Page 36 of The Light Year (Stardust Beach #6)

barbie

. . .

Barbie never truly believed that her father had anything to do with her mother’s death, though a part of her believes it was an easy way to close the chapter on a marriage that had been, at many points, less than satisfactory to them both.

But she wants to leave room in her heart for the idea that, perhaps, things had started out so passionately between them that some part of that love and desire lingered over the years, carrying them through the hard times.

It’s always been a dark spot on her heart, remembering the shocking way her mother had simply left them all, drowning in just inches of water, but it does seem plausible to her that Marion Mackey had had too much to drink that night, and had wandered off of her own accord.

For all her father’s faults, Barbie can’t imagine him doing anything to physically harm her mother, and that will always be her final determination—because it has to be.

Believing anything other than that will upend her carefully constructed narrative about who she is and where she comes from.

But now… now, Barbie is on her own. Since Marion’s death, the bonds between Barbie and the men in her family have been tenuous, at best, but her father has given her an ultimatum that she actually kind of understands.

There’s too much of Marion in Barbie—she brings too many reminders of her mother with her, and though her father presents himself to the world as strong and unflappable, his late wife was always able to get under his skin, and now Barbie does the same.

But it’s hard, Barbie thinks, to know that the relationship she’s always had with her family has changed irrevocably—and over money, which, in her mind, is no reason for a family to be divided.

But it’s not just about money, and she knows that.

It’s about control, about power, about prestige, about appearances…

the list goes on and on. And because Barbie didn’t want to play into all those values that her father and brother hold dear, she’s been cut out of the family.

With her inheritance, but still. They’ve washed their hands of her.

Looked at Todd with pity, as if to say: “She’s your problem now.

” Told her she’s not one of them anymore.

And now, as Barbie stands beneath the hot spring sun, handing out water and juice with a smile in the middle of a park in Palm Bay, she realizes that more than ever.

She is every inch her mother’s daughter, kneeling down before a little girl in a plain dress, asking her if she’s thirsty as she waits to see the doctors and dentists that Barbie has helped to gather for this event.

“What’s your name?” Barbie asks the small girl with her hair in braids and her skinned knees.

“Althea,” the girl says softly. She is shy, maybe four years old, and standing next to a tired-looking woman who must be her mother.

“It’s nice to meet you, Althea. I’m Barbie. Do you want some juice?” Althea nods at her, and Barbie hands her a small paper cup. She looks at Althea’s mother. “We’re so happy you could make it today.”

In the way of many people Barbie has encountered who are on the receiving end of resources, the woman nods politely, remaining quiet.

Barbie has learned a lot about need and lack of resources and about people in general as she’s worked alongside Carrie and gotten her foundation up and running. It’s all been incredibly eye-opening.

“Hey, Barb?” Carrie is walking across the park now, a large hat shielding her face from the sun as she carries a box of animal crackers under one arm. She’s holding her daughter’s hand with the other. “Are there more snacks in the trunk of your car?”

Barbie smiles at Althea and her mother one last time and then turns to Carrie. “Sure. I have more. Do you want my keys?”

Carrie reaches her and the two women stand there for a moment, looking around the park at the activity that they’ve created.

After working with several local organizations, Barbie had come up with the idea for this children’s health fair, one that she hopes will meet a growing need for people with low incomes to have access to health care for their children.

“This is fabulous,” Carrie says, forgetting about the crackers as she lets go of her daughter’s hand and points at a tent where a doctor in a white lab coat is looking into the ears and eyes of a little boy who sits on a stool.

The doctor has a stuffed animal there for kids to hold on their laps as he examines them, and as soon as the children are done, a nurse in her uniform hands one a balloon.

Kids with different colored balloons tied to their small wrists wander around the park, stopping to see the dentist who is giving quick exams and cleanings, and then waiting in line for another nurse who has them bend forward while she checks their narrow spines for signs of scoliosis.

“It is pretty great,” Barbie agrees. She puts a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun as she watches people walk up to the edges of the park hesitantly.

That’s another thing she’s noticed: whenever she assists at an event, she finds people approach hesitantly, unsure of whether there will be any strings attached to the help that’s offered.

Barbie is just getting started with the ways she’s planning on helping her community, and she already has a million ideas for fundraisers that will refill the coffers of the foundation, but she’s taking it all one step at a time, and truly reveling in the successes of each event, and the feeling of doing something she knows her mother would approve of wholeheartedly.

“I heard that you and Sam have already planned the next phase of the new addition at the church,” Carrie says as she adjusts the brim of her hat. “I’m so excited. Just let me know where you want me on that—I’m here to help get it done.”

Barbie puts an arm around her friend’s shoulders and gives her a squeeze. “Thanks, Carrie. I’m so glad we’re working on all these projects. I feel like I’m doing something for people outside my home, and lord knows we spend enough hours of the day doing things for the people we live with.”

“Amen,” Carrie agrees. “We do. And I would do all of it without complaint, but we both know that there are plenty of homes and families where the resources don’t stretch enough to give the children the things that our kids get, and I think we’re going to be able to do a lot of good in that area.”

As they talk, three children who look to be eight or nine years old run past, squealing and giggling, balloons trailing behind them through the air. Carrie steps out of their way with a smile.

“At our board meeting next month, I want to project ahead to the holidays,” Barbie says, looping her arm through Carrie’s as they walk towards the doctor’s tent.

Dave Huggins, NASA photographer, is there to snap some shots for the Cape Kennedy newsletter, and the women wave at him as they pass.

Barbie, no stranger to publicity and press—both good and bad—quickly gave herself over to the idea that Dave would pop up at their events and document them, and she actually sees the good in that; getting the word out about what their neighbors need is a great way to bring in more of the astronauts’ wives as volunteers and potential board members.

“We’re already thinking about Christmas?

” Carrie asks, matching her footsteps to Barbie’s as they walk slowly, admiring the carnival-like feeling of the event.

There’s even a table where two local artists have agreed to do face-painting on the children, and several kids get up from their chairs to eagerly show their mothers and fathers the tiger stripes on their faces, or the rainbows that the artists have placed on their pink cheeks.

“Oh, we have to think about Christmas now,” Barbie says with authority. We need to decide where to allocate our funds for that time of year, and I have a great idea for a summer fundraiser that I think will be an excellent way to get people interested in what we’re doing.”

Carrie stops walking. “You know, I really admire you, Barbie. I always liked you, but I think what you’re doing is remarkable.

” She looks at her friend’s face as she talks, and her eyes grow serious.

“I’m sorry you had to go through so much with your family to make this happen, but I’m really proud of you. ”

Barbie’s eyes fill with tears at the sentiment, and she smiles. “Thank you,” she says. “I appreciate that. But it was for the best.”

Carrie looks hesitant. “You mean you don’t regret losing touch with your father over this?”

Barbie looks out into the distance, where parents are mingling, waiting in line with their children to talk to the doctor, and at the kids who are playing happily under the trees in the center of the park.

Beneath one tall palm tree, she spots a woman who looks just like her mother, leaning against the base of the tree with her arms folded.

She’s giving Barbie a long, knowing look, and Barbie actually does a double-take, squinting at the woman’s face.

In response, the woman winks and gives her a little wave.

Mom , Barbie thinks. I should have known she’d be here. Of course.

Barbie looks back at Carrie, feeling a strength of conviction that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not sorry,” she says with a shake of her head.

“Not at all. The Marion Foundation is going to do exactly what it’s supposed to do, and I know my mother would be proud of me.

I’d do it all again just to know that I was doing things the way she would, had she lived. ”

“I wish I could have met her,” Carrie says. “She sounds like a truly classy lady.”

“Oh, she was,” Barbie assures her. “She wasn’t perfect, but she was my mom, and I’ll miss her every day for the rest of my life.”

Barbie’s eyes trail back to the palm tree where she’d seen her mother leaning and watching her. The woman is still there, head tipped to one side as she assesses Barbie from a distance the way a mother might—a mixture of curiosity and pride. Barbie looks right back at her.

Finally, the woman nods—just once—and then, as she and Barbie hold one another’s gazes, she lifts an elegant hand in reluctant farewell. Without another look back, the woman turns and walks away, her familiar gait unmistakable, the sunlight swallowing her until she disappears like a mirage.