Follow the Stars Home

by Luanne Rice

  “Thank you,” Dianne said.

  “For what?” he asked.

  “For everything. I’m so happy with you. I never thought I could be so happy.”

  “Neither did I, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  “It feels like,” Dianne whispered, “we’re a family.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Alan said, leaning over to kiss the side of her face.

  Alan ran before work some mornings, and lately he had found himself going a new way. Instead of circling around Hawthorne Park, behind the library and the arboretum, he had started running along the waterfront. Two days in a row, when he should have been keeping up his pace, he had slowed down just as he reached the big white houses on Water Street.

  There it was, the house Dianne had always loved. Running past, Alan noticed the tall windows, the ionic columns, the sunporch, the three chimneys. He saw the wide yard stretching into a meadow, the iron fence, the three outbuildings. From the street it was impossible to guess the layout. The house was large, and he wondered whether there were any bedrooms on the first floor.

  Alan wanted to find a new place to live. His house was big and rambling, but it had too many memories. He had lived there his whole time in Hawthorne. Many of Alan’s girlfriends had stayed over; Tim had bunked upstairs many nights by himself and, after one late party, with Dianne. He knew she felt uncomfortable every time she came over. The place needed a lot of work; and there were no first floor rooms that would be suitable for a bedroom.

  Maybe he was just dreaming. He hadn’t asked Dianne how she felt, whether she’d consider living with him. But what if she would? They had gotten closer since she had returned from her trip; it sometimes felt as if their uncomfortable past belonged to two different people. He caught his breath, leaning on the iron fence. The house looked great, in perfect repair. Whoever lived in it kept it up well. The side yard had fruit trees, a vegetable garden, stone walls. Flower beds overflowed with chrysanthemums.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought the first floor looked larger in back. As if it jutted out in an L, right behind that boxwood hedge. They could have their bedrooms back there, his and Dianne’s right beside Julia’s. So Dianne wouldn’t have to carry Julia up the stairs. Buying her this house would mean so much more to Alan than ease and convenience: It would mean making her happy, in as real a way as he could.

  Starting up again, he ran toward home. It was getting late, and his first patient was scheduled for nine o’clock. He checked his watch. If he sprinted, he’d have time to shower and change and call his friend Nina Maynard at Hawthorne Realty as soon as he got to the office.

  Amy got A’s on all her quizzes and tests. She had never made honor roll before, but her teacher told her that if she kept working hard, she’d make it this term. It was going to be a surprise for her mother. Amy felt worried about her mother again, about the way she was still in bed when Amy left for school in the morning, sometimes when Amy came home from school.

  “Mom!” Amy called, sitting at the kitchen table.

  No answer.

  “Mom, want some tea?”

  When her mother didn’t reply, Amy got up and turned on the stove. The weather had turned cold, and something seemed to be wrong with the furnace. Maybe her mother was staying under the covers just to stay warm. Amy couldn’t blame her for that.

  Amy found herself making excuses for her mother. Maybe she’s cold, Amy would think. Or maybe she was awake during the night, couldn’t get back to sleep, needs to catch up on her rest. Depression was hard for Amy to understand. Her mother’s doctor had told her it was anger turned inward. Amy’s mother felt so guilty for being angry at her father for dying, she directed that rage at herself instead.

  “Why does life have to be so complicated?” Amy wrote. Sitting at the table, she was working on her story. It took place in a small house in a town called Oakville that was an awful lot like Hawthorne. Her main character was a twelve-year-old girl named Catherine who had a mother suffering from depression and a sister who had been born with birth defects. When Amy had especially troubling thoughts, she let Catherine think them. To build her hope for the future, she had Catherine go to the beach, to build beautiful sand castles.

  “Hi, honey,” Amy’s mother said, coming out of her room. She was wearing a pink bathrobe. Her hair was flat on the left side, and her cheek had pillow marks. She yawned and lit a cigarette.

  “I’m making tea,” Amy said. “Want some?”

  “Um, sure,” her mother said. She took a seat at the table, and her eyes fell on Amy’s story. “What’s that?”

  “My story.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s an adventure,” Amy said, for some reason feeling self-conscious. It was an adventure, only not about the sea, mountaineering, jungles, or space. It was an adventure about a family, lovables and unlovables, who lost each other for a long time and found each other again.

  “Sounds very thrilling,” her mother said, but she didn’t sound thrilled. Just trying to smile, her lips trembled.

  Amy didn’t know why that should make her feel so mad, but it did. Why couldn’t her mother just smile? Why couldn’t she be all-out happy? Amy’s own anger scared her a little. She felt so much of it. She kept remembering last summer, when she had shoved Amber and the CWS had practically branded her a violent person. On the other hand, Amy didn’t want to turn her fury inward, become depressed as her mother had. It seemed like such a fine balance, so she handed the problem over to Catherine, who was also dealing with oceans of anger.

  “Are you depressed today, Mom?” Amy asked.

  “Oh, a little,” her mother said.

  “You seem tired. I get worried when you’re in bed a lot.”

  “Don’t be, Amy,” her mother said. “I’m doing my best.”

  “Taking your medicine?”

  “Yes,” her mother said, trying to smile.

  “Would it be okay if I brought Orion to live over here?” Amy asked suddenly. “I miss him, and I think Dianne’s too busy to spend much time with him.”

  “I don’t know,” her mother said. “He was Buddy’s dog….”

  “Dickie,” Amy said out loud, using Buddy’s fictional name from her story before she could help herself.

  “Who’s Dickie?” her mother asked.

  “No one,” Amy said. But then, because she felt bad for lying, she said, “He’s in my story. He’s—”

  The kettle began to whistle. Amy’s mother stood up, shuffled over to the stove. She took the kettle off the burner, took down two cups, poured the boiling water over the tea bags. Amy had been telling her mother about her story, and she had just walked away. Just as if she hadn’t been listening to a word.

  “That,” Amy began, and it took every ounce of effort she had to say the words, “makes me mad.”

  “What does?”

  “When you just walk away,” Amy said. Her eyes filled with hot tears, as if the anger in her chest had boiled the tears before sending them out. Amy was so sick of anger, she could scream.

  “I was listening,” her mother said. “Finish telling me about Dickie.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Amy said.

  “Sure it does,” her mother said, settling down with her tea and cigarette, giving Amy the most sincere smile she’d seen in a few days.

  Why was it never like this with Lucinda and Dianne? Amy and her mother had been talking for less than five minutes, and Amy was ready to screech like an owl. Everything about her mother made her mad! The fact she’d been sleeping, the fact she was smoking, the way she pronounced “Dickie” with a smile in her voice, as if he was a cute little baby instead of a repulsive middle-aged creep.

  “Tell me the rest,” her mother said.

  Amy took a deep breath. She still felt mad, and she didn’t like it. Her mother was trying to be nice. For one second she felt like pointing that anger at herself: You’re a jerk, Amy, for being mad at this nice lady who happens to have given birth to
you who’s doing the best she can. But wasn’t that turning her anger inward, just asking for depression? She’d have to explore this puzzle with Catherine.

  “Mom, where are Dad’s pictures?” Amy asked instead.

  “Photos of Russ?” Her mother said his name.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I think most of them are in the attic,” her mother said. “It was hard for me to look at them. For so long. You know? Because I missed him so much.”

  Amy nodded. Catherine’s father had drowned, and her mother had missed him so much, she’d stuck all their favorite cassette tapes in the basement. When Dickie had found them, he had moved them out to the garage, closer to the garbage.

  “Can I put some up?” Amy asked. “In my room?”

  “Sure,” her mother said. To Amy’s amazement, her mother had ground out her cigarette and pulled down the little trapdoor in the kitchen ceiling. The folding stairs came down, and her mother crawled right up. Amy stood at the base, her heart pounding, and she was still there thirty seconds later when her mother handed her down a brown paper bag.

  “Pictures …” Amy said. This was amazing. Buddy’s prohibition on talking about or displaying pictures of Russell Brooks had been so deep that Amy hadn’t even known these existed. There weren’t many, only three: her father as a baby, at his high school graduation, and in a suit jacket.

  “He’s so handsome there,” Amy’s mother said gently, touching her husband’s face. “That’s from when he tried to quit fishing and take up selling cars. They made him wear a suit and tie, and he told me he was going to choke to death. This was the picture they had hanging on the wall of the showroom.”

  “Daddy sold cars?” Amy said, her eyes filling with awestruck tears. Her father had been incredible. A fisherman, a car salesman …

  “Only for a little while. When I was pregnant with you. I was just so scared to have him go out to sea.”

  “What kind of cars?” Amy whispered.

  “Fords,” her mother said.

  Amy tried to picture the Ford logo. She needed to find it so she could add the symbol to her collection, her most important memories and significant objects. The Ford logo would be right up there with fishing boats, dolphins, sand castles, and withering apples.

  “This picture hung on the wall for everyone to see?” Amy asked. She had never realized that her father was so well known.

  “Yes,” her mother said, fingers trailing across the frame’s dusty glass. “Right down there at Brenton Motors. If only he could have stayed with it …if only he hadn’t gone back to sea …”

  “Don’t cry, Mama,” Amy said, feeling her stomach tighten. Tears flowed down her mother’s face, dripping all over the picture frames.

  “These old pictures,” her mother sobbed, holding them. “They bring it all back. He was a wonderful man, honey. Funny and sweet. Nothing like anyone you’ve ever known.”

  “My dad,” Amy said, arm around her mother’s shoulders.

  “Russell Brooks,” her mother said. “I was Mrs. Russell Brooks.”

  “Mama, he didn’t drink a lot, did he?” Amy asked, getting up all her nerve. She didn’t even like to put such a thought into words, but she had never quite gotten over Amber’s vicious lie.

  “No, honey,” her mother said. “Your father never liked liquor. He didn’t want his head all fuzzy way out at sea. He didn’t drink much at all.”

  “I didn’t think so,” Amy said. She touched her father’s picture and thought about her story. Nothing like this had ever happened to Catherine. No way could Amy imagine Catherine’s mother wriggling around the crawl space, coming out with her father’s pictures, one of which portrayed him as a Ford dealer. In a suit and tie! Amy liked the distinction between her and Catherine; she wondered how many others would emerge before the story contest deadline.

  The best part was, Amy’s anger was all gone. It wasn’t raging outward, it wasn’t turned inward. For the time being, it was just gone. She had just enjoyed being with her own mother, the same way she loved being with Dianne, Julia, and Lucinda. For the first time in ages, she loved her own family as much as theirs.

  Lucinda walked down the road to get the mail. Among the catalogues and bills, she found a check from Tim McIntosh, his monthly payment on the loan she and Emmett had given him, forwarded to her from the library. Staring at his handwriting, she almost didn’t notice the car. It was a rusty old thing, parked in the turnaround, tires looking as if they could use some air.

  Walking over, Lucinda saw that it was empty. She glanced around. Sometimes bird-watchers came down here. There was always a lot of ornithological activity in the marsh, with herons, plovers, blackbirds, terns, and songbirds-especially during the spring and fall migrations. Artists also favored the spot, setting up their easels in the reeds. But Lucinda didn’t see anyone around.

  Sticking Tim’s check in her pocket, she strolled toward the house. Dianne was inside with Julia. They had been inseparable lately, ever since Julia had caught that cold. Alan would come over every night, examine Julia, set Dianne’s mind at ease. Lucinda tried to stay out of their way.

  She let herself into Dianne’s studio. She didn’t know why, but she felt like being alone. Lately, with Alan around so much, with his and Dianne’s relationship deepening, Lucinda had begun feeling like a third wheel. Maybe it was time she moved to Florida, joined all the other retirees. Or maybe she should fly back to Nova Scotia, listen to dolphins with Malachy Condon.

  Lucinda didn’t like getting old, but she accepted it. She had heard sixty-five-year-old women say they felt exactly the same as they had twenty or forty years earlier. That when they looked in the mirror, they expected to see young women. That wasn’t true for Lucinda. She had earned every wrinkle, every gray hair. Maybe that’s why she liked Malachy: He had seemed unapologetically seventyish, every minute of his age showing. He seemed like someone she could talk to.

  Lucinda missed talking. The library had been good for that. True, they had talked in whispers, but she and her young librarians had passed the days with gossip and book talk and deep sharing of their lives. For a while Lucinda had thought that was how it was going to be with her and Dianne: more friends than mother and daughter. But that wasn’t turning out to be so. She was Dianne’s mother to the core, and that was better than friends any day.

  Dianne had Alan, finally! Lucinda had been waiting for years for those two to understand they were supposed to be together. She’d hear them whispering at night, when the house was dark and Julia was asleep. Lucinda would read her books, wondering whether they were planning their lives together. She knew it had to be just a matter of time. Didn’t it? What in the world would stop them?

  And what would Lucinda do when Dianne and Julia left? Sighing, she sat down at Dianne’s desk. Orion and Stella came over to see if she had any food. Reaching into her pocket, thinking she might have a biscuit left from walking Orion, she came up with Amy’s poem. Spreading it on the desk, she read it:

  The Apple Gardens

  On the island, in the sea,

  Northward of the gulf stream’s flow,

  That is where we came to be,

  In the spot where apples grow.

  Trees of green and walls of stone

  Fill the land that I can see

  Anne played here till she was grown

  Tell me, what will be for me?

  Back at home, my mother cries

  My father lives beneath the waves

  Tell me, does the one who tries

  to love, succeed at being brave?

  You see, I’m just an apple girl

  And someone came and picked me up

  She polished me, just like a pearl

  And set me in a loving cup

  In apple gardens, let me be

  Beneath the stars and wind and sky

  The constellations in the tree

  I’ll love my own life, by and by.

  Reading Amy’s poem, Lucinda’s throat ached. She scratched Orion
’s head. The cat spied the reflection from her reading glasses, pouncing on the moon of light. Lucinda sighed. She was surrounded by creatures as unloved as she had been. Dianne had pulled Stella from a stone wall, they had all taken Amy and Orion from their dark home until some light could flow in. Lucinda related to Amy’s poem so much, her hands were shaking.

  Lucinda’s early life had been so wretched, and when she’d met Emmett and had Dianne, it was like creating her own heaven. What would happen if Dianne got on with her life? Lucinda had never admired old women who latched on to their grown children instead of getting active, and she felt herself in danger of becoming one.

  Or of slipping back into her old state, hurting and afraid. Like Amy, Lucinda had been an apple girl. She knew how it felt to be lying on the ground, waiting to be picked up. Although she was on in years, she felt vulnerable, as if she could fall way back down there if she didn’t take care of herself now. She pulled the four withered apples from the shelf and set them on the desk. The dry apples looked like faces.

  Little people, little apple girls. Leaning over, Lucinda picked out the one that looked most like her. She had the most wrinkles, but she also looked the wisest. In Dianne’s workbench she knew there were fabric remnants left from curtains she’d made for the playhouses. Gingham, pink checks, bright solids.

  Lucinda would make dresses, turn the dry apples, the unlovable objects Amy had picked up in the apple garden, into dolls. Maybe she’d shorten a leg of her moose pajamas, sew the dolls some. She and Amy had a lot in common. They both liked tangible reminders of who they were, who they loved.

  “It’s really amazing that you called me when you did,” Nina Maynard said, shaking Alan’s hand. They stood in the circular driveway of the white house, their cars parked by the garage.

  “I didn’t really expect it to be on the market,” he said, noticing the house’s gleaming paint, the neatly tended gardens, the discreet security system stickers. “The lights are always on at night. It looks occupied.”