Follow the Stars Home

by Luanne Rice

  “I’m worried something bad will happen—”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want it to,” Amy said, her voice tight.

  “I know that too,” Dianne said. Alan knew the situation better than she did. If only he would come now, he could hold Amy and comfort her, say the right things. The way he always tried to do with Dianne …

  Across the yard, she could see her studio. Stella sat in the window, staring as she always did at the stars. Her head was tilted up, and even from her room Dianne could see her eyes full of yearning.

  “Look,” Dianne said, leaning down so her face was next to Amy’s. The child’s cheeks were wet, and Dianne could hear the soft shudders of continued sobbing. “Your friend.”

  “My friend?”

  “Stella,” Dianne said. “Doing what she always does: searching for Orion.”

  “Every night?”

  “Every night. Even when it’s cloudy, she looks for that constellation. No matter what. She knows it’s there, whether she can see it or not.”

  “She believes,” Amy said brokenly.

  “Yes. She has faith. I always imagine her living in that stone wall when she was tiny, looking up at the sky. I’ll bet she thought Orion was her father. He’s the hunter, but he kept her safe.”

  “Like my father …” Amy said, turning her eyes to the sky. Dianne looked down at Amy, then across the dark yard at Stella. There they both were, the young girl and the strange little cat, staring at Orion in the sky, thinking of their fathers. Tilting her head back, Dianne thought of Emmett. And she thought of another man, someone who had never been a father but knew just how to be a good one, Alan.

  After four days the puppy still hid under the daybed in Dianne’s studio and wouldn’t come out. Dianne had architecture books and photo albums and interesting scraps of lumber she was saving under there, and he had wedged himself behind it all. Nothing of him was visible, not even his eyes.

  Dianne had left bowls of food and water by her desk, but he wouldn’t even emerge for sustenance. By the second night, when it was obvious he wasn’t going to venture forth, Dianne pushed the bowls under the bed. She had never seen a creature so terrorized, and it disturbed her horribly.

  Even worse was imagining what Amy had seen and endured. Dianne watched the child alternately stand by the window, then stare at the telephone. She missed her mother with burning intensity. Every seventy-two hours had brought new developments: first, an order of protection, with Amy not allowed to go home. Second, a hearing, at which Alan had been appointed temporary guardian. And finally, the decision that Amy would stay with Dianne in foster care for a period to be determined by the court.

  Amy’s bruise had turned black; it showed through the cotton of her summer shirt. Gazing from Amy to Julia, Dianne felt her chest fill with rage.

  Amy was every mother’s dream: healthy, beautiful, active, smart, kind. To have a child and not love her with all your heart, how was such a thing even possible? How could a mother waste her life away, sleeping the free hours she could be spending with her daughter? How could Tess Brooks let her boyfriend hurt them both, especially Amy, so badly?

  But it was the way that Amy loved her mother that broke Dianne’s heart. Away from her, Amy had lost some of her spirit. She hardly talked. She wouldn’t eat. When Dianne asked for her opinion on what color the newest playhouse’s door should be, Amy just shrugged. Even Julia couldn’t capture her attention. Amy just stared into space.

  Until Stella came down from her basket.

  The cat circled the bed. She didn’t seem particularly afraid or curious; she just walked around, looking for the best spot. There was a dog under the bed. A strange dog. Nothing escaped Stella’s attention, but by the way she was moving, Dianne knew that she realized the dog was there, that she had something in mind.

  “Amy,” Dianne said. “Look.”

  Amy watched, glanced questioningly at Dianne.

  “What’s she doing?” Amy asked.

  Stella crouched. She wriggled slightly, settling on her haunches as if she planned to be there for a while. By her position, Dianne guessed that she was just about even with the spot the puppy had hidden himself. The cat’s turquoise eyes were trained on the one-inch gap between the bedspread and the floor.

  “She’s waiting.”

  “Why isn’t she afraid?” Amy asked, a little inquisitive brightness returning to her eyes. “He’s so much bigger than she is.”

  “Well,” Dianne began, but Amy figured it out.

  “She wants to be his friend?”

  “I think so. She’s letting him know it’s safe.”

  “But Stella never thinks it’s safe,” Amy said, looking up at the shelf. “She stays in her basket all day long! She never even comes down like this for us!”

  “Maybe telling him it’s safe will help her know it herself.”

  “Will she show him Orion tonight?” Amy asked. “When the stars come out?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Dianne said.

  “That’s his name,” Amy said suddenly. “Orion.”

  “The puppy. Orion!” Dianne said.

  “Stella and Orion …”

  Amy walked over to Julia. Julia had been drowsy all day, but she seemed to perk up at Amy’s approach. She lifted her head, looked up with wide eyes. Amy crouched beside Julia’s seat just as the cat was doing with the dog.

  “We have pets,” Amy whispered. “I’ve never named a dog before. His name is Orion. Men can see him from their boats, Julia. Your father and mine. When they follow the stars to come home, Orion will show them the way.”

  Julia swayed slightly. She seemed lulled by Amy’s voice. Faithfulness and devotion were in her face. Her thin body leaned closer to her friend. Amy’s eyes glittered with tears and the madness of loving people who weren’t there. Dianne knew well about longing for absent people, and her throat ached hard. Julia had a father, and he wasn’t Alan. The knowledge was as true as the stars, and it broke Dianne’s heart.

  At the week’s end Alan stopped by Amy’s house to pick up more things she needed. When Dianne heard his car, she ran outside. His eyes looked glazed, his face drawn.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Dianne said.

  “Tess Brooks. She’s like Lady Macbeth,” Alan said. “A blank stare on her face, haunted by what she’s living with. Swore left and right that Buddy didn’t mean to do it. The dog lunged to bite Amy, and he was just pushing her out of the way. Does the dog bite?”

  “The dog is so far under the bed, we haven’t even seen him since he got here. But Amy says no, and I believe her.”

  “So do I.”

  “Her mother lied?”

  “To protect Buddy. Tess Brooks is depressed, and he’s got her convinced she can’t take care of herself. He’s an abusive bastard, telling her she should be grateful to have him.”

  “I want to feel sorry for her,” Dianne said. “But what about Amy? The woman would lie instead of defending her daughter?”

  “She’s lying because she’s desperate and afraid,” Alan said.

  It seemed to Dianne like he could have been talking about his own mother. Tim had told her a few of the stories, how after Neil’s death his mother would buy vodka. She’d drink it openly, tell the boys it was water. Later, when that didn’t work, she’d hide the bottles and say she had quit for good. When she crashed the car, she said she had swerved to avoid a dog. When she’d smashed into the side of a van and sent it skidding through an intersection, she’d told the investigating officers that she had suffered from migraines since the death of her son, that she hadn’t even seen the van passing by.

  “What else did she say?” Dianne asked. The thought of Tess Brooks made her sick. She felt furious, her blood pressure skyrocketing.

  “She wants Amy back.”

  “She said that?”

  “Of course. She promises to get counseling, kick Buddy out, do whatever it takes. She’s a nervous wreck.”

 
“Letting Amy get hurt like that …” Dianne said. She stood there, shaking, her arms folded across her chest. She pictured Amy’s bruises.

  “She’s filled with remorse.”

  “A little late,” Dianne said.

  “Everyone deserves a second chance,” Alan said.

  Dianne stared up at him in shock. How could he say that so easily? After everything his own mother had put Tim and himself through? Overcome with fury, Dianne shook her head.

  “It’s hard for me to reconcile,” Dianne said, “what that woman has let Amy go through, when I think of how I feel about Julia….”

  “You’re different,” Alan said.

  “I know, I don’t sleep all day!”

  “She’s not a bad person,” Alan said. “She’s a sick person.”

  “I don’t see how you can say that,” Dianne said, staring down at her bare feet so he wouldn’t see the angry tears in her eyes. “Coming from where you do.”

  “You think Tim would be here?” Alan asked. “If our mother hadn’t drunk?”

  Dianne’s head snapped up.

  “I’m past wanting that,” she said, the tears streaming down her face. “But something hurt him early, made him into the man he was. I think about that, yes. I think about how the whole thing started. If she hadn’t turned from her kids to the bottle … Yes, I think Tim’s life would have been different. He’d have been able to stay with me and Julia….”

  “Come on, Dianne,” Alan said, his face full of the agony she’d seen before. “You wish he’d stayed?”

  “He’s Julia’s father,” Dianne said.

  “In name only,” Alan said.

  Dianne wanted to push him away. The reality of her life came crashing in. What did the words “in name only” mean when the subject was parents? Blood was the ultimate bond. Julia was Tim’s daughter, and none of them were ever going to forget it. She could hear Alan’s breath, feel it on her cheek. She felt utterly crushed, and she wanted to run away.

  “I can’t talk about Tim,” she said.

  “I want to drag him back here to face what he left.”

  “He can’t face his own life,” Dianne said, feeling the color drain from her cheeks. “He’s not capable.”

  “I face mine,” Alan said. “Every day, every minute. Sometimes it’s not easy….”

  “You’re different,” Dianne said.

  “We both are,” he said. “You and I are alike.”

  “In some ways,” she whispered, feeling the breeze blow across her arms, making the tiny hairs stand on end. She felt dizzy from how close he was standing.

  “You’re the most loving woman I know,” he said.

  “With Julia,” she said.

  “And with Amy. You took her in from the first day.”

  “I want Amy to stay with us, Alan. For as long as she needs to.”

  “As long as you realize her mother wants her home. And Amy wants to go.”

  “Oh, I know Amy wants to go,” Dianne said, glancing at her studio. The girls were sitting by Julia’s chair, keeping watch over the animals.

  “I couldn’t stand to see you hurt again,” Alan said. “By someone you love leaving.”

  Dianne bowed her head. She had numbed herself to a dull ache, but the tenderness in his voice brought tears to her eyes. He stepped closer. She could hear him breathing, and she could see his shadow on the grass at her feet.

  “Dianne,” he said. “Look at me.”

  She shook her head. His arms had been full of boxes of Amy’s clothes, but he lowered them to the ground. He placed the palm of his hand against her cheek, and she raised her head. Tears were running down her cheeks, and she couldn’t stop them. Alan reached into his pocket for a handkerchief but couldn’t find one, so he dried her tears with his bare hand. But they just kept coming.

  Alan left his hand there, as if he couldn’t stop touching her face. Dianne stared up at him. She swallowed, wanting to tell him she was okay, but she couldn’t speak. Her heart was beating too hard. She felt the breeze blowing through her hair, and she felt something give out in her knees, as if someone had reached down and yanked a little pin. When Alan pulled her close to hug her, she held him as if they were both about to die there.

  Alan mumbled something into her hair.

  “What?” she asked.

  She could swear she had heard him speak, she was positive she’d heard him say “This is it.”

  But he just shook his head. She felt his lips on her part, on the back of her ear. He eased out of the hug, both of his hands on her upper arms, steadying her as if he thought she might fall.

  “Did you say something?” she asked again.

  She waited for him to answer, but instead he just raised his palms to the sky. The gesture was simple. It seemed to be a question and a prayer all at once. The summer sky was bright blue, with only a few clouds passing by. An osprey flew overhead, a large silver fish struggling in its talons. A pair of swans swam in the marsh.

  Dianne watched Alan looking at the sky, and she turned toward the two young girls inside her studio. She thought of love, daughters, mothers, and fathers. She thought of people meant to be together. Her face felt wet, and her knees were still weak. People prayed in different ways, but Dianne believed the prayers might be pretty much the same thing.

  Lucinda’s retirement day arrived. Friday, July fifteenth, her alarm rang at six A.M., as it had for forty years. Padding downstairs, she half expected to see Dianne sitting at the kitchen table, ready to commemorate the moment. But the room was empty. Julia had been sick to her stomach the previous night, and Dianne had been up late.

  Taking her coffee out to the porch, Lucinda read her devotions looking east over the marsh. The old blue heron stood in the reeds. Staring at the big bird, Lucinda had a strange lump in her throat. She could hardly focus on the psalms. She felt as if she were standing on a dock, about to wave good-bye to a great steamship loaded with people she loved. She wanted them to go, she hoped they’d have a thrilling voyage, but she’d miss them terribly.

  Getting dressed, the feeling didn’t go away. She put on her best blue suit, pinned her mother’s cameo to the throat of her white blouse, and put on lipstick. Most days she dressed a bit more casually, but she thought maybe her coworkers would throw her a luncheon for her last day. She practiced her surprise face in the mirror.

  Dianne was still asleep, and Lucinda slipped out quietly. With Amy there, Dianne was doing even more than usual. So Lucinda pushed down her feelings, not wanting to admit she felt a little disappointed not to be seen off on her last day of work.

  The library was cool, as it always was in the early mornings. Lucinda loved this time of day. She would walk through the shelves, straightening books, putting back the volumes on the cart. Yellow sunlight came through the tall windows, silver dust sparkling in the air. Lucinda knew she would miss every book, every window, every particle of dust.

  “Good luck, Mrs. Robbins!”

  “We’ll miss you, Lucinda!”

  “The library won’t be the same without you….”

  All through the day her coworkers and library users said the same thing. Lucinda thanked them all. She must have made her thoughts about surprise parties very clear, because there was no special lunch. Two of the younger women ran out to their usual lunchtime aerobics class, and the reference librarian met her husband at the boatyard café.

  Lucinda went about her tasks with an ache in her throat. She knew that she could never have had a better career. She had majored in English at Wheaton College, gotten her MLS from the University of Connecticut, started working at the library forty years before. She had overseen many changes, grieved when they took out the old oak card catalogues and brought in computers.

  She had issued her own daughter her first library card. Standing right there, at the front desk, she had watched Dianne, five years old, sign her name on the card. Lucinda had watched her try to get all the letters on the line; she remembered how the N in Robbins had dangled o
ff, but Lucinda had never felt prouder.

  Emmett had built the oak shelves in the new addition. He had constructed the window seats in the children’s library, installed a bay window in the reading room. Lucinda would grab the new Robert Ludlum novels the minute they’d come in, sign them out for her husband. And she would smile when he beeped his truck horn driving past, even though Lucinda repeatedly told him it was a quiet zone.

  “Have you really read every book in the library?”

  When she looked up, Alan was standing there. He held a bouquet of red roses and a wrapped package.

  “You’ve heard that, have you?” she asked.

  “It’s legend here in Hawthorne.”

  “Just like the ghost in the lighthouse,” she joked. “And pirate gold buried somewhere on Jetty Beach. I’m an institution!”

  “That you are,” he said.

  Lucinda nodded. To her surprise, tears came to her eyes. She had been looking forward to this day for months. She had movies to see, languages to learn, places to visit. She had served the readers of Hawthorne for four decades, worked very hard. She told herself it shouldn’t matter that the town hadn’t hired a brass band to send her off, but she had a lump in her throat anyway.

  “I’ll have a ball,” she said, forcing herself to sound jolly. “I have a list a mile long of things I want to do.”

  “Good,” he said.

  “I’ll miss our Wednesdays though. Not many librarians have a handsome young doctor jogging by to sweat up their periodicals room.”

  Alan nodded, handing her the roses and package. Lucinda had been trying her best to be upbeat, stay laughing, but Alan’s eyes were serious behind his steel-rimmed glasses. He looked as if he knew how she really felt-how very sad she was to be leaving the library she loved so much. Alan carried his own suffering with noble silence, and Lucinda knew she could learn from him.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Well, it’s not like I won’t be seeing you at our house. Now that we have two of your patients living under our roof …”

  “It won’t be the same,” Alan said. Lucinda had been thinking his motives for coming had to do with the way he’d looked at Dianne at dinner the night before, but she could hear the honest compassion in his voice.