Page 18 of The Light Year

The women sat there in silence for a moment, letting the late afternoon light drift through the front window of their shared condominium.

Jeanie’s shoulders slumped again. “I’ve only ever had a spark with Bill,” she said, sounding forlorn.

“But Bill’s already got a spark—with his wife,” Vicki said firmly.

Jeanie thinks about that conversation now as she floats in the swimming pool. Her eyes are shaded behind sunglasses as she lets her arms and legs float limply in the water like seaweed. The two liver-spotted women in bathing caps walk by again in the shallow end of the pool as they swing their arms in an exaggerated movement, sort of like they’re on a stroll together, only with the resistance of the water to slow things down. They’re talking animatedly, but Jeanie’s ears are still in the pool.

She knows Vicki is right: there’s no reason for her to pack her bags and her cat and leave Florida. There’s no call for her to abandon her own dreams just because she and Lieutenant Colonel Hot-to-trot can’t keep their hands off one another. The very thought of having to call and tell her mother that she’s screwed up her life over a married man is enough to sober Jeanie completely, and she puts her feet on the bottom of the pool, standing up abruptly and letting the water stream over her tanned body. Her hair drips down her back and she walks over to the steps of the pool, climbing out and walking over to the chair where her towel is slung over the back.

She takes off her sunglasses and squeezes the water from her long hair, then wipes her face off and dries the droplets from her arms and shoulders. The eyes of everyone in and around the pool take in her youthfulness with wistful longing, and then the retirees all go back to their books and conversations before Jeanie even notices their admiration.

There’s no way she’s going to give up everything she’s worked for just because her hormones are playing tricks on her. Jeanie is infused with determination in this moment, and she knows she can stay away from Bill. She knows she can, because she has to.

To do anything else would be career suicide, and would also mean she’d given up on herself entirely. And if anyone is going to believe in her and make her dreams come true, it’s going to be Jeanie.

She wraps the towel around her waist, knotting it tightly, and slides her sunglasses back on her face.

The women in the pool give her one more smile, and every man in the gated pool area watches her walk away.

barbie

. . .

The memories comeat her like little lightning bolts as she goes about her daily life: her mother whispering to her that she should never second-guess love. Christmas of 1945, when Barbie found her mother outside in the dark, loading boxes of food into the trunk of a dilapidated car that idled behind their house. The woman driving was young and looked haggard, her backseat full of small children with enormous eyes. A moment observed between her parents that showed Barbie how much they truly loved one another—her father had gently brushed a stray hair behind her mother’s ear as they stood in the house's hallway together, bodies inches apart, faces close enough to kiss, though they weren’t.

As she pushes Huck on the swings at the park in early October, Barbie recalls a time when her mother had taken her out for an evening. She’d been fourteen, and shy, in the midst of an awkward teenage girl phase that left her feeling like she didn’t belong in her own body, and her body didn’t belong or fit into any clothing or space she might inhabit.

“Put this on,” Marion Mackey had said, handing Barbie a dress on a hanger. The dress was a dark, midnight blue shantungsilk, with a cinched waist and a netted petticoat under. To Barbie’s surprise and delight, it had fit—and looked quite lovely.

When she descended the stairs, Marion had been waiting with her gloves in hand, lips pursed as she assessed her daughter.

“Beautiful,” she said, handing Barbie a shrug to put over her shoulders. “Off we go.”

They were in the back of the car together, being driven by Etan, the man who had driven her family for as long as Barbie could remember, when her mother reached over and encircled Barbie’s wrist with her long, narrow fingers. The sky was the same color as Barbie’s dress, and they cut through the night in their black Pontiac Streamliner.

“Darling,” Marion said in her deep, movie star voice. “We’re not actually going to a fancy dress occasion.”

The balloon of excitement in Barbie’s chest popped. In 1942, her father had ordered an electric car called L’oeuf Electrique, which created a tidal wave of excitement for Barbie and Ted. They waited on pins and needles for this futuristic car that was supposed to look like an egg. But when it arrived, it was a tiny bubble of a car with a strange metal steering wheel, and though her father got behind the wheel joyfully, ready to show it off to his children, the excitement over an egg-shaped car had vanished. This was nothing more than a strange toy for her father, Barbie had realized. This moment felt much like that one, and she looked at her mother with dismay.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. As she waited for a response, a feeling came to her: there was a hint of subterfuge to this outing, and that brought its own sense of excitement. Immediately, Barbie sensed she was expected to keep this from her father. She caught Etan's eye in the rearview mirror, and for the briefest sliver of a second, she thought she caught him winking at her.

"My love," Marion said, still holding her daughter's wrist. "You and your brother are extremely blessed. You live lives of ease, and you've never wanted for a single damn thing. Not every child is so lucky."

Barbie swallowed, feeling guilty as she turned her head to look out the window. What was she supposed to say to that?

"Hey," her mother said, squeezing her wrist. "That's not a judgment on you children—that’s just how it is. And I want you to get a full view of the world before you grow up and fully inhabit it. You need to understand how people live—and not just people with money." Her mother tapped her knee and leaned forward, speaking to Etan. "Can you please pull in behind the church?"

Etan nodded wordlessly and swung the Streamliner in behind the Catholic church on the corner. He cut the lights and turned off the car.

"Now," Marion said, turning back to her daughter. "We're going to change our clothes and spend the evening helping people who aren't as fortunate as we are. All I need you to do is smile and be willing to do what we're asked, okay?"

Barbie, who trusted her mother implicitly (despite the very real teenage urge to roll her eyes at ninety percent of what Marion said and did), nodded seriously. "Okay, Mama," she whispered.

Under the dark of night, and with the car parked beneath a thick tree, Marion and Barbie stood behind the Pontiac with the trunk opened wide, unzipping each other's dresses and slipping them off amidst clandestine giggles.

"Here, wear these," Marion said, thrusting a pair of cotton trousers at Barbie. She put one leg into them and then the other, pulling them up to her waist and holding them there, as they were several sizes too big for her. Marion leaned over the trunk and pulled out a long piece of grosgrain ribbon, which shethreaded through the belt loops and then tied in a jaunty bow at the waist. Barbie took the men's shirt that her mother offered, buttoning it up and rolling the cuffs so they didn't hang down over her fingertips. For their feet, they each put on canvas shoes with rubber soles and then looked at one another.

Barbie felt like they were in costume, and about to embark upon a fun, madcap caper of some sort. But Marion's face turned deadly serious as she took both of her daughter's hands in her own and pulled her closer. In a low voice, she whispered: "Sweetheart. There are many things I haven't told you yet, and now is not the time for all of them." The car idled in the darkness as Marion pulled Barbie away from the exhaust, setting her on the curb and then sinking down next to her so that their knees were touching. "But in life, sometimes a woman doesn't want to be pregnant, and furthermore, she can't afford to be—for a variety of reasons."

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