Atmosphere(30)

“I’m so sorry.”

“I was six.”

“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

Vanessa turned back to the stars. “What is the cluster of stars between Hercules and Scorpius? It is not Sagittarius, right?”

“It does look a little like Sagittarius, but Sagittarius is smaller and closer to the horizon. That’s Ophiuchus,” Joan said. “It almost looks like a rounded triangle—as a kid, I thought it looked like a stingray. But it’s said to be a god holding or fighting off snakes. It might even represent the Mesopotamian serpent-god Nirah. Try to find the two winding arms coming off each side.”

“Okay.”

“Did your mother remarry?” Joan asked.

Vanessa nodded, softly, as she looked. “About a year later.”

“And you didn’t like him?”

“I see them. Those are the Serpens, right?”

“Very good.”

“I liked him fine. He’s a nice enough guy. Taught me to drive a car.”

“But he wasn’t your dad.”

“Hard to compete with a war hero.”

“Sure.”

Vanessa looked at Joan. “Sometimes I don’t know if I knew my dad or I just created a man out of thin air, as a god to pray to.”

“Well.” Joan sat down on the blanket. She opened the cooler and grabbed a beer. “Maybe it’s both and maybe that’s okay.”

Vanessa joined her, and Joan handed the beer over, grabbing another one.

“I made chicken salad,” Vanessa said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Joan said, pulling out the sandwiches. “It’s so thoughtful.”

Joan took a bite and realized, at that moment, how hungry she was. “This is very good.”

Vanessa shrugged. “I dry-poached the chicken, and I put a lot of tarragon in the chicken salad. I think that’s the big thing. That, and people never use enough salt.”

“It’s so good.”

Vanessa laughed and took a sip of her beer. “I’m glad you like it. I really appreciate you doing this. Helping me.”

“It’s nothing,” Joan said.

“You only think that because of how you are,” Vanessa said.

Joan took another sip of her beer, and the thought went through her mind that everything about this moment was perfect. The breeze that cut the humidity, the salty chicken salad, the cold beer, the stars.

“Tell me more about your dad,” Joan said. “If you want to.”

Vanessa looked away. She picked at the bread on her sandwich, which she had yet to touch. “You know how I was talking about bravery versus courage?”

Joan nodded.

“I always thought he was really courageous. That he must have been. And kind, and quiet. Just based on the stories my mom and uncles told me. He died doing something very few people could do. And he gave up his life to do it, to serve his country. I hope he felt conflicted about it. I hope he knew that he was needed back home. But I think he did it. . . . I think he flew that jet with a sense of duty. So, in that way, I think or I hope that he was okay that that’s how he went.”

Joan reached out and touched her shoulder. Vanessa looked at her, surprised. And Joan pulled her hand away, unsure of what line she’d crossed.

“How old was he?” Joan asked. “When he died.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“So young.”

“It seemed so old to me when I was little.”

“So he’s why you became a pilot,” Joan said.

Vanessa sighed. “I think he’s why I did a lot of things, honestly. Lashed out at my mom, cut school. I gravitated toward people I knew were bad news. I remember knowing exactly how stupid it was, what I was doing, and doing it anyway.”

“You were lost.”

“I don’t think I was lost. I think I was trying to lose myself.”

Joan nodded.

“I’m assuming that’s where the heroin comes in?”

Vanessa laughed. “It’s not funny, but it is funny hearing it come out of your mouth.”

Joan threw her napkin at her.

“I think I just wanted to feel something other than sad,” Vanessa said.

Joan did not look away. “Did it work?”

Vanessa inhaled. “Yes, that’s the problem. If you find a way to make yourself absolutely terrified, there’s no room for any other feeling.”

Joan nodded. “Makes sense.”

Vanessa laughed. “You’re the first person to tell me I’m making sense.”

Joan laughed, too. “Well, maybe people aren’t listening. But it makes perfect sense to me. You make yourself afraid so you don’t feel sad. But the more you put yourself in terrifying situations, the braver you become. So you have to put yourself in more and more danger until . . .” Joan regarded Vanessa expectantly. “Until what? Tell me. How did you stop?”

Vanessa considered this. “I don’t know. My uncle Bill—my dad’s best friend from the navy—never gave up on me. I think that was part of it. I remember turning eight years old and asking for a model plane for my birthday. My mom didn’t get it for me. But that night, Bill came over with one. He used to take me out in his prop plane. My mom and I would be in some huge fight, and she’d call Bill and he’d come over and ask if I wanted to go flying. I think I was seventeen when he pushed me to fly by myself. And when I did, I just . . .” She laughed. “At first I thought I had just found something dangerous that was more fun than stealing or having sex . . .”