“Mine's Dawn,” Dawn said, then looked at the pretty girl in the photo who was dressed up for a school dance or a holiday. “Your daughter was beautiful. She was…” Dawn struggled to find the right words. “Asian!”
“Yes. She was from Korea. She'd been in an orphanage. That's why your question surprised me.” Vera held out a menu, and Dawn took it. “Hungry?”
“Not very. Well, actually, yes.” Vera was offering to feed her. She was paying attention. It made Dawn feel sad and happy at the same time. “So, your daughter's adopted?”
A tentative smile revealed perfect caps. “That's right.”
“And you felt like she was really yours?”
“She was mine! You mean because I didn't give birth to her?” Dawn nodded. “I didn't think about that, only when someone looked at us cross-eyed. Then I had to feel sorry for them.” Vera smiled again, a patient smile.
“But wouldn't you have a truer bond if you were related?” The question was crude, but Dawn had to ask. She'd heard all the standard lines about adopted kids being no less loved than biological kids. Those were just so many words, though. She'd never heard it from a real parent of an adopted kid.
“Clones are a bore,” Vera said with a tiny smile, flicking her veined hand forward in a dismissive motion. “Besides, genes are no guarantee of similarities or bonds. The kids of some of the people I know—well, you wonder how they could ever be related. Giselle and I, we connected over music even when she was small. Well, you know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you and your mother have things in common.”
“An interest in doctoring.” Dawn said.
Vera nodded. “How nice.”
The waitress came over. Vera ordered fruit salad and tea. Dawn ordered soup. “Don't you go to school?” Vera pressed a lemon wedge against her spoon.
She seemed nice enough, but Dawn figured that the less she said the better. “Sure. I'm in an Internet school. You know, classes online.” She tried to steer the conversation Vera's way. “Tell me more about Giselle.”
“She was talented on the flute, like you. I bet your mother's proud of your playing.”
Dawn scrunched up her napkin and lowered her head. Her real mother had never heard Dawn play. She wasn't there. Dawn tried to picture her, but an unexpected memory of Louise floated in, of her beaming awkwardly in the front row of the auditorium as Dawn played. Was it Louise that Dawn missed, or just anyone being there for her? How could you know what to miss if you'd never had it… or if you'd never let someone try to be there? Louise had tried. Was it a sense of duty that led Louise to Epiphany House, or emptiness or desire? Maybe none of it mattered except what came after.
Lunch came, and they were mostly silent while they ate, both hungry, both thoughtful. When she finished, Dawn glanced at the wall clock. One o'clock; almost too late to play before lunch hour was over. “Thanks for everything. I have to get going.”
“You're very welcome.” Vera straightened out her skirt, and the rose scent wafted up.
Dawn waved as she walked away. She was sure of it now: that rose scent was what her mother had worn.
At midnight Dawn dialed the number. Thoughts whizzed like darts as she listened to its ring. What if Vera had been my mother? She's so different from Louise.
“Hello, ICRC Peshawar. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Johar.”
“Dawn! I tried to call you.”
“Really? What's up? I've been out a lot lately.” It must be very early there.
“My brother Daq is alive!”
“Seriously? That's awesome, Johar. Is he there with you? Have you guys talked or had time to plan? I mean, this is huge!”
“Yes, he is alive. But he is very sick.”
“What do you mean?” Dawn had called for Louise, but that must wait.
“He is acting strange, not himself. He is like skeleton and eyes are yellow. He want to take me to army. Americans drive the Taliban back. Kabul is finally free! Soon even Kandahar. But Daq want to stay fighting.”
The capital city was free—Dawn had heard it on the news. It meant Louise might return sooner rather than later. But Johar couldn't go back and fight now. “Join the army? I thought you didn't want that! What about your poetry, the school?”
“No want army. Is everything I hate—killing; death.”
“So don't go with him.”
“I try not.” Johar's voice was high-pitched, faint.
Dawn heard a woman in the background ask who was on the phone. Hastily she added, “Johar, you're strong and you're no coward. Remember that.”
“I try.”
“E-mail me with every detail, and be careful. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Was that Louise? Can I speak with her?”
“Yes, one moment.” The phone clacked as Johar put it down and then Louise's voice.
“Dawn. How are you?” Dawn had thought so much about Louise lately that it was weird to hear her voice. Maybe Louise wasn't feeling the same at all.
“I'm fine. I miss seeing you. How's the clinic?” Dawn felt suddenly unsure of herself.
“The clinic is quite challenging. It doesn't get any easier.” Louise paused. “I miss seeing you as well.”
Dawn had only asked her next question once and hadn't gotten a straight answer. “Did you ever learn why I was at Epiphany? Do you know anything about my birth mother?”
“They told me next to nothing,” said Louise quietly. “Why are you thinking about that now?”
“I guess it's just that this whole Trade Center attack made me think about family, about losing people. I mean, things are starting to bubble up. I've been remembering things.”
“Some family history is better left unexamined.” Louise's voice was hesitant. “But not always. What did you remember?”
“It was pretty vague. I was in the car with her, and I was scared and I smelled her perfume, rose talc. It made me feel sick, like I wanted to cry. I thought I would faint.”
“The past is the past, and they didn't tell me much,” said Louise. “It's hard for me to think about what happened to you before you came to live with us.”
“But I need to talk about it. It's like I'm stuck and I need to move on, get it out. If you want to be close to me, you would try to understand—”
“I'll try,” said Louise. “When I get back, I promise.” She sighed. “Trust me when I say that I don't know many facts. But if you think it's preventing us from having a better relationship…if it'll help to get the feelings out…”
“Thanks.” Dawn felt almost like a traitor, but that was silly. Talking honestly with Louise felt good. “Is Johar right there?”
“Not here in my office. Why?”
“I want to ask you something without him overhearing. What did you think of Johar's brother, Daq? Did he threaten you?”
“Johar mentioned that to you?” When Dawn didn't reply, Louise went on. “Daq didn't dare threaten me. I'm pretty tough, you know.” She laughed wryly. “He was furious at me for ordering Johar to do chores. He was furious about the war casualties. He was an angry guy in general. Truthfully, he seemed to be on drugs.”
“Daq wants Johar to come north to join the army. Don't let him do that, OK?”
“The war is almost over,” Louise said sensibly. “Coalition forces took Kabul. Now they're headed to Kandahar. It's only a matter of days until the Taliban surrender. Then it'll be months of skirmishes here and there, but the major fighting is over.”
“Well, his brother doesn't think so.”
“He's deluded,” Louise insisted.
“Either way, I'm scared for Johar. What if you take him back to the States? He needs a family. All his relatives are gone. He said it was hard to care for Bija on his own. And now, with his brother so agitated—”
“But his brother is his family too,” Louise pointed out, “and it would be very difficult to get an Afghani through U.S. immigration since the attack.” She paused. “It's a nice idea to bring Johar bac
k. Maybe it would be good for him and his cousin to have a break from the suffering. We don't understand the scope of it in the States. We've been protected, cut off…”
Except at ground zero, Dawn wanted to say. She felt an irresistible urge to confess, to share her trials and her new insights. She wanted to tell Louise about the trip east, about the excitement of her first night in New York. She wanted to describe the terrible September day, her terror, and the heavy aura of pain that had enveloped the city. But most of all, Dawn wanted Louise to understand how those days of playing flute music for victims' families had transformed her into a person who was finally connecting with the world—like a blind girl learning Braille. It was impossible to hold it in anymore. The rush of feelings began to breach her self-restraint. “Louise?”
“Yes, dear?”
Should she tell? Louise seemed more open. It was time she knew who Dawn had become. “I have to make a confession. I'm in New York. I'm doing something deep and wonderful. I'm playing flute for victims' families. I'm learning so much!” There—she'd said it, but Louise's silence was palpable.
Even before words came, the phone crackled with tension. “What? Are you all right? How long have you been there? Do you know how dangerous it is in New York right now?”
“I promise you, I'm fine.” Dawn's confidence faltered. “What about you? It's way more dangerous over there. Don't you think I've worried about you?”
“Yes,” Louise said wearily. “But… but it's different, Dawn. I know what I'm doing. This is crazy. What possessed you to run away, and where is Victor in all this? Why didn't he tell me? I haven't been able to get through to him for days.”
“He knows I left,” Dawn replied, and heard Louise's sharp intake of breath. “Truthfully? He doesn't care. I have no clue where he is. And he doesn't know where I am either. He hasn't answered my calls for a while now.” A breathy silence weighted the space between them.
“So he's been lying to me.”
Dawn's tone softened. “I don't know what he's told you, but yeah. I'm sorry, Louise.”
Louise's voice regained its urgency. “What part of the city are you staying in? You're not staying anywhere near ground zero, are you?”
“No, I'm in a safe place. A friend of a friend's.
” “Good. But you're going down there to play your flute for people?” asked Louise.
“Yes. It's weird, but I've never been so happy. I've just never felt like I've done something this important.”
“What's your friend's address, dear?” Louise's voice grew shrill.
“I can't tell you yet.” Dawn said, “but I'll stay in touch.” She hesitated for a moment, and then the words came flooding out. “If it weren't for you going away all the time, I wouldn't have come here. I was mad at first, but it's not about that now. I'm using my talent for something good— helping people. I'm growing up. I know you care about me, but please don't stop this.”
“I'm not trying to stop you from growing up.” Louise was yelling now. “But I'll have to curtail my work here to find you in Manhattan. I can't have you running around on your own. It will make things easier if you tell me. Now!”
Dawn was too spent to fight. She imagined a protective layer surrounding her, like snow, to drown out the shouts. “Louise, I'll be in touch. Promise.” She hung up and sat on the bed, shivering. So maybe she does care. Maybe she believes in what I'm doing, thought Dawn. But she doesn't want me here alone. She doesn't trust that I'm safe. She got too mad. I couldn't explain. And Johar might leave. She hadn't convinced Louise to help him before she hung up.
Dawn fell back on Susie's bed. She decided to try meditating, as Johar had suggested in his e-mail. As she slowed her breathing, her muscles loosened and she began to feel sleepy and calm, yet her mind was aware. For a moment she imagined Johar reciting poetry, but she couldn't hear the words. His soft voice gave her courage. Dawn let her head sink deeper into the pillow. She thought, I'm almost unstuck, and took a long breath in. As she breathed out, ever so slowly, a thought formed, delicate yet as pointed as snowflake tips: I may not want to meet my birth mother. Ever.
warrior
New York,
late November 2001
Dawn's emotions bubbled near the surface. Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of homeless people, and she went all jellylegged when she bumped into Sander on St. Marks. She told him about playing for victims' families. “You're brave,” he said, and offered to come down and play with her. He encouraged her to try jamming with his band again. Instead of panicking, she chatted eagerly and even said a proper goodbye.
She had contacted Jude and asked him to check the house on Santa Marisa. He'd rung the bell at all hours, but no Victor. Finally he'd let himself in with Dawn's hidden key and tripped over a pile of mail. In the bedroom, Jude had discovered Victor's note.
Louise—
I tried to search for Dawn. I tried to talk sense into her when she called. I had to take a break from this.
Victor
He's gone, Dawn thought. Inside her, it opened up huge spaces.
These wobbly new feelings were good, but when they got intense she sometimes pined for her old reflexes—ones that could shut her emotions down as automatically as her knee jumped when the doctor tapped it with his little hammer.
Meanwhile, she e-mailed back and forth with Louise.
Dawn—
I am coming to get you. Please tell me where you are.
Louise—
Please, please give me another week or so. I'm staying with a woman friend. She's older. She keeps me safe. I'll give you her address soon. Trust me on this.
Dawn
Temperatures had been dropping steadily, but Dawn still went to the site almost every day. One overcast morning she wore a new red sweater and hat she'd gotten on sale.
“You look so lovely in that red sweater. Like such a proper little lady,” Vera said as she approached the concrete stairs. “Do you know any Telemann? My daughter used to play that so nicely.” Vera held the clump of Kleenex, already dabbing at her mascara, and she reeked of the rose talc.
Telemann was brilliant—ordered yet fierce. Dawn began to play, stewing with precarious emotions—fear, doubt and sudden bursts of elation. Images flashed in and out like strobes: Louise in her office, an image of her birth mother staring into the distance. Without warning, Dawn's impressions swelled and sharpened. For the first time ever, the still portrait of her birth mother shifted. They were in a car. Her mother's chilly stare led Dawn to lower her eyes to the hands with their red nails clutching the steering wheel.
“When you're ready,” whispered Johar in her mind.
Vera gazed toward her and said, “Such a proper little lady.”
Memories sizzled, loosened. She drew out a high G on her flute.
Mama's got things to take care of, said the voice.
I'll listen to you, just to end this thing, thought Dawn. The shutters of her chest broke apart, and two voices emerged— Dawn's, so young, and her lost mother's.
“We're going to a place where you'll stay for a while,” Mama says.
“Why, Mama, aren't you coming?” I ask, alarmed.
“No, Mama's got things to take care of.” Mama always has things to take care of.
“Can't you take me with you? I'll be good. I won't fuss.” Mama hates it when I fuss. The punishment is Mama not speaking for long times after fussing.
“No, Dawn, I can't take you.” Her jaw is hard and tight. She won't look at me, but stares straight ahead at the road.
I grab on to her coat. It smells like roses. “Mama, why?” Is punishment time starting? I cry in chokes, tugging at her scratchy coat.
She pries my hands open and smoothes down her coat. The only sound after that is of my crying and the click-clack of the wipers pushing snow off the windshield.
The notes of Dawn's flute soared.
We drive to a house with two porch lights and a sign in between the lights. Mama jerks the car to a halt. She opens
my door and yanks me out so hard, my hands have red marks. My legs sink in tall drifts and the cold flakes burn my eyes like pepper.
As I rub them, my coat falls open, showing the new red dress Mama bought me for this trip. “Something to help you look like a proper young lady,” she'd said. I was so proud of my dress that every day before this trip I had opened my closet door to make sure it was still there. Now that I'm a big girl, almost five years old, I thought Mama would be taking me somewhere very special—maybe to the movies or to the ballet, but this is scary.
“I don't want to stay here, Mama,” I cry, refusing to take steps.
She doesn't answer, but drags me toward the house. My boots scratch trails in the snow. “Sometimes we must do things we don't want to do.” She presses the bell.
“I'll be a good girl. Promise. I know I've been a bad girl,” I shout.
“Stop it right this instant,” she scolds.
The door swings open. A lady with gray hair in a bun leans her big body forward, and waves for us to enter. It smells like pine soap and there is old furniture. A clock ticks.
“My name is Mrs. Donovan. Take your coats off and let's get started.” The lady points to a coat rack. I'm afraid to look at her. I run to Mama's coat and bury my face in its rose smell. She pries my fingers off again, as if they have mud on them.
Vera's voice rippled up. “Go ahead and cry.” Her hands enveloped Dawn's, but not spidery like before, just holding. The flute waited patiently on the concrete while Dawn's tears mixed with Vera's—spilling and sloppy and such a relief. “It must be difficult to come here, day after day. Cry now,” Vera crooned, and held Dawn, shivering in her red sweater.
Dawn didn't care that people stared. Raindrops began to patter. She pictured the snow, the ice daggers under the curve of Epiphany's eaves. Sun glinted through them, increasing their beauty—an icy beauty like her mother's. Dawn realized her face had frozen too. She had become an ice queen. It had been all she had left of her mother. It had protected her.
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