Follow the Stars Home (24 page)

“Should I let them admit her?” Dianne asked, feeling very far away.

“I'll talk to her doctor,” Alan said. “But I'd like to get her back home as soon as possible. Is there an airport nearby?”

“I'm in Halifax,” Dianne said as she remembered seeing the airport symbol on the map.

“If she gets the green light, I want you two on a flight home today. I'll meet you in Providence and we'll take her straight to Hawthorne Cottage.”

“Oh, I hope they let her,” Dianne said, her eyes
filling again. The idea of home and Alan was so comforting, she could hardly stand it. The thought of Julia being admitted way up here, in a strange hospital with doctors who didn't know her baby's history, filled Dianne with fear. She began to cry. Her head down, she jumped when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

It was Malachy Condon. Larger than life, the old man stood there in his faded overalls and chamois shirt, white hair hanging in his eyes. His face was lined and tan, and his eyes were filled with compassion. Dianne didn't know him well, but when he put his arms around her, she leaned against his chest and wept.

“Who's that, Dianne?” Alan asked.

Dianne tried to respond, but she couldn't speak. Malachy smelled like tobacco and salt air. She knew he had lost a child, and his kindness had reduced her to blind tears. He was patting her back, offering to take the phone from her. Gulping, she handed it to him.

“Dianne?” Alan asked. “Are you there?”

Her sobbing filled the air. Alan had heard a male voice, and his heart was skidding. Was it Julia's doctor with bad news? Or was it Tim? Dianne had said she was in Halifax; that was just an hour from Lunenburg, and for all he knew, Tim was with her.

“Who's that, now?” came the deep, Irish voice.

“Malachy?”

“It's me, Alan. I just arrived.”

“What about Tim?” Alan asked. His mouth was dry, his heart banging out of his chest. Julia was in the hospital, and all he could think about was his brother getting his hands on Dianne. She was so vulnerable, so worried. All she needed was for her child's father to come waltzing in and save the day.

“Gone,” Malachy replied, the word sharp and clipped.

“What d'you mean?”

“What I said. Gone.”

“He was there this morning when I called,” Alan said, wanting details. Had Dianne and Tim talked? Was he simply gone from the hospital or gone from the area? The questions raced through his brain, but then he realized Malachy was standing there with Dianne just inches away, that he was trying to protect her from the truth.

“Has he seen her?” Alan asked. “Did they talk?”

“No,” Malachy said.

“Has she seen him? Does she know he's there?”

“Jaysus,” Malachy said, exhaling.

Alan took a breath of his own. He lowered his head, leaned his forehead on his desk for a moment. He was acting crazy, out of control. He was a physician, and his niece was in the middle of a crisis. Instead of keeping his cool, he was acting like an idiot in love.

“Have you seen Julia?” Alan asked. “Do you know the status of her condition?”

“That's better,” Malachy said calmly. “But no, I haven't. And I don't.”

“Do me a favor, Mal,” Alan said. “Stay with Dianne. I'm going to call up there, talk to the doctors, see if I can arrange a transfer to Hawthorne. Will you see to it Dianne has all the help she needs?”

“Aye.”

“A ride to the airport, an ambulance for Julia if it seems warranted?”

“Aye.”

“Her mother's with her,” Alan said. “Is she right there?”

“Not that I can see,” Malachy said. He must have
turned to Dianne, because Alan could hear him soothing her. “There, dear. There now. She's a little angel, your Julia. She's in the best of hands now. The doctors of Halifax are first rate. Maybe not what you're used to in your own backyard, but nearly. Nearly. Where's your mother, now?”

Alan strained to hear. The sound of Dianne's voice was soft and sweet, and he could hear the fear and tension. He wanted to jump through the telephone, hold her in his arms. He wanted to bring them home himself, and it took everything he had to pull himself back.

“Her ma's out with Amy,” Malachy said. “Whoever Amy might be. Seems they've got a young dog that needs walking.”

“Orion,” Alan said.

“Aye,” Malachy agreed. “That's just what she said.”

Staring at the Wall, Alan found Julia's baby picture and stared at it. Dianne had been holding her on her lap: There were her two hands, laced across the baby's chest. Her head had been cut out of the picture, but her fingers were long and slender, the most graceful hands Alan had ever seen. His eyes filled with tears, and it took him a moment to find his voice.

“Take care of her, Mal,” Alan said.

“Count on it, Alan,” Malachy said.

“Can you put her on?” Alan asked.

Malachy paused. “She's not quite able to speak just now, son. You take care of those telephone calls, and I'll look after things on this end. All right, then?”

“All right,” Alan said.

Blood was thicker than water.

Hanging up the receiver, Alan thought back ten years and felt the same black rage at Tim he had felt then. Julia was one, in the hospital for a third surgery on her twisted bowel, and she had needed a blood transfusion. Blood supplies were down, and there'd been a shortage of her type at Hawthorne Cottage Hospital.

Using the Coast Guard and fishermen friends, Alan had tracked Tim down. He was in port in Newport, Rhode Island, hardly an hour's drive away. Leaving Dianne and Julia at the hospital, Alan had jumped into his car and headed north on I-95.

Most of the time, Tim docked at Long Wharf. Alan knew his habits, and he'd driven slowly along the waterfront, staring at the fishing boats docked there. No sign of the
Aphrodite.
He had swung down Thames Street, checking all the wharves, found him rafted at Bowens to a dragger out of New Bedford. From then it had just been a matter of checking the bars.

Hunched over his beer at the Ark, Alan found Tim telling his sad story to a girl with blond hair and tight jeans. She was wearing a halter, and her breasts pressed against the fabric. Tim was shaking his head, and although Alan couldn't hear the words, he knew the story was about Dianne and Julia, but it was designed to garner pity for Tim.

“Hey,” Alan had said, clapping his hand on Tim's shoulder.

“Hey, Alan,” Tim had said, happy to see him. He pushed back the stool and grabbed Alan in a bear hug. From Tim's steadiness, the way he moved, Alan could tell he wasn't drunk yet. That was good.

“It's Julia,” Alan said. He'd wasted an hour driving
up, and he had the same drive back. He wanted to get this done fast. As he faced his brother, looked into his sunken eyes, he realized he was doing this as much for Tim as for anyone. Giving Tim the chance to be a good guy and redeem himself.

“Your daughter?” the blond asked with sympathy as if she had heard the whole story-Tim's version anyway.

“Yeah, my little girl,” Tim had said.

That was too much for Alan.

“Listen, Tim,” he said roughly. “Let's step outside. I have to talk to you.”

Disgruntled, Tim followed him into the street. It was summer, and Newport was teeming. Thames Street was ten-people deep, and Tim and Alan stood in the middle of the sidewalk being jostled right and left.

“She needs blood,” Alan explained. “She's having a series of operations, and they're running low on her type. You and she have the same, type A, and I want you to donate some.”

“Give blood?” Tim asked, red-eyed from last night's drunk, but still close to sober tonight.

“Yes,” Alan said.

“Do I have to go to the hospital?” Tim asked, looking afraid.

“If you'd rather,” Alan said. He knew Tim had a fear of hospitals. It was deep and primal, and it had been there ever since Neil had gotten sick. “But we can do it anywhere. I brought the equipment with me.”

“What, you have it in your bag?” Tim asked, looking down. For the first time he seemed to notice Alan's medical case. Alan had everything he would need in there to help Tim do the right thing: needles, the IV line, the blood bags. Tim could give a pint. He
could lie on his back in Alan's backseat or they could go to Tim's boat.

“I want to make it easy for you,” Alan said. “She needs blood, and you're her best bet.”

“I just had a beer,” Tim said, trying to get out of it. “That's not good, is it?”

“A beer's not that much,” Alan said.

“I've never given blood before,” Tim said, looking pale.

“Don't be scared,” Alan said, trying to be kind. “It won't hurt.”

“Hey, man,” Tim said. “I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea.” He gazed at Alan's eyes, but he had to look away. It wasn't quite dark yet. He stared down the alley between two buildings across Thames Street at a deep red sunset. Two passing girls in tight skirts caught their attention, and he watched them go by.

Alan shoved him up against the wall.

“Don't look at them while we're talking about Julia,” Alan said roughly.

“Cut it out, man,” Tim said, breaking Alan's grasp.

“She's your daughter,” Alan said. “She could die, Tim.”

“Don't,” Tim said, welling up. “Don't lay that on me.”

“You've got to help her. Don't you want to? You think you'll be able to live with yourself years from now if you don't help her now?”

“It would be a blessing if she died,” Tim hissed, the tears spilling over.

“No,” Alan said, standing tall. “I don't see it that way, and neither does her mother.”

“Her mother. I left town and you got what you
wanted,” Tim said, spit flying from his mouth. “You got Dianne. You get to be her hero. So don't act so high and mighty to me. You're the doctor-you can't get type A blood?”

“I wanted to get it from you,” Alan said.

Tim shook his head. The cords stood out on his neck, and he was breathing as if he'd run a race. Tears were running down his face.

“I'm not giving blood. Is that what you want to hear? So you can feel better than me? I'm against it. I don't go to the doctor myself, I haven't been once since Neil died. I don't give a damn what you think. If you think I'm superstitious or a moron, I don't care. Okay, Alan?”

“Yeah, Tim,” Alan said, backing away. “Okay.”

“Good, man,” Tim said, shaking.

The crowd closed around them, pushing them apart. The red sunset had faded, and now it was dark purple and dull gold. Alan remembered the air being cool for summer. Standing there, he watched his brother take a few steps backward, then turn to go into the bar.

Maybe Tim had been right. Maybe Alan had just wanted to feel superior. Somehow he had known Tim wouldn't give his blood. Saving Julia was just an abstraction to him. He had already thrown her away; why would he want to save her life? But underneath his altruistic motive driving to Newport, Alan had discovered something about himself.

He was capable of hating his own brother. His own flesh and blood. Speeding across 138, he gripped the steering wheel, hating Tim's guts. For being a coward who could turn away from his own suffering child. Alan felt ashamed to be related to the grown-up Tim McIntosh. He bore no resemblance
whatsoever to the boy Alan fished with off the sandy shores of Cape Cod.

Now, a decade later, Alan felt the same way.

Everything was arranged. Dianne and Julia would fly home, and Lucinda and Amy would drive. Dianne was beside herself. She didn't know which panicked her more, worry about Julia or the thought of her mother and Amy on the road by themselves. Lucinda kissed and hugged her, trying to reassure her.

“Don't you think I'm a good driver?” she asked.

“It's not that,” Dianne said. “But I'm worried about emergencies. It's such a long way. With me along, we were two drivers-in case one of us had trouble. What if you get tired? Or if you get lost?”

“I'll be there,” Amy said. “I'll talk nonstop and make her drink lots of coffee.”

“We'll be fine, love,” Lucinda said, holding Dianne's face in her hands. Dianne teared up, staring into Lucinda's eyes. “And so will you.”

Amy was gathering Julia's things together, and when she called Dianne to check the bag, Dianne edged away. Alone beside the Winnebago in the airport parking lot with Malachy Condon, Lucinda faced him.

“You're the famous mentor,” she said.

“I've been called worse things,” he said.

“You did a good job with one of them,” she said. “The McIntosh boys.”

“Don't remind me,” he said. “I'm on the verge of fucking murdering the other one.”

Shocked, Lucinda's mouth dropped open.

“I'm sorry,” he said, seeing her expression. “This has been an eventful day, and I'm not myself.”

They stared at each other. Lucinda wasn't used to checking men out, but she did find Malachy quite attractive. He was big and husky, what Emmett would have called a man's man. His blue eyes were deep set, soulful, and contrite at the same time.

“Don't worry about it.”

“I do,” he said, shaking his head. “I worry greatly. See, I'm alone ninety-five percent of the time, with no one but dolphins to talk to. Bad habits develop. My own dear wife, Brigid, would've let me have it good for swearing in the presence of a lady.” Digging into his breast pocket, he came up with a cassette tape. “Here's a peace offering. For you to listen to on your ride home.”