

  Dr. Williams moved his stool in front of Michael, took his hand firmly and looked directly in his eyes. He was an older man, about sixty, and his look was filled with compassion. Michael cringed, whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it.

  “Son, I don’t know exactly how to say this, but the human mind can do some very strange things. You should probably come to terms. . .just get on with your life.”

  “Is she brain dead?” he almost screamed.

  “No, no, not that. It’s just that she seems to lack the willingness to thrive.”

  “But. . .”

  “I’m sorry son.”

  Michael’s face fell into his hands, tears dripping between fingers. “Christina.” It was all he could say. He walked out of the doctor’s office filled with anger and despair. He had gone there seeking a warm flicker of hope, but all he got was the ice cold dagger of truth. Couldn’t he lie or something? he wondered. What kind of a doctor offers no hope? He answered himself, An honest one.

  He didn’t feel like eating, so he drove right to the hospital to be by her side. When he took her thin hand and looked at her lifeless form, tears ran off his cheeks. Fed through a tube, she was losing weight. The world’s most popular astronaut, patriot and American heroine, a young woman with so much promise, was dying the slow death of mental shutdown. Her dreams of landing on Mars faded away with the elasticity of her brain and color of her skin. Michael thought back to that meeting with Dr. Williams, and what he really wanted to say was, Are you kidding me? In this day of modern medicine with so many advances, you can’t do anything? Your fucking ignorance is unforgivable!

  Christina had to be constantly attended, rolled around, diapered and treated for bed sores, but Michael wouldn’t leave her side. It was day seventy-six, and whatever sliver of faith Michael held on to was slipping away. He wasn’t a religious person and had always thought prayer was a waste of time. But in the wee hours on a Thursday night, he found himself on his knees beside her bed.

  “God. . .if you’re there, she doesn’t deserve this. Either take her now or send her back. Don’t let her rot away in this bed.” He didn’t have a clue how to pray, but he was lonely, distraught and desperate. “God help me. I can’t take it anymore. Just take her!” he wept aloud. “No, don’t. . .don’t take her, let her live. If you’ll just wake her up, Lord, I’ll go to church every Sunday the rest of my life. C’mon, give me a reason to believe. Show me! Save her, dammit!” Head in hands he fell to the floor, and the floodgates burst. He was making so much noise the head nurse peeked in the room ran to his side.

  “Are you okay? Michael, you all right? What’s the matter, honey? Did she pass?” The nurse looked up at the display on the life support system. “She’s okay, Michael,” she said, stroking his hair. “She’s okay, honey, still tickin’ away.”

  Embarrassed by his weeping, he rose to his feet and looked the other way. He tried to wipe the tears with wet hands. “Why can’t she wake up?” he demanded. He turned, stared into the nurse’s eyes and said the unthinkable, “Nancy, she doesn’t want this, rotting away in her own fluids. I know her. What can we . .?”

  “Don’t,” she said, putting her fingers over his lips like she didn’t want him to finish.

  Even more determined, he pulled back. “I want to know,” his face dropped, “what can we do?”

  “Do?” she looked at the same spot on the floor.

  “Morphine. . .how much can you get your hands on?”

  “Enough to kill a horse,” she said without thinking. It was an expression she often used around nurses, and it just slipped out.

  Michael looked at her with raised eyebrows.

  “No, you don’t mean. . .”

  It was three in the morning, no one else around. Michael put one hand on each of the nurse’s shoulders. “Listen, Nancy. She doesn’t want this. You know I love this woman more than anything in the world, and I’d do anything for her. Even. . .”

  “So what do you have in mind?”

  “Morphine. I want you to make up a shot, a really big one. . .she can just fade away without any pain.”

  “Michael, are you crazy?” she spoke through gritted teeth. “You know I can’t do that.”

  He looked at her with big, wet eyes. “Yes, I am crazy. But what if it were you?” he begged. “What if. . .it were your daughter. Would you let her rot?”

  The nurse hesitated; her eyes shifted back and forth. She couldn’t look him in the face. “Don’t know. Yes I. . .No, no, it’s insane. She might come around any minute.”

  “How long?” Michael pleaded.

  “No way to. . .”

  “I love her with all my heart, and I know she’s doesn’t want this,” he repeated. He stared a hole through her with pleading eyes. “Please, show some compassion,” a flood of tears poured down his gaunt face.

  Nancy looked confused. Eyes wide in fear, she put her hand on his head then wrenched away and stormed out of the room without another word.

  Michael lost it once again and fell to the floor in the fetal position, sobbing. He was there for the longest time, until he cried out all his tears. The cold tile felt good on his face. He heard an odd clicking noise and turned to see the door come ajar, then just as quickly, it closed. He was puzzled because no one came in. He got up and looked at the sink next to the door. There it is! A very large syringe lay there, fully charged. He gasped, heart racing, My God!

  He went back to Christina touching her face and hands, searching for any signs of
life. There were none. He bent to kiss her, and her lips were cold. Out of frustration he took her by the shoulders and wrestled her around. “Wake up dammit! It’s not supposed to end this way. C’mon, girl, wake up!” Nothing, just a limp rag. It was almost 5:00 a.m. and he knew the place would soon come alive with doctors, nurses and patients.

  Michael walked over to the sink and picked up the syringe with trembling hands. He turned slowly and moved back beside the love of his life. “God, take her now,” he prayed. He lifted the covers and exposed her upper leg. Can’t do it, he gritted his teeth, more tears fell. Got to, he argued. You know what she wants. . .Can’t. . .Gotta do it. You coward, stick it in! He held his breath, laid the needle against her pallid skin and took a deep breath.

  “Michael?”

  He heard something, barely a whisper. Nancy? He hesitated, afraid to turn around. Oh God, a witness.

  “Michael?”

  There it was again, only louder.

  “Michael, what the hell are you doing?”

  He turned toward the sound.

  Christina was wide awake, sitting up with a puzzled look.

  “You know I don’t like shots.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Three years had passed since her dad was buried at Edwards. Christina had spent much of that time under psychiatric care at Atlanta’s prestigious Emory Clinic. Progress fighting so many demons had been slow, but she had come a long way. Life doesn’t always work out the way you think, she mulled, a real crap-shoot.

  Once she accepted the help of a shrink, she knew her career at NASA was over. It was a tough call, but Michael encouraged her to get the help she needed. Her dreams had changed. No longer was Mars the mission, she just wanted to find her smile. It had been a long struggle, but she discovered a great deal of comfort in teaching. Dr. Christina Matthews taught an introductory course to sophomores at Georgia Tech called Electro-Optical Engineering. The students were so bright and full of life, it gave her encouragement and a reason to go on. Even better, she had finally passed her Class III physical, and she was, once again, certified to fly.

  The mundane job of college professor was accented by a truly fun vocation: flight instructor in the Georgia Tech Ramblin’ Wreck aviation program at Peachtree-Dekalb airport--PDK. Her old flight instructor, John Furgeson, the man who had watched her solo, died the year before, and she had approached the University about taking his place. Of course, they were thrilled to have someone so famous work in their little flight school. Wow, a real astronaut teaching in a Cessna, Christina had to laugh. After she came aboard, the program grew to be so popular, they had to turn students away.

  She was sitting at her desk in an old, beat up office by the main hanger when a young lady came sauntering down the hall. The girl was dark, tall and attractive, and Christina didn’t know why, but her heart skipped a beat. Jesus, that was me only ten years ago. Seems more like a century. The young female carried herself with a great deal of verve and walked right up to her with a smile.

  “Hello. Sorry, guess I’m a little lost,” she chuckled nervously.

  “Where ya headed?” Christina asked.

  “Actually, I’m looking for my flight instructor. Can you believe that? Me? Flying? Supposed to be down here somewhere.”

  “And what’s your instructor’s name?”

  “Uh. . .” she looked down at a piece of paper, “Matthews, that’s it, something Matthews, or Mathew something, don’t remember.”

  Christina put out her hand and said, “That would be me.”

  “A woman?” the girl gasped. “Do you know how to fly?”

  “The name’s Christina Matthews. . .that’s astronaut Christina Matthews.”

  “Oh my!” she swooned, bug-eyed. “The Christina Matthews? The one I saw on CBN? Hello. . .what an idiot,” she shook her hand. “My name’s Kathy Waters.”

  “You got it, Waters. This is your lucky day. I’m gonna teach you how to fly.”

  “Super! I’m all ears. When do we start?”

  Before she could answer, someone else came down the hall. It was Michael. He walked right in and stood beside Christina putting his arm around her waist. Michael was also teaching at Georgia Tech, and he often met her for lunch at PDK.

  “How’s it going, sweetheart? Hungry?” With a puzzled look, he turned to the young girl.

  “Bad timing, Michael. Meet my new student, Kathy Waters. Miss Waters, this is astronaut Michael Jacobs.”

  “My God! Can’t believe it! Two astronauts in one day? I was pretty excited about flying, but I never expected this.”

  “I’ll get out of your hair, sweetie,” Michael said. “I’m on my way to the tax office to sign our homestead agreement. It’ll cut our property taxes.” He started out the door.

  “Wait,” she called after him. “Would you pick up some bananas and milk on the way. Oh yeah, how about one of those lemon-pepper, chicken roasters from Publix? I love those things. I’ll be home around six.”

  “You got it babe.” He turned and walked down the hall.

  “Hold it right there,” Christina yelled in a desperate tone. She laid down her logbook and ran after him. He looked a little confused when she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. It wasn’t just any kiss. She kissed him with reckless abandon, like he was going away to war. It was a kiss filled with passion. She kissed him again and again lifting her right foot off the floor. Then, just as quickly, she let him go, “See ya later flyboy.”

  The young girl looked astonished. “What a hunk. Wow, you must really love that guy.”

  “Yeah I do, love him with all my heart.” She watched him walk down the long hallway and sighed, “He brought me back from the dark realm. . .back from the dead.” There was a long pause as she stared at an empty hall.

  The girl was persistent. “So what do we do first? Can we go flying now?”

  Christina shook her head and tried to concentrate. She struggled to remember what Furgeson had told her the first time they met. Suddenly it came in a flash. “Let’s start with some basic blocking and tackling. Here, sit down at the simulator. There’s only one difference between flying an airplane and driving a car, or even riding a bike for that matter. You have to coordinate the movements of your hands and feet in all three. Flying is really quite easy, but it takes a little more coordination, because it’s three dimensional.”

  The girl looked kind of bored. Christina envisioned Furgeson sitting there going through his long, introductory lecture while she was so antsy to fly. It gave her a nice warm feeling as though her old flight instructor was standing behind her egging her on.

  Do it right, girl, you’re the instructor now. Don’t let her rush you.

  She continued, “See how easy it is. That’s the yoke; it’s kind of like the steering wheel of your car, but it’s three controls in one. You use it to activate the ailerons. Turn right and you roll to the right, left, left. You also use it to go up and down. Pull back and you go up, push forward, down. Or as some smart-assed pilot once said, ‘Push forward and the houses get bigger, pull back and they get smaller, unless you keep pulling back, then they start getting bigger again.’ Last but not least, the yoke is like a throttle, pull back and you slow down, push forward, you speed up. Air speed is everything in flying.”

  The girl’s face contorted in a huge frown. “Why can’t we just go fly?”

  Deja vous! Christina stood up quickly, lightheaded, and for a brief second thought she might faint. It was like some kind of time machine. My God, girl, that’s exactly what I said when I walked into this office. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and said, “Okay, kiddo, I tell you what, let’s blow this joint and go have some fun. You like flying, do you?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but I’m ready to find out.”

  They walked out on the tarmac, and PDK was a beehive of activity. She led her new student to a bright and shiny, Cessna 152. After a quick preflight inspection, they climbed into the cockpit and buckled up. She skipped the lectu
re on radio procedure and instrumentation, and helped the girl start the engine. She showed her how to use the rudder pedals to taxi to the runway. After running up the engine and checking the flight controls, Christina got clearance to take off and rolled out to the end of the runway.

  “Okay, Waters, let’s see what ya got. Use the rudder pedals to keep it pointed straight down the runway, and put the pedal to the medal. No, no here, the throttle’s up here, and this is your airspeed indicator. Don’t worry about all those other instruments. Just watch the runway and your airspeed. Push the throttle full forward and, when your speed hits 60, ease back on the yoke and let ‘er fly.”