Follow the Water

I’m floating in water.

Next to me, Nana bobs on her back, looking up at the same blue sky, her white hair tied in a thick braid. She is wearing her lifeguard-red bathing suit, and her arms trail in the water at her sides in smooth, unhurried motions. Seagulls scream above our heads, swooping low, diving across the waves as if trying to get our attention. It is peaceful out here, perfect.

We are two mermaids enjoying the freedom of the waves, the tug of the undertow, the rush of the water around us, part of the ocean itself.

“Georgie,” Nana says, her voice smiling with pleasure. “It’s heaven to be here with you.”

Then a wave comes up from behind and crashes over us. I wake up, breathing in stale, musty air.

I realize I’m still on Mars.

I head down the plastic hallway. It’s eerily quiet, the way it gets before a bad dust storm hits, and I shiver. It’s cold on Mars, colder than you can imagine. The average temperature is -81 degrees.

On the trip here, I read Red Mars by Kim Stanley Robinson. It’s this famous science fiction book written a long time ago about what Mars might be like for the first colonists. In the story, the Mars colonists live a comfortable life in beautiful domed cities that have amazing views of the landscape. He made it sound not half bad. Which is why it’s called science fiction and not reality, I guess.

Mr. Robinson did get the part about the dust right. The dust is so superfine, so microscopic, that it blows right through the plastic tents we live in. The plastic keeps the air in and the UV rays out, but not the dust. It’s everywhere. In your eyes, in your ears, in your hair. Even your belly button. Most people get used to it, but not me. I mean, how do you get used to finding dust up your nose every morning? And it’s impossible to get the taste out of your mouth—rusty, like you’re losing a tooth.

The only reason I’m even here is that the last batch of geologists they sent up got killed in a spring dust storm. Since then, geologists haven’t been lining up to go to Mars anymore.

My father knows more about Mars than anyone; he was on the first exploratory missions. After the Spring Disaster, as the media called it, the government begged my father to go back, which he wanted to do anyway. You could see it in his eyes every time they sent a new batch of settlers. His one condition was that I come.

You’d think I’d be happy to go to Mars. It’s every kid’s dream, right? But I can’t stop thinking about water. Anything to do with water. Like going for a swim or taking a shower or having a real bath.

We don’t have water here. Every two months, a shuttle arrives with drinking water, but our main source of water is from recycling. The water you spit out when you brush your teeth, leftover dishwater, even when you pee—it all gets filtered and put back in the system and everybody gets a daily ration. It tastes awful, and there’s never enough to do anything more than take a sponge bath.

That’s why my father’s here—to find water.

Some scientist told NASA that they should “follow the water”—that is, follow the scientific evidence of where the water has been before, to find new water. Unfortunately, this planet was once covered with an ocean, so that’s a lot of territory to cover. Which is why they need geologists.

Once they find water, they can start fixing up the planet, and then lots of people can come. It will be a whole new world for people to mess up and overpopulate. I mean, I know we’re here for a good reason, but who cares about saving humankind when you can’t wash your hair?

My parents are waiting when I get back to the cabin.

 “We got a transmission from Earth,” my mother says. “We weren’t going to tell you, but—”

“But what?” I have a bad feeling.

My father takes off his glasses and cleans them with a corner of his shirt. He puts them back on and says wearily, “Nana’s been diagnosed with stomach cancer.”

“She’s dying,” my mother says.

Nana was the one who taught me to swim. All those summers my parents spent at NASA, or on the International Space Station, I spent at the Jersey Shore with Nana in her sweet little yellow house looking out on the beach. Those summers were the best parts of my life.

Sometimes I wish I could have lived with Nana forever.

“Your parents love you,” she always says, and I know they do, but they forget I’m here sometimes, like I’m an experiment that slipped their minds. Especially my dad. We look nothing alike. Sometimes I wonder if I’m someone else’s baby they picked up in the hospital by mistake. I mean, I’m nearly 15, and he still hasn’t figured out that I hate to be called Georgiana.

Nana knows everything about me. My dreams, my goals, my fears. Stuff I could never tell my parents. Like how I wanted to get a place on the swim team (I did), and that I was worried my folks would pressure me to become a scientist (they do), and how I wished a boy named Chen would like me (he does).

Nana is the thing I miss most from Earth. Sure, I hate the dust and not being able to take a bath or have a conversation with someone my own age, but there are days when I go crazy from the loneliness of not being able to talk to her. And every time I dream of water, I dream of Nana and me together. 

Two mermaids in the ocean.

I know she’d laugh at the way we live in plastic tents. “Why, you all look like hamsters,” she’d say. And she’d be right. She’s just that kind of person. She tells it like it is. She’s the only person in the whole world who’s ever believed in me. 

“When are we going back?” I ask.

“We’re not,” my mom says.

“What are you talking about? We can’t leave Nana alone.” Nana is my father’s mother, and he’s an only child. We’re all she has.

“Honey,” my mom says, “the cancer spread to her lymph nodes. She’s got five months to live. We’d never make it back in time.”

“You don’t know that for sure!”

My dad, ever the compassionate scientist, says, “Statistically, there’s only a 5 percent chance that Nana would survive longer than that.”

This is how they talk.

“Well, I don’t care. I’m going.”

“You can’t go,” my mom says. “Your last calcium test came back and”—she takes a deep breath— “you’ve lost a lot of bone density.”

“So? I’ll drink lots of milk, OK?”

I hate milk, especially the powdered stuff we have on Mars, but I’ll do anything to get to Nana.

“You don’t understand, Georgiana,” my dad says. “You’ve lost 30 percent of your bone mass. No one knows what effect that will have when you get back to Earth. Your legs could shatter from the gravity.”

“You may never walk again,” my mom adds.

“Didn’t you,” I say, my voice wavering, “didn’t you know about this before you brought me here?”

My parents cast a sidelong glance at each other. It’s clear that neither of these brilliant scientists thought this one through.

“So how am I ever going to leave Mars?” I whisper.

“Why would you want to leave?” my dad says quizzically.

“Hey, brat.”

I look up from my breakfast in the mess hall and see Buddy standing there holding a tray. Buddy is 21 and a Marine. Everyone here is either a scientist or in the military. His hair is short, and the skin on his face is dry and flaky. Mine is the same way. When there’s no water, it’s hard to keep your skin moist and glowing. I like Buddy. He’s funny, and he doesn’t talk to me like I’m a little kid.

He sits down and digs into his rehydrated eggs.

“Dust storm’s coming,” he says.

What else is new?

I pick up a toffee candy that they leave out in bowls on the tables.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“I’ve had better days,” I say.

“By the way, happy birthday.”

“My grandmother has cancer,” I blurt. “She’s gonna die.”

He blinks. “Whoa. That’s awful.”

I shake my head. “She’s always been so healthy. She was an Olympic swimmer.”

“No kidding.”

I nod. “She won a gold medal. Backstroke.”

It all comes out in a painful rush. “My parents refuse to go back to Earth to see her. They say she’s going to die before they get there, and they won’t let me go because I’ve lost 30 percent of my bones, and my body could shatter or something.”

He puts down his fork, sits back. “Talk about a lousy birthday present.”

“No kidding.”

“Why did they bring you here?”

Good question. 

“Maybe you should leave now, you know, before it gets worse. Have you talked to the doc?”

“No,” I say. “It doesn’t matter. My parents won’t let me go.”

“You can always stow away,” he jokes. “Like my grandfather.”

“What do you mean?”

“My grandfather grew up on a farm, and he hated it, so he ran away and stowed away aboard a Navy ship. Ended up in Hawaii.” Buddy’s beeper goes off, and he looks down.

 “Gotta go, brat. Talk to the doc.”

He stands, pockets a handful of toffees, and winks. “I love this stuff. Takes the taste of dust away.”

He buckles into his suit and disappears out the door.

“Nobody knows what will happen to the first adolescent to have lived on Mars, Georgiana,” the doctor says from behind his big desk.

“What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“Your leg bones will shatter from the force of Earth’s gravity, and you’ll never walk again.”

 I let that sink in. “OK, what else could happen?”

He leans back in his chair, folds his hands. “Your legs would sustain massive fractures. You’d spend months in a full body cast. Best-case, you’d sustain no breaks and would only require hospitalization to build up your calcium.”

“How long would that be?”

He purses his lips, considering. “Minimum four months, I imagine, on a regimen of IV-delivered drugs. After that, you’ll still have to be careful. Physical therapy too.”

“What would you do if you were me?” I ask.

“Ah,” he says. “But I’m not you.”

And that’s when I realize I’m in this alone.

“Sweetie,” my mom says a few days later as I lie in my bunk. “We know you’re feeling down about Nana, so your dad has a birthday surprise for you. Don’t you, honey?”

“Well,” he says, “I got permission for us to take a rover!”

I roll my eyes. Just what I need. Another rock-hunting expedition.

“I’m really not up to looking at rocks,” I say.

“But we’re not going to look at rocks,” he says. “It’s even better.”

This should be good. My dad’s idea of fun is taking core samples.

“I promise you’ll like it,” my mom says. “Come on.”

We are wearing our survival suits. My dad parks the rover, gets out, and starts walking, but I just stare. We are alone in the middle of Mars. It’s strange how serene it is—the horizon unbroken by buildings or trees or anything but a rolling rock-studded surface, an alien desert.

“This way,” my dad calls over his mic. “Race you to the edge!”

And then we are bounding across the landscape, and I am leaping over big boulders with an ease I could never have on Earth, and it’s such a rush, this feeling coursing through me, my heart pounding, my lungs inflating, as if every cell in me is shouting—so healthy ! so alive!—that it seems inconceivable that this same strong body may not support me on Earth.

I stop suddenly, my dad a step ahead. We are standing on the edge of a huge canyon, winding and wild, like something out of a movie. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. It’s awesome in its rawness, like the ocean. A strange peace steals over me.

“That,” my dad says, “is the Nirgal Vallis. We think there was once a big river there.”

“Like the Grand Canyon?” I say.

“Exactly,” my mom says.

“And see there? That red flag?” My dad points to a stretch of cliff where a little red flag waves merrily.

“Uh-huh.”

He clears his throat importantly. “That is where I found a downward smear of water-soluble mineral deposits in a core sample.” He draws the moment out. “I figure we drill 400 meters down, and we’ll hit water,” he says with a wink.

 “Really?” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice.

“Really,” my mom says, smiling at my dad proudly.

“Does anybody know yet?” I ask.

“No. We won’t announce it until we know for sure,” my dad says.

“How do you know you’ll find water, Dad? I mean, how can you know for sure?”

 Then he says something that shocks me.

“Nothing’s ever certain, Georgiana,” my dad, the scientist, says. His voice crackles over the mic. “You just have to have hope.” 

I am bobbing in the ocean, my wet hair plastered on my face, the scent of salt in the air. I turn and there is Nana beside me.

“Nana,” I cry, hugging her sturdy body. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Georgie,” she says.

“You don’t look like you’re dying.”

“Dying? I’m healthy as a horse!”

Her cheeks are ruddy, her skin is flush with good health, even her eyes are shining.

“I want to do something,” I say. “But I’m scared.”

“You can do whatever you want to do,” she says. “You always could.”

“I want to come home,” I say simply. “And be with you.”

“But Georgie,” she says, her eyes twinkling, “you’re already home.”

Then I wake up in the plastic cabin and hear the storm raging outside, and I can’t help myself.

I just cry.

Buddy sidles up to me in the mess hall with a tray of food.

“You been crying, brat?”

I glare at him.

“Did you see the doc?” he presses.

“Yeah. Great news. Best-case scenario I have to be in a hospital for four months. Worst-case, I’ll never walk again.” I swallow hard. “And Nana’s all alone,” I whisper.

He clears his throat. “My grandfather died from cancer too. They gave him three months to live. Know how long he lasted?”

“How long?” I whisper, hope lodged in my throat.

“A whole year.”

I’d settle for a week with Nana.

His beeper goes off and he groans. “Shuttle just got in.”

“Shuttle?”

“Supply shuttle. I’m helping unload it. It’s dropping off supplies, then heading back to Earth in the morning.” He stands abruptly.

The dust storm roars outside, but the only thing I hear is that one little word: Earth.

I grab his wrist. “Maybe I could bring you coffee in the morning. You know, over at the shuttle,” I say casually, looking him straight in the eye, willing him to hear me.

Buddy unwraps a toffee, sticks it in his mouth, chews, and stares at me.

“Sure,” he says finally. “How about at oh-seven-hundred?”

 Over his shoulder, I see my parents enter the cafeteria, holding hands and laughing, and something inside me goes still. Suddenly, all these little things seem so important—this candy, those smiles, these two strong legs. How can I possibly give this up?

Buddy sees where I’m looking.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks.

“Nothing’s ever certain,” I say, and I know that I am my father’s daughter after all. “You just have to have hope.”

The next morning when I wake up, my parents are getting ready to head out.

“We’re going out with the Alpha team to Nirgal Vallis. We won’t be back until late tonight,” my mom says excitedly. “This is it, Georgie.” Her face is one big grin. “You’ll have your very own pool in no time. We’re finding water today.”

“I know you will,” I say, and I can’t help but think how ironic it is that I’m leaving this planet just when it’s getting good. Still, I hug her hard.

“I love you, Mom.”

My dad’s almost out the door when I stop him. I hug him hard too. He’s startled.

“Good luck,” I say.

And then they are gone.

Buddy is waiting when I bring the thermos of coffee. He’s the only one there.

“Hey, brat,” he says.

“Hey, Buddy.” I blush, holding my duffel bag.

“The closet in the back is cleared out for you. Door’s open. There’s a blanket and some other stuff too.”

“Here,” I say and give him my dog-eared copy of Red Mars.

He raises a curious eyebrow.

“It’s this book,” I say, “about the first colonists on Mars.”

He laughs. “Does he get it right?”

I smile back. “Sort of. Although I kind of like his version better. ”

I hesitate for a moment, stare down at my legs.

He pats my cheek. “You’ll be fine. Just have them hook you up in the same hospital as your grandmother. That way you can be together.”

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“You’d better go, brat. The captain’s finishing breakfast now.” He gives me a goofy grin. “And hey, take a swim for me, OK?”

“Only if you take one for me.”

“What?” he asks.

I smile mysteriously. He’ll know what I mean soon enough.

As the engines roar to life, I settle back and close my eyes, imagining Mars disappearing behind me and all that blue water ahead. A whole world of it. And there, in the middle of it all, Nana. I can almost hear her voice.

“Georgie,” she will say. “It’s heaven to be here with you.”

They should be finding my note right about now, I figure.