Page 91 of Atmosphere

“No, please, do enlighten me. It’s not enough that you were so perfect our entire childhood that if I made a single mistake, I looked like a screwup. And now our parents can tell everyone you’re an astronaut and I’m nothing. Apparently, you also know better than me how to be a mom. Lovely. Please, tell me. I’m desperate to learn from Saint Joan.”

Joan grabbed her jacket.

“She’s hurting, Barbara,” Joan said. “She misses you.”

“She’s fine,” Barbara said. “Frances is special. Even though I’m sure you can’t see that.”

“Of course I see that.”

“Mom says she’s an old soul. She’s capable of handling more than most girls her age.”

Joan shook her head. “Good night, Barb. Do not do this again. I’m behind on my flying hours as it is. I can’t be blowing off entire afternoons.”

“Sorry,” she said. “Here I was thinking family is the most important thing. I’ll remember that’s not true for you, next time.”

Joan slammed the door and then instantly regretted it, worried she’d woken Frances up. She walked to her car, calming herself down as best she could, but then jamming her foot on the gas to peel away from the curb.

When she got home, she was up past midnight installing her answering machine.

A few days later, Joanand Vanessa had both had their pilots fall through—there had been a last-minute trip for some of the astronauts up to Boeing. And so they had taken the afternoon off and gone out for fried chicken.

When they got back in Vanessa’s car, Joan looked at the time. “That took longer than I thought. I have to go get Frances.”

“Oh, okay, let me get you back quickly,” Vanessa said.

Joan nodded. “Or you could pick her up with me.”

She waited, quietly, for a response. She got none. Instead, when she looked at Vanessa, she could see that she had her eyes closed. Vanessa did that sometimes, Joan had noticed. As if she could escape somewhere Joan could not see.

“I don’t know, Jo,” Vanessa said finally. “I don’t know how to talk to kids. I don’t know how to do any of that stuff.”

“How is it any different than talking to anyone else?”

“I don’t know!” Vanessa said, throwing her hands up. “I told you this is not my thing. What if I say something stupid and Frances doesn’t like me? And then you don’t like me because she doesn’t like me?”

Joan cocked her head. “How could someone not like you? That will not happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re making too big a deal out of this. Kids are easier than adults.”

“I don’t know what kids like. Or how they want to be spoken to. Do I ask her what subjects she likes in school? Or is that annoying? I don’t know how to not be condescending.”

Joan grabbed Vanessa’s hand. “Don’t you remember being seven?”

“I barely remember being a kid at all.”

Joan nodded. “Sure,” she said. “Fair. Okay, what’s the most childish thing you like?”

“What?”

“What’s the thing you like that most reminds you of being a child? Like, I love Christmas. I love going to bed on Christmas Eve and knowing tomorrow morning will feel bright and twinkly and exciting. And it doesn’t matter that the presents aren’t for me anymore—it still feels like magic is coming.”

“You do realize there’s no Santa Claus?”

“You do realize there is more wonder in the world than just Santa?”

“Wonder? Did you just say ‘wonder’?” Vanessa said. “No.”

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