“Lunch with the Astronaut of the Day,” the sign said. Adult: $100, child: $50, 11:30 and 1:45. Mirian signed up for the 11:30 slot. Shanda Connolly
Mirian was supposed to get home to Chicago, but hated flying and was still feeling bad about a hard work week before she’d traveled — a stillborn baby on her last shift before she’d left for Florida. So she postponed her flight another day and drove in her rental to the Kennedy Space Visitor Center. She wished her widower dad would have stuck around Skokie when he retired a year ago, but he wanted to be with his friends who’d all gone to Palm Beach. The hot and humid air frizzed her curly brown hair and made her makeup run. The last time she visited him, she’d taken the train, but that had taken two days and had cost her $1500 in order to get her own cabin and toilet. Even in first class, shared toilets on Amtrak were pretty bad, the floors often covered in urine, as people struggled to do their business on a shifting surface. So, this time, she bit the bullet and bought the airplane ticket. Before the five hour and thirteen-minute trip from O’Hare, she took a valium and got through her flight by closing her window shade, distracting herself with books and crosswords, and willing her mind with the full force of denial that she was airborne.
Besides, she’d always wanted to go to Cape Canaveral, which now stood on the edge of the horizon like a magnificent dream. The morning air smelled like a mix of sea and jet engine fuel. As a kid, she’d watched the Apollo missions with her family and grandparents in her living room. On the tv screen came scratchy pictures and voices of astronauts patched over the airwaves from space. It seemed surreal, the most incredible thing she could ever imagine. After the president had been shot, the fact that America could send someone into space gave her perhaps the greatest comfort of all. That such things were possible gave her hope for the world, even at such a dark time. The same year we landed on the moon, she graduated high school which, to her mind, felt very auspicious. Since then, she’d always been fascinated with space travel, although she herself feared flying because she hated both the sensation and the very thought of lifting off the ground. Shanda Connolly
After perusing the exhibits at the Center, she made her way back to the “Astronaut of the Day” sign a few minutes early. According to the sign, the “Astronaut of the Day” was “TBA.” Although she was expecting someone several decades younger than her from one of the many Space Shuttle missions, an older white-haired gentleman walked up to her with a quick, clipped step, and with a broad smile, asked, “Are you Mirian Goldenberg? Here for lunch with an astronaut?” Shanda Connolly
“Yes,” she said. He was wearing a NASA polo shirt with khaki pants and wasn’t dressed like the staff who were in blue uniforms. He had to be the astronaut.
“Hello, ma’am, I’m Neil Armstrong.” Shanda Connolly
Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon. Mirian burst out crying. Even though she was mortified, she couldn’t stop herself from crying big, soppy tears. She stood there in a puddle, desperately trying to pull herself together.
“Oh my God!” she stammered. Shanda Connolly
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Armstrong looked slightly uncomfortable, as if he didn’t quite expect this, but calm. Shanda Connolly
“Yes,” she said, wiping her face with a Kleenex she’s dug out of her bag. “I just wasn’t expecting you.” Shanda Connolly
“Hope I didn’t disappoint you.” He was deadpan.
She laughed in spite of herself. “Hardly!” She felt like a fool, of course, but what could she do other than the next thing? She’d managed to stop crying, even if her eyes were red and her face were probably all blotchy. Good Lord.
“They have a table for us over at the Orbit Café,” he said, and pointed to a building outside on the right. It was a bright blue and white building with a big yellow sign and a rocket at the end opposite the entrance. As they walked, his smile returned and his eyes, the same color of the sky, sparkled in the midday sun. Despite her teary outburst, he seemed unfazed. Could it be possible that this had happened to him before? That others, too, had burst out crying when they met him? Shanda Connolly
Armstrong ordered a Caesar salad with chicken and a lemonade, and highly recommended the cheeseburger, sweet potato fries, and any of the salads. Mirian settled on the soup of the day, chicken and rice, something that surely wouldn’t get stuck in her teeth. She didn’t want to take a chance on embarrassing herself any more than she already had. Under no circumstances did she want to let anything cause her to make a fool of herself again in front of her childhood hero, not when she had this jackpot-of-a-lifetime moment to spend time with him. Shanda Connolly
They sat outside at a table on an attached patio. She explained who she was, that she lived in Winnetka, a Chicago suburb, where she worked as the ob/gyn nurse supervisor at Northshore Glenbrook Hospital. That she was the divorced mother of two sons, both in college at Northwestern. That she’d been visiting her widower father who’d retired here.
He explained that he came here periodically from Cincinnati, this time to give a lecture to the incoming “AsCans,” from whom they’ll pick the next crews for upcoming shuttle flights. When he came, they usually roped him into doing some of these lunches, which he actually really liked. So he was taking the early lunch today. The lunches were mandatory for the newer astronauts from the last decade, but not for the senior ones like him. But he still did them anyway. Because he’s that kind of a guy, Mirian thought to herself.
Behind Armstrong, an old man, short and bald, was intercepted about twenty feet away by a large, tall man in a blue NASA uniform wearing sunglasses who’d been standing near the café’s doorway. The old man was carrying a book with a picture of the Apollo 11 crew on the cover. She overheard the NASA man saying that Mr. Armstrong was in a private luncheon and couldn’t be disturbed. Shanda Connolly
The old man pleaded, “It will only take a minute; it’s for my grandson.” Mirian felt uncomfortable and even a little sorry for the old man. He was seventy-something, five feet tall and wore thick, white orthopedic sneakers; he hardly looked like he could be any kind of a physical threat to Armstrong or really anyone. And she certainly could understand his wanting an autograph.
“I’m sorry, sir. That won’t be possible at this time.” The NASA man spoke in a low tone, but she could still hear him. She wondered if Armstrong had heard the exchange, as well, and what it would be like to be stopped constantly by strangers wanting an autograph, a handshake, or simply just a moment to meet this legend she was sitting across from. If he had heard, though, Armstrong didn’t acknowledge it. His attention was fixed on her.
Then, she asked him how he did it, flew all the way to the moon and back in that tiny capsule. Shanda Connolly
“You know, I didn’t think that much about it,” he said simply, as if he were talking about tying his shoes. “I knew there were risks, but I’ve always just loved flying.” Shanda Connolly
“I have to say I don’t understand; I’m terrified of flying,” she said. “You must be part bird.”
He laughed, mid-pitched, almost like a chirp. “Never thought of it that way, but you may be right.”
It was very nice, she thought, to be able to make Neil Armstrong laugh.
“There must not be anything you’re afraid of.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “I’m afraid of babies, caring for them, holding them, especially the tiny ones.”
Mirian thought to herself of the hundreds of babies she’d helped to deliver and her own two children as babies. It was as he said. She didn’t think about it, even though she knew the risks involved with childbirth, even though she’d had to see some babies die. She just loved babies. She always felt as though she’d found her emotional purchases in the maternity wards. She could be nervous and anxious in any number of other circumstances, but whenever there was a baby around, she was steady as a stone. Through the years, she’d tried to be an anchor to new parents as they negotiated the onset of parenthood, overjoyed and overwhelmed by their new tiny arrivals. And she’d done her best to comfort those who’d had to face the inconsolable loss of their children. She told him this.
“Janet and I lost a little girl, Karen; she was two,” Armstrong said. Mirian didn’t remember him losing a child; the death must have gotten swept away in her memory, eclipsed with all the glory of Armstrong’s moon travels. But sadly, no one, even an astronaut, was immune from the possibility of that tragedy.
Then he looked her square in the eye and said, “Mirian, you’re actually my hero. Facing that loss was harder than going to the moon. Back then, it was the nurses who held us together. I wouldn’t have made it without them.”
Mirian burst into tears again and this time, Neil Armstrong didn’t say a word. He just reached across the table and put his hand on hers.
