Atmosphere(89)

“Hard to believe any one person has any significance,” he said. “I knew that before, but I never knew it, until now. Human life is . . . meaningless.”

Joan looked at him.

How was it that two people, right next to each other, given the rarest of perspectives, could draw two totally opposite conclusions?

When Joan looked back at the Earth, she was overwhelmed with her own life’s meaning—and the fact that the only meaning it could have was the meaning she gave it.

Joan studied the thin blue, hazy circle that surrounded the Earth. The atmosphere was so delicate, nearly inconsequential. But it was the very thing keeping everyone she loved alive.

Intelligent life was her meaning.

People were her meaning.

Frances and Vanessa.

Harrison swam away, but Joan stayed at the window and tried to spot Dallas. She thought of Frances, and what time it was there, and whether she was with her friends or playing field hockey. She thought of Vanessa, in Houston, at JSC, doing her own flight preparations.

Were they happy? Had they had a bad day? Did they need her?

Nothing happening across Texas mattered to the universe. Joan had always known that. But, oh, how it mattered to her. It made the whole Earth look bright and vital and urgent to her. It made that thin line of the atmosphere the most beautiful thing Joan had ever seen.

But as beautiful as it was, she wanted to feel it, and smell it, and taste it. She wanted to touch it in her hands.

Joan wanted to go home.


The Day Before


Thanksgiving 1984


“Joanie, I saw your landing in California. I was so happy to see that you got home okay. I know it’s safe to go up there, but I just feel better knowing you’re home. I love you.”

“Joanie, I thought maybe you’d be back by now, back home I mean. Maybe I could call you on Thanksgiving Day, if you’re around.”

“Hey Joanie, it’s me again. Sorry for calling so much. I think I’m just . . . can you call me back? I—”


While The rest of the crew needed some time to acclimate to the hard ground under their feet, it took Joan no time at all to readjust to the pull of gravity.

But when she stepped foot in her apartment that first morning back, something felt off. It was as if she’d come home to her childhood bedroom or tried to drive the old sedan she had in college. They had been hers, yes. But they belonged to a version of her that she’d grown out of.

It wasn’t until she hit the answering machine and heard Frances’s voice that she finally felt truly grounded again.

Before Joan had even finished listening to the third message, she’d grabbed the phone and dialed Frances’s dormitory. It rang for so long.

“Hello?”

“Frances?”

“Joanie?”

“You picked up!” Joan said.

“Yeah, I’m the only one in the hall.”

“You’re the only one there?” Joan asked. “Your mom said lots of kids are staying at school for Thanksgiving. She said there was a whole big to-do there in the cafeteria.”

“Um . . .”

Joan could hear Frances’s voice start to waver. “They do have it every year. But none of the other kids stayed. It’s just me.”

“What do you mean, it’s just you?”

“It’s just me and Ms. Green. But she’s very nice. And she’s not my teacher, so it’s not like I’m in class or anything. We are going to meet up at three tomorrow to have turkey sandwiches.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, but it’s okay, it’s okay,” Frances said, her voice so upbeat that it betrayed her. “She said they have cranberry sauce in them.”

“Franny . . .”

“I’m fine, Joanie.”

Then Frances burst into tears.

“Babe, I’m coming.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

“Frances,” Joan said, her voice stern. “I’m coming to get you, and I’m taking you home.”

Frances was quiet for a moment and then, finally, said in barely more than a whisper, “Okay.”

“Listen to me,” Joan said. “I was circling two hundred miles above the Earth, and all I wanted was to get home and see you. Do you understand that? Do you understand that I don’t care how big or small this world is, that you are the center of mine? Do you understand that, to someone, you are everything that matters on this entire planet?”

“Okay,” Frances said again. This time Joan could hear the lump in her throat.

When Frances was younger, her problems had been tough but simple. She couldn’t sleep. She cut her lip. She couldn’t write uppercase B’s.

But Frances was ten years old now, a few months into sixth grade. Her problems were heavier and darker. Joan couldn’t fix them with a sweet word or a joke or some ice. To hear Frances alone and crying so far away, it made Joan feel absolutely helpless. And she could not live with that.

“I will be there in less than four hours. Pack your stuff.”

“I can’t leave without Mom signing me out.”

Joan sighed. “Goddammit.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you.”

Joan considered the situation. “Okay, it might take me a bit longer. But I’ll be there. Have your stuff packed.”