Follow the Stars Home (37 page)

Tim's throat ached. What if Malachy was right? What if he could see Dianne, meet his daughter? Why had he come to Canada right now, this summer, this week? Why had they?

“Halifax?” he heard himself ask. “That's where they are?”

“It's where they're heading,” Malachy said. “Come on.”

Tim shook his head. He knew he wasn't going.

“Come on,” Malachy said, tugging his arm.

Tim yanked himself free.

“Knock it off, Malachy,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone?”
Malachy roared. He drew himself up to full height and he bellowed without shame or restraint. “Your daughter's up here and needs you now and you're too spineless to show up for her?”

“I can't-” Tim said.

“You shit,” Malachy said. “You spineless shit.”

“Mal—”

“This is it,” Malachy said. “This is the end. The day you wouldn't give your child blood I blamed it on you being young and far away and panicked. But this. She's right here. Right up the road—”

“Don't blame me, Mal,” Tim said, feeling like a little boy, like the days his mother would abandon him for the bottle. “Don't say—”

“Don't say the truth?” Malachy spit out the words. “I wash my hands of you. I loved you like a son, but no son of mine would ever be so weak. You're a fucking coward, Tim McIntosh, and I never want to hear from you again.”

“Hey, Malachy,” Tim yelled, running after the old man, tears flowing down his red cheeks.

“Leaving you alone,” Malachy said, walking faster. “That's what I'm doing. You asked me to, and I'm obliging. Go to hell.”

Tim stopped where he was, on the dock in Lunenburg harbor, and sobbing with rage watched the man he had considered a father these last twenty-some years leave him behind forever. As if he were just a piece of trash.

By the time they reached the hospital, Julia was stable. Whatever had caused the seizure was not recurring. She was awake and fairly alert. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak. She had resumed her hand wringing, but her movements were weak and listless. Dianne held her for as long as she could, but the doctors wanted to take her down to do an MRI.

“Can I go with her?” Dianne asked.

“It would be better for you to wait here,” the technician said. “But she'll be fine. We'll bring her right back to you.”

Watching them wheel Julia away, Dianne held her hand over her heart. She felt terrified, and she hated to think what Julia was feeling. Dianne wanted to be with her through everything, so when Julia was afraid, at least her mother would be there. Looking around, Dianne wished for her
own
mother, but Lucinda had taken Amy down to the cafeteria.

Dianne felt very nervous. The waiting room had a television playing, but she couldn't concentrate enough to watch. By the nurses' desk she saw a row of pay phones. Almost without thinking, she walked over and dialed Alan's number. Her hands were trembling.

“Dr. McIntosh's office,” Martha said.

“Martha, it's Dianne Robbins. I have to talk to Alan.”

“He's with a patient, Dianne. May I have him—”

“Martha,” Dianne said, gripping the receiver with both hands. “I can't wait. I need him right now. Please, get him. Please—”

Within ten seconds Alan was on the line. He said hello, and Dianne's eyes flooded with tears. Her body shook with repressed sobs, and the relief of hearing his voice made everything flow out.

“Alan, it's me,” she wept. “We're at the hospital. Julia had a seizure, and they took her down for an MRI. Our trip has been so wonderful, she was having such a good time….”

“Is she conscious?” Alan asked gently. “Is she breathing?”

His questions had a calming effect on Dianne. They were specific and practical, and they made her think and focus.

“Yes,” Dianne said, “to both. By the time we got here, she was starting to seem more like herself again.”

“Trying to catch invisible butterflies?” Alan asked, describing Julia's arm waving so perfectly, Dianne could almost smile.

“Wringing her hands,” Dianne said.

“That's our girl,” he said.

They had been through bad episodes before, and they had survived them all. No one knew Julia's case like Alan. Dianne had watched these new doctors take one look at her deformities, shake their heads with pity. To Alan, Julia was his beautiful little niece. He was acting very calm, so Dianne could fall apart.

“Who's the attending there?” Alan asked, writing down his name and number.

“Should I let them admit her?” Dianne asked, feeling very far away.

“I'll talk to her doctor,” Alan said. “But I'd like to get her back home as soon as possible. Is there an airport nearby?”

“I'm in Halifax,” Dianne said as she remembered seeing the airport symbol on the map.

“If she gets the green light, I want you two on a flight home today. I'll meet you in Providence and we'll take her straight to Hawthorne Cottage.”

“Oh, I hope they let her,” Dianne said, her eyes
filling again. The idea of home and Alan was so comforting, she could hardly stand it. The thought of Julia being admitted way up here, in a strange hospital with doctors who didn't know her baby's history, filled Dianne with fear. She began to cry. Her head down, she jumped when she felt the hand on her shoulder.

It was Malachy Condon. Larger than life, the old man stood there in his faded overalls and chamois shirt, white hair hanging in his eyes. His face was lined and tan, and his eyes were filled with compassion. Dianne didn't know him well, but when he put his arms around her, she leaned against his chest and wept.

“Who's that, Dianne?” Alan asked.

Dianne tried to respond, but she couldn't speak. Malachy smelled like tobacco and salt air. She knew he had lost a child, and his kindness had reduced her to blind tears. He was patting her back, offering to take the phone from her. Gulping, she handed it to him.

“Dianne?” Alan asked. “Are you there?”

Her sobbing filled the air. Alan had heard a male voice, and his heart was skidding. Was it Julia's doctor with bad news? Or was it Tim? Dianne had said she was in Halifax; that was just an hour from Lunenburg, and for all he knew, Tim was with her.

“Who's that, now?” came the deep, Irish voice.

“Malachy?”

“It's me, Alan. I just arrived.”

“What about Tim?” Alan asked. His mouth was dry, his heart banging out of his chest. Julia was in the hospital, and all he could think about was his brother getting his hands on Dianne. She was so vulnerable, so worried. All she needed was for her child's father to come waltzing in and save the day.

“Gone,” Malachy replied, the word sharp and clipped.

“What d'you mean?”

“What I said. Gone.”

“He was there this morning when I called,” Alan said, wanting details. Had Dianne and Tim talked? Was he simply gone from the hospital or gone from the area? The questions raced through his brain, but then he realized Malachy was standing there with Dianne just inches away, that he was trying to protect her from the truth.

“Has he seen her?” Alan asked. “Did they talk?”

“No,” Malachy said.

“Has she seen him? Does she know he's there?”

“Jaysus,” Malachy said, exhaling.

Alan took a breath of his own. He lowered his head, leaned his forehead on his desk for a moment. He was acting crazy, out of control. He was a physician, and his niece was in the middle of a crisis. Instead of keeping his cool, he was acting like an idiot in love.

“Have you seen Julia?” Alan asked. “Do you know the status of her condition?”

“That's better,” Malachy said calmly. “But no, I haven't. And I don't.”

“Do me a favor, Mal,” Alan said. “Stay with Dianne. I'm going to call up there, talk to the doctors, see if I can arrange a transfer to Hawthorne. Will you see to it Dianne has all the help she needs?”

“Aye.”

“A ride to the airport, an ambulance for Julia if it seems warranted?”

“Aye.”

“Her mother's with her,” Alan said. “Is she right there?”

“Not that I can see,” Malachy said. He must have
turned to Dianne, because Alan could hear him soothing her. “There, dear. There now. She's a little angel, your Julia. She's in the best of hands now. The doctors of Halifax are first rate. Maybe not what you're used to in your own backyard, but nearly. Nearly. Where's your mother, now?”

Alan strained to hear. The sound of Dianne's voice was soft and sweet, and he could hear the fear and tension. He wanted to jump through the telephone, hold her in his arms. He wanted to bring them home himself, and it took everything he had to pull himself back.

“Her ma's out with Amy,” Malachy said. “Whoever Amy might be. Seems they've got a young dog that needs walking.”

“Orion,” Alan said.

“Aye,” Malachy agreed. “That's just what she said.”

Staring at the Wall, Alan found Julia's baby picture and stared at it. Dianne had been holding her on her lap: There were her two hands, laced across the baby's chest. Her head had been cut out of the picture, but her fingers were long and slender, the most graceful hands Alan had ever seen. His eyes filled with tears, and it took him a moment to find his voice.

“Take care of her, Mal,” Alan said.

“Count on it, Alan,” Malachy said.

“Can you put her on?” Alan asked.

Malachy paused. “She's not quite able to speak just now, son. You take care of those telephone calls, and I'll look after things on this end. All right, then?”

“All right,” Alan said.

Blood was thicker than water.

Hanging up the receiver, Alan thought back ten years and felt the same black rage at Tim he had felt then. Julia was one, in the hospital for a third surgery on her twisted bowel, and she had needed a blood transfusion. Blood supplies were down, and there'd been a shortage of her type at Hawthorne Cottage Hospital.

Using the Coast Guard and fishermen friends, Alan had tracked Tim down. He was in port in Newport, Rhode Island, hardly an hour's drive away. Leaving Dianne and Julia at the hospital, Alan had jumped into his car and headed north on I-95.

Most of the time, Tim docked at Long Wharf. Alan knew his habits, and he'd driven slowly along the waterfront, staring at the fishing boats docked there. No sign of the
Aphrodite.
He had swung down Thames Street, checking all the wharves, found him rafted at Bowens to a dragger out of New Bedford. From then it had just been a matter of checking the bars.

Hunched over his beer at the Ark, Alan found Tim telling his sad story to a girl with blond hair and tight jeans. She was wearing a halter, and her breasts pressed against the fabric. Tim was shaking his head, and although Alan couldn't hear the words, he knew the story was about Dianne and Julia, but it was designed to garner pity for Tim.

“Hey,” Alan had said, clapping his hand on Tim's shoulder.