Follow the Stars Home. Luanne Rice
Dianne, maybe she could at least straighten his brother out. At least that was what he told himself. Dianne was strong and solid, and Tim had been heading downhill since the day Neil had died. Maybe marriage and children would fill the void, make him stop hurting. But they hadn’t.
“I hear you saw my girls yesterday,” Mrs. Robbins said, startling Alan as she wheeled in a cartload of periodicals to be shelved.
“I did,” Alan said.
“How is Julia?”
“She’s a champ,” Alan said.
Mrs. Robbins had been the Hawthorne librarian for forty years. Alan had heard kids in his office claim she had read every book on the shelves, and he could almost believe it was true. Her blue eyes were clear with intelligence and compassion. Curiosity kept women like Mrs. Robbins young.
“But how is she?” Mrs. Robbins asked evenly.
“You know,” Alan said. “She’s holding her own.”
Mrs. Robbins bit her lip. She shuffled through a pile of National Geographics as if to make sure the issues were in order. But Alan knew she was just pulling herself together.
“Well, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “We count on you.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m worried for Dianne,” she said.
“Why?” he asked, alert.
“She wears herself out,” Mrs. Robbins said, starting to whisper. The words came out fast, and her brow was creased with worry. Alan leaned forward to hear her. “Julia’s light as a feather. She’s no weight at all. But the effort … even when she’s just sleeping, resting in the corner of Dianne’s workshop. It takes every bit of energy Dianne has just to let her be. Not knowing the future.”
“That’s the challenge …” Alan said, pulling something out of his generic repertoire. Doctors were supposed to be wise. Inside, he was a mess, hearing about Dianne’s pain.
Thinking of Neil, Alan understood what Mrs. Robbins meant. Seeing a person you love suffer is the hardest thing there is. Taking action – bandaging the wound, setting a fracture, cleansing a burn – was always easier than sitting back, accepting there was nothing you could do.
“Dianne’s brave,” Alan said.
“Most of the time.”
“She could ask me for more help than she does.”
“Oh, Alan,” Mrs. Robbins said. “Don’t you know how hard it is for her to be around you – as kind as you are – you will always be a reminder of Tim.”
“Yeah,” Alan said, hurt to know the truth from Lucinda.
“Heard from him lately?”
Alan shook his head. Two months earlier, Tim had called from Camden, needing to borrow a thousand dollars. Before that Alan would get collect calls or postcards from ports from Lubec to Halifax. Tim had become a seafaring drifter. Sometimes he visited Malachy. He had no home, no address. That was the price he’d paid for what he’d done: leaving his wife and child.
“The poor wretch,” Lucinda said. “It’s almost impossible to loathe him when he’s so tormented. But not quite.”
“I know what you mean,” Alan said, feeling Lucinda’s gaze. He wondered whether she had figured it out. She was too loyal to Dianne, too discreet to ask, but he believed she knew.
Alan was in love with Dianne.
The feeling had never gone away. Even when she’d chosen Tim, with Alan tricking himself into thinking Dianne was stopping Tim’s decline, saving his life, he loved her anyway. He’d do anything to help her, then or now.
He told himself he was a doctor, his compassion was natural. Dianne’s eyes showed everything. Her hair was the color of Cape Cod marshes in autumn, golden in the October sun. She smelled like paint, lumber, and the sea. Frustration often creased her brow, but when she looked at Julia, the lines would disappear into such deep love that Alan sometimes felt pressure in his throat.
Psychiatrists – and Malachy Condon – would say he loved his sister-in-law because she was totally inaccessible. Fear of commitment? No problem – pick someone your brother has left, a woman who hates your family with a passion. Alan was screwed up in the area of relationships – he knew it well. He dated good women. They were all better than he deserved. He had a lousy habit of forgetting to call after the third or fourth time. He had never been married, and as much as he loved children, he had none of his own. And it would probably stay that way.
“Dianne’s hoping for a good summer,” Mrs. Robbins said.
“I know,” Alan said.
“I’ll be home to help her out more.”
“Do you think Dianne would consider a baby-sitter?” he asked. “I’m thinking of someone, kind of like a mother’s helper.”
“She might,” Mrs. Robbins said. “You could try.”
“Coming from me, I’m not sure.”
“You’re very good to her, Alan,” she said. “She might not show it, but I know she appreciates it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
The librarian’s eyes connected with his. “It matters a lot,” Mrs. Robbins said. She took his damp towel and hung it on the metal handle of her cart. Alan knew she would wash it and bring it back for him next week. He understood that Lucinda wished that he had been the one to win. That Dianne had stayed with Alan, never married Tim at all.
Things that Alan wished himself.
Amy came home from school early. Her mother was in bed, and her mother’s boyfriend, Buddy, was rehearsing with his band. They were in someone’s garage down the street, and Amy could hear the ugly metal sound. Who wanted to make music that sounded like train wrecks? But the good news was, he was busy and she would hear if he stopped playing.
The shades were pulled down, but spring sunshine outlined the window frames like square halos. Emptied beer bottles gave off their usual fragrance. Amy walked through the dark room with a can of pine-scented air freshener, spraying full blast. She thought of brooks and forests, hoot owls and whippoorwills. Peeking into her mother’s room, she saw her mother lying under the blankets.
“Mama?” Amy whispered.
Her mother didn’t move. Thick curtains were pulled over Venetian blinds, so the air was dark and heavy as brown corduroy. It was stiflingly hot, and Amy resisted the impulse to throw open the window. She knew her mother needed her rest. Wanting company, she went back to the living room.
“Hi, puppy,” she said, falling on her knees before the dog cage.
The young dog bared his teeth, growling and cowering in the back of the cage. Buddy, training him to be a guard dog, had named him Slash, but there was no way on earth Amy would ever call him that.
“I’m your friend,” she said.
“Grrrr.”
“You don’t believe me?” Amy ran to the kitchen and came back with two slices of American cheese – even Buddy wouldn’t miss two little slices. Breaking them up into small pieces, she placed one near the front of the cage.
“Grrr,” the dog growled. Amy thought back to an early time in Dr. McIntosh’s office. Amy had been scared – she had had a sore throat, burning like fire, and a fever of one hundred and four. She had been so afraid to open her mouth. Dr. McIntosh hadn’t rushed her at all, just won her over slowly with a lollipop, a story about dolphins, and his gentle voice.
“I’m your friend, puppy,” Amy said, trying to imitate Dr. McIntosh’s voice. And it was working, because soon the small black dog began creeping forward. Both eyes on Amy, he inched ahead.
It