Follow the Stars Home (18 page)

“Hi, Dianne,” he said, calling back five minutes later. Although it was three in the morning, he sounded wide awake. “What's the matter?”

As it often happened, the minute Dianne called him, Julia seemed better. Her breath was returning to normal, her heart slowing down. Perhaps she had had a nightmare. Sweaty and distressed, she was crying softly.

“Julia was breathing too hard. She's better now….”

“I'll come over.”

“No, Alan,” Dianne said, feeling Julia's pulse. “I'm sorry I called. Honestly, she's—”

“Look. I'll meet you at the emergency room or I'll make a house call. It's your choice.”

Holding Julia, feeling her sobs starting to subside, Dianne hated the idea of taking her out into the night. They were in their nightgowns, sleeveless white cotton that let the cool air blow across their warm skin. Crickets were chirping, and a setting half moon flooded the marsh in thin butterscotch light.

“A house call, I guess,” Dianne said. She thought back to that flood of great need for him in the picnic area, and she realized her hands were shaking. She tried to keep her feelings out of this; Julia was in distress, and she needed her doctor. “Thank you, Alan.”

She got dressed.

Parking his old Volvo outside the Robbinses' house, Alan grabbed his medical case and walked to the door. He had done this a hundred times, stopped by when Julia was having a problem. But tonight his heart was pounding. He was there to help his niece, and he was in love with her mother. They had been going through this for years. Lights were on in the kitchen, and he could see Dianne sitting at the table. Her head was down, her face in shadow.

Walking up the pathway, Alan thought about false alarms. His service woke him three or four times a week, and by the time he called the parents, the emergency would have subsided. The coughing had stopped, the fall out of bed hadn't been serious, the yell had been worse than the injury. From Dianne's voice, Alan had been able to determine Julia's crisis had passed.

Yet there he was. Nothing could have kept him away. She could be bitter and angry till the day they both died, and he'd keep showing up. Nightbirds called, and animals having sex or killing each other screeched in the marsh. Taking a deep breath, Alan tapped on the kitchen door.

“I feel really stupid,” Dianne said.

“She's breathing fine?”

“Not only that,” Dianne said. “She's fast asleep.”

They stood in the doorway, toe to toe. Moths flew around the porch light, bumping against the glass. Dianne wore jeans and a big white shirt. Alan wondered whether she slept in the shirt. He saw her beautiful body, her soft curves, and he wanted to hold her against his own beating heart.

“Let me take a look at her anyway,” he said after a while.

Nodding, Dianne let him in. She led him upstairs, down the short hallway. Alan could have found his
way blindfolded. Over the past eleven years he had walked the route so many times, the rhythm of his footfalls had become silent meditation; a prayer of protection for Dianne's daughter.

They entered Julia's room. Dianne always kept a night-light burning in there. It cast a dim orange glow, like the half moon outside, on the sleeping child. Her hair fanned out on the pillow. The only time he ever saw Julia peaceful was in slumber. Dianne stood so close, he could feel the heat coming off her body.

“See?” Dianne whispered. “She's okay.”

Taking out his stethoscope, Alan gently rolled Julia flat on her back. Her normal sleep breathing had a slight whistle, like air slowly leaking from an inner tube. Dianne slid down the straps of Julia's nightgown, and Alan listened to her heart and lungs.

“See?” Dianne said.

Closing his eyes to hear better, Alan listened harder.

“She's fine,” Dianne said again.

Every seven beats, Julia's heart made a little click. Alan had been listening to it for a long time. The click had first materialized when she was three. Back then, it had come once every ten beats of her heart. The summer before it began coming once every eight. And now it was every seven; Alan had noticed the change last Christmas.

“See?” Dianne whispered, although her eyes looked worried.

Moving the stethoscope down, he listened to the fluid gurgling through her bowels. Palpating her belly, he felt for swelling. Gently unhooking her diaper, he glanced inside.

“Well, she's fine,” Alan said suddenly, putting his stethoscope away.

They went downstairs.

“I'm sorry for panicking,” Dianne said.

“You were right to call me.”

“I was?” she asked. The worry had disappeared from her forehead when he had put away his stethoscope, but it came straight back at his pronouncement, so Alan put his hand on her shoulder to reassure her.

“I just meant it's better to be extra careful. We've been watching her….”

Dianne waited for him to finish his sentence, hanging on every word. But Alan couldn't finish it. He didn't know what to say next. Dianne understood Julia's situation better than anyone. Standing in the kitchen, they stared at each other.

“What's happening?” she asked.

“With Julia?”

“Tell me,” she said, her eyes wild.

Alan wanted to take her hands. He wanted to hold her, tell her he had loved her all these years. He was so filled with love for her: Couldn't she see? Life was short, and people threw the time they had away. Doctors were supposed to know that better than anyone.

“What?” Dianne asked.

“When you change her diaper,” he began. “Do you look?”

“What do you mean? Of course I look!”

“She's in puberty,” he said.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Dianne seemed to be in shock. She wrinkled her nose, shaking her head.

“Um, is that coffee?” he asked, gesturing at the pot on the stove.

“Yes, I just made it,” she said. “Please, sit down.”

Alan took a seat at the old pine table. He had been there plenty of times before. He had had his very own spot, back when Dianne and Tim were first married. Now, Dianne sat beside him, pretty and flushed. Her skin was lightly tanned, glistening in the warm night. Her lips were moist and full. He played with a spoon to keep from holding her hand.

“Puberty, really?” Dianne asked.

“What?”

“Julia …”

“She's young, I know,” he said. “Some girls start maturing earlier than others.”

“But how can you tell?” Dianne asked, sounding at once eager and embarrassed. Alan had been through this moment with plenty of mothers. Usually they were so attuned to their daughters' bodies; they remembered their own experiences, and they were on the lookout for signs. Had Dianne thought there wouldn't be any for Julia?

“She has three pubic hairs,” Alan said as clinically as he could. “The areola of her right breast is somewhat enlarged.”

“Oh, Lord,” Dianne said. “My little Julia.”

Alan sipped his coffee. He watched Dianne cover her mouth. Behind her hand was a smile, and it spread to her eyes. For one shimmering moment she let herself have this. Her bright eyes stared up, maybe imagining a vision of the teenage Julia. Her freckled face was radiant, and again Alan wanted to take her hand. He felt something powerful too: He'd been watching Julia grow up as long as Dianne herself.

Dianne looked at him across the table. Her smile deepened, and she stared at him so long, he felt himself smiling back. She reached out one finger, halfway across the pine table, and Alan touched it with one of his.

“I didn't think she would … develop that way,” Dianne said.

“She's surprised us every step,” Alan said.

“She has, she has,” Dianne said.

“When she breathes hard, like she's doing tonight, I think it's due to hormonal surges. She's in flux, you know? That brings on emotional changes.”

“Oh, I remember those,” Dianne said.

Reaching into his medical case, Alan took out a paper bag. As he watched Dianne's face, he saw her eyes register something like embarrassment.

“Thanks for the soup,” he said.

“You're welcome.”

“I thought it was you. I was half awake, and I saw you. But then I told myself I had to be delirious. I had some fever.”

“Jungle madness,” Dianne said.

“Exactly. I figured it had to be someone else. But no one came forward.”

Dianne removed the old plastic container from the paper bag. She raised it, smiling. “To claim this lovely vessel? I wonder why. Thank you for bringing it to us though. We'll turn the alarms back on.”

“The soup was good.”

“I'll tell my mother.”

So, Dianne hadn't made it herself. It had been Lucinda's idea, a fact that shouldn't have surprised Alan at all. Alan drank his coffee and stood to leave.

“Are you feeling better?” Dianne asked after such a long pause that it took Alan a minute to realize she was referring to his cold.

“Yes,” Alan said. “Much. It's long gone.”

“Good,” she said. “I'm glad.”

“Got to keep myself in shape,” he said. “To keep up with Julia.”

“Yes,” Dianne said. “We count on that.”

Alan laughed.

“Oh, Alan,” Dianne said, suddenly rising up on her toes to hold him hard. He felt her breath on his skin, her arms tightening around his neck. He slipped one arm around her waist, and he felt the shiver down his spine, the backs of his legs. Her body felt so sweet and hot, and he was close to joy. They were standing in her kitchen, holding each other, laughing like fools.

“You're happy,” he said.

“I am,” Dianne laughed. “I really am.”

It was so nice to hear her laugh, to see her take pleasure in her unusual and amazing daughter. Dianne and Alan were raising this little girl together, if only Dianne would realize it. He wanted her so badly. He wanted to take care of them both.

Alan felt he could have stayed in Dianne's kitchen until the sun rose over the marsh. But instead, he pulled on his tweed jacket and said good-bye. When he stepped into the cool outdoors, he felt terribly lonely. The half moon had set. The sun hadn't started rising. The lights were still on in the house. And Alan was leaving.

One rainy day, a bunch of kids were playing in the shed behind Amy's house. Amber had stolen cigarettes from her mother, and everyone was smoking. Amy had heard the laughter, gone out to investigate. David Bagwell was practicing to be a loser, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

“You shouldn't be in here,” Amy said, upset.

“Make us get out,” Amber said.

“Buddy won't like it—”

“Buddy's cool,” David interrupted. “He's in my dad's band. You're lucky he's your stepfather.”

“They're not married!” Amy said, making an anti-vampire cross with her two forefingers. She tried to see through the smoke. It was like a night of heavy fog, only it smelled disgusting. Outside, it had started to rain, drops pelted the tin roof. She felt sorry for these kids, that they were smoking. She knew they didn't have people like Dianne and Dr. McIntosh to show them that life could be better than puffing their lungs out in a toolshed.