The Stars Are Fire



Claire feels warm. What’s the precise point at which warm becomes hot? Grace is reluctant to use the thermometer because Claire is asleep, and Grace knows the child needs rest. She lays her head against the slats of the crib. It’s too much, she nearly says aloud. The fire, the loss of the baby, Gene, and now Claire. If something should happen to Claire, Grace knows that she will break apart into pieces that will never be put back together again.


Warm becomes hot, and a line is crossed. Grace stands, unsure. Should she go to Dr. Lighthart or should she try to take Claire’s temperature herself? She lays the back of her hand against her child’s forehead. She doesn’t need a thermometer.

At the threshold to the doctor’s office, she pauses. He’s fallen asleep on his desk, pushing a manual so close to the edge that Grace is amazed it hasn’t fallen.

“Dr. Lighthart?” she calls.

The man rubs his face, and the manual falls to the floor. He checks his watch. Twelve-fifteen, Grace knows from the big clock in the room where Claire is sleeping.

He stands, his white coat wrinkled, and follows Grace. “She’s hot,” she says.

He feels the skin under Claire’s arm. “She certainly is,” he agrees. “When was the last time she had aspirin?”

“Maybe seven-thirty?”

He fetches a brown glass bottle in a cabinet. “Wake her and see if you can get her sitting upright.”

The doctor crushes the aspirin in a spoon, then fills it with water. “Do you want to do this?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says.

Grace lowers the slats and takes the spoon from the doctor while he props Claire up. She gently rubs the back of her finger against Claire’s cheek. The child opens her mouth—the trick never fails—and Grace gets as much of the medicine into her as she can.

“Give her a second to digest that, and then we’ll start the whole routine again.”

“The ice bath?”

“I know of a father who ran out the door of his house and plunged into the snow with his eight-month-old son. Saved the kid’s life.”


“A fellow who’s the husband of one of my patients brought me a plate of turkey,” Dr. Lighthart says, “and stuffing and potato. He apologized for the lack of cranberry sauce, explaining that the bogs had boiled. Needless to say, I was grateful. To make up for the sparse dinner, the guy produced a pumpkin pie. ‘Missus had an extra’ was how he put it. I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a slice of that pie right now.”

“Thank you.”

While he’s gone, Grace gazes at Claire and tries to guess his age. Thirty, thirty-five? The white coat might make him look older than he really is, but there’s a certain gravity in the face. She wonders why he wanted to exile himself to such a backwater area when, as a young doctor, he might have been drawn to a city hospital.

He returns with the pie, two plates, forks, and napkins. Touching Claire again, Grace watches as he cuts two large pieces.

The first bite of pie makes her close her eyes with pleasure. It might be the odd circumstances in which she’s eating it, but she thinks the pie the best she’s ever had—it’s a dark pumpkin, tasting of mace.

“This is delicious,” she says.

“I have to do a better job of remembering patients’ names. I didn’t recall the man’s wife’s name, but I could see her face as clear as day. The next time I see her, I’ll thank her on your behalf.”

For the first time all evening and night, Grace smiles. “And not yours?”


“When I saw you last,” he says after a time, “you were pregnant.”

“I lost the baby.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You have had a rough go of it, haven’t you?”

“I won’t deny it.”

“First things first. Let’s get this pretty little girl well.”


Grace collects the dishes and the silverware and walks with unsteady steps to the kitchen, a long narrow room with a white wooden counter. She covers the pie and puts it into the refrigerator, which is filled with medicines and two bottles of milk. For babies? For coffee?

She locates the dish soap and sponge and washes the few items they used. She dries them with a towel and folds it neatly on top of the counter.

She has trouble with the bathroom lock, though she can’t see the need of it. Her hands shake so much that she can barely get her girdle down. When she sits, she examines her fingers, which tremble even when she clamps them together. Her face is wet with tears. She tears a length of toilet paper to wipe them off, a useless gesture since she then begins to cry in earnest. She knows she can’t stop—it’s the simple act of being alone, of closing a door. And perhaps it truly is the cumulative loss, one after another, but the tears feel different—purely physical, pure release—and when she is done, she feels better, though there has been no change in her circumstances. She puts herself together, washes her face and hands in the sink, dries herself with a towel, and stands back to examine her face in the mirror. Her eyes are swollen, the whites pink. Dr. Lighthart will know that she has been crying. Well, what does it matter? What has she got to hide now?


He has a pad of paper on his lap and a pen in his hand. Making notes.

He’s smiling when he looks up at her, but the smile fades. “What happened?”

“Does anything more need to have happened?”

He closes the notebook, clips the pen to his coat pocket. “She’s fine for the moment,” he says, “but the fever may climb again. We’ll see.”

“You should get back to your work. We’ve taken up too much of your time. Besides, you need to sleep.”

“I think you need to sleep.”

“No,” she says. “I need to talk.”


“Were you in the war?” she asks.

“I was. A medic. I was in my second year of medical school when war broke out. I finished the year and enlisted.”

“What a horrible time you must have had.”

“It was pretty bad.”

“Do you ever speak about it?” she asks.

“If someone wants to know.”

“It’s funny, because my husband hardly ever mentioned the war. It’s been my experience that most men our age won’t.”

“You can’t blame them. No one wants to revisit horror. Or guilt.”

“Why do you say guilt?”

“You’re given orders you don’t think are right, but you have to do them anyway. Every day, there are choices to make and sometimes you make a selfish one.”

“What’s a selfish one?”

“Triaging a man you guess won’t live past noon though he’s in line for surgery. Then you struggle with that decision for weeks.”

For a moment, Grace is silent. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you end up here?” she asks.

“After the war, I finished up med school, then just recently set out to hang my shingle. You get a map, and you shop for towns. If you’re lucky, someone takes you in and grooms you. I didn’t want hospital work. I’d seen enough of wards. I wanted a small-town family practice. After the fire, I’d heard that the local doctor’s house had burned down, and that he had a temporary practice here, in this hut. I came here to visit him and to offer my help, and I could see he was in a state. I told him what I was looking for, and he seemed immensely relieved. We brought the lawyers in, and I bought the practice.”

She scans the Quonset hut, the metal rivets showing. “I hope you didn’t pay a lot for it.”

He laughs. “The government owns the building. It’s temporary. I hope to build a house with an office attached.”

“In Hunts Beach?”

“That’s the idea.”

“You’ll have an awfully small practice,” she says.

He glances at Claire, puts the back of his hand to her forehead. “If Hunts Beach were inland, I’d agree with you. Few families would want to rebuild in a place with no infrastructure. No schools, police, fire department. But Hunts Beach will always be valuable land because it’s coastal. It will repopulate. Whether it will be with the original inhabitants, I can’t say.” He pauses. “It’s as if you’re part of a diaspora now.”

Grace is unsure of the word.

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