Atmosphere(65)

At NASA, Joan’s job was preparing for every single possibility. It was a system built to eliminate unknown variables. In her work life, she had never felt more prepared and ready to face disaster.

But all Frances had to do was kick her in the shin, and Joan had no idea what to do.

She bent down to Frances’s eye level as Frances continued to scream.

“I want my mom! She knows how to do it! You don’t know anything!” Frances began to flail her arms around and shoved her homework folder onto the floor.

Joan did not know what to do except lean over and put her arms around Frances, holding her tight against her body.

“Stop it!” Frances screamed at her. “Let me go.”

Joan didn’t. She held Frances as Frances thrashed against her. Joan was quiet and steady. Eventually, Frances relaxed into Joan and stopped yelling. She began to cry into Joan’s shoulder. When she finally stopped, Joan pulled back and looked at her tears.

Frances’s face was flushed, her eyelids swollen. But when Frances turned her gaze up from the floor, it was her eyes that gripped Joan.

Supposedly, children are resilient. But Joan suspected this was merely something we tell ourselves because we are terrified they are just as delicate as we are.

Joan put her thumb to Frances’s cheek and softly wiped her tears away.

Frances did not say much after that. She never ate the Rice Krispies treats. But the two of them watched TV together until it was time for Frances to go to bed.

Frances got into the shower and bathed on her own.

Joan lay down on Frances’s bed. As the shower ran, she looked up at the plastic stars on Frances’s ceiling. They were disorderly, those stars. They had no relation to the actual night sky.

There was nothing she knew to do except take every single star down off that ceiling.

When Frances came out of the bathroom in an oversized T-shirt, her hair wet, Joan was still on the stepladder.

“What are you doing?” she asked Joan.

Joan got down. “Turn off the light,” she said.

Frances did, and the stars began to glow. She looked up at the ceiling. “Did you move them?”

“Come here,” Joan said, patting a spot on the bed. Frances got in. Joan tucked her in and then lay down next to her.

“Do you see those stars in a line there, right above you? And how it looks like there’s a big basket at the bottom?”

“The Big Dipper,” Frances said.

Joan smiled. “Exactly right.”

“Part of Major Ursa,” Frances said.

“Ursa Major. That’s right—you’ve been listening. What’s the one across from it? That looks similar but upside down?” Joan pointed just to the right of where they had been looking.

“The Little Dipper. Ursa . . . Minor?”

Joan kissed her forehead. “Smart kid.”

“Show me the others,” Frances said. And so Joan showed her the other two she had managed to arrange during Frances’s shower, Cassiopeia and Lyra.

“I love it,” Frances said. “Thank you.”

And then Joan tried to say good night.

“Please don’t go,” Frances said. “Please just stay all night.”

“I’ll be here. I’ll be right downstairs.”

Joan heard the front door open then and relaxed, knowing Barb was finally home. She didn’t say anything to Frances.

Frances shook her head. “No, I mean will you please stay here with me until I fall asleep.”

“Okay, you got it,” Joan said, laying her head down on Frances’s pillow.

As she did, Frances moved her arm underneath Joan’s neck, pulling Joan toward her with a confidence and authority that startled Joan. As if Joan were the child, and Frances the adult. And Frances kissed Joan’s forehead, just as Joan had done to her. “I’m sorry for what I did, Joanie,” Frances said as she began to drift.

“It’s okay, honey. I know.”

And then Frances was asleep.

When Joan got downstairs, Barbara was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a glass of wine. She looked absolutely gorgeous. Her dark hair blown out, her blue dress cinched at her waist. Her lipstick was a little faded but deep red. Joan could see that Frances was going to grow up to look a lot like her. That Frances would have that same glamour to her one day.

“Where the hell have you been?” Joan asked her.

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Barbara said. “After the day I’ve had.”

“The day you’ve had?”

“I called you ten different times from LaGuardia Airport, Joan,” she said. “I missed my flight. What did you want me to do? I had to get on the four o’clock.”

“I want you to make sure your kid isn’t abandoned at school,” Joan said, trying to keep her voice down.

“Well, maybe you should hook up the goddamn answering machine I bought you for Christmas!”

“The school secretary is on a first-name basis with Frances, did you know that? They have gotten into the habit of doing crossword puzzles together because of how often Frances is left there.”

Barbara shook her head. “Here we go again, gearing up to recite the litany of ways you and Frances are both better than me—”

“I’m not—”