Page 37 of Atmosphere

“And you didn’t like him?”

“I see them. Those are the Serpens, right?”

“Very good.”

“I liked him fine. He’s a nice enough guy. Taught me to drive a car.”

“But he wasn’t your dad.”

“Hard to compete with a war hero.”

“Sure.”

Vanessa looked at Joan. “Sometimes I don’t know if I knew my dad or I just created a man out of thin air, as a god to pray to.”

“Well.” Joan sat down on the blanket. She opened the cooler and grabbed a beer. “Maybe it’s both and maybe that’s okay.”

Vanessa joined her, and Joan handed the beer over, grabbing another one.

“I made chicken salad,” Vanessa said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“More than okay,” Joan said, pulling out the sandwiches. “It’s so thoughtful.”

Joan took a bite and realized, at that moment, how hungry she was. “This is very good.”

Vanessa shrugged. “I dry-poached the chicken, and I put a lot of tarragon in the chicken salad. I think that’s the big thing. That, and people never use enough salt.”

“It’ssogood.”

Vanessa laughed and took a sip of her beer. “I’m glad you like it. I really appreciate you doing this. Helping me.”

“It’s nothing,” Joan said.

“You only think that because of how you are,” Vanessa said.

Joan took another sip of her beer, and the thought went through her mind that everything about this moment was perfect. The breeze that cut the humidity, the salty chicken salad, the cold beer, the stars.

“Tell me more about your dad,” Joan said. “If you want to.”

Vanessa looked away. She picked at the bread on her sandwich, which she had yet to touch. “You know how I was talking about bravery versus courage?”

Joan nodded.

“I always thought he was really courageous. That he must have been. And kind, and quiet. Just based on the stories my mom and uncles told me. He died doing something very few people could do. And he gave up his life to do it, to serve his country. I hope he felt conflicted about it. I hope he knew that he was needed back home. But I think he did it…. I think he flew that jet with a sense of duty. So, in that way, I think or I hope that he was okay that that’s how he went.”

Joan reached out and touched her shoulder. Vanessa looked at her, surprised. And Joan pulled her hand away, unsure of what line she’d crossed.

“How old was he?” Joan asked. “When he died.”

“Thirty-eight.”

“So young.”

“It seemed so old to me when I was little.”

“So he’s why you became a pilot,” Joan said.

Vanessa sighed. “I think he’s why I did a lot of things, honestly. Lashed out at my mom, cut school. I gravitated toward people I knew were bad news. I remember knowing exactly how stupid it was, what I was doing, and doing it anyway.”

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