Follow the Stars Home (22 page)

“Alan?” Tim asked, his heart thudding. “Alan's looking for me?”

“Well, as ‘lookin’ for′ you as he can do from all the way down in those Hawthorne tropics. He called
here.” Puffing on his pipe, Malachy gazed out across the glassy harbor. The day was going to be a beauty. The sun had just risen over the land across the water, spreading clear, golden light over everything. “Good to be home, it is. Come down below, and let me fix you a cup of tea.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim said gruffly. “I'm American. I like black coffee.”

“Black coffee then, son,” Malachy said, smiling around his pipe stem. “Whatever you want. You know all you got to do is ask.”

“What's he want?” Tim asked.

“You know I don't butt in,” Malachy said sternly. “If you want to know, you're going to have to ask him yourself.”

Tim nodded at the old Irishman, respectful and apologetic. Hearing about Alan's call had put him in a belligerent state of mind. Here he was, a thousand miles away, in another country, and it all came back: his family, his past, his guilt. Days like this were bad. By nighttime Tim would be looking for trouble. Maybe a woman, maybe a fight, maybe both. Malachy stared at him with affectionate silence as if he could read his mind, as if he knew he had all day to talk him out of it.

Prince Edward Island was everything Lucinda had dreamed it would be. A land of meadows and rivers, swept by the wind and coddled by the sea. There were beaches everywhere, some with red sand, others with sand so white and fine it looked like powdered pearls. It was like stepping into the pages of her favorite book, where nearly every scene had brought tears to her eyes.

Dianne drove the motor home slowly, so Lucinda
could savor every inch of the island. There was the Acadian parish of Tignish; the capital city of Charlottetown and the Gothic spires of St. Dunstan's Basilica; the lazy land of Summerside, where they saw a pair of silver foxes; and finally, Blue Heron Drive, which took them along the red sandstone coastline into
Anne of Green Gables
territory.

“‘Blue heron,’” Amy read from the bird book. “‘A large water bird that migrates to the maritime provinces every spring to nest in the shallow bays and marshes.’ Will we see any on this trip?”

“We see them in the marsh at home,” Dianne said. “All the time. You know that big bird that stands in the shadows….”

“With the knobby knees,” Amy said.

“He's a great gray heron,” Lucinda corrected her daughter.

“Same thing,” Dianne said, steering up a long and scenic hill.

“Is it the same thing, Amy?” Lucinda asked. “Is the blue heron the same thing as the gray heron?”

“They're different!” Amy said, waving the field guide. “The same species, but different birds!”

“My mistake,” Dianne laughed, thrilled by the way Amy was starting to love learning. She and her mother exchanged a small smile. Julia dozed in her seat, her knees tucked into her belly.

They visited Cavendish. Here Lucinda's enthusiasm waned slightly.
Anne of Green Gables
seemed to have become a local industry. There were water slides and go-carts, an amusement park and a national park. Lucinda couldn't wait to move on, make a connection with the young orphan Anne, who had brought her so much comfort in her youth, but Orion needed a walk.

While Lucinda and the puppy went for a stroll,
Dianne and the girls wandered toward the rides. They wore shorts and sleeveless shirts, and the summer sun felt just as warm as it did in Hawthorne. There was a merry-go-round and Ferris wheel, bumper cars and a flume.

“Gleee,” Julia said, tilting her head back to look up.

“What do you see?” Amy asked, crouching by her side.

“Maybe a blue heron,” Dianne teased. “In flight.”

“No,” Amy said, following the line of Julia's sight. As Dianne tilted her head up to look, she saw the Ferris wheel. It rose high over the amusement park, shiny silver and colored metal gleaming in the sun. Moving slowly around, it looked like a giant pin-wheel, the kind Dianne had held up for Julia, to let the wind blow around and around, when she was very young.

“She wants to go on it,” Amy said.

“She can't,” Dianne said.

“Why?” Amy asked, her eyes glistening as she grabbed Dianne's hand. “Let me take her.”

“No,” Dianne said, feeling panic.

“Kids love rides,” Amy said. “We do. You've brought her all this way, on her trip of a lifetime…. Can't she go on the Ferris wheel?”

Julia gazed up. Her eyes were full of joy and light. Carnival music jangled, and Dianne's throat ached the way it did whenever she had a glimpse of Julia as a normal girl. What would be the harm? Children younger than Julia had ridden….

“Okay,” Dianne said. “She can go.”

“Yay!” Amy said, jumping up and down, pointing at the sky. “That'll be us, Julia. Way up there!”

Dianne paid for two tickets. Afraid the man would say something, look at Julia strangely, prevent her from going on the ride, she tensed up. But he just took
her money, waved them away from the window, moved the line along. Dianne insisted on strapping the girls in herself. The attendant seemed not to mind.

“These seats are safe?” Dianne asked, her heart pounding.

“Yep,” he said.

“Has there ever been a problem?”

“Never lost a kid yet,” he joked.

“Dianne …” Amy said, embarrassed.

“Maaaa,” Julia said, touching Dianne's nose, her hair.

“Okay, next!” the attendant called as the Ferris wheel turned slowly, sweeping Amy and Julia out of her reach so the couple standing behind them in line could climb on. With every turn, Julia was inching away from her. Dianne stood on the ground, her head thrown back, wanting to get her baby back.

“Honey, where are the girls?” Lucinda asked, coming over.

“I'm crazy, Mom,” Dianne said. “I let them on the Ferris wheel.”

Now Lucinda tilted her head back, shielding her eyes against the sun as she searched them out. Waving madly, she grinned. Julia and Amy were all the way at the top. They stayed there for a long while, as the last passengers were loaded on, and then the ride began to move.

“Look at them,” Lucinda said, still waving.

“I can't,” Dianne said.

“Wheeee!” Amy's voice screamed above the music, above other people's laughter. “We're flying!”

“Oh, Mom,” Dianne said. Panic closed in, and she felt it clutching at her chest. She had sent her baby, her little helpless Julia, into oblivion. Dianne had left her with baby-sitters, left her overnight at the hospital, but she had never felt so out of control before.
What if Julia got scared? What if she slid under the bar and fell out?

“Wheee!” Amy yelled again.

“Whee! Whee!”

“Oh, my God,” Lucinda said, holding Dianne's free hand. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes,” Dianne said, covering her face. “Amy's excited.”

“It's Julia, honey,” Lucinda said. “That's your daughter.”

Dianne uncovered her face. The Ferris wheel turned merrily, music tinkling through the summer air. The carriages were full, twirling around the spokes of the great wheel. Dianne located her daughter, fixed her in her gaze, saw her mouth wide open, grinning, calling out in sheer, joyful abandon.

“Wheeeee!” Julia called. “Wheee!”

Dianne held her mother's hand, watching her little girl have fun in the sky. When the ride stopped and Dianne rushed over, she heard Amy: “Wow. Oh, my God. Can we do it again?”

“Maybe later,” Lucinda said, helping her off.

Dianne half expected to find Julia in tears. Ready to wrap Julia in an embrace, she held herself back. Her daughter was smiling, head swaying from side to side in pure bliss.

“Wheee,” Julia whispered, gazing into her mother's eyes. Dianne found herself wishing Alan were there to see and hear her.

Alan returned to his office from the hospital. One of his patients had been brought in with a cut head suffered at Jetty Beach, and the ER had called Alan. Chris Wright, a seven-year-old with two older sisters, had banged his head, playing with a boogie board. His sister Abigail had been in charge, as their parents were out sailing on their boat, and she had asked the ER to call Dr. McIntosh. He rushed right over.

Now, back at work, he stared at the message on his desk, at first unable to make sense of the words: “Your brother Tim called.” It was followed by a wrong number.

Alan buzzed Martha. She was on hold on another line, waiting to speak with Chris's neurologist, but she answered right away.

“Yes, Dr. McIntosh?” she asked.

“This phone message from my brother,” he said.

“Oh, yes. He called while you were at the hospital. He—”

“You made a mistake with the number,” Alan said, interrupting her.

“No, I didn't,” she said.

Martha was a great nurse, but secretarial skills were not her forte. He kept planning to hire a receptionist to take the burden off her. In the meantime, backed up with patients in his waiting room, he snapped at her.

“Look, Martha,” he said. “You wrote down Malachy Condon's number. Now, wherever the hell my brother's fishing these days, it's not in Canada. So will you go to your desk, look for—”

“He is with Malachy,” Martha said coolly. “He said so expressly.”

“Oh,” Alan said, stunned. “I'm sorry.”

“Now, if you don't mind, I have Chris's neurologist on line two—”

“Hello, Jake?” Alan said, clicking onto line two, ready to hear Chris's test results from Jacob Trenton, the best neuro guy Hawthorne Cottage had on staff. Alan listened, pleased to hear there'd been no concussion, no need for worry, Chris would be fine. But Alan was distracted.

When he got off the phone, Alan stared at the phone message. His brother was with Malachy Condon, up in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, exactly where Alan had told Dianne to go if she needed anything. Sending the woman he loved into his brother's arms wasn't going to make Alan's day go any better.

He dialed the familiar number of Malachy's tugboat.

Dianne was enjoying every mile. Why had they never done this before? After this trip, they'd have to motor-home their way through all the great sights of the United States: the mountains of Colorado, the caves of Kentucky, Memphis, the Grand Canyon, the
Mississippi River. They visited Woodleigh Replicas, getting deliciously lost in the medieval maze. They saw Cape Traverse, where one hundred winters ago passengers in iceboats were pulled across the strait by men harnessed like horses. She sent Alan postcards along the way.

They built sand castles on every beach they saw. They found strands of white sand in the north, red sand along the south shore. At each one, they built wonderful castles, taking pictures of every one. Julia seemed to enjoy being with her family on the sand, patting seashells and dry seaweed into place for decoration.

“Maybe I'll change tacks,” Dianne said. “From now on I'll make sand castles instead of playhouses. Julia can help me.”

“You can't sell sand castles,” Amy said sadly. “They don't last.”

“I know,” Dianne said, helping Julia drizzle wet red sand onto a turret. “But they're so beautiful while they're here.”

“Maaaa,” Julia said.

They visited the places known to Lucinda's beloved Anne. They saw the grounds of Lucy Maud Montgomery's Cavendish home, where the novel's author had lived with her grandparents after the death of her mother.

“She knew from her own experience,” Lucinda said.

“How it felt to be orphaned?” Amy asked.

“Yes,” Lucinda said. “You can't imagine, it's the loneliest feeling in the world.”

“I can only guess,” Amy said, taking her hand.

They were walking through the homestead fields and old apple-tree gardens. The foundation and white picket fence were all that remained of the
actual house, and Dianne felt disappointed. She would have liked to take photographs so she could duplicate the house for some little Hawthorne girl. Listening to her mother and Amy talk, Dianne pushed Julia and felt so grateful that they had each other. That she had her mother, and that Lucinda was healthy.

“Coming here means so much to me,” Lucinda said, linking arms with Dianne and Amy.

“I know you loved the book,” Dianne said.

“My childhood was very lonely,” Lucinda said. “My adoptive parents fought all the time, and it often turned violent.”

“Huh,” Amy said. “I know what that's like.”

“I wish you had started reading sooner,” Lucinda said, kissing the top of Amy's head. “I used to escape into books. I'd hear my father yelling, and I'd open my book and dive in. I don't know what I would have done without reading.”

“I just wished they'd stop,” Amy said. “I'd lie in bed with my fingers crossed and wish my head off. I'd pray to every angel flying by that something would happen, that somehow Buddy would disappear and things would get better.”

“One of those angels listened,” Lucinda said.

“Yeah,” Amy said, nodding. “I think so.”

“Buddy's gone, and your mother's getting better.”

“It used to be so awful,” Amy whispered. “Hearing him hit her …”

“That sound,” Lucinda said, closing her eyes as if she could still hear the fights of her own family. “The crack of a big, bare hand slapping skin …it was worse when he used his fists….”

“And the way she'd scream,” Amy said. “And knowing there was nothing I could do to help.”

“Even though you wanted to,” Lucinda said.

“More than anything,” Amy said.

Pushing Julia, Dianne felt she had no part in this conversation. It was so rare, hearing her mother talk about her troubled childhood. That was the part of herself Lucinda kept private. Dianne had always felt compassion for the idea of her mother as a child, orphaned and alone, but her mother had seemed to feel it too painful to discuss.

And Amy usually said so little about her own difficult home life. Dianne knew that Alan believed she would benefit from therapy, that she had been traumatized by her home life. That violent existence was the equivalent, he said, of the experiences of people who went to war.

The four of them strolled through the fields. Apple trees laden with fruit glowed in the afternoon sunshine, and the cider smell was pungent. Dianne thought of Alan, knew that he would be happy to hear Amy letting some of her story into the light.

“We're so lucky,” Dianne said.

“Honey?”

“Julia and I,” she said. “We're having a good life.”

“But, Dianne,” Amy began, a quizzical look in her eyes. “How can you say that? Julia's been so sick….”

“She has,” Dianne said. “And I've been so angry about it. More than I like to admit. But we're blessed anyway. We've known only love.”

“Her father left,” Amy said quietly, reminding Dianne.

“But she's had so much from other people,” Dianne said, “it almost doesn't matter now. She has me, her grandmother, her uncle …” As she said the words, she realized how much she missed Alan.

“Who wouldn't love Julia?” Lucinda asked, bending down to kiss her granddaughter.

“Buddy,” Amy said solemnly.

“You have a point,” Lucinda said. “My adoptive father. People that sick simply can't love. They don't have it in them.”

“I love it here,” Dianne said, feeling the warm breeze blow through the orchard. She closed her eyes, wanting to remember it forever. Not just the setting, but the conversation: these people she loved so much, trusting one another enough to be open with their hearts. She felt Alan's steady presence, and she knew that somehow everything would be right when she returned home.

“Me too,” Lucinda said.

“Let's take something,” Amy said. “For souvenirs.”

“Oh, honey,” Lucinda said. “It's not right to take things—”

“These,” Amy said, running to gather four withered apples. “No one would mind if we took these, would they?”

Dianne looked at them quizzically. The apples were rotten, shriveled. Their stems stuck out at crooked angles, and they smelled like vinegar or wine. Why had Amy chosen something so ugly? She could have picked flowers, found pretty pebbles, searched for four-leaf clovers, gathered yellow leaves.

But Lucinda understood. She stood there nodding, touching each apple as gently as she could.

“They'll dry nicely,” she said.

“They will?” Amy asked.

“Yes. We'll set them aside in the galley, and by the time we go home, they'll be fine. I love them,” Lucinda said. “I just adore them.”

“But why?” Dianne asked. “I don't get it. Why take rotten old apples?”

“They're us,” Amy said.

“Don't you see?” Lucinda asked, her blue eyes
gleaming. “You of all people should see, honey. Amy's right, they're us. They're hurt and ugly, ruined things. Unlovable things lying on the ground …”

“Till someone picked us up,” Amy whispered. “Till you picked me up, Dianne.”

“Oh!” Dianne said, covering her mouth with one hand.

“Things other people would find unlovable,” Lucinda said, and now Dianne did understand: Her mother was thinking of herself as a child. Dianne looked at Julia, her great eyes roving heavenward, listening to the sea breeze rustle the leaves overhead. Thinking of all the people who would see Julia only as deformed, find her unlovable, Dianne's throat ached.

“We'll cherish them forever,” Amy said solemnly in a tone Dianne believed only a twelve-year-old could use. Until Lucinda used it a moment later …

“Forever and ever,” Lucinda said.

As Dianne held her old apple, she closed her eyes. She thought about dropping from a tree. She thought about being abandoned, picked up, cherished by the brother of a man who had seemed to consider her unlovable. Dianne was falling in love.

“They're us,” Dianne, finally getting it, said out loud as she held the apple. To Julia, her mother, Amy, and someone many miles over the sea.

That night they parked the camper in a trailer park by the sea. Up there, the stars seemed brighter than at home. Stella sat in the window, staring at her constellation. The puppy lay on Amy's bunk, asleep at her feet. With a chill in the air, everyone wore the moose pajamas.

Dianne and Lucinda sat in folding chairs outside,
wrapped in blankets and wearing their new slipper-socks as they listened to the waves. A candle burned on the table between them, driving away bugs. They sipped honey-orange tea, letting the steaming mugs warm their hands.

“Do you feel retired?” Dianne asked.

“I feel young,” Lucinda said. “Happy, excited, energized …”

“Are you enjoying your trip?” Dianne asked.

“It's a dream come true,” Lucinda said. “It's more than I ever expected, a thousand times better because you and Julia are here with me. And Amy adds so much….”

“Only Dad is missing.”

“For me,” Lucinda said. “But who's missing for you?”

“I don't know,” Dianne said.

“You were gone quite a while the night of the dance,” Lucinda said.

“Mmm,” Dianne said, gazing at the sky. This far north, the air was perfectly clear. Against a field of blue-black, the stars blazed. The Milky Way coursed its white path through the night, and a meteor streaked into the ocean. “Did you see that?” Dianne asked.

“Yes,” Lucinda said. “A shooting star-how fitting.”

“Another one!” Dianne said, jumping up. She looked down at her mother. “What do you mean, fitting?”

“To be talking about people we love and to see shooting stars. You were about to tell me about your walk.”

“Mom—”

“Your walk with Alan.”

“We just strolled along the harbor,” Dianne said, her heart kicking over as she remembered, trying to decide how ready she was to talk about it. Shooting stars crisscrossed overhead, long trails of white fire searing the sky. “What
is
that? Does Prince Edward Island attract meteors or something?”

“It's a meteor shower,” Lucinda said. “Happens every August, down in Connecticut too. You and your father used to watch it every summer.”

Dianne nodded, remembering now. Standing by the marsh with her dad, holding his hand, he promised her shooting stars. They had never stopped coming-one meteor after another. She hadn't realized it was a natural phenomenon; she had just thought her father was so wonderful he could command shooting stars.

“I haven't seen it in years,” she said.

“You've been so preoccupied, darling,” Lucinda said. “You've been too wrapped up in Julia to look at the sky.”

“I know,” Dianne said, watching the stars now.

“Or to notice that someone wonderful wants to love you.”

“Mom …” Dianne said.

“He does, honey,” Lucinda said.

“I'm figuring it out,” Dianne said, holding herself.

Dianne stared upward. She hadn't seen a meteor for several seconds, and she found herself holding her breath. Then one shot by, and she relaxed a little. She thought of how she'd shown Alan how to wish on a star. It was so easy to get used to amazement. Just as quickly, to become accustomed to sorrow. So why not love? Life could change in a heartbeat, and you could forget it was ever any other way.