by Cathy Glass
‘I don’t know, but I hope it’s nothing to do with Dawn’s treatment of their baby.’
John’s gaze immediately darted to mine. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Something Dawn said as we were getting in the car tonight. Didn’t you hear her?’ He shook his head. ‘She said she wouldn’t hurt a baby, that it was an accident.’
‘What was an accident?’
‘That’s what I asked her, but she didn’t answer. Perhaps she’s a bit over-enthusiastic with her dad’s new baby, as she can be with Adrian, and perhaps her stepmother doesn’t like it? Or maybe Dawn’s sleepwalking put them on edge? I mean it’s pretty scary. It’s a pity we didn’t have a chance to discuss it in private with Ruth or Barbara.’
‘Even if we had,’ John said dryly. ‘I doubt Ruth would have told us much. It would have been another “confidentiality issue”. I must say I didn’t find her attitude very helpful.’
‘No,’ I agreed.
When I finally hauled myself upstairs to bed, I fell into an immediate and deep sleep. Adrian obligingly didn’t wake until 4.30 a.m., and as I fed him by the light of my bedside lamp, John stirred, then got up and, unlocking our door, went along to the toilet. A second later he called out and I could hear the anxiety in his voice, and also the edge of protection.
‘Dawn’s bedroom door is open and she’s not in bed! Stay there, I’m going downstairs.’
The landing light went on and John’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. I felt my tension rise as I remained propped up on my pillow, feeding Adrian, and straining my ears for any sound. Then I heard John’s voice again, coming from the hallway below.
‘This way to bed, Dawn. Come on, up you go,’ he encouraged.
I listened as two sets of footsteps slowly came up the stairs and then turned on to the landing. A silence followed, and I guessed John was steering Dawn into her bed. I heard her bedroom door close. Then John went to the toilet, the landing light went off and he reappeared.
‘I found her sitting on the bottom stair,’ he sighed as he climbed back into bed.
‘I wonder if she tried our bedroom door first before going downstairs? I didn’t hear her.’
‘No, but at least we know she can safely navigate the stairs,’ he said.
‘It’s very worrying, though. I mean she could have easily tripped and fallen.’
‘But what are we supposed to do? We can’t lock her in her room!’
‘Perhaps she’ll stop sleepwalking if she tried our door and found she couldn’t get in,’ I offered.
‘Hopefully,’ John said.
It was an optimism we had expressed before and, as before, it was soon to prove unfounded.
The following night when Adrian woke at 4.30 a.m. for his feed, John woke too and immediately went to check on Dawn.
‘She’s gone again!’ he called, and once more he found her sitting on the bottom stair. While I fed Adrian, John steered Dawn back to bed and she slept through until morning. We didn’t, though. We both slept fitfully, listening out for any sound of Dawn, and the following morning we were again exhausted.
‘I really think I’m going to have to do what the books suggest and try to talk Dawn through whatever it is she’s getting up to do.’ I said to John as he dressed for work. ‘It’s almost as if she has some unfinished business. Perhaps once she’s been reassured, or done whatever it is she has set out to do, she’ll stop sleepwalking.’
‘Fine,’ John said a little sharply, tetchy from lack of sleep. ‘We’ll try it next time. But I’m not leaving our bedroom door unlocked. It’s too risky. Particularly as it seems Dawn’s unfinished business has something to do with Adrian.’
‘OK, next time, if there is a next time, I’ll get up and try to talk to her. That book said sleepwalkers often divulge
things while sleepwalking that they wouldn’t normally do. If I can find out what’s bothering her, then maybe I can help.’
With so little background information on Dawn, John and I were trying to deal with her sleepwalking in any way we could, using common sense and what we had read. Had Dawn’s social worker been more proactive and forthcoming we would have raised the matter with her, and hopefully would have found out what was worrying Dawn. And even had some advice. As it was, with virtually no involvement from Ruth, we felt that Dawn was solely our responsibility and her problems were ours to deal with. We were treating Dawn, and dealing with her, as parents, and I wondered what I would have done if Dawn had been my own daughter. Spoken to my doctor, I thought, which is what I decided to do if Dawn continued sleepwalking for much longer.
Dawn completed a full week at school and therefore, according to Ruth’s instructions, was allowed out on Friday and Saturday evenings, and as the contract of good behaviour stated, she had to be home by 9.30 p.m. John and I didn’t know where Dawn went or who she was with, and it wasn’t an arrangement either of us approved of, or was happy with. As John had said at the meeting (and I completely agreed with him), we wouldn’t have allowed our own daughter to simply go out without us knowing where she was going or who she was with. And although it was now April and the days were growing longer, it was still pitch black by 8.00 p.m.
Before Dawn went out she spent some time upstairs getting ready, washing her hair and changing into fresh clothes, then came down to say goodbye. We asked her where she was going, and who she was going to meet, but she said she ‘hadn’t plans’. John again offered to give her a lift in the car but she said, politely, ‘No thanks, no need. I’ll be fine.’
This was in the days when only a few business people owned mobile phones and neither John, Dawn nor I had one. Once Dawn left the house, therefore, we had no way of contacting her to make sure she was all right. I told her if she got stranded and needed a lift home to phone us from a call box, and to this end I made sure she had some twenty-pence pieces for a public phone. However, this was small comfort, and on both Friday and Saturday evenings John and I sat in the lounge, ostensibly watching television, while most of our attention was focused on the hands of the carriage clock.
When the bell rang at dead on 9.30 p.m., I immediately answered the door, and we were both extremely relieved to see Dawn back safely. I praised her for getting home on time, and also asked her if she had had a good evening.
‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, but she offered nothing else.
She sat with us in the lounge for half an hour and then went up to bed at ten o’clock.
On Saturday night when she came home John and I thought we could smell smoke on her clothes, and I took the opportunity to say a few words to her about smoking in general.
‘It’s better never to start,’ I said. ‘It can easily become a habit, and before you know it you’re addicted.’ I was speaking from experience, for I had smoked, albeit only a few a day, before having Adrian. I’d given up as soon as I’d found out I was pregnant, and I didn’t intend starting again.
Dawn nodded and said she wouldn’t start smoking, and I accepted what she said. Perhaps she hadn’t been smoking; perhaps she’d been in a smoky environment or with someone who had been smoking. I knew that to confront or lecture her wouldn’t do any good and would probably put her on the defensive.
On Sunday we went to my parents for lunch and as usual our visit was very pleasant and relaxing. Once we had started fostering both our parents had quickly become as enthusiastic and committed as we were. My parents always made such a fuss of us, and we all enjoyed Mum’s cooking, particularly her homemade apple pie, which I promised to try to make when I had time. They went out of their way to chat to Dawn and make her feel welcome, as they had done with Jack. Unfortunately we had to leave early, as Dawn was seeing her mother in the evening.
Again, we offered Dawn a lift to her mother’s, but Dawn politely refused. I gave her the return bus fare, plus some extra for emergencies. I had already given her a £5 weekly clothing allowance. She thanked me, and I said I’d see her at about nine o’clock – Dawn would be leaving her mother’s at eight a
nd it was about fifty minutes on the bus.
I was less worried about Dawn going to her mother’s than I had been on Friday and Saturday, when I hadn’t known where she was. Although I still wasn’t happy with a thirteen-year-old girl travelling alone on the bus after dark, there was nothing I could do about it. Ruth had made the decision.
* * *
Dawn arrived home early from seeing her mother – it was only 8.30 p.m. I answered the door and asked her if she’d had a nice time and if her mum was OK.
Dawn shrugged. ‘Mike was there. They were still eating, and I had to go to my bedroom until they’d finished. He came back again at seven thirty, so I left.’
I was astounded. Barbara was only seeing her daughter for two hours a week. Couldn’t she have arranged her Sunday evening better? What a rejection – to send Dawn to her room, while Mike finished eating, I thought! Clearly Mike’s relationship with Dawn was far worse than we had been led to believe, and I wondered why.
‘That was a disappointment,’ I said as Dawn hung her coat on the hall stand.
‘Not fussed,’ Dawn said, and she changed the subject.
Clearly Dawn didn’t want to talk about it, and she came through and sat in the lounge with John and me for half an hour. Then, with school the following morning, she went up to the bathroom and to bed.
When I went up to say goodnight at 9.30 p.m. she was already asleep. The sleeve of her pyjama top on her left arm had ridden up and the scar lines from her cutting were visible. I hadn’t broached the subject of her self-harming with her yet, clutching to the hope, that like the rest of the behaviour her mother had described, it was a thing of the past. If Dawn mentioned it, I would obviously talk to her and listen, for I suspected that her cutting had probably been a cry for help, and listening to her worries might be all that was needed.
I switched off Dawn’s light and came out, closing her bedroom door. John and I were in bed at 10.30 p.m. and hoped to have an unbroken night’s sleep. With Adrian now on three small meals a day, he needed less breast milk, and on Saturday had slept until nearly 6.00 a.m. I knew the time was fast approaching when he would stop needing me for this purpose, and the nurse at the clinic had said I should start introducing cow’s milk into his trainer beaker and gradually wean him.
If John and I were looking forward to an unbroken night, it was a lame hope. At 2.00 a.m. we were both wide awake, staring into the darkness and listening. Something had woken us and it wasn’t Adrian – he was still fast asleep in his cot.
‘Is Dawn out of bed?’ I whispered to John.
‘Not sure. I’d better take a look.’ Quietly unlocking our bedroom door, he went out on to the landing. He returned a few seconds later. ‘She’s sitting on the bottom stair again,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll take her back to bed.’
‘Let me try talking to her,’ I said quietly. ‘See if I can find out what’s bothering her.’ For while I didn’t relish the thought of leaving the warmth and comfort of my bed after only three hours’ sleep, if I could find out what was worrying Dawn and stop her from sleepwalking, this small discomfort would be a good investment.
‘I’ll come too,’ John said.
He unhooked our dressing gowns from the back of the door and passed mine to me. We padded along the landing and John put the landing light on so that there was enough light to see Dawn but not to startle her. We went down the stairs and stepped round her, then with John standing to one side in the hall, I squatted down on my heels so that I was at eye level. Her hands were in her lap and she was staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed and glazed, as though staring through me.
‘Dawn?’ I said quietly. ‘Dawn, it’s Cathy. What’s the matter, love? Is there something worrying you?’
There was no movement, no blink of the eyes or facial expression to suggest she could even hear me.
‘Dawn?’ I said again. ‘It’s Cathy. I want to help you. Can you tell me what’s worrying you?’
John was standing motionless in the hall behind me and we both concentrated on Dawn, watching for the slightest sign that she had heard me or was receptive to my words. But there was nothing.
‘We may as well take her back to bed,’ John whispered after a while.
I continued to look into Dawn’s unseeing eyes, waiting, almost willing her to hear me so I could help. Then I placed my hand lightly on top of hers.
‘Dawn?’ I tried again. ‘Can you tell me what’s worrying you, love? Can you show me, Dawn? Where do you want to go? Show me what you want to do, and perhaps I can help.’ The books said that sleepwalkers could talk and answer questions but there was no indication that Dawn could even hear me, let alone have a conversation. ‘Dawn?’ I said again, lightly encircling her hand in mine. ‘Show me what it is you want and I can help you find it.’
Suddenly she moved. I started and nearly fell back off my heels. Slowly taking her hands from her lap, she placed them either side of her on the stair, and pushed herself up into a standing position. I was also standing now, and John and I took a step back to give her room. She stood still for a few moments, her arms hanging loosely at her sides, as though she was getting her bearings. The staircase was behind her and she was staring straight in front. I think we both expected her to turn and go upstairs, for we were sure that Dawn’s ‘unfinished business’ or anxiety lay with Adrian, and that was where she would go. She remained impassive for a moment; then she took a step forward and slowly began to turn, but away from the stairs.
She was now facing the length of the hall, towards the back of the house. She took another faltering step, then another, and began walking slowly down the hall. John and I followed in absolute silence, the only sound coming from my thumping heart and the faint stir of the material of our nightclothes. Dawn reached the end of the hall, paused for a moment, then turned ninety degrees and went into the kitchen. It was dark in the kitchen – the light from the landing above didn’t reach this far. I didn’t want to put the kitchen light on for fear of startling her, but we needed to see what she was doing.
‘Can you put the lounge light on?’ I whispered to John, who was just behind me.
He went out of the kitchen and switched the lounge light on. With the lounge and kitchen doors open there was just enough glow to allow us to see. Dawn had come to a halt in the centre of the kitchen and was now standing, arms at her sides, staring straight ahead.
John returned to my side. ‘What does she want in here?’ he whispered, voicing my thoughts.
‘I hope she’s not planning on cooking a roast,’ I quipped with a small nervous laugh.
John smiled and touched my arm. ‘Try talking to her again. It might help.’
I quietly stepped forward, and lightly placed my hand on her arm. ‘Dawn, love, what do you want in the kitchen? Tell me and I’ll try to help you find it.’
It crossed my mind that perhaps she wanted to prepare a bottle of milk or some food for Adrian; perhaps her sleepwalking was caused by some anxiety that she needed to look after him and was in some way failing. ‘Adrian’s been fed. He’s not hungry,’ I said, following the book’s advice about reassuring the sleepwalker. ‘Are you looking for food for Adrian?’
There was a pause, and then Dawn answered. In a deep voice, heavy with sleep, she said, ‘No.’
I glanced at John. ‘What do you want then, love?’ I persisted quietly. ‘Tell me, and I can find it for you so that you can go back to bed.’
Dawn didn’t answer but moved slowly to the kitchen cabinets, and the drawers under the work surface. Stopping at one drawer, she pulled it open, and slowly lowered her head and looked down, as though she was actually seeing into the drawer. She stood still again; then her hands left the edge of the drawer and she began steadily searching the contents, as though she was looking for something specific. Her movements were slow and slightly cumbersome, and I wasn’t sure if she could actually see what she was doing or if she was using touch to guide her. The drawer contained an assortment of miscellaneous items, including clea
n tea towels, oven gloves, a packet of candles from when we’d had a series of electricity cuts and a large box of matches for lighting them.
I was so engrossed in watching Dawn in the half-light that it took me a moment to realise that I hadn’t removed the box of matches after Barbara’s warning, and that Dawn was now taking the box of matches from the drawer. Even when I realised, I was so mesmerised that I didn’t immediately stop her.
It was John who intervened. ‘You can’t have those,’ he said, stepping forward and taking the box of matches from her hand. ‘They’re dangerous.’
Dawn didn’t move. She remained where she was, statue-like, standing beside the open drawer, with her left hand cupped where the box of matches had been. Then slowly she raised her head, turned from the drawer, and moved to the centre of the room. Standing still again, with her feet slightly apart, quite bizarrely she began to mime opening the box of matches as though the box was still in her hand and taking one out. John and I watched, transfixed, as she closed the non-existent box, and then taking the imaginary match in her right hand began to strike it.
Chapter Eleven
Cry for Help
Once, twice – Dawn struck the ‘match’ on the side of the box and then appeared to watch it flare. Her eyes seemed to focus on the imaginary flame. Then her face began to crumple into a mixture of pain and fear, as though she was remembering something dreadful. She stared at the ‘match’ for a moment, and then suddenly flicked her wrist and ‘threw’ it away. I watched, horrified, as she buckled to the floor, clasped her knees and began rocking, back and forth. Her eyes were still and open and her face was steeped in pain; then she began to cry, and I couldn’t simply watch her any longer.
I went forward to comfort her, but as I did her expression suddenly changed from pain to anger, and I stopped. She threw out her left arm; then, yanking up the sleeve of her pyjama, and using the edge of her right hand, she began chopping along the scar lines.
