The Last Second (A Brit in the FBI #6)(35)
As for her situation, as Norgate liked to refer to it, it had been kept private. It wasn’t good press to have an astronaut quit the program like she had. And when it happened, as it did occasionally, NASA battened down the hatches.
Norgate, a man she no longer admired, kept referring to her recovery from her “ordeal.” Ordeal? What a stupid thing to call a life-changing event. He would eat his words as well, beg her to come back, lead her own mission.
She took the elevator to the fifth floor and found Fontaine’s office. The waiting room was simply furnished with blond modern sofas and chairs. A bored young woman checked her in and took her payment. So Dr. Fontaine didn’t take insurance, fine with her, she would happily pay ten times what the woman was charging to get Fontaine’s assurances of her sanity.
After a few minutes, the wooden door opened and a kind-faced brown-haired woman wearing a sleeveless black sheath dress and bright red lipstick gestured her in. Dr. Fontaine was in her early fifties, runner-fit, and from fifteen feet away, Nevaeh could see the intelligence in her light-colored eyes. She felt a surge of hope. Nevaeh didn’t think this woman would make up her mind until she had all the facts.
They spoke for a few minutes, introductions, really, then the doctor said, “What may I help you with, Dr. Patel?”
“I’m having a—situation”—ah, that word again—“and I want to get your confirmation I’m not suffering from any sort of delusions or mental incapacities. It’s a delicate matter.”
Fontaine looked interested. “Go on.”
She told the story clearly and cleanly, giving specifics, the way she’d been trained. The doctor nodded and wrote a few things down, but for the most part simply listened. When Nevaeh finished, she said, “It’s been a year since you left NASA?”
“Yes.”
“And the Numen haven’t appeared to you in any corporeal form? They’re only auditory?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Fascinating.”
“I have my files from NASA. I can—”
“Let’s talk some more, first. I’ll do my homework before our next meeting. Tell me about your family. Your upbringing.”
“I don’t have mommy or daddy issues. I loved my parents deeply, and they loved me. They always supported me. Always.”
“They’re gone?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“I can see by the look on your face you’re experiencing a strong memory right now. Tell me what you’re seeing, Dr. Patel. What are you remembering?”
“Funny how you say it, a strong memory. Yes, I was remembering how I became an astronaut in the first place. It was July 20, 1969, the mission was Apollo 11. The television was on in the living room, one of the square, squat things, brown and ugly. I was sitting in front of it, and the pictures were grainy, black-and-white, and it was incredible, seeing the moon, the dust being kicked up. I was transported there, it was so hauntingly beautiful. My mother started to speak and my father told her to stop talking. Then we heard the words, tinny on the television’s weak speakers. I’ve heard the real recordings. They don’t do Armstrong justice.”
“The words?”
“ ‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.’ When Armstrong took his first step on the moon, I knew immediately I wanted to be an astronaut. I wanted to do what they were doing. It seemed incredible, indescribably amazing.”
“And your parents? How did they react?”
“My mother said, ‘Oh, my darling girl, you do? I think you would be a wonderful astronaut.’ My father, who was always more practical, said, ‘Do you know how much schooling is involved?’ I didn’t, of course, so he explained to me all the science and math I would have to do, and when I got excited instead of deterred, they did everything they could to help me reach my goal. I was already good at math, and an early reader. We lived in Connecticut at the time, my father taught at Yale. They took me out of public school and enrolled me in a private elementary that fed to Andover, which in turn opened all the doors to Stanford. They took me on vacations to Cape Canaveral to watch launches—it was incredible, earth-shattering, to be in the presence of so much power. I studied hard, pushed myself, and achieved my goals.”
“I’d say a Ph.D. in astrophysics from MIT would be an achievement for anyone.”
Nevaeh was pleased. This doctor, this brilliant respected psychiatrist, would see to it she would go back into space. Nevaeh knew it. She said, “So you know some of my story.”
Dr. Fontaine looked at her notebook. “I glanced at the files you provided, briefly.”
“Then you’ll know the Ph.D. wasn’t all I craved. The schooling was necessary, but I had to be special to get NASA’s attention. I first published when I was twenty, in the Journal of the Aeronautical Sciences, a paper on the future of manned space flight. It got attention from many quarters. I got my pilot’s license when I was sixteen, then went on to be certified in both fixed wing and helicopter. All I was missing was a tour overseas in the military. Every step I took from the age of eight was designed to make me stand out when I applied for the astronaut program. I was among an elite group of extremely well-educated and committed individuals, all of whom were freakishly smart. I had to be better than good, I had to be invincible. And it worked. I got their attention, and I went to work for NASA, became an astronaut.”