Atmosphere(103)

“Vanessa, you . . .” Joan can’t finish her sentence again.

“Listen. It’s okay. We asked for so much, didn’t we? We wanted to touch the stars, and look what we did. There’s nothing more we could ask from the universe, or this God you always talk about, than that. So it’s okay. It’s fine. Okay, Joan? For me, as long as you all know what you meant to me, it all worked out fine.”

She knows that Joan is crying. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows. But, for once in this godforsaken day, Vanessa doesn’t feel sad at all.

How could she?

She had asked the world to please let her earn the love of that gorgeous, brilliant astronomer with that beautiful smile. She had asked the world to let her leave a legacy she could be proud of.

She’d been given everything.

“Do you know why I kept saying the best song was ‘Space Oddity’?” Vanessa asks.

“Because of your favorite part.”

“When he says, ‘Tell my wife I love her very much . . .’ ” Vanessa says.

“And then he says, ‘She knows,’ ” Joan says.

“Yeah,” Vanessa says. “That’s it. That’s the best part of that song. But do you think she knows? Do you really think she knows?”

“She knows,” Joan says. “She absolutely knows.”

“Okay,” Vanessa says. “I can live with that.”


They lose communication with Navigator seventeen seconds later.

Joan puts her head in her hands. Jack places his hands on her shoulders.

It is routine. The communications—both the telemetry and voice—cannot penetrate the plume of ionized plasma formed by the hot atmosphere around the shuttle. And so, with every landing, there is this period, which usually lasts for around ten minutes, in which there is charged silence.

Everyone at Mission Control remains speechless, staring up at the screens, waiting for any sign.

Voice and telemetry have not kicked back on. C-band tracking data isn’t coming in. The radar shows no signs of the shuttle in the atmosphere.

“We should have them back by now,” Jack says.

Every single person in Mission Control is now standing up, their hands covering their mouths. This is the moment they have been fearing for hours.

This isn’t right.

Joan isn’t breathing.

“Navigator, this is Houston, do you read?” Joan says.

Nothing.

Jack: “Try them on UHF.”

Joan switches to the analog frequency. “Navigator, come in. Come in, Navigator.”

Again, nothing.

Joan’s stomach starts to sink.

This was not supposed to happen. No. No. Vanessa was supposed to do the right thing and survive it! That’s what was supposed to happen!

No, there is still so much Joan needed to say.

She should have told her that she loved her. She should have said the exact words. No matter who was listening, or what NASA might have thought about it.

She should have told her that Frances needed her.

Joan should have told her about everything she’d been thinking since the day Vanessa left for quarantine. That she would quit NASA if she had to. That the three of them could be a family, taking care of Frances together. That once Frances went to college, the two of them could move to some small town and keep to themselves, or maybe live together in a house out in the country. Or they could move to San Francisco and hold hands on certain street corners.

Joan should have told Vanessa about this idea she’d had a few days ago. That when they were in their sixties, Joan would spend nights in the backyard with her telescope, and Vanessa would spend early mornings taking out her prop plane. They’d get a dog.

Vanessa had been right; Joan should have told her that. They could not back down. Joan should have told her that she was determined to rail against the world at every turn. She would scream and she would fight against how the world treated people like them, treated anyone on its edges.

Because Joan knew they would win in the end, they all would. They would hold on long enough to see the world change. To make it accept what Joan knew to be true.

That her life was complete only if lived next to Vanessa’s.

They say love isn’t always enough, but Joan knew, in that moment, that it could have been. It could have been for them. She should have told Vanessa that.

And that nothing—not even Vanessa not making it home—would ever be able to stop how much Joan loved her.

She should have said that.

Oh, she should have said that.

“Navigator,” Joan says, through her tears, standing up. “Navigator, please. Please come in. Please. Please, Navigator.” She is begging now. She’s not sure whom.

There is silence. Jack touches her shoulder again, but Joan pushes him off. No! No! “Navigator! PLEASE! Do you read? NAVIGATOR!”

Joan’s is the only voice that can be heard on the entire floor of this building. Everyone else is looking down, silent.

“Please, Vanessa, don’t go.”

She listens for anything, a single vibration. Anything at all. The soundlessness feels so sharp it could cut her.

And then she understands what everyone else does.

They are gone.

They are gone.

Vanessa is gone.

Vanessa died somewhere over Texas, having proven herself to be the exact sort of person she had always hoped she was. And now Joan is left to bear it.