Dawn Breaking
A. F. McKeating
DAWN BREAKING
by
A. F. McKeating
* * * * *
PUBLISHED BY:
Dawn Breaking
Copyright © 2011 by A. F. McKeating
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Table of Contents
Dawn Breaking
About the Author
Other Books by A. F. McKeating
DAWN BREAKING
She was the last to arrive, pausing momentarily on the threshold as a chill spatter of rain swept round her ankles. Cold air slid into the church with her and the congregation shivered uneasily, huddling a little closer into their coats.
She walked up the aisle to join the gathering round the font, an angular figure swathed in grey like a rain cloud. She seemed dressed for a funeral, not a baptism, her quiet footsteps marking out a slow death knell on the paving stones. Everyone stared, then looked away quickly as she passed, lest they catch her eye. Nobody really wanted her there, least of all the mother of the child. But she was her sister-in-law after all, and she had felt duty-bound to invite her to be godmother.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Her voice was like the rustle of dried leaves.
“What kept you?” hissed her brother. “We thought you weren't coming.”
They had hoped she wouldn’t. Instinctively, the mother stepped back and tightened her arms about the baby. She nodded in welcome, thinking privately that it was a pity she had made it here at all. The service continued and the godmother whispered her promises as though she were reading the inscription on a tombstone. The baby wailed fit to curdle the holy water.
Later, back at the house, she hovered amidst the guests, a dark, unlovely moth amongst a sea of butterflies. She spoke to her relations once or twice when she absolutely had to, but otherwise stayed silent; mostly they were happy to keep out of her way. Even her brother seemed to avoid her. She had tried to find something nice to say about the day to him, but it was all so alien. So pink.
She had always been the difficult one. The girl who never liked flowers or proms and, later, the awkward bridesmaid who refused to catch the bouquet. She had learned to stay away. It wasn’t that she disliked her family; she just couldn’t think of anything about them that interested her.
Odd, spiteful comments floated in her wake as she moved, with a vaguely spectral air, through the gathering:
“What’s she want to spoil the day for? Bet she eats babies for breakfast.”
“She’s got a nerve turning up today.”
“Would it kill her to crack a smile?”
The words cut deep, but she twisted the corner of her mouth and moved on, saving the hurt for later. Seeing all this, the mother felt contrite and offered her cake.
“Thank you for agreeing to be godmother,” she said sweetly. “You, er, did something with your hair?”
“A haircut.” Long, mannish fingers plucked nervously at a stray tendril that lay along her neck.
“Oh.”
The godmother nibbled cautiously at the sugary frosting which made her teeth ache. Awkward silence hung between them. Then the mother tried again: “You’ve never wanted children?”
“No. I can’t imagine they’d want me either.” She gave a terse laugh.
The mother looked uncertain and gave in to a sudden urge to gush. “But it’s so rewarding. It changed my life. Her little face lights up every the morning and-”
“When she’s sixteen, she’ll turn on you. You won’t know her anymore,” the godmother said, with a thin smile. “She’ll cut herself free, you’ll see.”
The mother gasped. Her friends, overhearing, flocked round protectively, as if to charm away the evil words.
“What a mean thing to say,” said the mother, forgetting her attempt to be charitable. “That would never happen.”
The godmother shrugged, thinking perhaps she should have held her tongue. “Who knows?” she said. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
But her words hung over the celebration like a curse, as the food turned dry and the bubbles left the champagne. The atmosphere grew flat and stale. Accusing glances were thrown by those who had overheard the conversation. This is your fault, they said. Why did you have to come here today?
Perhaps they were right, the godmother reflected with now-familiar regret. It always seemed to turn out this way when she came back. She left her gift on the kitchen counter and slunk over to the crib to bid a silent farewell. The infant was dozing peacefully, fingers clutching softly at a dream. The godmother cast a mistrustful glance at the bobbing balloons and festoons proclaiming, for those who might have missed the message, IT’S A GIRL!
“Never mind, little one. This will pass,” she whispered and touched the baby's forehead gently. “There’s more to life than pink.”
Then, unmourned, she left. The mother’s friends fluttered around her, eager to drop honeyed words of comfort into her ears.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s a dried up old maid. What does she know?”
“She’ll be a perfect darling."
“Everyone will love her.”
The mother received their sweetly thoughtless offerings gladly. Her daughter would be good and beautiful, clever and amusing. Why wouldn't she be, after all? Still, she wondered…
* * * * *
The years passed and still the mother wondered and waited. It was a happy household – mostly – but her apprehension hung like a tattered cobweb in a corner, stirring slightly at unbidden moments; a reminder of the godmother’s words.
At fourteen, Dawn was a force of nature; wild and unpredictable, with skinny limbs and raggedy hair. Ready to argue the toss with anyone and everything that got in her way. She rowed constantly with her mother, storming off afterwards in a hurricane of tears and hormones. At fifteen, she blossomed a little on the outside, growing pale and willowy, and sneering at the world around her. She wore black and listened to music that made her mother’s ears hurt.
The godmother continued to mark her birthday, whether they liked it or not, and her gifts were always memorable. Bug collecting kits. A Swiss army knife. The collected works of Edgar Allan Poe. Lifelines to a wider, more dangerous world. The family sneered, while Dawn, slightly baffled, was secretly glad that someone thought her worth more than a few baubles and pretty words. Her godmother was a remote yet familiar figure throughout her childhood, attending family occasions when she had to and sending condolences when she didn’t. She preferred to stay in the background, sparing a few words and a nod for Dawn now and then. Dawn preferred her silence to the endless babble from her own mother:
“Do your hair… Try this make up… “What about that colour on you?.. Have you thought?.. Have you tried?.. The well-meaning words that said I love you, but try harder.
When she was sixteen and growing rather lovely, Dawn acquired a boyfriend. She put up with his coarse fumblings as a necessary aspect of her rebellion. Besides, they never lasted long. The mother despised him, but she sighed and hoped for the best. It would pass.
The mother didn’t like Dawn's new friends either or the way she disappeared into her room for hours at a time. She strained her ears to catch whispered conversations on the phone. A strangely pungent smell clung about Dawn sometimes; the mother pretended she had imagined it. In truth, she was growing to be afraid of her daughter.
One evening, Dawn’s boyfriend brought a new box of tricks for them to play with.
“Come on,” he said. “Just try it. It’ll be great.”
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“Oh, right.” He
gave her a sly look. “Your mother wouldn’t like it.”
She reached out and took the needle from him.
* * * * *
Someone found her, alone, on a park bench at two o’clock in the morning. She had overdosed on heroin and the puncture wound in her arm was bleeding. She was taken to hospital, where time stopped. The godmother watched as the family gathered round in a tableau of anxious attendance, waiting and hoping.
She saw the boyfriend slinking into the room in the late evening when the mother had left. He stood by Dawn’s hospital bed. Perhaps he was thinking that she had never looked so beautiful, surrounded by a thicket of tubes and leads from machines. She had lain in the coma for hours, pale and silent, a lily amongst a sea of flowers. He leaned down to kiss her and her eyelids fluttered a little. He held his breath and then reached into his pocket. An iron hand closed round his wrist.
“Leave her alone, you little freak.”
The godmother glowered at him, all shade and angles.
“Who are you?” he asked
“None of your business.”
“Oh, yeah?” he challenged recklessly. “Well, she needs me.”
“I think you’ve done enough already.” She breathed contempt over him and her eyes turned sea-storm grey. Her grip was strong. He pulled away a little, his eyes big and his self-assurance seemingly forgotten now as she stared at him in the half-light. She let go of him. He was only a kid after all.
“I- I just wanted to talk to her.” A pleading note had entered his voice now. He rubbed his wrist.
“I bet you did. The best thing you can do is keep away from her.” She gave him a grim look. “Now skedaddle before I call the cops.”
From the window, the godmother watched him scuttle across the car park: a bug looking for a stone to crawl beneath. She stayed in the midnight quietness, watching and waiting as the girl slept on. She startled the night nurse who came in to check the patient.
“Will she be all right?” The soft voice was like a whisper from the grave.
The nurse dropped her clipboard with a clatter and peered fearfully into the gloomy corner, where the stick-thin woman sat like a watchful spider.
“She’ll be f- fine,” she stammered, not daring to say otherwise.
“Good.”
The curt dismissal allowed no room for dispute. The godmother withdrew into herself, wrapped in thorny silence. The nurse left her there, an unmoving nocturnal guardian, not liking to ask her to leave.
She stayed until the sun rose. Dawn stirred a little as the first shaft of light fell across the bed. Then she woke up and smiled.
“Thank you,” she whispered and pressed her godmother’s hand.
It was a peaceful moment. The godmother returned her smile as the apricot coloured light slipped into the room.
“Sleep now,” she said.
“No more sleep,” said the girl. “I feel like I’ve been asleep forever.”
“Rest then. I’ll be here.”
“I’m glad.”
The girl closed her eyes and the godmother took her place in a chair at the foot of the bed. She waited quietly as the hospital stirred into life around them.
Later the family arrived, having heard the news that Dawn had awoken. The godmother retreated to a corner, squeezed out by the geniality and good wishes they brought with them, not to mention the balloons. One or two people gave her hard stares. Mostly they pretended not to notice her.
“I’d better go,” murmured the godmother, knowing she would be unwelcome.
“But can’t you stay?” asked the girl, beseeching. “Please?” She gave her a desperate look, a prisoner hemmed in on all sides by good will and solicitations. Not much chance of a rebellion now.
The godmother faltered. Perhaps just this once? The mother gave her a look then; that same accusing stare she had given her years before. You made this happen, it said. Those things you said. You may have forgotten, but I never did. This is all your fault.
Was it? The godmother felt uncertain for a moment. “It’s time I left,” she said to Dawn. “You don’t need me now.”
“You’re damn right she doesn’t,” someone muttered.
She left amidst an awkward silence, the hum of chatter starting up again as soon as she had gone. Part of her would have liked to stay if they had asked her. She wondered briefly if there could ever be a place for her there. Then again, she thought, casting a last glance over her shoulder, there was more to life than pink.
About the Author
A. F. McKeating is from Cumbria, England originally. She has had a varied career, from museum assistant to civil servant. She has had pieces of fiction published in various places, such as the Ranfurly Review, Friction magazine and on Everydayfiction.com. She enjoys reading as much as writing and believes there's always time for a good story.
Other Books by A. F. McKeating
The Monster Inside
The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke
Past the Shadows
and coming soon…
A Shade Darker – the sequel to The Accidental Career of Hilary Darke
