Follow the Stars Home (11 page)

He had been difficult in many ways. Moody and intense, he had kept to himself. If Lucinda had had her way, they would have gone out more often. They would have given dinner parties. Lucinda had imagined literary evenings, with people reading their favorite poems, acting scenes from plays, drinking wine. Emmett would have laughed her out of town before letting that happen.

Early on, he had left the raising of Dianne to her.
He was a little nervous around his baby girl, afraid he might harm such a fragile creature just by touching her. Emmett had yet to realize the strength and resilience of babies. So Lucinda, a full-time librarian, had stuck Dianne's playpen behind the front counter. But as Dianne grew, her father had started taking her in his truck. She would ride through town, standing on the seat, her arm slung around his neck. Love can take time to grow-even between a father and a daughter.

She thought of Alan, of the way he was with Julia. Wishing she could find something to say that would make Dianne see him in a different light, Lucinda smiled. “Well, I hope my chicken soup does some good. Alan is Julia's uncle, after all.”

“He did look pretty sick,” Dianne said.

“He was positively green around the gills when he came into the library.”

Dianne laughed. Staring off into space, she seemed to be seeing something that amused her.

“You find it funny,” Lucinda began, “to see Alan McIntosh laid up with the flu?”

“No,” Dianne said. “I was just thinking of his arms. He's got that myopic-professor look down pat, but under his frayed blue shirt, he's actually pretty muscular.”

“Surprised you never noticed before,” Lucinda said.
She
certainly had, and so had the other librarians.

“Amy has a crush on him,” Dianne said.

“Do you like having Amy around?”

“Yes,” Dianne said. Her eyes scrunched up as if she didn't like the thoughts in her head. “She reminds me so much of how Julia would be if she could talk. And she seems to like Julia so much-she treats her like a real person.”

“Oh, honey,” Lucinda said.

“I wonder about her mother …”

“Maybe she can't talk to her. Maybe she needs to talk to you.”

“That's how it feels,” Dianne said.

Lucinda didn't think this was the time to point out that Alan had sent Amy to them. Her matchmaking instincts were buzzing, and she knew she'd better slow down. She didn't know what Dianne, in her present mood, was liable to read into any comment Lucinda might make about their helpful pediatrician. So she just smiled across the table and waited for her daughter to smile back.

One afternoon in the beginning of June, waiting for a second coat of paint to dry, Dianne discovered something else they all had in common. She and Julia had always loved driving: Something about the rhythm of the road, the warm breeze in their hair, the sense of moving ahead, of being together in a small space, brought them comfort. And now it was revealed that Amy loved riding too.

Dianne's Ford pickup was dark green and shiny. She had stickers from Mystic Seaport, the Mystic Marinelife Aquarium, and the Connecticut River Museum on her back window. Julia's wheelchair lay in the flatbed, folded under a blue plastic tarp in case of rain. With Julia buckled into her special car seat, set in the middle, Dianne drove with her elbow out the open window.

“We're up so high!” Amy said.

“Ever been in a truck before?” Dianne asked.

“When I was a baby-my father used to have one. My mom told me. He needed it for his fishing gear. I wish we still had it. I'd get my mom to park it
somewhere till I was sixteen, then I could drive and drive….”

“My dad had one too,” Dianne said. “Trucks are great for hauling things. Wood, fishing gear, wheelchairs … right, Julia?”

Julia gazed straight ahead. In the truck she didn't have to move her head from side to side. The world was spinning fast enough, whizzing by her window at forty miles an hour. She clasped and unclasped her hands.

“Can I ask you something?” Amy asked.

“Sure,” Dianne said.

“Do you hate it when people call girls chicks?”

“By people, you mean guys?”

“Yeah, at school. They call us chicks. One guy called me something bad because I wouldn't let him copy from my test.”

“Good for you for not letting him copy.” Dianne glanced across Julia, saw Amy frowning at her knees. “What'd he call you?”

“Two things.
Bitch and
the C-word.”

“Poor fellow,” Dianne said, shaking her head as if she were filled with true compassion and sorrow for the nameless sixth-grader. Admitting only to herself how murderous she'd feel if anyone ever said that to Julia.

“Why do you call him that?” Amy asked, looking confused.

“’Cause he's so limited. Imagine revealing your ignorance that way, in the middle of school for everyone to hear. Pathetic, really. I feel sorry for him.”

“Yeah …” Amy said.

“So, the boys call you chicks?”

“Mmm. Is that okay?”

“What do you think?”

“I kind of like chicks. My friend Amber and I
talked about it. We like the word, and we like chicks themselves. Cute, peepy little things. All busy and happy and feathery.”

Julia sighed and hummed.

“I love feeling feathery,” Dianne said, turning on the radio. “But I'm picky about what I want boys calling me. Like, you and Julia can call me a chick, but I don't want men doing it.”

“Because it means something different when they do, right?” Amy said, her face screwed up as she worked on getting this ancient and vexing truth.

“I think so,” Dianne said.

“But when it's just us together-you, me, and Julia-we can be chicks?”

“Sure.”

“Huh.”

“To men we're women.”

“Women?” Amy asked doubtfully. “I'm only a sixth-grader.”

“Still,” Dianne said. “It's in the attitude.”

Julia tilted her head, blinking at the sun.

“Women,” Dianne said, “are strong.”

“My mother says
lady.”

“That's okay,” Dianne said. “Everyone has their own path. They get strong in their own ways. For me, it means I want people to call me a woman.”

“Even us? Me and Julia? We have to call each other women?”

“Nah,” Dianne said. “As long as we know who we are, we can relax when it's just us. If we want, we can be chicks.”

“In one week I'm out of school. Then next year I'm in seventh grade.”

“Wow,” Dianne said, meaning it.

“Seventh-grade woman,” Amy said, trying it out.

“Smart and excellent,” Dianne said.

“With my chick friends,” Amy said, and she grinned. “That's us, right, Julia?” “Babes,” Amy said. “Girls.”

“Gurlz,” Amy laughed, spelling it. “Gaaaa,” Julia said. “That's us too!” Amy said.

“Three gaaas, off for a ride by the sea,” Dianne said, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.

Amy was free!

School was out, finally and forever. At least till September. Her first week off from school was hot and muggy. A heat wave had fallen on Hawthorne and all they wanted to do was keep cool.

Dianne gave Amy a straw sun hat. It had a wide brim, a blue ribbon, and it looked almost exactly like Dianne's. Amy loved her new hat so much, she wouldn't take it off.

The three “gurlz” went rowing in the marsh. Blue-fish, the first good-sized ones of the season, turned the water silver-blue. A gray heron skulked in the shadows. Amy dipped her fingers in, trickled cool water onto Julia's bare legs. Dianne had made a little bed for Julia in the V of the rowboat, between the seats, shading her with a blue umbrella.

“What's your favorite animal?” Amy asked.

“A particular animal or a species?” Dianne asked.

Amy exhaled. Dianne had such a complicated way of thinking, it sometimes made Amy feel stupid. At home, people didn't talk like this. Their answers were so much easier: “dog” or “shut up, I'm watching TV.” But the weird thing was, Amy wasn't embarrassed about feeling stupid around Dianne. She
knew if she stayed with it, Dianne would help explain her way of thinking, and Amy would get it sooner or later. Amy was starting to feel smarter all the time.

“What do you mean?” Amy asked.

“Well, Stella's my favorite animal in particular, but cats aren't my favorite species. Sea otters are.”

“Oh, yeah!” Amy still didn't know the exact definition of
species
, but she was ready to go with the flow. Drifting through the marsh, she looked for sea otters on the banks.

“What's yours?” Dianne asked.

“Gaaa,” Julia said.

“I guess the puppy at home, or maybe Stella, is my favorite in particular. The best spee-sees”-Amy spoke carefully, getting it right-“in my opinion, are whales and dolphins.”

“You're like your friend Dr. McIntosh,” Dianne said.

“Yeah,” Amy said. With Dianne in her life, she had stopped going to his office so much lately. Besides, his office was downtown, near her school. But the mention of his name still filled her with a warm glow.

“How's he doing anyway?” Dianne asked, gently splashing the oars.

“Dleeee,” Julia said.

“Oh, he's fine. I called him yesterday.”

“Hmm,” Dianne said.

You and he should get married
, Amy nearly blurted out, but she stopped herself. She'd been thinking it for a while. They seemed so comfortable together. They had known each other forever. And they both loved Julia. But life at home had made Amy very sensitive to people's feelings, and she had
the idea Dianne wouldn't want her to say that about her and the doctor.

Dianne was in a tie for third, in the most-important-alive people in Amy's life. Her mother was first, Dr. McIntosh second, and Dianne and Julia tied for third. Amy's father reigned over them all, but he was dead in heaven. This was an earthly competition.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Amy asked.

“No,” Dianne said.

“Oh, another only child,” Amy said.

“I always wished for sisters,” Dianne said.

How often had Amy wished for sisters? Girls to share the secrets of home life with, concern for their mother, hatred of Buddy. Older sisters would know what to do. They would care gently for Amy, leading her out of the maze. “Who's your best friend?” Amy asked.

“I don't know. My mother, I guess.”

Amy was silent. She wished so much that she could say the same thing, but she knew it was impossible. Her mother and Lucinda were about as far apart as two people could be.

“How about you?” Dianne asked. “Are you close to your mother?”

Amy coughed, pretending not to hear the question.

“How are the plans coming?” she asked. “For the retirement surprise?”

“I don't know,” Dianne said. “I'm stymied.”

“You'll think of something.”

“It's funny,” Dianne said. “Last night I had a dream of Julia graduating from school. In it I wanted to take her someplace, and when I woke up, I was thinking we should all take a trip.”

“To Disney World!” Amy blurted out.

Dianne laughed. As if Julia could understand, she
began to croon. Amy felt so excited. Did Dianne mean Amy too? She had said “We should
all
take a trip….” Did that include Amy?

“Or somewhere,” Dianne said. “The Grand Canyon, or the Rocky Mountains … the Mississippi River, Prince Edward Island. My mother loves
Tom Sawyer
and
Anne of Green Gables.
We could go visit the story settings. That's what I thought when I woke up from my dream.”

“How would you get there?” Amy asked, praying Dianne would correct her and say
we
again. But she didn't.

“I don't know,” Dianne said. “My dream didn't get that far.”

Julia's hands moved as if parting the air in front of her face.

“There's always tonight,” Amy said, feeling solemn inside. “Maybe you'll dream again tonight.”

Dianne rowed them through the marsh. Julia dozed at their feet. Whenever she slept, she curled up into a ball, just like the puppy at home. Amy saw Dianne watching her. Dianne reached down to brush Julia's damp hair off her brow, leaving her hand there for a minute. The expression on Dianne's face was serene. It wasn't always that way. A warm breeze blew through the reeds, and the sun beat down. Amy was glad they had their hats on and Julia's umbrella up, and she wished they could just keep rowing forever.

The sky was white and the air was hot. Waves of heat rose from the road. Dianne and the girls had stopped for ice cream, and they were eating in the shade of a picnic area.

Dianne hadn't slept well the night before. Julia had tossed and turned. She'd torn off her diaper twice. The second time, she had been out of breath, and Dianne had held her until her pulse returned to normal, until the rise and fall of her chest matched the gentle rhythm of distant waves breaking over the Landsdowne Shoal. When she fell asleep, she curled back into the fetal position.

“Mmmm,” Amy said, licking her ice cream cone. “I love orange pineapple.”

“I love black raspberry,” Dianne said. She and Julia were sharing a dish, and she spooned a cold bite into Julia's mouth.

“Why did you name her Julia?” Amy asked, letting the orange ice cream melt down the backs of her hands.

“Because it sounds dignified.”

“Dignified?” Amy asked, frowning the way she did when she wasn't positive exactly what something meant.

By the way she talked, Dianne knew she hadn't been read to as a child, and that filled her with great sadness. “Yes,” Dianne said. “I wanted everyone to know she's important.”

“But she is important,” Amy said as if that was the most obvious fact in the world.

“I know,” Dianne said, thinking of Tim sailing away.

“What's her biggest wish?”

“I don't know,” Dianne said.

They were sitting in a grove of trees, and the wind blew overhead, making the leaves slap like cards in bicycle spokes. Dianne took a spoonful of ice cream.

“Where's the farthest place Julia's ever been?” Amy asked.

“Just here,” Dianne said. “Places around Hawthorne.”

“I wish we could take her somewhere,” Amy said. “On a trip.” A huge motor home had rumbled into the picnic area. An old man was driving. Parking in the shade, he and his wife got out to stretch their legs. They had a collie on a leash, and the woman walked it in the grass.

“In one of those,” Dianne said. She laughed, and so did Amy, staring at the Winnebago.

“Julia,” Amy said, taking her hands. “Pretty girl!”

Julia wrung her hands, gazing at the sky.

“How about you?” Dianne asked, turning to Amy. “What's your greatest wish? Where's the most incredible place you've ever been?”

“Oh,” Amy said. “I don't know.” She sounded offhand, almost as if she didn't matter. “I don't know nothing but Hawthorne.”

Dianne hesitated but only for a moment. She was
the librarian's daughter, after all.
“Anything
but Hawthorne,” she said gently. “Not
nothing.
You're too smart to use bad grammar.”

“Thank you,” Amy said. And Dianne suddenly felt sorry she'd said anything.

“Tell us something about yourself,” Dianne said. “We spend so much time together, and you never talk about yourself.”

“I have a dog at home. He sleeps on my bed and guards my room,” Amy said, looking down. “He loves me.”

“I'll bet he does,” Dianne said. “What's his name?”

Amy didn't reply. She bit at her fingernail, then looked at her wrist.

“He doesn't-” she said. “He sleeps in a cage.”

“Amy …” Dianne began, confused by the lie.

“My father left me his watch.”

“I know,” Dianne said.

“That big motor home-” Amy said, trying to laugh. “Would you really take a trip in one?”

“I was just kidding,” Dianne said.

“It's like that story, where a whole family lived in one big shoe. I feel like you and Julia are going to climb in and walk away.”

“Shoes that walk away can come back,” Dianne said.

Amy shrugged. She clicked the toe of her shoe against the wheel of Julia's wheelchair. Julia had been wringing her hands, but she stopped. Her hands began their ballet, tracing the air between her and Amy's faces.

“They can, Amy,” Dianne said.

Amy nodded, but she didn't speak.

Dianne's heart was bursting. She wanted so many things. To help Amy, to be a good mother, to be a
good daughter, to give Julia the life of a real girl-take her different places, let her feel new air, let her know she mattered. Take her to New York to see
The Nutcracker
at Christmas, something every mother and daughter should do together at least once. Her mother was the person retiring, but Dianne felt like the one growing old.

“I know how it feels to be left,” Dianne said out loud.

Amy turned to look at her.

“It hurts so much. I can't even pretend it doesn't.”

Amy was crying, but she didn't want Dianne to see. She just kept playing with Julia. Dianne had the lonely feeling of being the only parent around, the only adult. She wished her mother were there. Even more, surprising herself, she wished Alan were.

But why should that be surprising? He cared about them all: Amy, Julia, and even Dianne. Dianne felt the tension building up in her chest, and was about to cry. At times like this, she felt such an overwhelming need for him. He was the only one who knew, really knew, what she went through. She wanted to be held by someone gentle, by Alan, but she couldn't. She had married Tim instead. Dianne knew her tragic flaw, had recognized it after all this time: She didn't know how to choose a man who would really love her.

She sat very still and watched her daughter and her friend write silent poetry in the warm air, in the sacred little grove of birch and pine trees, old picnic tables, and melted ice cream, and she imagined how it would feel to share times like these with a friend of her own. With Alan.

The next night, Julia cried out; when Dianne went to her, she found her child panting as if she had run a
race. Dianne did what she always did: checked for obstructions in her throat, the wetness of her diaper, things sticking into her skin. Julia seemed bigger; was it possible she'd grown an inch in the night? Dianne's own heart was beating out of her chest. Grabbing the phone, she called Alan's answering service, told them it was an emergency.

“Hi, Dianne,” he said, calling back five minutes later. Although it was three in the morning, he sounded wide awake. “What's the matter?”

As it often happened, the minute Dianne called him, Julia seemed better. Her breath was returning to normal, her heart slowing down. Perhaps she had had a nightmare. Sweaty and distressed, she was crying softly.

“Julia was breathing too hard. She's better now….”

“I'll come over.”

“No, Alan,” Dianne said, feeling Julia's pulse. “I'm sorry I called. Honestly, she's—”

“Look. I'll meet you at the emergency room or I'll make a house call. It's your choice.”

Holding Julia, feeling her sobs starting to subside, Dianne hated the idea of taking her out into the night. They were in their nightgowns, sleeveless white cotton that let the cool air blow across their warm skin. Crickets were chirping, and a setting half moon flooded the marsh in thin butterscotch light.

“A house call, I guess,” Dianne said. She thought back to that flood of great need for him in the picnic area, and she realized her hands were shaking. She tried to keep her feelings out of this; Julia was in distress, and she needed her doctor. “Thank you, Alan.”

She got dressed.

Parking his old Volvo outside the Robbinses' house, Alan grabbed his medical case and walked to the door. He had done this a hundred times, stopped by when Julia was having a problem. But tonight his heart was pounding. He was there to help his niece, and he was in love with her mother. They had been going through this for years. Lights were on in the kitchen, and he could see Dianne sitting at the table. Her head was down, her face in shadow.

Walking up the pathway, Alan thought about false alarms. His service woke him three or four times a week, and by the time he called the parents, the emergency would have subsided. The coughing had stopped, the fall out of bed hadn't been serious, the yell had been worse than the injury. From Dianne's voice, Alan had been able to determine Julia's crisis had passed.

Yet there he was. Nothing could have kept him away. She could be bitter and angry till the day they both died, and he'd keep showing up. Nightbirds called, and animals having sex or killing each other screeched in the marsh. Taking a deep breath, Alan tapped on the kitchen door.

“I feel really stupid,” Dianne said.

“She's breathing fine?”

“Not only that,” Dianne said. “She's fast asleep.”

They stood in the doorway, toe to toe. Moths flew around the porch light, bumping against the glass. Dianne wore jeans and a big white shirt. Alan wondered whether she slept in the shirt. He saw her beautiful body, her soft curves, and he wanted to hold her against his own beating heart.

“Let me take a look at her anyway,” he said after a while.

Nodding, Dianne let him in. She led him upstairs, down the short hallway. Alan could have found his
way blindfolded. Over the past eleven years he had walked the route so many times, the rhythm of his footfalls had become silent meditation; a prayer of protection for Dianne's daughter.

They entered Julia's room. Dianne always kept a night-light burning in there. It cast a dim orange glow, like the half moon outside, on the sleeping child. Her hair fanned out on the pillow. The only time he ever saw Julia peaceful was in slumber. Dianne stood so close, he could feel the heat coming off her body.

“See?” Dianne whispered. “She's okay.”

Taking out his stethoscope, Alan gently rolled Julia flat on her back. Her normal sleep breathing had a slight whistle, like air slowly leaking from an inner tube. Dianne slid down the straps of Julia's nightgown, and Alan listened to her heart and lungs.

“See?” Dianne said.

Closing his eyes to hear better, Alan listened harder.

“She's fine,” Dianne said again.

Every seven beats, Julia's heart made a little click. Alan had been listening to it for a long time. The click had first materialized when she was three. Back then, it had come once every ten beats of her heart. The summer before it began coming once every eight. And now it was every seven; Alan had noticed the change last Christmas.

“See?” Dianne whispered, although her eyes looked worried.

Moving the stethoscope down, he listened to the fluid gurgling through her bowels. Palpating her belly, he felt for swelling. Gently unhooking her diaper, he glanced inside.

“Well, she's fine,” Alan said suddenly, putting his stethoscope away.

They went downstairs.

“I'm sorry for panicking,” Dianne said.

“You were right to call me.”

“I was?” she asked. The worry had disappeared from her forehead when he had put away his stethoscope, but it came straight back at his pronouncement, so Alan put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her.

“I just meant it's better to be extra careful. We've been watching her….”

Dianne waited for him to finish his sentence, hanging on every word. But Alan couldn't finish it. He didn't know what to say next. Dianne understood Julia's situation better than anyone. Standing in the kitchen, they stared at each other.

“What's happening?” she asked.

“With Julia?”

“Tell me,” she said, her eyes wild.

Alan wanted to take her hands. He wanted to hold her, tell her he had loved her all these years. He was so filled with love for her: Couldn't she see? Life was short, and people threw the time they had away. Doctors were supposed to know that better than anyone.

“What?” Dianne asked.

“When you change her diaper,” he began. “Do you look?”

“What do you mean? Of course I look!”

“She's in puberty,” he said.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Dianne seemed to be in shock. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head.

“Um, is that coffee?” he asked, gesturing at the pot on the stove.

“Yes, I just made it,” she said. “Please, sit down.”

Alan took a seat at the old pine table. He had been there plenty of times before. He had had his very own spot, back when Dianne and Tim were first married. Now, Dianne sat beside him, pretty and flushed. Her skin was lightly tanned, glistening in the warm night. Her lips were moist and full. He played with a spoon to keep from holding her hand.

“Puberty, really?” Dianne asked.