The phone rang about 9:30 a.m. It was Mom.
"Turn on the news," she said quietly. "Something's wrong with the shuttle. Mike Anderson is on that flight."
Then I heard a click.
I turned on CNN. All I saw on television were some white, cloudlike streams. The news report said the shuttle was lost. Later, we found out that Columbia had broken into pieces on re-entry and the crew was dead.
Mike Anderson; Rick Husband, the commander -- I had baby-sat for them. Kalpana Chawla -- K.C., as we knew her -- was on my dad's second mission.
This could have happened to Dad.
A SPACE FAMILY
Most kids would have been thrilled when their father came home and told them he was going into space.
I cried.
I was 13 years old, more concerned with being popular and getting a kid named Joe to like me than my father's ambition of being an astronaut. His dream was crushing mine.
It's not that I didn't want him to go into space. I just didn't want to move to Houston. I wasn't ready for cowboy boots, big belt buckles, flying roaches and the sweltering heat that would make my hair go flat.
I was also tired of moving. My father's career as a Naval aviator had uprooted us every three years, and it was hard leaving friends and starting over.
But of course, being 13, I had no say in the matter. (I tried to persuade my parents to let me stay with a friend. They weren't having that.) I moved to Houston, home to Johnson Space Center, in 1992, the summer before one of the biggest milestones in a child's life -- the start of high school.
I was never really interested in space. I took science because I had to -- I always knew I was going to be a writer. So I wasn't peering over his shoulder when he was studying and bombarding him with questions about how the toilet works and whether the astronauts really eat freeze-dried ice cream.
The only question I asked was if we were going to be rich once he went up. I pictured something similar to Michael Jackson's ranch, on a smaller scale of course, but with giraffes and elephants, a couple of amusement park rides.
Father shut that fantasy down pretty quick.
I was wrapped up in my own life. I was trying to adjust to a 3,200-student high school that was more cliquish than West Beverly. And the idea of him going into space was somewhat surreal. I was embarrassed, watching him dress up in his blue flight suit and go speak at all these schools. I thought: How can he speak about space when he has never been? (Never mind that some people are astronauts for years before they ever go in space.)
But one day in October 1994, he came home and told us he had been assigned to STS-72 Endeavour, a nine-day mission, and was going to do a spacewalk.
I was relieved. I now had an answer when people asked me if my father had flown in space. I could proclaim proudly, "He's going up in January!" (January 1996.)
Still, I wondered if he was really going to leave the Earth's atmosphere. I needed more proof than crew photos, patches and a picture of dad in his space suit. I had to see it to believe it.
SPACEWARD BOUND
Dad's first flight. He is getting ready to get into space shuttle Endeavour on Jan. 11, 1996. Crew members Mike Mangione and Jim Davis lend a hand. (AP Photo/Courtesy of NASA)
Dad's first launch was on January 11, 1996. I had made it to senior year (hallelujah) and was more focused on getting into a good college -- out of state -- than on Dad's space mission.
I wasn't concerned when the media noted that the launch was two weeks before the 10th anniversary of the Challenger disaster. I was in second grade when Challenger blew up. All I knew was a teacher was on board.
A few minutes before liftoff, the immediate family members gathered on the roof of the Launch Control Center. I was disappointed with the view. We were so far from the shuttle, it looked like one of those models you buy at the hobby shop. (I was told later that the LCC is one of the closest viewing spots.)
I remember though looking at the shuttle, thinking in awe, My dad is in there. I got excited -- just a little.
We counted down from 10 in unison, and all of a sudden, the night sky lit up so bright it looked more like 4 p.m. than 4:40 a.m. We watched the shuttle get smaller and smaller and the solid rocket boosters and external tank fall off. We cheered. The worst was over.
We headed inside to feast on navy beans, a tradition after launches.
The second time he went up was in November 1997, on the STS-87 Columbia mission. I was a sophomore in college. I was more mature, more aware of the risks involved. I had finally watched "Apollo 13." I knew more about the Challenger disaster.
Unfortunately, this made the launch more emotional hassle than exciting adventure.
As we counted down the clock, my stomach knotted. I felt sick. But the liftoff was successful, and I slowly exhaled. We cheered, went back inside and ate our navy beans. The worst was over. Wasn't it?
TOUCHING DOWN
Coming Home: Columbia touches down at 7:20 a.m. on Dec. 5, 1997, at Kennedy Space Center. (AP Photo/Courtesy of NASA)
I never went to my father's landings. I figured if he got up there safely, surely he would come back down in one piece. I watched him on the NASA channel when he was in space. I went to Mission Control and talked to him through a television screen. His head was swollen -- with no gravity, fluid rushes to your head -- but other than that he sounded great.
But when disaster struck the shuttle program a second time, it happened at the end of a mission, not the beginning.
How could this have happened?
A few hours after the Columbia disaster, I called my parents back. I managed to get my father on the phone between his numerous media interviews.
"I knew this was going to happen," he said.
"Huh?" I said. "When you flew on Columbia, you knew it was old and was going to break down?" (We didn't know much about the cause of the accident at this point.)
He said no.
"Nothing is perfect 100 percent of the time. It's impossible."
Several years ago, one of my friends was changing a flat tire on the side of the road when he was hit and killed by a car.
My father told me the same thing then. The laws of nature don't allow anything to be safe 100 percent of the time. Sooner or later, there's going to be a plane crash, an automobile accident, an explosion. You just never know when.
That's what makes it scary. Not just spaceflight, but life.
But just like you can't stop driving, flying, or riding the subway (well I guess you could, but you know...), you can't stop exploring. The benefits of space exploration far outweigh the risks.
HEROES
Set to Go: Astronauts, including my dad, head to the launch pad to get on space shuttle Columbia. (AP Photo/Courtesy of NASA)
It took three years after the Challenger accident for another shuttle to go into space. I was scared that with two disasters, NASA may decide to discontinue the space program. I knew we couldn't let that happen. That's why I cheered when Discovery lifted off and landed safely last summer.
One thing I learned from my father is that you can do all the analysis in the world and make every change you can think of, but you are never going to eliminate risk.
Dad assumed risks every time he strapped himself into the cockpit of an F/A-18. He knew the risk of being an astronaut. But he was fearless and brave, eager to get up there and do his job.
Some people think being an astronaut is fun and cool. You get up there, you float around, do some flips, play with the ball that your orange juice formed when you spilled it. They don't realize that these people have risked their lives for a greater good.
They are true heroes.
I was in Jackson Heights, Queens, a few weeks ago, walking with a friend to his apartment so he could drop something off before we went to dinner. It was cold, and I was trying to keep my head down to avoid the wind, so I wasn't really paying attention to where we were.
When we stopped to wait for the light to change, I looked up and saw the street name.
Kalpana Chawla Way.
I smiled. New York gets it. I called my mother to tell her the good news.
For a NASA presentation on tragedies in space, go here.
Megan Scott is an asap reporter based in New York.
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