Atmosphere: A Love Story By Taylor Jenkins Reid - 11

When the T-38 assignments came in, Joan was grateful to find out she’d be flying with Hank.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a Texas accent. He’d come out of Top Gun, the naval flight school in San Diego, so he and Joan shared some of the same Southern California references. Breakfast burritos, fruit trees, how cold the Pacific was. Joan also liked his sunglasses. He wore dark-tinted aviators that made him look like a movie star.

“Come on, girl,” he said to her as they got in the jet. “Let’s go fly a plane.”

“All right, boy, let’s go,” she said.

He laughed as they got in. That was another thing she liked about him: he laughed at women’s jokes.

Joan fit tight into the backseat, the weight of her helmet and harness already bearing down on her before he’d shot them into the sky. She could swear they were perpendicular to the Earth. She tried not to focus on how sick she felt in her belly as they reached higher and higher. She did her best to ignore the force of the air in her ears. She closed her eyes, trying to ward off the intensity of the headache. It reminded her of riding the Round Up as a kid when the carnival came to town, fighting the centrifugal acceleration flattening her body.

It reached a fever pitch, and she was not sure she could withstand the pressure.

But then they leveled out above the clouds and Joan gasped. The beauty of the pale pink puffs—soft blankets against the sky—startled her into focus. The steady hum of the wind drowned out almost everything except the sound of her own voice inside her mind. Which was such a gift. She had always been her greatest friend, her greatest guide.

Up here, all she could hear was that voice. The kindest version of her. Look at the clouds, take a breath, do you see how pale the blue of the sky can be?

Suddenly Hank’s voice crackled in her helmet: “Tell me that’s not the heavens.”

“You are never going to believe this, but I was thirty thousand feet into the air!” Joan said that evening, holding Frances’s hand as the two of them and Barbara walked into Joan’s apartment. “And on Monday, we’re going to fly upside down.”

“Upside down?”

“Upside down! And by the way, I almost puked just going right side up! So who knows what’s going to happen.”

“Oh my gosh, you can’t puke, Joanie!”

“I am obviously going to try not to!” Joan said, “But I might not be able to control it. I might just go, ‘Oh no,’ and then blaaach .” Joan mimicked puking right over Frances’s head. Frances laughed so loudly that Barbara asked her to please use a normal tone of voice and then looked at Joan with reproach.

As they settled in, Barbara told Joan how great the apartment looked and Frances immediately gravitated toward all of the portraits Joan had been working on when she couldn’t sleep at night. There were a few of Frances with her big eyes and long eyelashes, one of Barbara, one of their father.

“You have to do Grandma,” Frances said.

“I know, I really do,” Joan said. “For some reason, I find it hard to draw Grandma.”

Barbara looked at the portrait of herself, which was sitting on the nightstand. Joan saw a small smile on her face, even though Barbara tried to hide it. This was Joan’s favorite part. To be able to show someone what they should love about themselves.

Barbara put the picture down, gently. “It’s because you look like Mom.”

“What?” Joan said.

“You look like Mom. I look like Dad. And you can’t draw Mom because you don’t like to draw yourself.”

“I could draw myself.”

“Oh,” Barbara said. “Well, you don’t ever draw yourself, so I just figured you didn’t want to.”

Joan considered this. “I just . . . don’t find myself all that interesting, I suppose.”

“Joanie, I think your face is very interesting,” Frances said. “I like how you have tiny light freckles all over it and you have three gray hairs on the side of your head.”

Joan laughed. “Thank you, my love.” And then: “I ordered pizza for dinner.” Barbara offered a tense smile, but Joan knew she wouldn’t complain. Joan always paid, ordered too much, and sent Barbara home with the leftovers.

“Did you get pepperoni?” Frances asked.

“Yeah, and with extra anchovies because I know how much you love them.”

“Noooooo!” Frances said, and Joan grabbed her and tickled her ribs. Barbara set the plates for dinner.

After dinner, Barbara sent Frances to get ready for bed. She was spending the night at Joan’s, and the two of them were going shopping for back-to-school clothes the next day. It was their annual tradition. As Joan walked Barbara out, she handed her the leftover pizza. Then Barbara pulled Joan into the hallway.

“You seem happier,” Barbara said. “Lighter.”

“I do?” Joan felt a little jolt go through her.

“Yeah,” Barbara said. “It’s nice.”

“Well, I guess . . .” Joan thought of that feeling up in the jet. The pale pink of the clouds. “I guess I am a little lighter.”

“You’ve met someone,” Barbara said.

“What? No!”

“I thought for sure that’s what all this was. That glee in your voice.”

“Barbara,” Joan said. “No.”

Barbara sighed. “I swear, Joan, every time I think I understand you, I’m more wrong than the time before.”

“I’m not that hard to understand, Barb. I love my new job. It’s . . . the coolest thing I’ve ever, ever, ever done.”

Barbara looked at her, and Joan could feel the distance between them growing. She’d been just an arm’s length away a second ago, but she was gone now.

“If only I could find something I love half as much as you love talking about stars.”

Joan said good night to Barbara and went back inside her apartment with a smile still on her face. She could hear the condescension in her sister’s voice, but she could not be angry.

Joan so loved the beauty in this world: showing people the stars, spotting the fuzzy glimmer of the Orion Nebula with just her eyes, the rare moments when auroras are visible even in the southern states because of intense geomagnetic storms, trying one more time to really nail Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp Minor, rereading The Awakening, listening to Joni Mitchell and Kate Bush, drawing for so long, so late into the night that her palm cramped, running so far that she forgot to think, taking Frances for ice cream and watching how long she deliberated over which flavor to choose, the smell of Frances’s hair . . .

That was the stuff that made life worth living. And she worried Barbara didn’t see that.

“All right, babe,” Joan said once Frances was done with her shower. “Are we watching TV or reading a book?”

“Reading a book!” Frances said.

Joan began taking the throw pillows off the sofa. “Okay, if you’re sure . . .” It was the easiest trick with Frances: if you let her choose, she’d choose the responsible option. But if you told Frances she couldn’t do something, you’d get a battle for the ages. Joan had tried to explain this to Barbara, but Barbara didn’t want to hear it.

Joan extended the sofa bed, and Frances got settled in, grabbing her book.

“Joanie,” Frances said. “I love your new apartment. I wish I lived here.”

“Aw, babe, you can stay here anytime you want. It’s your place, too. Always.”

Joan kissed her on the forehead and turned out the lights in the living room. She went into her bedroom.

And then, instead of grabbing her own book, she grabbed her sketchpad and a pencil. For the next hour, she tried to draw her own face.

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