Follow the Stars Home

by Luanne Rice

  The time had come to get the baby out. The doctors gathered around. Sitting by Dianne’s head, Alan had held her shoulders. “Way to go, Dianne,” he said like someone coaching a baseball team. “You’re doing great, you can do it, that’s a girl.”

  She had grabbed his chin. “Tell me,” she begged, “that I’ve done the right thing.”

  The baby wasn’t born yet, they had no way of knowing what her future would be. But Dianne had lost her husband, had signed on for a lifetime of duty for a baby who would never be all right. Alan had no idea, but his answer had come from his heart and soul.

  “Yes, Dianne,” he had whispered. “You have done the right thing.”

  “Oh,” she had cried. “I hope I have….”

  “I promise I’ll be there,” Alan had said. “For her whole life, for as much as you need me.”

  “Thank you,” Dianne had said, pushing, working, getting her baby born. The room sizzled with anticipation and excitement, every doctor knowing that his or her specialty was about to be put to use. Dianne threw back her head, her skin glistening, hair streaming, the cords of her neck taut as wire. Alan witnessed birth in medical school, but never like this, never when he knew the mother.

  “She’s coming,” the doctor said. “Here we go, another push, Dianne, we have it, let’s go, come on….”

  The room fell silent.

  Dianne was screaming, the joy and relief of having delivered her child, the way every mother sounded when she’s just given life, and Alan had expected the room to join in-that collective raising of voices, that choir of those present at a birth. But there was nothing. Every person in the room drew a breath and held it.

  “Please,” Dianne cried. “Give her to me.”

  The neonatologist had the baby on the way to her incubator. Nurses blocked Dianne’s view. Dianne was weeping, reaching out, holding her empty arms toward the doctors. No one wanted Dianne to see. The baby was defective. Horribly misshapen, her spine in a sac at the top of her back, her limbs akimbo, her body the mismatching planes of a cubist painting.

  Alan rose. Walking across the room, leaving his sister-in-law screaming for him to come back and bring her baby, he gazed for the first time at his niece. He was a pediatrician. He had attended Harvard Medical School, and he had trained at Mass General and Yale. But nothing had ever prepared him for the emotions he felt as he stared into the eyes of that little girl.

  “Give her to me,” he said.

  “She needs—”

  Alan was well aware of what she needed. Taking her into his arms, he carried her across the room. Dianne was crying, nodding. She was only in a hospital gown and beautiful. The baby was no bigger than a kitten. Dianne sobbed. As she looked at the baby, her sobs stopped suddenly on one sharp intake of breath.

  Alan would never forget what she did next.

  With all the pain she must have been feeling from childbirth, from having been abandoned by her husband, and from the anxiety of bearing a damaged child, she put all of those feelings aside. She looked at her baby. And she nodded. She was trembling, it would be hard and there would be setbacks, but she was ready to try.

  “Give her to me,” she said, her voice shaking.

  Alan placed the baby in Dianne’s arms.

  “Sweet baby,” Dianne whispered. “Little girl …I love you. I love you. I love you. And I’ll never leave you. Never.”

  Now, sitting outside the ICU, Alan watched his brother Tim cry as he stared at that baby’s picture. Alan waited while Tim pulled himself together. For a few seconds Alan considered telling his brother the account of his daughter’s birth, but he held himself back. That story belonged to him and Dianne.

  “Dianne kept her at home?” Tim asked.

  “Yes,” Alan said.

  “She never sent her away?”

  “Never once.”

  Tim nodded, wiping his eyes. Just then the ICU door opened. Both brothers rose to their feet. Dr. Bellavista stepped out. His expression was serious, but Alan could see in his eyes that he had good news. He looked from one McIntosh to the other.

  “She’s improving,” he said. “Her vital signs are better, and she’s responding, coming to. She wants to know if Alan’s here.”

  “That’s me,” Alan said.

  “Go on,” Tim said.

  Alan hesitated. He wanted to say the one right thing. Waiting these last few hours with his brother had brought him back to a time when they had been close. It couldn’t last, they were too different, and there was too much water under the bridge. But he remembered when they had been close.

  “Do you think she meant it?” Tim asked.

  “Meant what?”

  “That she forgives me?”

  “If she said it, she meant it,” Alan said. He knew that much about Dianne, and it was something that never wavered.

  “I hope she does,” Tim said. His eyes widened and filled with tears. Alan knew Tim was about to walk away and he’d never see his brother again. “I never should have been with her. She belonged with you all along.”

  “Then there never would have been Julia,” Alan said, which was the closest he could get to his own brand of forgiveness.

  “Make her happy,” Tim said into his brother’s shoulder, giving Alan a last hug. “Do what I never could.”

  “I will,” Alan said.

  They shook hands, and Tim McIntosh walked down the clean hospital corridor, leaving a glittery trail of fish scales behind him. Alan was inside the ICU before Tim even made it to the elevator.

  JULIA’S STORY

  Well, they don’t think I know, but I know. And they don’t think I understand, but I do. They speak in poetry and songs, and I love their words and I love to sing. When my mother is near me, her voice wears a smile, no matter what, no matter what is going wrong in her day. My mother loves me, and she shelters me with her happiness.

  My body is my body. It is different, heavy, and cumbersome. My arms and my legs don’t work, so they get in the way. I see other people moving with ease, and I want to fight through my skin, break free so I can run down the beach, through the grass, into the wind, like everyone else.

  I was born into the world with two people there. My mother and my uncle. For a long time I thought he was my father, but as my hearing developed and I began to understand words, I realized that my real father had gone away, that the reason my mother cried all the time was that he had left us. What does it matter? I wanted to know. We have this other father, this wonderful father, this father who loves us like the sun.

  To me, the sun was warm and always there, and it shined on the garden and made Granny’s flowers grow, and my father Alan shined on me and Mama and made us happy and safe. He is always there.

  He brought me Amy. To have a friend has made me happier than I ever thought I would be. I see the way people look when I go by because I am different. My body is broken and ugly, but I want to tell them: That’s not me! Inside I’m beautiful and light and free! But they frown and turn away. They would rather pretend I don’t exist. It hurts my feelings, and I cry inside.

  But never Amy. She gazes at me with curiosity and love. She makes me laugh, the faces she makes and the jokes she tells. When Mama turns her back, Amy and I do our hand dances and our signal. I stick out my tongue, and Amy touches her ear. When she pushes my chair she goes fast, to let me know how it feels to have legs that work. This is how kids run, she told me, so I would know.

  And now I know!

  My granny is holding me now. She is crying, tears spilling on my head. Something has happened to my mother and Amy, and they are in the hospital. I shiver, because the hospital is a scary place. Everything there is too bright. There are no beautiful shadows, no silver shade, no delicious night with my mother coming in to see that I am all right.

  But the hospital is good. It is where they take care of people like me. I find it hard to imagine my mother and Amy like me, helpless and needing other people to lift and feed them and move them. But at the hospital I
have seen people, normal people like them, come in and go out.

  “Gaaa,” I say, saying her name, wanting my granny to know I love her.

  “Oh, darling,” Granny sobs, holding me. “Your mother was in a terrible accident. Alan went down to see her and Amy. He’ll call us soon.”

  Granny is so worried. All will be well, I want to tell her. I try to move my hands, to pat her face, but I feel so tired. My body is fading away. I am happy about that, because when my body is gone, I will be free. I will be able to run and laugh and swim through the sky. I can feel the day coming. Not now, but soon.

  There are things to do first. I know, although I don’t know how it is possible. Maybe because God gave me a body that doesn’t work, he gave me the vision to know more than others. I don’t ask, because what would be the point? I lie in my bed or sit in my chair, waiting for everything to happen. And nothing I do or wish can make it happen any faster. But somehow I know….

  There will be a wedding. That day is coming soon. My father, Uncle Alan, has bought my mother a ring. He showed it to me yesterday when he took me to see our new house. It is big and beautiful, and he told me it is made of love. He showed me my room, where I will be able to watch the boats in the harbor, the fishing boats and the sailboats moving across the water with the freedom of spirits.

  He showed me Mama’s ring.

  “It’s a diamond,” he said, opening the soft velvet case. “It’s the symbol of eternity, Julia, because it’s as old as forever. It’s the hardest material in the world, and I’m going to prove that to you before we leave.”

  “Gleee,” I said, which is my word for wonderful!

  “Look,” he said, holding Mama’s diamond to the light, letting rainbows dance all over the ceiling, walls, and floors. Oh, if only Stella were here, I thought. My kitty would be chasing those rainbows like crazy, and Amy and I would laugh our heads off.

  “I’m going to propose to her, honey,” my daddy said. “I’m going to adopt you and marry your mother, and we’re going to be a happy family.”

  “Daaaa,” I said. That means “Daddy,” because I have never thought of him in any other way, and I believe that we are a happy family already.

  “Right here,” he said, carrying me over to the bay window in our new living room. “This is where our Christmas tree will be. Can you picture it? We’ll decorate it all together, you, me, your mother, Amy, and Lucinda. We’ll string up white lights, thousands of them, so bright the boats in the harbor will think we’re a lighthouse.”

  “Dleee,” I said, because I liked that idea.

  “And I’m going to marry your mother right here,” he said. “Right in front of the Christmas tree. If she thinks I’m waiting till the new year, she’s got another think coming.”

  “Daaa,” I said. I listened carefully to this part, because it was about time. Time is the thing for me. I’m eleven years old, which for me is a long time. My heart is so tired. It has to work so hard. This terrible body takes a lot of work, and I am wearing out. But certain things must be done. It is part of my job, and my gift.

  “Right here, Julia,” Daddy said. “You and Amy will be the bridesmaids. You’ll both carry flowers, the most beautiful bouquets you’ve ever seen.”

  “Gaaa,” I said to remind him that Granny would know what kind to get. Granny loves flowers. She has all kinds in her garden in summer: roses, peonies, bluebells, lilies of the valley.

  “You’ll wear white dresses with silver sashes,” Daddy said. “Because your mother once told me she dreamed of garden parties here, with ladies wearing white dresses.”

  “Baaa,” I said because I love brides. Mama will be the bride, and Amy and I will be bridesmaids. In books and on TV, brides are like fairy princesses. Mama will be the prettiest of all, smiling with joy.

  “Lucinda will give your mother away,” Daddy said.

  Right now Granny is holding me. She has stopped crying, and she carries me downstairs. She sighs every few minutes. Outside the window, snow has stopped falling. The clouds are clearing, and the stars are coming out. Granny sighs again, and she holds me tighter.

  “Gaaa,” I say. That makes her happy. She snuggles me, kissing my head. I love her kisses and her hugs. She is full of love, the person who has seen my mama through all her worst times. She talks to me like Daddy, she tells me stories of the past, she has shown me the apple dolls she made for our Christmas presents, from the ruined fruit Amy found that day in the apple garden.

  Everyone tells me their secrets. I am lucky, because the secrets are full of love. They show the ways my family wants to help each other, bring meaning to the hard times we all have known. Granny’s apple dolls mean that the unlovable can be loved, and Daddy told me a story that he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

  He told it to me at our house, the place I will go to live for my last days. It was in the living room, by the bay window, where our Christmas tree will stand. There is a pane of glass there, ancient blue-leaded glass, wavy and flecked with bubbles of trapped air. There are scratchings on the pane, and Daddy stared at them with anger in his eyes.

  “I wanted to break this window, Julia,” he told me. “When I first saw it. The Realtor told me the letters meant something romantic about the original owners. Some sea captain and his wife. Well, you know how I feel about sea captains—”

  I waved the air.

  “I wanted to break the glass, get rid of it before your mother saw it. The last thing I want is to remind her of Tim.”

  “Daaa,” I said, wanting him to know it didn’t matter, Mama didn’t love Tim, Alan was the only father I could ever want, he didn’t have to worry.

  “But I got to thinking,” he said. “Maybe I was looking at it the wrong way. The letters read E-L-H. E-L-H. The owner was Elihu Hubbard, so I thought maybe his middle initial was L. But I checked the original deed, and it was S. Then I checked at the library, found a history of Hawthorne that had this house in it, and I saw that his wife’s name was Letitia.”

  I waved, because I loved hearing him tell me this story.

  “E-L-H is their monogram,” he said. “Elihu Letitia Hubbard. What they became when they married each other. She scratched it into the glass with the diamond he brought her back from his voyage. So that is what I’m going to do too.” He brought out the velvet case, removed Mama’s ring.

  “Maaa,” I said because I wished Mama were there to see this.

  “Scratch our monogram right next to theirs.”

  Diamonds were the hardest material on earth. He had told me already. Born of fire deep in the earth, they lasted forever and cut glass without breaking. I watched my daddy take that ring and use Mama’s diamond to carve their monogram into the thick blue glass: A-D-M.

  “Alan Dianne McIntosh,” he said. And then he did something I couldn’t believe, the very thing that made me so happy he was my father: He added a J. “For Julia,” he said, kissing my head.

  Granny sighs again. She holds me at the kitchen table. The lights are out, and her heart is racing through her sweater, waiting for the phone to ring. I breathe as quietly as I can, not wanting to disturb her. Granny will be upset until my mother comes home. I know, because that is how Granny is.

  That’s the thing: People are who they are. Twelve years of silence have taught me that above all. I watch and I listen. I cannot change the flow of events. If I could, I would tell Granny that Mama will come home again. I have this shimmering sense, this sure sight that lets me know. I am connected with my mother right now. My eyes are closed, and I am touching her face.

  My mother is hurt, and she lies just about as close to death as I am. It is near, tugging at our blood. But the thing Granny and Alan don’t know, and neither does Mama or Amy, I am moving toward it and Mama is moving away from it. I yearn to leave this body, this cage. I will love them no less when my body is gone. My spirit wants to break free. But my mother has many things left to do, and she must stay alive.

  Stella meows. She knows too.

 
My kitty jumps up on the window ledge. Orion pads across the kitchen floor, cries for Granny to give him some attention. She pets his head, saying, “There boy, there, boy.” That is enough for him, and he circles once and lies down on the floor. But Stella waits.

  She keeps her vigil. Her turquoise eyes blink, gazing into mine. I blink back. Our eyes speak to each other, as we have learned to do over the years. She is telling me she knows how I feel, that I want my mother to come home. She misses my mother and Amy too, and she will call to the stars tonight, trying to bring them home.

  Granny sees.

  “Stella,” she says, her voice barely a breath. “Are you watching Orion in the sky?”

  I wave my hands, telling Stella to call the stars.

  “Oh, kitty,” Granny said, “you think you live in that constellation, don’t you?”

  Stella says nothing. With regal elegance she turns her back on us. She gazes toward heaven, her body tense with longing. She implores her friend, the hunter in the sky, to make my mother well again.

  “Gaaa,” I say.

  “Sweetheart,” Granny whispers, kissing my head.

  I wave my hands, wanting to comfort my grandmother.

  Granny is so smart. She knows stories and plays. She knows poems by heart, and watching my cat, Stella, she thinks of one and recites it now.

  She says out loud:

  “Evening Star,

  Hesperos,

  you bring all good things.

  You bring home all the bright dawn disperses,

  bring home the sheep,

  bring home the goat, bring the child home to its mother.”

  “Bring my daughter home!” my grandmother implores the evening star in the velvet sky.

  “Gaaa,” I say to let her know that all will be well.

  I close my eyes and think of the four apple dolls. They each wear a different dress, made from Mama’s curtain fabrics. But it’s their faces I love. Their faces are made from the wrinkled, withered apples Amy picked up in the apple gardens.

  Granny has hidden the dolls.

  They will be a surprise for us on Christmas morning. Me, Mama, Amy, and Granny herself. As Amy once said, those apples are us: funny looking, fallen from the tree, not good enough for pie.