Follow the Stars Home (33 page)

They headed north on Route 395. The road was quiet. The last stars twinkled, the dark blue sky like velvet draped over the rolling Connecticut hills. She thought of her wish. It was a strange wish, one without shape or edges: Who would ask for such a thing, the readiness to surrender? And surrender from what? From being so hard, she guessed. So unforgiving, so resistant to love.

But life could be so tough. Caring for Julia took every ounce of her strength, and it left her short-tempered and quick to blame. Not much room for love in a life of constant tension: Some days Dianne's spine was a steel rod with no give whatsoever. Now, heading north, Dianne knew she wanted nothing more complicated than the chance to bend. To let another person in. The sun rose over Worcester, Massachusetts, turning the old brick factories orange-red in the early light. They ate breakfast as they drove.

At the Portsmouth, New Hampshire, traffic circle, Dianne pulled into the Howard Johnson's parking lot to walk Orion. From there they took the coastal route. They had ten hours until nine that night, when they'd catch a ferry from Portland, Maine, to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Amy wanted to send her mother postcards from every pretty town.

“They really have a lot of lobsters up here,” Amy
said, noticing how nearly every restaurant had lobster buoys, traps, or claws nailed to the roof.

“We'll eat so much lobster on this trip,” Lucinda said, “we'll turn into crustaceans.”

“Could you spell that?” Amy asked, pulling out her notebook. She had started keeping a list of new words, wanting to improve her vocabulary. Lucinda had given her a reading list, and she had moved beyond Anne to Jo: She was in the middle of
Little Women.

“Crustacean,” Lucinda said. “Try sounding it out.”

“C-r-u-s,” Amy began, “t-a-s-h-u-n.”

“Progress, not perfection,” Lucinda said patiently.

They cruised up and down peninsulas, admiring the scenic lanes and pretty houses. Fishing villages sparkled in the sunlight, and white spires graced distant hills. They drove through the Yorks, passed the sandy strands of Ogunquit, meandered through the village of Kennebunkport.

“I feel like a total tourist,” Dianne said, both hands on the wheel as she tried to squeeze the motor home down a narrow street lined with boutiques and candle shops.

“Well, you are one,” her mother said.

“You have to admit,” Dianne said, “we're doing it up right. Winnebago and all. I feel kind of bad that our windows aren't filled with stickers of all the places we've been, like some of the others.” They were in a line of trailers and motor homes trying to make their way along the water to catch a glimpse of George Bush's house.

“We don't own ours, dear,” Lucinda said.

“Someday, Mom,” Dianne said. “We can dream, can't we?”

Lucinda laughed. They were wearing shorts and polo shirts, and the sea breeze blew through the open windows as they slugged diet Cokes from the can. Amy and Julia sat in back, playing their version of checkers and gazing out the windows. Stella seemed content, and Orion was happy as long as they walked him every couple of hours.

“Since we're in tourist mode,” Dianne said, “and since our ferry doesn't leave till nine tonight, let's make a pit stop at L.L. Bean.”

“What's that?” Amy asked.

“What's
that?”
Dianne and Lucinda asked at once.

“Amy, every New Englander worth her salt has to get at least two things from L.L. Bean,” Dianne said. “Mud boots and moose pajamas.”

When they got to Freeport, they found special parking for oversized vehicles. Other motor homes filled the area, and they couldn't help noticing that none was larger or more elegant than theirs. They sent a postcard to Gwen and everyone at the library, thanking them for making the trip possible. Dianne sent one to Alan that she didn't show the others. Then they shopped.

Entering L.L. Bean, Amy seemed confused by all the canoes, snowshoes, and skis. Lucinda explained how it used to be, a good old-fashioned outfitter that hit the big time. They found the pajamas with grinning moose imprinted all over heavy green flannel. Lucinda bought some for everyone, along with slipper-socks. Dianne treated everyone to long underwear for chilly Canadian nights, pocketknives, and packets of freeze-dried beef.

“Survival gear is very important,” she said, “on a trip like ours.”

“Did you bring the bird book?” Lucinda asked.

“Forgot it,” Dianne said, and they let Amy choose a field guide to buy.

“You guys think of everything,” Amy said, her eyes sparkling, pushing Julia through the store on their way to the checkout.

By six-thirty they were in line to board the
Scotia Prince.
The ferry had limited high space, so they wanted to leave plenty of time. They had to present their tickets and proof of U.S. citizenship before boarding. Only Lucinda had a passport. Dianne, Julia, and Amy had their birth certificates, and as Dianne got the documents together to hand to the official, she felt a pang: so busy with Julia, she had never even traveled abroad. She had never bothered to get a passport. She had kept herself from so many things.

“What's wrong, honey?” Lucinda asked, noticing the stricken look in Dianne's eyes.

“Nothing, Mom,” Dianne said, taking her mother's hand. “I was just thinking how wonderful this is. All of us taking this trip.”

“I'm so grateful,” Lucinda said. “That you wanted to do it for me.”

“I thought I did,” Dianne said, gazing at the sunset over Portland harbor, the brick waterfront rosy and warm. “I thought it was for you and Julia, and maybe Amy. But I'm realizing it's for
me.
It's your retirement, and I've wanted Julia to see a little of the world….”

“But you're seeing it too,” Lucinda said, speaking because she could see that Dianne was too moved. “You're seeing the world right along with her.”

Dianne nodded, smiling at her mother. The girls played in back, trying to get Orion to notice a poodle in the trailer beside them.

“It's one of the best parts about having a daughter,”
Lucinda said, reaching for Dianne's hand. “They take you places you never would have gone on your own.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Dianne said, hugging Lucinda with all her might. She kept thinking of what Alan had said, that he would be there when she got back. For eleven years she had kept herself from loving any man, but as she traveled north, she felt that changing. Dianne's heart was opening.

They were taking a night voyage! It was mysterious and divine. Amy was actually on a ship, the
Scotia Prince.
It was a fifteen-hundred-passenger vessel, half ferry and half cruise ship. It had a casino and a floor show, movies and bingo. They had a private stateroom! The animals had their own kennel. If this wasn't living, Amy didn't know what was.

“Is this like the
Queen Elizabeth?”
she asked Dianne.

“Maybe a little smaller,” Dianne replied.

They were standing at the rail, watching the town of Portland recede. The sea felt smooth, the air was cool. Amy waved at people standing on the dock. She wished she had a hanky, to make it look right. The only thing wrong was, her mother and Dr. McIntosh weren't there.

They had dinner in the restaurant, heard a lady sing songs from Broadway plays. Then it was time for bed. Down in the cabin, they had four bunks, two on top of the others. Dianne wanted to be down below with Julia, so Amy and Lucinda got the upper ones. They all wore their moose pajamas.

“Good night,” they said to each other.

“Sweet dreams.”

“Sleep well,” Lucinda said, reaching across the
narrow space to touch Amy's fingers. Down below, Dianne was singing a lullaby to Julia, and Julia was breathing as if she had never been so comfortable in her life. The ship felt like a big cradle, rocking them all to sleep as it took them to Canada.

Amy felt so close to her father. She had never been at sea before, and she imagined that this was the life he had loved. The waves tapped the hull, ringing through the ship like church bells. She felt the boat rise and fall; it moved with her breath and every beat of her heart. Her father lived in the sea now, his bones and his boat, but his spirit lived forever in Amy herself.

“’Night, Dad,” she whispered, holding herself tight.

Driving off the ferry, they entered Canada. The sky in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, was bright blue, filled with fair-weather clouds. The dock bustled, and the town was waking up. They had come through the Bay of Fundy, where the tide differential was the greatest in the world, but the most amazing thing was, they had seen a whale and several dolphins.

“Did you see them?” Amy asked. “I mean, was that a dream come true, or
what?”

“Such graceful creatures,” Lucinda said.

“Your first whale, Julia,” Dianne said, thrilled. Julia had actually turned her head when the whale surfaced, its glossy back appearing like a tabletop in the water, spraying like a fountain as it breathed and sounded.

“Gleee,” Julia said.

“And dolphins, Julia,” Amy said, hugging her with joy. “We'll have to write to Dr. McIntosh right away. Or even call him!”

“Alan would know what kind they were,” Lucinda said.

“Which way to Prince Edward Island?” Dianne asked, coming to a fork in the road. A right turn would take her toward Lunenburg, where Alan's friend Malachy kept his boat. The thought occurred to her that they could stop by, visit the old man. He could certainly tell them plenty about marine mammals. On the other hand, her night with Alan felt pure and precious. Getting away from Hawthorne was good for many reasons, and she didn't want to make a connection, way up here, that would take her back to bad McIntosh territory and remind her of Tim.

“That way, darling,” Lucinda said, pointing as she read the road map. “Go left.”

“It is so beautiful here!” Amy cried. “We're in a foreign land.”

“Left?” Dianne asked with a glance at the road for Lunenburg.

“Leftward ho,” Lucinda said.

“Okay, then,” Dianne said. And she swung the bulky vehicle onto Route One, the Evangeline Trail, which would lead them north toward the ferry from Pictou to Prince Edward Island, leaving Lunenburg and the McIntosh boys' mentor far behind.

Tim McIntosh didn't have a license to lobster in Canada, and he didn't care. He needed to hang up his work gloves for a while. Steaming east with the tide, he had pulled into Lunenburg nearly a week earlier. Malachy's tugboat was nowhere to be seen.

“I thought he lived here,” Tim had said to an old man hanging around the dock.

“That's the thing about living aboard a boat,
young fella,” the old fisherman said. “Wherever your vessel is, that's where you live. And Malachy's vessel ain't here.”

“Got it,” Tim said.

On the morning of the seventh day, when Tim had planned to head back to Maine, he woke up to find Malachy's tugboat berthed across the harbor in its usual place.

“Tim, boy!” Malachy said, slapping him on the back as Tim climbed aboard.

“Where the hell have you been?” Tim asked.

“Gulf of St. Lawrence,” Malachy said. “Wanted to see if the dolphins up there sing prettier'n they do down here.”

“Christ, Malachy,” Tim said. “They don't sing. They jabber. They get caught in tuna nets and make the tree huggers crazy. Everyone thinks dolphins are so goddamned romantic, and what they are is a big nuisance. Every fisherman with a rifle knows exactly where to aim….”

“They do, as a matter of fact,” Malachy said, lighting his pipe.

“They do
what?”

“They do sing prettier up north than they do here.”

“They must be doing something interesting,” Tim grinned, “to keep you gone for so long. I was just fixing to pull out.”

“Well, I'm glad that didn't happen.”

“Yeah.”

“Your brother would've been mighty aggrieved,” Malachy said. “He's been tryin' to get word to you.”

“Alan?” Tim asked, his heart thudding. “Alan's looking for me?”

“Well, as ‘lookin’ for′ you as he can do from all the way down in those Hawthorne tropics. He called
here.” Puffing on his pipe, Malachy gazed out across the glassy harbor. The day was going to be a beauty. The sun had just risen over the land across the water, spreading clear, golden light over everything. “Good to be home, it is. Come down below, and let me fix you a cup of tea.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tim said gruffly. “I'm American. I like black coffee.”

“Black coffee then, son,” Malachy said, smiling around his pipe stem. “Whatever you want. You know all you got to do is ask.”

“What's he want?” Tim asked.

“You know I don't butt in,” Malachy said sternly. “If you want to know, you're going to have to ask him yourself.”

Tim nodded at the old Irishman, respectful and apologetic. Hearing about Alan's call had put him in a belligerent state of mind. Here he was, a thousand miles away, in another country, and it all came back: his family, his past, his guilt. Days like this were bad. By nighttime Tim would be looking for trouble. Maybe a woman, maybe a fight, maybe both. Malachy stared at him with affectionate silence as if he could read his mind, as if he knew he had all day to talk him out of it.