Follow the Stars Home by Luanne Rice Read Free Book Online

she was worth liking, her eyes filled with tears.
    “Sure I do,” he said.
    Amy swallowed her feelings.
Disabled
, he had said. Was Julia one of those children with braces and crutches, hearing aids and glasses? Amy sometimes saw kids like that and felt just like them: different, set apart, very badly hurt.
    “I used to be special …” Amy began, wanting to say something about her father and mother when they were young, when Amy had been their beloved newborn babe in a dark blue pram, when they had lived in the fishermen's park, where the air was always fresh and the smells were of saltwater, spring blossoms, and fish.
    “You're wonderful just the way you are,” Dr. McIntosh said.
    My mother's depressed … she cries and sleeps all day … no one wants to come to my house … I'm so lonely!
    Those were the thoughts running through Amy Brooks's mind, but since she couldn't begin to put them into words, she just jumped out of the doctor's car and ran straight up the cement sidewalk into her house without a look back.
    Dianne built playhouses for other people's children. Tim had run a lobster boat, and Dianne had set up shop in the oyster shack, where they lived, on the wharf. During their thirteen months together, her playhouses had smelled a lot like shellfish. By then she had orders pouring in from everywhere. She advertised in magazines appealing to parents, romantics, and lovers of New England. Word of mouth did the rest. Her houses were big enough to play in. They had gingerbread, dovecotes, eaves, peaked rooftops, and cross-and-Bible doors; her company was called Home Sweet Home.
    Dianne's HMO paid for several hours each week of physical therapy and nurse's aides. If Julia were left alone, she would spend all day in the fetal position. She would curl up, drawing herself inward like the slow-motion nature films of a flower at dusk. Therapy helped, but Dianne didn't like strangers in her home. She preferred to work with Julia herself. No one loved Julia like Dianne did.
    Many people had suggested Dianne institutionalize Julia. She could go to St. Gertrude's Children's Hospital or to Fresh Pond Manor. They had told Dianne that Julia would be too much for anyone, even a saint. Sometimes Dianne felt guilty, imaginingthose people thought she wanted credit for her sacrifice and devotion. She asked herself: Wouldn't Julia get expert care in a place like that? Wouldn't she be exercised and changed and fed and monitored? Wouldn't Dianne be set free to live a less burdened life, be lighter of heart during the time she spent with Julia?
    But Julia needed massage. Her muscles would knot up. Her stomach would tighten, and she'd get constipated. And only Dianne knew exactly how she liked to be rubbed. With baby oil on her rough hands, Dianne would soothe her baby's woes. Julia liked circular motions on her angel wings. She liked light pressure around her rib cage, in the area of her kidneys, and she hated being touched on her scars.
    Who at the institution would know that? Even if one nurse's aide got used to Julia's preferences, what if that person got transferred or moved away? Julia would have to go through the whole thing again, getting used to someone new. Also, there was the matter of her constipation. Most newcomers didn't realize it was part of the territory for Rett syndrome kids. Medical people were always so quick with laxatives, when all Dianne needed to do was gently rub her belly-using a flat palm, no fingers-to help things along.
    Julia would sigh. She would gurgle like a baby, and Dianne would talk back in words: “There, honey. Is that better? Let me tell you about the owl and the pussycat…. Ever hear about how monarch butterflies migrate to Belize? … About the otters that live in the marsh and the hawks that hunt along the banks …”
    Dianne was no saint. Her anger and frustrations knew no bounds. She banged nails with a vengeance. She'd yell while she sawed, swearing at God, the universe, and the McIntosh