Atmosphere

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Joan felt, so acutely, that the incurable problem with life was that nothing was ever in balance. That she could not have toddler Frances and fifth-grade Frances at the same time. She could not meet adult Frances and have a moment to hold baby Frances all at once. You could not have a little of everything you wanted. Joan tried to remind herself that when Frances had been younger, she had held Frances’s little hand every single chance she got. When Frances had been a baby, she had smelled her hair sometimes for whole minutes at a time. She had been present for all of it. Didn’t that mean that she would not grieve its loss, since she had voraciously

and self-indulgently taken all of it that was offered? No. It did not. She still ached for every version of Frances. But to love Frances was to be always saying goodbye to the girl Frances used to be and falling in love again with the girl Frances was becoming.

“You’re like Atreyu,” Frances said to Vanessa. “I am?” “Yeah, you’re just like him.” “How is Vanessa like Atreyu?” Joan asked. “Because,” Frances said, looking at Vanessa, “you are the sort of person who would do anything to save the kingdom.” And then: “Don’t you think, Joanie?”

Maybe they had not asked for too much. Maybe they would get everything they wanted.