Follow the Stars Home (27 page)

Dianne climbed into the boat.

Amy sat across from her, her elbows resting on the oars. She sighed. Dianne sighed. They both had tears in their eyes, but they both smiled.

“What a summer,” Dianne said.

“I know,” Amy nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

“And now you're going home.”

“Yep.”

“Your mother's so happy,” Dianne said. “She told me on the phone last night.”

“Buddy's gone for good.”

“And school's starting….”

“I'm going to do good this year.”

“
Well
,” Dianne said. “Do
well
.” She felt bad, correcting Amy, but she knew if it were her daughter, if it were Julia making the mistake, she'd want to tell her the right way. She glanced over to make sure she hadn't hurt Amy's feelings.

Amy nodded. She looked down at her knees, then up at Dianne.

“Thanks,” Amy said.

A school of minnows darted past the boat, speckling the water silver. A blue crab emerged from the mud, waved its claws, resettled in the bottom.

“I mean thanks,” Amy said, “for everything. Every single thing. You didn't have to do it all.”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Dianne said, her chest aching. She thought of everything they had done together, of how much joy she had felt because of Amy. Amy had brought Julia out of herself in ways Dianne had
never imagined, she had helped Dianne to see her own daughter as a different kind of girl, a real eleven-year-old girl, not just a sick child.

“You did?”

“Yes,” Dianne said. “You've given me more than I've given you.”

Amy shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Much more,” Dianne said. She looked across the seat at Amy's freckled face. She saw a girl with warmth, humor, and deep intelligence, and she knew Amy would be a wonderful woman.

“When I go,” Amy said, her green eyes wide open, “can I come back?”

“Anytime you want,” Dianne said.

“I knew you'd say that,” Amy said, nodding.

“I don't know if it's possible for one person to have two homes,” Dianne said. “But if it is, I want you to feel that this is one of yours.”

“I do already,” Amy whispered.

Rummaging through the back of her truck for two quarts of white paint, Dianne found the old bird-house. She had taken it from Alan's house the day she'd brought him soup, thrown it into the truck bed, and forgotten about it. Now she carried it inside her studio. Propping the birdhouse against her desk, she stirred the paint and put one coat on a little gazebo she had built for a young girl in Noank.

Julia sat in her chair, dozing. Her body curled inward, her knees drawn up, her hands pulled into fists and held close to her heart. Stella rested on Julia's tray, with Julia's forehead pressed into the cat's back. Orion lay with his chin on his paws. Dianne had music on, singing along. While the paint was drying, she decided to look at the birdhouse.

It was a bluebird house. Dianne had made it for Alan twelve years earlier. She remembered taking measurements from a bird book, using a one-inch bore to cut out the hole. The wood had weathered to silver. The nail holes, where it had been attached to the tree, were dark red with rust. The perch had
broken off, and the entrance hole had been pecked and widened by bird beaks.

Undoing the hardware that held the roof down, Dianne broke the hook and eye. She looked inside and found a nest filled with three speckled eggs. The nest was coarsely woven of twigs and brown grass, lined with downy feathers and strands of hair. Very carefully Dianne reached in to remove the nest.

“Maaa,” Julia said, waking up.

“Look, honey,” Dianne said, walking over to show her the nest.

Julia blinked her eyes. Her skin looked as drawn as wax. Her head swayed only slightly, not with the same verve and passion as before. Her hands seemed tired; they clasped and unclasped as if Julia didn't want them to be seen. Stella stretched, slid off the tray, and climbed up into her basket.

“It's a bird's nest, Julia,” Dianne said.

“Baaa,” Julia squeaked.

“Birds live in here, just like we live in our house.” Taking Julia's hand, she ran her fingers over the rough twigs.

“Dleee,” Julia said.

Cupping one of Julia's hands, Dianne placed one of the eggs on her palm. The egg was small, no bigger than a large acorn. It was cream-colored, speckled with brown and gold. Julia's fingers closed around it loosely, as if she wanted to make a protective cage.

“A baby bird lives in there,” Dianne said.

“Maa …”

“A chick,” Dianne said, remembering the ride she, Julia, and Amy had taken during the summer. “A feathery, peepy little thing.”

Julia tilted her head. She supported the egg, her hand in the air. Dianne gazed at her chick, holding an egg that would never hatch. She wondered how
many birds had made their nests in that birdhouse she had built Alan, how many bird families he had watched fly in and out.

“Maa,” Julia said, lowering her hand. She was tired. Her head sank down, chin resting against her chest. Gently Dianne removed the egg from her hand. She placed it back in the nest and then moved the nest to her desk. Alan's birdhouse needed a few repairs, and while the paint on her other job was drying, Dianne set about to make them.

Amy and her mother had to get used to each other all over again. Amy got off her school bus the first day and felt the familiar tightness in her stomach as she climbed the steps. Her house looked the same. The siding was peeling off at the corners, the same broken flowerpots lay under the front bushes, the grass was a little too long. But Buddy's car was definitely gone, and that gave her hope.

When she walked inside, she found her mother sitting in the living room, smoking a cigarette. But she smiled at the sight of Amy, leaving her cigarette in the ashtray as she stood up.

“Hi, Mom,” Amy said.

“How was your day?” her mother asked.

“Good,” Amy said. “I like my English teacher.”

“English was my favorite subject.”

“We're reading myths,” Amy said. For some reason, she felt nervous, as if she were making small talk with a shopkeeper. Her mother had set a box of Twinkies out on the table. Her eyes kept darting to them, as if hoping Amy would just rip into them. But Amy's stomach was turning over too much to feel hungry.

“What's your favorite myth?” her mother asked.

“Well, the one about Orion …” Saying the name, Amy got choked up. She had left the dog at Dianne's. Not because she didn't love him, didn't want him with her. But she knew the memory of her house would be too awful, too Buddy-filled, for the puppy to bear. The dog was sensitive as it was, and life in a cage or under the bed was only a few weeks old.

“Tell me about Orion,” her mother said.

“He was a Greek hunter,” Amy said. “Of great charm and handsomeness, beloved by Artemis. She accidentally killed him. Her sorrow was so horrible, so huge, that she placed him in the sky, along with his dog, Sirius.”

“Would you like a Twinkie?” her mother asked.

Amy hesitated. Here she was, in the middle of telling her mother about her favorite myth, which also happened to be her favorite constellation. In science they were studying astronomy, and she had learned that two of the sky's brightest stars, Rigel and Betelgeuse, were in Orion. Amy had never loved school like she did this year, she wanted to talk all about it, and her mother was offering her Twinkies. Dianne and Lucinda would be listening for all they were worth.

“I wanted to tell you about Orion,” Amy said quietly.

“I heard you, Amy,” her mother said. As she lifted her cigarette, her hand seemed to be trembling. The curtains were open, and light flooded their shabby living room. Amy's mother was wearing clean jeans and a sweatshirt, and there were deep lines of worry and sadness in her face.

“Can you imagine how terrible she felt?” Amy asked, wanting her mother to get it. “Artemis? Killing the person she loved most in the world?”

Her mother nodded. She brought her cigarette to her lips, took a long drag, and blew out a cloud of smoke. Amy's chest filled with rage. She wanted to talk about stars and myths, the love of a woman who had sent her husband to the sky, and all her mother cared about was Twinkies and smoking.

“Mom, it's important,” Amy said. “It's tragic, what happened to them, how Artemis felt—”

“Oh, I know how she felt,” Tess said.

Amy stopped.

“Killing the person she loved most …” her mother said. “I know about that.”

“What do you mean?” Amy asked.

Her mother reached out her hand. It was a small hand, and with it hovering in the air, Amy could see that her mother had put her wedding and engagement rings back on. She had stuck them in a drawer during the years with Buddy. Her mother's hand was waiting for Amy to take it, and slowly Amy did.

“What do you mean?” Amy asked.

“There are so many ways of killing,” her mother said. “You can kill a person's spirit without even trying. Was I doing that to you? That's what I talk about with my doctor sometimes. I'm so afraid …I'm sorry, Amy.”

“You didn't hurt me,” Amy said. “You hurt only yourself.”

“I want to believe that,” Tess said. “It's not really true though. What one person does in a family affects everyone else.”

“I'm alive,” Amy said.

“And wonderful,” her mother said. “I'm so glad you like school this year.”

“I do,” Amy said. “I want to get A's this year. I want to write stories in English. I want to learn every
myth.” She didn't want her life to be like the myths though. She didn't want her mother to be like Artemis.

“I'm glad you're home with me.”

“Me too,” Amy said, feeling guilty because it was both the truth and a lie.

“You are?” her mother asked, the worry line between her eyebrows sharp and deep. “You're glad to be here?”

Amy took a deep breath. She thought of her other home, the one with Dianne and Julia, and her throat ached. She was glad to know she could go there anytime she wanted, but she belonged here. This was where she wanted to be.

“Yes. And I'm glad the curtains are open,” Amy said.

One evening in early October, when the leaves had started to turn yellow and russet, Dianne asked her mother to look after Julia. She put on brown velvet pants and a rust silk shirt and walked out to her truck. A half moon hung in the sky behind mountains of purple clouds. The wind blew, and the cloud mountains were tinged with gold fire.

Driving into Hawthorne, Dianne felt calm. She took her time, noticing everything. Because it was chilly, she was wearing a thick velvet shawl, but she had the truck windows open. She heard the marsh grasses rubbing together, the waves cresting on Landsdowne Shoal. The world seemed sensual and mysterious, and tonight Dianne felt like part of it.

Since returning from Canada, she had been completely absorbed in Julia's care. Recovery from the seizure was slow, but Dianne was patient. She had trusted she would know when Julia was well enough
to leave her with Lucinda for an evening, and tonight was the night.

When she reached the town, her heart began to beat a little faster. At the same time, she drove more slowly. She wanted to take her time. She had the sense of doing the absolutely right thing. She had made a wish during the summer, and she had taken her time, letting it come true. Her life was changing tonight, and she wanted to remember every detail: the maples red and yellow in the streetlights, pumpkins on front porches, the sharp chill in the night air.

Alan's house was dark. For a minute she thought he wasn't home. But his Volvo was parked in the side yard. Lights were on in the kitchen, around back. The oak tree where the birdhouse had hung stood in the yard, its branches spreading overhead, the brown leaves rustling in the wind.

Dianne rang the bell. It took a few seconds, but then she heard his footsteps. They came slowly through the house, getting louder. He opened the door wearing chinos and a loose white shirt. With the light at his back, it was hard to see his expression. Dianne registered surprise at first, but then he took her hand and she forgot to pay attention.

“Hi,” he said.

“I brought this back to you,” she said, handing him the birdhouse. “It fell out of the tree. You probably didn't notice—”

“I noticed,” he said.

Instead of turning on the lights, he led her into the bright kitchen. He had just finished his dinner and had been doing the dishes. Standing by the counter, he looked at the birdhouse. Dianne had rubbed the weathered wood with a cloth, polished it to a soft silver. She had replaced the rusty hinge, attached a new hook and eye. Using a fine birch twig, she had
restored the perch. She had sanded the entry hole, smoothed the wood so the birds wouldn't catch their feathers going in.

“I made it for bluebirds,” she said.

“I'm not sure I ever saw a bluebird use it,” he said.

“There was a nest inside,” she said. “With eggs. I checked the bird book. I think they belonged to English sparrows.”

“Where's it now?” he asked, lifting up the roof. “The nest?”

“In my studio,” she said. “I kept it.”

Now her pulse was racing faster. She felt very calm and incredibly excited. The cool air made her skin tingle. The way Alan looked at her told her he was feeling it too. His hazel eyes were gold-green, expectant. She stepped closer, knowing what she wanted. After all this time she finally knew.

“I wanted to see you tonight,” she began.

“I'm glad,” he said.

“Are you surprised?”

“I should be,” he said after a moment. “But I'm not.”

Dianne nodded. He set the birdhouse on the counter, and he put his arms around her. She felt their toes touching. Gently he pushed her hair back from her face. It had grown long during the summer, and it was light blond from all those days in the sun. Brushing every strand back, as if he wanted to see her face, as if more than anything he wanted to look into her eyes, he held her so tight.

“I've waited for you,” he whispered. “Since the day I met you.”

Dianne tried to breathe. She thought of Tim once again, but this time she pushed him away. Dianne had come to Alan McIntosh after twelve years of fighting him.

“What made you come tonight?” he asked.

“I knew I had to,” she said. “Ever since we got back from Canada. On Prince Edward Island, I thought about you all the time. I thought about the walk we took….”

“Down by the harbor,” he said. “To see your house.”

“My house.” She smiled, thinking that her father would be happy to hear that. “Yes, I thought about that. How I've never shown it to anyone else. How happy I felt to be with you.”

“It was a great night,” Alan said.

“How we danced,” Dianne said. “Surrounded by library books.”

Alan waited. Dianne stared into his eyes, knowing that no man had ever looked at her like this before.

“And how we kissed …” Dianne whispered.

Alan touched her cheek. He watched her for a few seconds as if he were giving her a last chance to pull back. She wasn't about to, and in fact she stood on her toes to meet him halfway. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into an embrace that seemed to surround her body with his, and he kissed her.

Somewhere in Alan's house there was a window open, because a breeze blew through the kitchen and made Dianne shiver and moan. She pressed her body closer to Alan's. He was protective and big, towering over her, but Dianne had the sense, deep inside, of wanting to shelter him.