Follow the Stars Home. Luanne Rice
She could have stayed with Alan – the great doctor – if she had wanted, but she had chosen Tim.
“I’m gonna take Hudson Street uptown,” the driver said. “West Side Highway’s stopped deader’n hell.”
“Just get me there,” Tim said. Dianne was in some New York hospital, just minutes away now. The closer he got to her, the harder his heart pounded. He had made mistakes, no doubt about it. But maybe he could undo some of them: He could go to the hospital now, see if he could help. Tim was a good guy at heart; his intentions had never been bad. He wanted Dianne to know that.
Maybe she understood already. Hadn’t she gotten the nurse to call him?
Tim would like to show Malachy. He hated picturing their last time together: spit flying from Malachy’s angry mouth, shouting at Tim as they stood on the Lunenburg dock. Acting more like Alan than Malachy: sanctimonious, looking down on Tim for his shortcomings. But this might be Tim’s chance to help Dianne, to prove both Alan and Malachy wrong.
Besides, didn’t the stars point to something? Why had Tim been steaming into Point Pleasant instead of somewhere else? He might have bailed into Nantucket, avoided yesterday’s storm. Or he could have veered into the Gulf Stream, headed farther south than New Jersey for his first port, had the radio off, not heard the call.
“Dianne,” he said out loud.
New York was filled with people and cars. Couples stood at every street corner. The Empire State Building was lit up green and red. Christmas trees down from Nova Scotia, where Tim had been the previous summer, filled the city air with the lovely fragrance of deep pine forests. Dianne loved the holidays. She was a good person, full of love, and she saw the holidays as one more chance to make her family happy – to bring joy to their daughter, he was sure.
As he thought of the little girl he had never met, Tim’s eyes stung. Dianne had told him her name was Julia. It didn’t help that Alan was her pediatrician, that he used to send letters to Tim through Malachy. Tim had torn them all up. The child had been born damaged.
No renegade lobsterman wanted to be reminded of lousy things he’d done. Dianne had given birth to a sick baby, and Tim hadn’t been able to handle it. That’s what fishing the Atlantic was for: tides and currents and a big lobster boat named after the goddess of love to take him the hell away.
Tim handed the driver a pile of money and jumped out at St. Bernadette’s Hospital – a complex of redbrick buildings too huge to figure out. He ran into the ER, pushing past a guard who told him he had to sign in. The nurses were nice. They took one look at him and knew he needed help fast. Tim had been aboard Aphrodite for days, and he needed to wash and shave.
“The woman and girl,” he said to the head nurse. “Who were brought in earlier, the accident, you called me …”
“You’re the fisherman,” she said kindly, handing him his grandmother’s earring.
Tim shuddered and groaned. He dried his face with the oil-stained sleeve of his brown Carhartt jacket. His knuckles were cracked and bloody from winter in northern waters. He clutched the ancient earring Dorothea McIntosh had given Dianne on their wedding day, and he remembered it sparkling in the Hawthorne sun as they’d said their vows.
Tim had been roaming for so long, searching for something that would help him forget he had run out on his wife and daughter. Julia had been born sick and crippled. Tim had been too afraid to see her.
“Where’s Dianne?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
The nurse led him through the hospital. Tim followed, their footsteps echoing down long corridors. The hospital seemed old, several brick buildings connected by a warren of hallways. Accustomed to starlight, Tim blinked under the fluorescent lighting. Entering a more modern wing, they rode an elevator to the twentieth floor.
“I’m taking you to see the child,” the nurse said. “Her mother is still in surgery.”
“No –” Tim began.
“The girl is scared,” the nurse said. “She’s hurt, and she’s all alone.”
“My daughter,” Tim whispered. Was it really possible? After eleven years, was he about to meet his little girl? His stomach clenched. He had never seen her, but in his imagination she was stunted and palsied, like other damaged children he had seen. By then, sure he was on the brink of meeting her, Tim steeled himself for what he would see.
“In here,” the nurse said, opening a door.
“Which one?” Tim asked.
It was a double room. Both beds were filled. The occupants of each were quiet, their faces in shadow. The nurse indicated the girl with a broken arm. She lay in traction, her arm suspended overhead with lines and crossbars, like the elaborate rigging of a brigantine. Stepping closer, Tim was stunned.
Lying there was a beautiful young girl. Her arm was in a cast, her forehead was bruised, but she was perfect. Dark lashes lay upon delicate skin. Her face was oval, her nose straight, her lips full. As Tim stared, he began to shake.
“My daughter,” he said, his voice croaking.
“She’s waking up,” the nurse said.
The child began to stir. She licked her lips, tried to move her arm. Her cry was awful to hear, and Tim wanted to put his arms around her.
“Oh,” she wept. “My arm hurts.”
“There, honey,” the nurse said soothingly, bending over the girl. She spoke quietly, helping the child to orient herself, blocking Tim from her sight. Tim pulled himself together the best he could. He didn’t want to meet his daughter for the first time in shock and looking like Captain Ahab – or worse.
“I want to go home,” the girl cried. “I want to go back to Hawthorne.”
“It’s okay,” the nurse said kindly. “You’re going to be fine, honey. And you’re not alone. There’s someone here to see you.”
The young girl blinked. Stepping out from behind the white-clad nurse, Tim watched the child bring him into focus. Blood pounded in his ears like waves smashing over a ship’s bow. He tried to smile, not wanting to frighten her. But he needn’t have worried. Her fearful expression changed instantly the moment she saw him into one of sheer delight and love.
“Dr. McIntosh!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears.
Tim was too choked up to speak. Hearing only his last name, he thought for one minute that his daughter knew him already. Dianne had showed her his picture. Maybe they kept it on the mantel. They had talked about him all this time.
“Oh, Dr. McIntosh,” she said again, and now Tim heard the rest, the “Doctor.” Shit. She was calling for his brother. Alan. In her groggy, posttraumatic state, she had caught sight of one McIntosh and mistaken him for the other. Tim’s heart fell. He closed his eyes and knew that the little girl had made a mistake.
And so, he thought, probably he had too. But he was going to set it straight. He had to see Dianne.
Conscious only of bright light and searing pain in her arm and head, Dianne moaned. Her eyes tried to focus. Shapes swam before her, green beings saying her name over and over.
“Dianne?” she heard. “Dianne, can you hear me?”
“Mrs. McIntosh, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Amy …”
“Hold steady, that’s right.” She felt the pressure of a hand on her forehead. The Plaza, Christmas lights. Headlights came at her, and she cried out. But they weren’t headlights. A man in green was standing there, shining a light in her face.
“Dianne, do you know where you are?” came a woman’s