Page 9 of Atmosphere

Though four years younger, Barbara snuck out to her first party before Joan, had her first kiss before Joan, had her first drink before Joan. What could Joan offer someone so much more worldly than her? How could Barbara look up to someone so far behind?

A few years later, when Joan was pursuing her PhD at Caltech and Barbara was in her junior year of college at the University of Houston, Barbara called Joan late one night, sobbing.

She’d gotten pregnant.

“You’re the only one I could call,” Barbara said.

Joan could barely believe what she was hearing. Not that Barbara had found herself here—in fact, Barbara had already gotten pregnant and miscarried once as a teenager. The shock was that Barbara had calledJoan.

“What do I do?” Barbara asked.

Joan stayed on the phone with her for three hours, talking it through. She gleaned a lot of surprising information from that conversation. Namely, that there was more than one possible father, that Barbara was unwilling to suffer the indignity of trying to figure outwhich it was, that she was intent on hiding this as long as possible from their parents, and that she’d stopped going to classes weeks ago.

Joan was trying to find the words for how to respond to the last bit of information when Barbara’s roommate came in and Barbara rushed off the phone.

Then Barbara called again two days later, this time with a clarity of purpose.

She had realized this was a great thing! This pregnancy was the answer to a question Barbara had been asking herself for years.What was she meant to do with her life?This!The reason she had yet to find a passion was because she’d been waiting for this child to give her life a shape.

Joan knew that Barbara did not understand the full weight of the task. But there was little to be done about it now.

“Do you think I’ll be a good mother?” Barbara asked Joan.

Joan had a hard time imagining Barbara as someone’s mother, but the simplest way of looking at it seemed true. “You’ve always been incredible at anything you’ve put effort into, Barb.”

“Thank you, Joan. That means a lot.”

After that, Barbara kept calling. Barbara needed money for an apartment. Barbara needed help finding out if she could get her tuition money refunded now that she was officially dropping out. Barbara needed Joan there when she finally told Mom and Dad.Barbara needed Barbara needed Barbara needed.

When their parents were upset that Barbara was single, pregnant, and dropping out of college, Barbara called on Joan to defend her.

When their mother offered to be with her when the baby was born, Barbara asked for Joan instead.

When Frances was born that May, this gorgeous gangly thing, it was Joan who held her first. It was Joan who handed her over to their mother to hold, Joan who filled out Frances’s birth certificate.

Frances Emerson Goodwin.

Joan spent months sleeping on the sofa in Barbara’s new one-bedroom apartment in Houston. She had to. Frances neededsomeone to arrange her checkups. Frances needed someone to rock her. Frances needed someone to feed her when Barbara was too tired to wake up.Frances needed Frances needed Frances needed.

It felt weird to Joan—holding a baby. She always felt as if she was going to break her, always worried she wasn’t supporting her head enough. Frances was colicky the first few months; there were times when she would not stop crying, no matter how much Joan held her. Joan sometimes could not hear her own thoughts above the screaming.

And Joan wondered how she’d gotten here. This was not the life she’d seen for herself, caring for a baby.

Joan’s bright, sharp brain—her most beautiful muscle—turned to mush from too little sleep. Sometimes, unsure what else to do, Joan would take Frances out of the apartment, stare up at the night sky, and talk to her about the phases of the moon. Frances often cooed then. It was probably just the cool night air, but Joan also suspected that Frances was starting to focus, perhaps even taking in Joan’s finger, bright against a dark sky.Maybe this was who she could be to Frances. Maybe this was their language.

But that clarity was fleeting. The rest of the time, caring for Frances felt like trudging through mud up to the knees.

Still, as soon as Joan could, she did what Barbara asked and applied to transfer to Rice to be close to Barbara and Frances.

“I do not understand why it has to be you,” her mother said to Joan when Joan was accepted and began to plan her move. “Why it can’t be me? Why can’t I help with my own grandchild?”

Joan did not know how to say to her mother what they all already knew: Barbara had chosen Joan, and Barbara always got what she wanted.

Looking back on it, Joan could see that the universe had unfolded just as she had needed it to. It had given her something she had not even been smart enough to have wanted. Because those tiny moments with Frances—in the courtyard showing her a waxing gibbous moon, blowing bubbles and teaching her shapes, tickling her under her chin and making her laugh—came more and more often,each day. They grew longer, settled in deeper. Until one day, years ago, Joan took Frances to the playground and, as she watched Frances befriend another kid on the slide, realized that she could not envision a good week where she did not at least once get to brush her thumb against Frances’s soft, dewy cheeks. To tickle Frances’s chin—and hear that laugh—was to need it forever.

The night of their dinner, Frances looked up at Joan and smiled. She was six years old. Her light brown, shoulder-length hair was no longer baby fine. Her bright blue eyes picked up on more of what was going on around her than ever before. She’d stopped wearing Mary Janes and dresses last year. Now she wore corduroy pants and T-shirts most of the time. She’d begun using words Joan was surprised she knew, like “horrid” and “pivotal.” She did not have a “great” day but a “splendid” one; when she tasted a new food, it did not taste “bad” but “peculiar.” She’d already skipped a grade in school.

Frances had been born just yesterday; Joan was sure of it. And yet, Frances was going into second grade and Joan was going to be an astronaut.

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