Follow the Stars Home (54 page)

“Oh, don't say that!” Amy moaned.

“What do you think?” Dianne asked Alan. He glanced over and saw her cheeks turn pink, and she bit her lower lip and started to smile.

“You don't want to know what I think,” he said, thinking of the previous night, how they had made love until after midnight, how they were both so churned up about her leaving that they'd been unable to sleep for hours after that.

“About whether we should go to New York or not,” Amy said. “Tell her we should.”

“Well,” Alan said. They had reached the train station. Snow was falling, and people were standing on the platform, facing east. The train from Boston bound for New York was due in any minute.

“About whether we should go to New York or not,” Dianne said, squeezing his hand.

“I'll tell you,” Alan said. “We're going to get a snowstorm. If it was a school day, school would probably be canceled.”

“Not our New York trip,” Amy groaned.

“But in New York,” Alan said, “you won't be driving a car. You'll have a nice train ride in, and you'll take a cab to the Plaza hotel. You can find a wonderful restaurant right there, or you can go downstairs and eat at the Edwardian Room.”

“And tomorrow we'll see
The Nutcracker.
I can't think of a better way to see that ballet than in a snowstorm.”

“It's like magic,” Amy said, looking up at the sky.

“Okay. We'll go to New York,” Dianne said, gazing steadily at Alan as she held his hand, letting him know how much she loved him, that everything was going to be fine. “And then we'll come home.”

“I'll be here,” Alan said, “with Julia, when you get back.”

The train whistle sounded. The stationmaster began to make his announcement. Amy scrambled out of the car, lugging her bag, gesturing at Dianne as if she wanted to get on the train before the adults changed their minds.

Dianne reached up to touch Alan's cheek again. He had always loved the depth of her emotion, the way it shimmered in her eyes, in the set of her mouth. But for so long he had believed that intensity of love was reserved for her daughter, for Julia alone. He knew Julia would always come first, but right now
Dianne's love was directed at Alan, and he felt it straight in his heart. It contained a promise, and Alan knew Dianne kept her promises. That was who she was.

“Love,” she whispered. Just the single word.

“Yes,” he said, clasping her hand.

“Julia will be fine?” she asked.

“Better than fine,” he said.

“The train,” Dianne said, gesturing.

Alan got out of the car. He grabbed Dianne's bag, took Amy's from her. Amy was practically skipping across the snowy parking lot. The crowd was festive. The old-fashioned station was already decorated with Christmas lights, and garlands looped down from the eaves. Alan's throat ached as he pulled Dianne close.

“All aboard!” the conductor yelled.

“That's us!” Amy cried happily.

Alan and Dianne kept hugging. He felt her heart beating right through her coat. It would be so good to lie by the fireplace in their new house, watching the snow fall. He didn't want to let her go.

“Are you sure,” she asked, her eyes bright now as she leaned back, “this is a good idea?”

“Like Amy said,” he said, kissing her roughly one last time, pushing her up the train as the whistle blew, “it'll be like magic.” She waved and he waved until the conductor gently eased her into the car and closed the steel door.

And that was how Alan McIntosh came to put the woman he loved more than anything in the world onto the train that would take her to New York City, into destiny and the path of a yellow cab.

Dianne lay in the intensive care unit at St. Bernadette's Hospital. Her dreams were vivid and violent: the taxi spinning through the snowstorm, crashing into a crowd of people standing by the Plaza hotel. She saw herself trying to protect Amy, not being able to move fast enough, seeing Amy fly into the air, landing broken on the sidewalk. Dianne lay still, drifting in and out of consciousness, hooked up to tubes and machines, surrounded by doctors. She was so sedated-or maybe just so severely wounded-that she had no idea whether she would live or die.

They had shaved her head. The cut there had been deep enough to warrant stitching and was now covered with bandages. She could see and hear, but she had lost a lot of blood and it took all her energy just to keep breathing.

The best doctors had been called. The top neuro-surgeon at St. Bernadette's Hospital was on her case. Dr. Gerard Bellavista was used to bad car crashes, subway accidents, motorcycle collisions. He had tunnel vision, seeing only that section of brain, spine,
neurosystem, that required his care. But staring at Dianne Robbins, bruised and bandaged, he could see that she was a lovely woman.

“Where's her family?” he asked the nurse.

“There's a man waiting in the hall,” the nurse said.

The doctor nodded and went to find him. A longtime New Yorker, Dr. Bellavista was rarely surprised by humanity. But when he saw the man waiting, he stared. The man was no city dweller. Tall and broad-shouldered, he ducked as if he expected to be shot. His blond hair was mussed-up, his face lined and tan from a life lived outdoors. His brown jacket was made of rough fabric and stained with grease. His blue eyes looked strained and suspicious. His black rubber boots sparkled with fish scales.

“I'm Dr. Bellavista,” he said.

“Tim McIntosh,” the man said.

“Is she your wife?”

McIntosh cleared his throat. “Was,” he said. “She was my wife. Dianne Robbins.”

“Then you know who we should call,” Dr. Bellavista said.

“Her people are in Connecticut,” he said.

“You'd better call them.”

“What's her condition?”

“She's had a head injury. That bears careful watching for at least twenty-four hours.”

“Can I see her?” Tim asked.

The doctor hesitated. He wanted next of kin there. Dianne Robbins was hanging by a thin thread, and the doctor didn't want to waste any time getting her family down here. On the other hand, this guy was standing right in front of him. He knew the woman better than anyone else around.

“Come back in an hour, when we're done running
some more tests. You can see her then for five minutes,” the doctor said. “That's all.”

Amy was feeling better and better.

She asked every person who came into her room about Dianne.

“She's resting,” they said. Or, “She's with the doctor.” Or, “Everything is being done, don't worry.”

“Don't worry?” Amy cried.

Of course she was worried. Dianne had brought her all the way down to New York City to see
The Nutcracker
as a reward for the story Amy hadn't even turned in. Dianne had sacrificed this time with Julia to be with her, Amy. She had treated Amy like a princess at the Plaza hotel, letting her take a bubble bath in the enormous tub, letting her call room service for an afternoon snack.

“Has anyone called Dr. McIntosh yet?” she asked.

“Who?” the nurse asked.

Amy explained. The man who was here, the one smelling like the ocean and dropping fish scales all over the place, was not the man who should be here. He was Tim McIntosh, the one you couldn't count on for anything, the one who ran off at the first sign of trouble. He had mistaken Amy's identity, thought she was Julia. Never having even
met
his daughter, he had thought for a minute that Amy was she.

Amy had just finished reciting Dr. McIntosh's number to the nurse, when his brother walked in.

“Um, I just came from intensive care,” he said, his face bright red and the skin around his eyes maroon.

“How is she?” Amy cried out.

“She's in rough shape,” Tim said. “But they're going to let me see her.”

The nurse gave him a mad look, as in don't-you-know-how-to-talk-to-kids?
But Amy wanted to know. It was better than lying there in the dark.

“Rough how? Can she walk? Will she come up and see me? Or can I go see her? She's not in a coma, is she?”

“I don't know. I'm not the doctor,” Tim said. “Look, I'm sorry I thought you were my kid before. You're the same age, you're with Dianne, I just thought …” he trailed off, gruff and confused.

“It's okay,” Amy said. She was used to dealing with a bigger jerk than this: Buddy.

“Look, do you know where my brother is? You seem to know him pretty well. I just tried his house, and I got no answer. I think I'd better call—”

Amy glanced at the nurse, who handed Tim the number Amy had just given her. He walked away without a word to go find a phone. Amy just lay back on her pillows. She felt shocked by what had just happened. That was Julia's father? He seemed so weird and tragic, like an apple person who had been left on the ground. He didn't even have the strength to be gentle to a little kid who'd been hit by a car.

“Good luck,” Amy said under her breath. At least Dr. McIntosh would come.

They told her she had a major arm fracture, that she had cut an artery and lost a lot of blood. They had given her new blood, hanging the bright red bags on her IV pole, running it into her body through a tube. The blood had come from other people, ones Amy had never met. It seemed amazing to her, the pinnacle of kindness.

She had strangers' blood coursing through her veins, and it gave her strength and hope. It was like being told she was important, that she mattered as much as anyone. She was just an apple girl, but people cared. She wished Julia were there, lying next to
her on the bed. Amy really wished she had Julia to talk to.

Alan was changing Julia's diaper when the phone rang. He was upstairs at Lucinda's, and he found himself hoping the phone would be for him. So when Lucinda called his name, he quickly finished diapering Julia, lifted her up, and headed for the extension.

Lucinda came bounding upstairs.

“It's your brother,” she said. “He wouldn't tell me what he wants, but I thought I should warn you.”

“Thanks,” Alan said.

Still holding Julia, he picked up the phone.

“Hello, Tim,” he said.

“Alan,” Tim said.

“I've been trying to get hold of you.”

“I heard, up at Malachy's. Listen, Alan. I know we have our differences. You've never been anything but decent to me-better than decent-I'm trying to do the right thing here.”

“Slow down,” Alan said. He had a lot of anger toward Tim, but just then he could hear the anguish in his brother's voice. He held his brother's daughter, staring into her face. “Take it easy, Tim. What's wrong?”

“They called me, Alan. I was out at sea, and I got the call. I'm telling you, it was a freak they got me at all, but when I heard, I came. I—”

“Came where?” Alan asked.

“To the hospital, in New York City.”

“New York?” Alan asked slowly, it dawning on him that Dianne was in New York, that this was one hell of a coincidence.

“St. Bernadette's,” Tim said, his voice cracking. “I thought she was my kid. That's the God's honest
truth. I walked into her room and thought she was gonna call me Daddy.”

“Where's Dianne?” Alan asked, his skin going cold.

“That's why I'm calling you,” Tim said. “Here's the thing: She had some old card of mine in her bag. She and the kid, the one I thought was Julia, her name is Amy, got hit by a cab. The hospital called me by mistake. I wanted to do the right thing, I did.”

“Hit by a cab?” Alan asked, stunned.

“So I came when they called. I knew I had to call-when Lucinda answered the phone, I damn near died. She's got a voice like ice cubes when it comes to me. Will you break the news to her? What're you doing there anyway?”

“What's Dianne's condition?” Alan asked.

“Bad, I think,” Tim said. His voice broke again. “Something about a head injury. They're letting me in to see her in a minute. You're used to this stuff, you see hurt people all the time. The kid's okay, just a broken arm, but Dianne …”