Atmosphere

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

She has, in her nightstand at home, that elusive talisman that every astronaut aches for: the gold pin. Evidence that she was one of the chosen few humans who have ever left this planet. She has seen the spectacular shimmering blue of the seven oceans from two hundred miles away. Cerulean? Cobalt? Ultramarine? There was no shade vivid enough that she could name. Ninety-nine point nine percent of human beings who have ever lived have never seen that blue. And she has.

We are so determined to learn what lies beyond our grasp that we have figured out how to ride a rocket out of the atmosphere. A thrilling ability that seems ripe to attract cowboys, but is best done by people like her. Nerds. Everything about space exploration is about preparedness over impulsivity, calmness over boldness. For such an adventurous job, it can be achingly routine. All risks are carefully managed; no corners are cut. There are no cowboys here.

So it came as a huge shock to the men in the department, many of whom fancied themselves secretly destined for victory, to see that the woman they’d overlooked was lapping them in a race they did not know had started. Joan looked around the room, put her drink down, and left her own goodbye party early.

Being completely immune to romantic rituals herself, Joan could spot them better than almost anyone. It was true, she had never had a real boyfriend. Had been on only a few dates. She had been kissed, a few times, by Adam Hawkins. And she had not cared for it. She was not offended or grossed out. But it felt, to her, like people were making a very big deal out of what was, essentially, no different from eating a cracker.

She might be fine with dying, but she was not fine with leaving Frances.

“Well, we are the stars,” Joan said. “And the stars are us. Every atom in our bodies was once out there. Was once a part of them. To look at the night sky is to look at parts of who you once were, who you may one day be.” As she said it, Joan could tell how lonely it must sound. To find companionship with the stars. But what she meant was bigger than that. Being human was such a lonely endeavor. We alone have consciousness; we are the only intelligent life force that we know of in the galaxy. We have no one but one another. Joan was always moved by the fact that everything—all matter on Earth and beyond, up past the atmosphere, going as far as the edges of the universe, as it expands farther and farther away from us—is made from the same elements. We are made of the same things as the stars and the planets. Remembering that connection brought Joan comfort. It also brought her some sense of responsibility. And what was kinship but that? Comfort and responsibility. “It sounds stupid, I know,” she said.

She was trying to prove that she could be just like a man to all of them. To Jimmy. To Lydia. Because the world had decided that to be soft was to be weak, even though in Joan’s experience being soft and flexible was always more durable than being hard and brittle. Admitting you were afraid always took more guts than pretending you weren’t. Being willing to make a mistake got you further than never trying. The world had decided that to be fallible was weak. But we are all fallible. The strong ones are the ones who accept it.

Joan let her go, finally. And Vanessa pulled back slightly but did not go far. She looked at Joan, and Joan felt herself blush. Vanessa took her thumb and grazed it across Joan’s jaw. Joan’s muscles melted, and she felt like she could dissolve. Joan knew then that Donna was not an idiot. And the Beatles were not nonsense. And that there had always been a place for her in this world. She had just been walking past it over and over again, never noticing that there was an unmarked door, waiting for her to discover it.

We are a moment in time—when all of our cells have come together in this body. But our atoms were many things before, and they will be many things after. The air I’m breathing is the same air your ancestors breathed. Even what is in my body right now—the cells, the air, the bacteria—it’s not only mine. It is a point of connection with every other living thing, made up of the same kinds of particles, ruled by the same physical laws.

“The trees need our breath, and our breath needs the trees,” she continued. “As scientists we call that symbiosis, and it is a consequence of evolution. But the natural consequences of our connections to each other—that’s God, to me.

Imagine being so lucky as to be the girl Joan Goodwin loves.”

All she could think about was how grateful she was that the Earth was ninety-three million miles away from the sun today, far enough to be warm but not too hot, just the right distance for life on this planet.

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. She missed every Frances she had known. But oh, this Frances. This lanky, gangly, whip-smart Frances, with her ears pierced and a Cyndi Lauper T-shirt on, this Frances was a gift Joan would one day miss, too.

Small, slight, unimportant Joan. Just one person of five billion, on a small planet orbiting a small star, in a humble galaxy, one of billions of galaxies. Joan is so insignificant and yet, look what God had given her. Look at all that God had given her. Look at what no one will ever be able to take away.

Paul Dye, it speaks to what a generous person you are that you took so much time guiding me through the details of life on the space shuttle and in Mission Control. I have learned so much from you throughout this process, not only about how to create a monumental life-threatening disaster in space but also the way the people at NASA approach the world. Thank you.