Follow the Stars Home (25 page)

“Thank you,” Lucinda said, smiling, taking the tape.

“The other thing is,” Malachy said, “I did love those boys. Both of them. In some ways, it was easy to love Tim more. He makes such a mess of things, your heart can't help going out to him.”

“Mine can,” Lucinda said.

“I tried to talk him into coming to Halifax with me,” Malachy said. “But that was just me fightin' a losing battle.”

“Today?” Lucinda asked, shocked. “Tim's here? In Nova Scotia?”

“He was,” Malachy said.

“What for?” she asked. “Did he ask about Dianne and Julia? What did he say when you asked him to come—”

“Ah, what's the difference?” Malachy asked with both palms turned upward. He sounded like a peacemaker, calm and serene, his voice tinged with regret and, underneath, something much darker. “He can't do what he can't do.”

“No, he never could,” Lucinda said, her eyes blurring
as she watched Dianne prepare Julia to get her on the plane.

“I wrote him off,” Malachy said, his own eyes filling with tears. “God help me, I don't understand such indifference. I told him never to call me again, and I meant it. The selfish bastard. Heartless man.”

“Tim McIntosh made his own hell,” Lucinda said, patting the big man's hand as they heard the loudspeaker call the flight, watched Dianne hovering anxiously by Julia's stretcher. “Because he doesn't know what this life is about.”

The horizon seemed a million miles away, a place Tim would never get to. He steered the
Aphrodite
south-southwest. Occasionally he passed a deserted island, majestic with rocks and pines. Or he would see another lobster boat on its way somewhere, probably going home.

Tim McIntosh felt the weight of failure on his shoulders. He had seen the disappointment, disapproval, hatred in Malachy's eyes when he said he wasn't going to Halifax.

Hatred-from Malachy. Tim had felt it from Alan and Dianne before. But never Malachy. He shuddered. Burning bridges. Tim had become a first-class expert.

Dianne and Julia were here now, and they needed help. What had Malachy called it-a miracle? In a way, Tim could see that it was. A series of events, coincidences, two people near the same place at the same time. All Tim would have had to do was say yes, follow Malachy up the coast, make everyone happy. All would be forgiven.

Instead, Tim had followed his gut.

Deep inside, he knew Dianne would rather spit
poison than look at him. She would be justified, that was for sure. Driving into the wind, Tim's eyes were streaming. The sun made him squint. He grabbed a cap from under his seat, pulled it on with the visor down low. He was crying, and even out there, where there wasn't another human being for miles, Tim didn't want to be seen.

A shot of tequila would help, but Tim wasn't much of a drinking man anymore. He wanted to escape these feelings he was having. He had thought that pulling out of Lunenburg would provide relief, and it had, but not enough. Thoughts of Dianne and their suffering child stuck to him like static. They raced through his mind, telling him what a bastard he was.

He could have stayed.

When Tim was feeling his worst, that's what came to mind. He hadn't had to run in the first place. Twelve years ago, when he and Dianne had gotten the bad news, Tim could have planted his feet beside hers and said they'd go through it together. He could have held her hand, he could have been present at the birth. Instead of leaving her to Alan …

Tim blamed his parents. They had screwed life up for him. They'd been so wrapped up in Neil's illness, in chasing their tails to escape it. So many times Tim had stared at the horizon, waiting for his dad to sail into Hyannis harbor from wherever he went to get away. If not for Alan, Tim would have been the loneliest kid in the world. He had missed his father so much.

Tim had never wanted to be that kind of father. A scared loner who'd rather sail the seas than sit at the kitchen table hearing about his wife's bad day. Or good day. Tim should have known he wasn't meant for home life. He had needed Dianne's love so badly;
why did she have to get pregnant at all? And why had the baby turned out to be so sick? Tim had had no choice except to leave.

No choice: That's how Tim saw it. Life had left him no choice. It gave him a dead brother, damaged parents, a sick child. Tim was a rogue, and life had handed him tragedy. People found that romantic. He'd show up in portside bars, drink his whiskey, tell whoever would listen about his wife and sick baby. He'd make himself out as a scoundrel, wait for the bar women to say no, he wasn't a bad person, he was just too sensitive for the horrible thing that had happened. Then he'd tell them about Neil, wait for them to put it together.

They'd see too. Of
course
he had done what he did. Life hadn't given him a fucking choice! Losing his brother had hurt too much; he wasn't going to stick around and wait for his baby to die too. No one with half a heart could fail to see that.

No one but Dianne, Alan, and now Malachy. The three people who should care about Tim, love him, feel sorry for what he was going through. But no, not them. Thinking about it, his heart was pounding. The injustice and unfairness of it all hit him hard.

It made some people feel good to look down on others. That explained a lot of it. Dianne and Alan had been self-righteous for a long time. Malachy though …Tim shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes. That hurt him bad, the fact that Malachy had turned against him.

Tim still remembered the look in Alan's eyes the night Tim had refused to give blood. Down in Newport, with all of humanity streaming by, his own brother had looked at him as if he were a piece of shit. Wasn't that what Malachy had called him just a few hours ago? Shit?

Steaming away from Nova Scotia as fast as he could, Tim was traveling fast and far, but he wasn't going back. He wasn't passing anywhere near his family. Tim McIntosh was a loner, and he was going to stay that way. He had been planning to head for Maine, but that wasn't far enough. Maybe New Hampshire, Massachusetts. Maybe he'd skip New England entirely, give up lobstering, try crabbing in the Chesapeake. Or shrimping in the Gulf.

The sun was still bright, and Tim's eyes were still watering. Cap pulled low, he just held his wheel and steered dead ahead. The sea was empty and endless. At least that was how it looked from the
Aphrodite's
bridge. Julia would be okay. She'd made it this far, she'd get through this thing and be fine.

Alan met the plane from Nova Scotia. A steady rain was falling, with low gray clouds blanketing all of southeastern New England. He stood on the tarmac by the ambulance, wind blowing his hair and jacket, staring at the sky.

When the airplane came into view, it teetered like a dragonfly. It looked vulnerable and fragile. The wind rocked it from side to side, and Alan's heart was in his throat as he watched the pilot land the small twin-engine at Providence's T. F. Green Airport.

Dianne and Julia were first off the plane. They stood at the top of the stairs, Dianne holding Julia in her arms, shielding her head against the weather. Two stewardesses were trying to urge them back, keep them inside. The EMT crew was ready, taking the stretcher out of the ambulance, but Alan ran up the steps ahead of them.

“You came,” Dianne said, looking at him with wide eyes.

“You're here,” Alan said, putting his arms around them both.

They formed a small triangle, their heads all touching, and Alan's throat was tight and his chest was constricted and his mind was full of prayers and thanks that they had made it back to him safely, that Julia hadn't died in Nova Scotia, that he was holding them both as close as he could.

“Beeee,” Julia said, her voice the barest squeak.

Taking his niece from Dianne, Alan looked into Julia's eyes. A change had occurred. Usually wide and observant, today her eyes were narrow and listless, sticky with sleep. Alan's heart lurched at the difference. The EMTs clambered up, ready with the stretcher, but Alan waved them back. Head down against the rain, cloaking Julia with his jacket, he followed Dianne down the plane stairs to the waiting ambulance.

Dianne waited while tests were done again. She had sat in Hawthorne Cottage Hospital many times, and she knew many of the nurses. They let her use the nurses' kitchen to make tea and instant soup; they insisted she help herself to chocolate pudding, Jell-O, and saltines. Dianne thought of her mother and Amy on the road, wishing they would get home soon. Reaching into her jeans pocket for a tissue, she pulled out pebbles from the black sand beach.

“How are you doing?” Alan asked, sitting beside her. He wore a white lab coat, his stethoscope around his neck.

“Okay,” Dianne said, clutching his hand. “Have you seen Julia?”

“She's having an MRI.”

“She had one in Halifax,” Dianne said, her voice strained. Julia had been through so many tests: blood tests, urine tests, EEG, EMG, MRI, bone scans, muscle tone tests. MRIs were so confining. She was
strapped to a board, expected not to move, and she didn't understand what the technicians were saying, when it would be all over, when she could see her mother.

“I know,” Alan said. “But we have to do our own. She'll be finished soon. How are you holding up?”

“Oh,
me
,” Dianne said, shaking her head. It hurt her to even think of complaining, with everything her daughter was going through. How could she mention a headache, sore back, pain in her heart, when Julia was fighting so hard? “I'm fine.”

Alan put his arm around her. Months before, she might have pulled away. She nestled against his chest, feeling his breath rise and fall and trying to let it calm her, take some of the fear away. She stared down at her lap, where he was holding her hand.

“What's wrong with her?” she whispered.

“We don't know exactly,” Alan said.

“We had such a wonderful time,” Dianne said, remembering their golden beach days, the magical boat ride, the Ferris wheel, the apple gardens, the sand castles they had all built. “Julia was so happy.”

“I got your postcard yesterday,” Alan said. “It sounds like it was an amazing trip.”

“Was it too much?” Dianne asked, holding his hand tighter. “Did I tire her out? Overstimulate her nervous system? Was the trip too strenuous, all that bumping on long roads?”

“No,” Alan said. “Don't do that to yourself.”

“The seizure happened so suddenly. There was no warning—”

“There never is, Dianne. It's not uncommon with Rett, several of her conditions. We're narrowing down the problem.”

“Just like always,” Dianne said, bowing her head. “Just like we've been doing all her life.”

Dianne knew there was no cure for Julia. She had neurological disorders, progressive in nature, getting worse as time went on. Growth was slowed, muscle tone reduced, eye contact diminished. Dianne had come to see Julia's hand wringing and waving as forms of expression. She knew that as Julia went downhill, the communication could stop entirely. Dianne had always expected that she would be prepared.

“I'm scared,” she said, her voice cracking.

“I know you are,” Alan said.

“What's going to happen?”

“We don't know. You're going to keep loving her,” he said. “I'm going to keep taking care of her. Other than that, we don't know.”

Dianne bit her lip. She nodded. Bells sounded in the hall, and the dinner cart rolled by.

“Thank God you're here,” she said in a voice so quiet she didn't think Alan could possibly hear her. “That we had you to come home to.”

“Thank God you came home,” he whispered back, holding her even more tightly. His body felt solid and strong. Dianne thought of all the times he had comforted her. She had taken it for years, taken his kindness for granted, but now all she felt was overflowing gratitude, and she knew she'd never take him for granted again. She didn't remember ever needing him as much as she did just then.

“How many does that make?” Lucinda asked.

“Let's see,” Amy said, squinting at the list. “Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia-two provinces. Then the actual border between Canada and the United States, that's three. Then Maine, that's four.”

They were counting borders, seeing how many
they would cross before arriving back home in Hawthorne. Lucinda wanted to keep them occupied, to avoid dwelling on what might be happening to Julia. She could barely stand it herself, and Amy was so nervous, she kept asking how many more miles.

“Is Julia okay?” Amy asked.

“I hope so,” Lucinda replied.

“What happened when she started shaking like that?”

“She had a seizure.”

“Is that like a fit?” Amy asked.

“Pretty much,” Lucinda said.

“I was afraid,” Amy said quietly, “when the blood started coming out of her mouth.”

“She was biting her tongue,” Lucinda said. “She couldn't help it.”

“I thought she was dying,” Amy said.

“Mmm,” Lucinda said, staring at the road.

“Will she, Lucinda? Will Julia die?”

“Someday, honey.”

“Someday we all will,” Amy said. “Like my dad and Emmett, like Dr. McIntosh's brother Neil. But especially when it's someone young, like Neil or Julia, it doesn't seem right. How can it happen?”

“God decides it's time,” Lucinda said. “He decides He needs that person in heaven more than we need them on earth.”

“Why does He need Julia?” Amy asked, watching the pine trees go by. “More than He needs me?”

“For one thing,” Lucinda said, “it's a mystery. For another, it hasn't happened yet. All we know is that Julia had a seizure and Alan wanted her to come home for tests. She's been through a lot more than this, honey. Julia is amazing.”

“I miss her,” Amy said, fraying a hole in the knee of her jeans.

“I know. This big old Winnebago seems empty without her and Dianne. But we have to focus on the positive things. We had a great vacation, all together, with wonderful memories to keep our whole lives.”

“We have our souvenirs.” Amy grinned, thinking about the withered apples they'd gathered from the old orchard, drying in the galley.

“Exactly,” Lucinda said. “And we're heading home to people we love. Dianne and Julia …”

“My mother,” Amy said.

“Alan.”

“I call him Dr. McIntosh.”

“Mmm,” Lucinda said.

“I didn't want vacation to end, but now I can't wait to get home,” Amy said.

“Neither can I,” Lucinda said.

The highway was easy to drive. There wasn't much traffic for a late summer day. Lucinda had joined an informal caravan of motor homes heading west on the Maine turnpike, driven mainly by old folks like herself. She spied a couple about her age. The man had white hair like Malachy Condon's, and that reminded her of the tape. She had stuck it somewhere …Feeling the visor overhead, she found it.

Lucinda plugged the cassette into the tape player. Silence stretched out for a long while, and then the music began.

“Dolphins,” Amy said.

Lucinda nodded, driving along.

The beautiful crooning filled the air. The dolphins' songs were ancient and pure, achingly sweet, full of loss and love. Listening, Lucinda thought of her family.

She imagined dolphins swimming together, who had been together since the beginning, who had lost babies and husbands and fathers. Her eyes filled with
tears, and as she brushed them away, she glanced over to see Amy doing the same thing. They were heading for home, where they belonged.

Dolphins were magical. Amy listened to their music and knew they were underwater angels. They swam and frolicked, leaping straight out of the sea with joy They wore cloaks of silver water that sparkled like diamonds when they hit the light. Dolphins lived in the ocean, but they breathed the air. Had they been people once upon a time?

Amy thought of her father. She had lost him so long ago. For many years she had had a hole in her heart, whenever she thought of how her life might have been if he were with her. Her mother would have stayed happy. There would have been no fights, no misery, no Buddy.

But most of all, Amy would have had her father. She could have grown up as his little girl, being guided and protected through life. He could have helped her to walk, taught her how to ride a bicycle, helped her to do her homework. Russell Brooks had been a good man.

Amy's father was with the dolphins now. She listened to them singing, tried to hear his voice. There was love in the sound. Had her father been a man of love? Had he hated to leave the dock every trip, wishing instead to stay home with his wife and baby? Amy had been that baby. She was his only daughter, his flesh and blood!

Lucinda had spoken of mystery. Amy knew what she meant. Why did life have so many questions and not enough answers? She tried with all her might to block out Amber's hateful words about her father. Amy wanted to trust her own heart, what it was
telling her. Could she love her father so much if he was anything less than wonderful?

Amy listened to the dolphins. Love …

What was it about love? She was heading home. It was almost time for school to start. What would it be like to go home? She loved her mother so much, but she felt shy about seeing her. Being with Lucinda and Dianne had spoiled her in some ways, for the kind of love that spoke out loud sought the light. She wanted a family that talked to each other. And deep down she was afraid that Buddy would come back.

Buddy had been her mother's boyfriend for a long time. The universe didn't hold many mysteries more confusing than that one. How could a woman love a man like that? As the road slipped by, Amy closed her eyes and tried to let the dolphins teach her all about it, so it would never happen to her.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Lucinda said.

“I want to be a dolphin,” Amy said.

“Or at least sing like one …”

“No,” Amy said. “Actually be one. Me and Julia. We could swim free, playing the whole time, go looking for our fathers.”

“Oh, honey,” Lucinda said.

“They're both at sea,” Amy said. “Mine is underneath, hers is in a boat. I love mine so much, Lucinda. I want my mother to remember….”

“Remember what?”

“Being loved by him,” Amy said. “When we were all together. When things were good.”

“Sometimes remembering the good,” Lucinda said, “can be the most painful thing there is.”

Amy scrambled out of her seat, retrieved the shriveled apples from the galley, then buckled herself back into place next to Lucinda.

“What good are happy memories,” Amy asked,
holding the little brown apples, “if they make us so sad we don't want them anymore?”

“When Emmett first died,” Lucinda said, “it took me a whole year to be able to look at his picture.”

“But you look at it now?” Amy asked.

“All the time,” she said.

Amy stared at the apples. They didn't have any pictures of her father up in their house. She had one of her own, tucked into her bureau drawer. The dolphins clicked, their sound friendly and fun. In the background, others cried. She tried to figure out how creatures could be happy and sad at the same time. It seemed to be what Lucinda was telling her, if only she could figure it out.