Follow the Stars Home (13 page)

“The curse sounds about right,” Dianne said, staring at the veiny diagram in the anatomy book, still feeling the newfound horror of having a uterus, cervix, and labia. “I really look like that inside?”

“Yep. So does Margie. So do I. But you know the greatest thing?”

“What?” Dianne had asked.

“You came out of there. And when you're ready to have your baby, so will she.”

Dianne stared at that baby now: Julia. What would happen when Julia started getting cramps?

What would she think was going on in there? Dianne wanted to show her a body diagram and help her make sense of it all. She kissed Julia's hand, then pressed her cheek to Julia's soft skin.

“Julia,” she said. “What are you thinking?”

“Gaaa,” Julia said.

Dianne had bills to send out, catalogue copy to compose, and a checkbook to balance. The rain slanted down, blowing straight off the marsh with gale force. She wished they could see open water, because she had an idea.

“This storm is from the south,” Dianne said, carrying Julia to the car. “Feel how warm it is?”

The rain came down hard, like driving bathwater. Dianne imagined it blowing up from Florida, across Cape Hatteras, over palm trees and barrier islands. She buckled Julia into the truck. She scanned the radio dial, listening for female voices: No men would do today. When she heard Blondie singing “Dreaming,” she left it there.

They drove straight into downtown Hawthorne. The tide was up, and the boatyards were flooded. Alan's office was in one of the old brick buildings, and Dianne glanced up. Then she looked out at the storm; taking a deep breath, she held her daughter's hand.

Does it hurt?
Dianne had asked her mother.
A storm
, Lucinda had said …

At thirteen Dianne
had
felt her body was a storm. She had swallowed a hurricane, and it felt like it would rip her apart. Her period came, she eventually got breasts, she began secretly pining for boys. But her mother had given Dianne words to match to her feelings.

How was it for Julia? She looked like a tiny child. She didn't know any boys, and what would she think
if she did? Her body was acting just like every other preteen girl's, whether her head knew it or not.

“My grown-up girl,” Dianne said.

Julia made a crying sound.

“Look, Julia,” Dianne said, pointing at the water. Beyond the yacht club, the harbor was thrashing around. Waves broke over the jetties, sending rockets of spray up into the air. Dianne reached across the front seat. She placed her right hand on her daughter's abdomen.

“It's the same thing,” Dianne whispered. “There … and there.”

Could Julia understand? Dianne wanted to tell her it was all okay. She wanted to explain the birds and the bees, the sorrows of menstruation, the complicated joys of womanhood.

“I love you, Julia,” Dianne said. “Don't be scared, okay?”

Dianne didn't say any more. She knew she couldn't make Julia understand with words. Pointing at the crashing surf with one hand, she gently pressed Julia's belly with the other again.
It's all the same. It's all the same thing. Don't be afraid of a little storm inside. Don't be afraid, my love.

Alan's office overlooked the harbor. Dianne wondered whether he was up there now, seeing her truck out his window. It made her feel better-yet nervous, and crazy, all at once-to think he was.

She didn't want to think about why, but she couldn't stop remembering how easily she had rested her head on his shoulder the previous night. He had held her tight, and she'd felt desire starting to grow. Thinking about his muscles, feeling his strong arms around her, knowing that they had once wanted each other. They had kissed once, a million years ago.

She stared up at his office. Was that him, standing
in the window? She saw a figure silhouetted in the glass, staring down. It had to be. She felt flushed, as if he had caught her watching him. Sliding down in her seat, she felt her heart beating hard. All these years of angst, and she felt it still.

“That's Uncle Alan up there,” Dianne said.

“Daaaa,” Julia said, waving her hands.

Dianne looked across the boatyards. There was the oyster shack where she'd lived with Tim. Where they had conceived Julia. What had Dianne been thinking? Life with Alan would have been too easy, too comfortable and predictable? She had had to choose his brother, the scoundrel with scars and a broken tooth, just to prove that she was super-woman? That she could love Tim McIntosh into staying home, into mental health?

There was Alan standing by his window. It looked as if he were on the phone, staring over the water. He was tall and strong; he filled the window. Standing there, not moving or walking away, she sensed his amazing focus. Dianne couldn't stop staring up at him.

“Dlaaaa,” Julia said. She sounded distressed, as if she was hungry or wet. The fussing got worse, and she started to cry.

“Okay, honey,” Dianne said calmly. “We're going home.”

Dianne felt so overwhelmed with reality. Glancing up at Alan, she wanted him to see them and come down. She needed someone to hold her, tell her everything would be okay, she was doing a good job. Thinking again of Alan's arms around her, she nearly broke down. She felt deserted right then. In the shadow of Alan's office, within sight of the old oyster shack, Dianne closed her eyes and held Julia's hand.

Alan stood at his window, finishing up a phone call.
Was that Dianne's truck down by the wharf? What was she doing here in the pouring rain?
If he told Martha to stall his patients, hold his calls, he could grab a jacket and see what was going on. But just as he decided to head out, Dianne drove away.

Alan was having a busy day. A three-year-old patient had swallowed some Monopoly houses, and Alan had spent the morning trying to determine how many. One? Thirteen? The frantic mother had walked in just as her son was popping one into his mouth. He got down another before she'd stopped him. X rays revealed three, so Alan had put the family on stool watch and sent them home. Now he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number in Nova Scotia.

“Yeah?” came the voice. It was low and gravelly, the voice of a cartoon bad man.

“That's nice,” Alan said. “This could be the International Dolphin Council wanting to throw you research money, and you'd scare them right off.”

“I got their money already. Why should I kiss their asses again? Trouble with you doctors is, you put too much emphasis on bedside manner. Waste of everyone's time, in my opinion. Not that you asked.”

“Hi, Malachy.”

“Hi, Alan. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Honor?”

“Sure. Busy young doctor like yourself calling me.”

Alan pictured Malachy in his wheelhouse. Since retiring from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, he had started his own operation in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. He lived and worked on an old tugboat, recording marine mammals to study the ways
they communicated. Strange work for a guy whose own communication skills were shaky at best.

“What's it like up there?” Alan asked.

“Clear and fine. You coming up?”

“Too much work to do.”

“I've got a great idea. Make all the sick kids better fast. Give yourself till Christmas. Then you can quit doctoring, come up to Canada, and listen to whales all day. I could use you.”

“Sounds tempting,” Alan said.

“So what's holding you back? Stick a sign on your office door, tell ′em all good riddance, and come on up.”

“Good riddance,” Alan said, trying out the phrase as he stared at his wall of pictures-infants and children, his patients, all smiling out at him.

“What's the SMB gonna do?” Malachy asked. “That's my only concern.”

“The SMB …” Alan said.

“Yeah … All those chicken pot pies are gonna go to waste. Those chocolate layer cakes and pullover sweaters.”

“You should be so lucky,” Alan said.

“They steer clear of me,” Malachy said. “The lovely ladies of Nova Scotia. One wife was enough for my lifetime.”

“Could be the skull and crossbones you've got on your door,” Alan said. “Or the way you answer your phone.”

“Quit picking on old coots,” Malachy said, “and get to the point. I was out six hours with the hydrophones last night, and I've got two reels left to listen to. What's going on? Kids got you down?”

“They eat their toys.”

“Ehhh,” Malachy chuckled. “Mine ate a starfish once. He survived. What else is bothering you?”

“My niece,” Alan said, staring at Julia's folder.

“Tim's girl?”

“Yes.”

“I'm listening.”

“She's eleven years old now. More wrong with her than right, Mal, and it's been that way since the beginning.”

“I know, you think I don't remember the soap opera? What's different?” Malachy asked, all the abrasion gone from his voice.

“Why do you ask that?” Alan said.

“You've been standing by for eleven years-something's got you churned up all of a sudden. What is it, she's taking a turn for the worse?”

Alan stared out the window. “Not yet.”

“But she will?”

“Yeah. You hear from Tim?”

“I hesitate talking to him about you, just as I'm slow to talk to you about him. You know? Might cause trouble. What does her mother say?”

“She knows the facts, but she doesn't want to see them exactly. She's—”

“Don't say ‘in denial,’” Malachy growled.

“I won't,” Alan said. His mentor had taught him to avoid jargon, to never trivialize situations with catchphrases that sounded like they belonged in magazine articles. “But that's the idea.”

“Look,” Malachy said. “You're the best pediatrician spit out of Harvard in the last twenty years. Bar none. You're doing everything for that child … she's in good hands. That's all you can offer.”

“Seems like there should be more,” Alan said.

“I told you way back when, it's easier being an oceanographer,” Malachy said, his voice almost soft.

“Yeah, and sometimes I wish I listened,” Alan said.

“How's she doing?”

“Julia? I told you, she—”

“No, the mother. Dianne.”

Alan felt very cold. His heart was beating fast, and he felt it in his throat. “Is that you asking, or someone else? Is he up there with you?”

“It's me asking.”

“She's good,” Alan said, realizing that Malachy hadn't answered his second question. “She's very good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Malachy said. “It was never her fault.”

“No, it wasn't,” Alan said, feeling an old anger grab hold. “It never was.”

“Lousy thing, one brother stealing the girlfriend of the other.”

“She wasn't my girlfriend,” Alan said. “We had only that one date.”

“That might be what you told yourself, but it wasn't how you felt. You should've spoken up when you had the chance. You tried to keep the peace, and now you're paying the price.”

“Huh,” Alan said, staring at the rough harbor.

“You all right, Alan?”

“I want to settle this,” he said.

“Settle with Tim, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“It's about time,” Malachy said. “No use poisoning yourself, holding everything inside.”

“So much for keeping the peace,” Alan said.

“What was so peaceful about it?” Malachy asked. “I'd like to know.”

“I get your point, Mal,” Alan said. “So, if you see Tim, if he just happens to pull up to your dock, will you give him a message? Tell him I want to talk to him. Right away.”

“I'll keep my eyes open,” Malachy Condon said.

Buddy walked in from the rain, drenched and swearing. Sitting on the floor by the puppy's cage, reading
Anne of Green Gables
and watching TV, Amy ignored him. She heard him slamming around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards much louder than necessary. If there was one thing Amy had learned from her afternoons with Julia and Dianne, it was that positive attitudes were far superior in all ways to negative ones.

Let him swear, let him rage
, Amy thought as she struggled to concentrate on the book Dianne had given her. She tried adopting the same approach to Buddy that was working so well with David Bagwell: feeling sorry for him. Anyone that mean was pretty pathetic, a very sorry human being. But as Buddy moved toward her mother's door, the sympathetic approach flew out the window.