by Cathy Glass
‘Dawn,’ I said as the engine idled at a set of traffic lights that had just turned red. ‘Your social worker said that there was a gap in your life when no one knew where you were. Between the ages of five and nine,’ Dawn nodded and again looked down into her lap. ‘Do you have any memories of that time? Do you know where you were or who you were living with? I expect Ruth has asked you the same question.’
‘She did,’ Dawn said flatly. ‘And she asked Mum and Dad if they knew where I was.’
‘And?’ I prompted after a moment when she hadn’t said any more.
‘Mum says I was living with my dad, and Dad says I was with Mum.’ Which was what Ruth had told me after the meeting. And I remembered the essay Dawn had written for school about being five, which she had made up, claiming she couldn’t remember that time. It seemed ludicrous: either she or her parents must have some recollection of where she was and who she was living with.
‘And what about you, Dawn?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where you were? It wasn’t so long ago. Do you remember?’ The lights changed to green and I pulled away.
I glanced between the road ahead and Dawn, and as I did I saw her face crumple. Tears began streaming down her cheeks and her chest heaved with silent sobs. ‘Oh, Dawn, love, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’ I immediately pulled over and switched off the engine. Releasing my seatbelt, I leant over and put my arms around her. ‘It’s all right, love. Please don’t upset yourself.’
‘Cathy, I don’t know, I really don’t know,’ she stammered between breaths. ‘I can’t remember anything. Anything at all.’ I reached down and pulled some tissues from my bag and passed them to her. ‘I remember being with Mum and Dad when I was very little. And I remember Dad leaving. Then there’s nothing. The next thing I remember is living with Mum again. It’s like I suddenly woke up and I was there. I was nine and at a different school. Then I spent time living at Dad’s place and then at Mum’s, going backwards and forwards because I was so naughty – neither of them wanted me for long. And I know I was bad – I felt bad, and I did bad things – but I don’t know why. The time before that is like a big black hole. Sometimes I get weird dreams and think I remember things, but the dreams are awful and I get really frightened and confused.’
I hugged her. ‘I understand, love. I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.’ I waited as she blew her nose and dried her eyes. ‘Dawn, when you see the psychiatrist I want you to tell him all this. It might help. All right?’
She nodded and blew her nose again. Then looked at me, her cheeks flushed and her eyes red from crying. ‘It’s really scary, not knowing. It’s like part of me is missing. But the more I try to remember, the worse it gets. I see me at Mum’s when I was five and I know those memories are real; then I disappear, and suddenly come back again all those years later. I was already being naughty then; I don’t know why – I just was. I think something might have happened to change me, something dreadful that I can’t remember.’
I hugged her again and thought that she might be right. What she had described sounded like a type of amnesia. I remembered reading an article in a newspaper about people who had lost their memories after a really bad experience, a trauma. I thought the condition was called dissociative amnesia, when the brain blots out what it can’t cope with, but I didn’t know any more. ‘It must be dreadfully worrying for you, love, but I’m sure the psychiatrist will be able to help you.’
‘Will he?’ she asked, looking at me with a spark of hope.
‘Yes, that’s his job – to help unravel the past and make sense of it. So let’s leave it to him, shall we? Don’t force yourself to remember. Let’s concentrate on the present.’ I smiled, and Dawn smiled back.
‘Thanks, Cathy. Can we go home now? I’m starving. Can I have a fry-up?’
‘Of course, love, anything you like.’
It was just before midday when we arrived home and John greeted us at the door.
‘Welcome home,’ he said to Dawn and kissed us both on the cheek.
Dawn smiled, and then went to Adrian, who was scuttling on all fours down the hall.
John said that his work had phoned with a problem, and as we were now home he would go in for the afternoon. He went upstairs to change into his suit while I cooked Dawn a fry-up. John said goodbye and left half an hour later. While Dawn was eating Ruth phoned and said that in view of what had happened she would come and visit Dawn that afternoon. I told Dawn and she shrugged.
‘I can’t tell her any more than I told you,’ she said.
‘No. I think she’s just coming to make sure you’re all right now.’
That afternoon Dawn, Adrian and I spent a pleasant couple of hours in the garden under the shade of the tree. Dawn and I chatted for a while about things in general; then she fetched her Walkman from her bedroom and listened to music, while I flicked through the paper, and we both kept an eye on Adrian and his forages into the flower beds. Ruth arrived shortly after three o’clock and said she wanted to talk to Dawn alone. I showed her through to the garden, and scooping up Adrian, I went inside, pulling the French doors to behind me.
From where I sat with Adrian in the lounge I could see them. Ruth was sitting where I had been and looked the more serious of the two. She leant forward as she spoke to Dawn, and Dawn just looked glum. Ruth did most of the talking, with Dawn giving the occasional small nod, or shrugging. After about twenty minutes Ruth stood and headed back towards the lounge. I opened the French doors to let her in.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked as she came in, hoping for some feedback that might help.
Ruth sighed. ‘As right as it’s going to be.’ She crossed the lounge towards the hall.
Leaving Adrian in the lounge with the door open so I could keep an eye on him, I followed her to the door to see her out. She arrived at the front door without saying anything further and clearly with no intention of doing so.
‘She’s been referred to a psychiatrist,’ I said. ‘That should help, shouldn’t it?’
‘If she goes,’ Ruth said dryly, with one hand on the doorknob. ‘I’ll speak to Barbara and see if I can persuade her to stay in on Sunday evenings when Dawn visits.’
‘And if you can’t persuade her?’ I asked, feeling that Ruth should be taking a firmer line with Barbara, given what had happened. ‘Is it worth Dawn going? Dawn says she’s not sure she wants to go any more if her mum’s not going to be in.’
‘Dawn says that now but she’ll probably change her mind come Sunday.’ Ruth sighed again. ‘I’ll speak to Barbara, but obviously I can’t force the woman to stay in and see her daughter.’ With that she turned the doorknob and let herself out. ‘Phone me when the psychiatrist’s appointment arrives. I want to speak to him before Dawn does,’ she added.
‘Yes, I will.’ Ruth was already halfway down the front path. ‘Ruth?’ I called after her.
She paused and turned. ‘Yes?’
I went up to her. ‘Is there anything you can tell me that might help us? John and I are very worried about Dawn, and I know it’s confidential, but we’re struggling to look after her. Dawn is so polite and pleasant when she is with us, but obviously her behaviour is very disturbed. I’ve been reading up on —’.
‘She’s had a rough ride,’ Ruth said, cutting in. ‘Let me know when her appointment arrives and we’ll take it from there.’ She turned and continued down the path.
I went inside, not a little put out by Ruth’s dismissive attitude, and closed the front door. Collecting Adrian from the lounge, where he was exploring the soil in a potted plant, I returned to the garden. Dawn was still sitting under the tree with her Walkman in her lap and the earpieces out.
‘All right?’ I said with a smile. ‘Did your chat with Ruth help?’
‘Not really,’ she shrugged. ‘She’s always on Mum’s side, and just lectures me.’
‘What? About the tablets?’
‘And other things.’ She stood, and leaving her Walkman on her chair went over to play with A
drian on the lawn.
Dawn clearly didn’t want to talk to me about her conversation with her social worker any more than Ruth had wanted to, and it wasn’t appropriate for me to press Dawn. I thought it was sad, and not at all good for Dawn, that she felt Ruth was on her mother’s side, as though there was a battle going on, when we should all have been working together to help Dawn. I also felt that Ruth should have given Barbara an ultimatum: make sure you’re in when Dawn visits or she won’t come in future. But clearly that wasn’t going to happen, and it seemed that if Dawn went on Sunday it would be on the off chance that her mother was in, as apparently had been the case in the past. It was hardly likely to help Dawn’s feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing to know that her mother would only stay in and see her if she didn’t have a better offer or there was nothing good on at the cinema. And if their relationship was so bad anyway, I wondered what the point was in them seeing each other at all? But then again Barbara was Dawn’s mother, so I supposed there was a bond of some sort.
Chapter Nineteen
A Weapon?
I would like to say that Dawn received her appointment to see the psychiatrist, began therapy and slowly started to improve. But it didn’t happen. Far from improving the situation grew a lot, lot worse.
The following morning Dawn insisted she felt well enough to go to school, and refused my offer of a lift. The school secretary had phoned on Monday, the day before, when Dawn hadn’t arrived at school, and John had said only that Dawn was ill. He didn’t say that Dawn had taken an overdose or that she was in hospital, assuming that if the school needed to know Ruth would inform them. I saw Dawn off at the door on that Tuesday morning and had no reason to believe she hadn’t arrived at school – the secretary didn’t phone. Likewise on Wednesday and Thursday I said goodbye to Dawn at 7.45 a.m., and she left with her school bag to catch the bus, and I then welcomed her home at 3.45 p.m.
On Friday lunchtime the phone rang. It was from a call box and a girl asked if she could speak to Dawn.
‘She’s at school,’ I said. ‘Can I give her a message?’ I was pleasantly surprised that Dawn had given our phone number to a friend. It was the first time she had been called at home and I felt it was a positive sign that she was starting to include us in her life.
There was a pause on the other end of the line before the girl said, ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Sorry?’ I asked.
‘Dawn’s not in school. This is Natasha from her class and I was wondering how Dawn was. She hasn’t been in all week and our teacher said she was ill.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, my heart starting to pound.
‘Positive. We sit next to each other in most lessons.’
‘But I don’t understand. The school secretary phones me if Dawn doesn’t arrive. Dawn was ill on Monday but she’s been all right since. She’s been leaving every morning to go to school. And you’re sure she’s not there?’
‘Yes, and I have to go for my lunch now,’ Natasha said quickly, clearly feeling uncomfortable that she had been the one to tell me. And she hung up.
I replaced the receiver and stood for a moment in the hall, my thoughts racing, and wondering why the school secretary hadn’t phoned to say Dawn wasn’t in school. It didn’t make sense. I picked up the phone again and dialled St James’s School.
When the secretary answered I asked if Dawn was there.
‘No,’ she said, surprised by my question. ‘Your husband said she was ill.’
‘She was ill on Monday, but she should have been in school the rest of the week.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I assumed she was still ill. That’s why I didn’t phone to check.’
‘I see,’ I said, understanding what had happened. My spirits fell. ‘It’s not your fault. I should have phoned on Tuesday to tell you she was returning.’
She apologised again and we said goodbye.
My heart was heavy. School hadn’t checked with me, assuming Dawn was still ill, and I hadn’t seen the need to check with the school, assuming Dawn had arrived and that I would be told if she hadn’t. Dawn had cunningly seized the opportunity in the breakdown of communication between the school and me and used it to her advantage. Apart from feeling badly let down I was now worried as to where Dawn could be and what she was doing. She had been leaving the house each morning with her school bag and returning home as normal, answering my question as to whether she’d had a good day with a pleasant smile and, ‘Yes thanks, Cathy,’ without the slightest indication to the contrary. After all the chats we’d had, and the promises she’d made to confide her worries in me so that I could help her, it had all come to nothing. I felt hurt, worried and betrayed. What on earth did I have to do to change her behaviour and get her back on track? I had no idea.
Dawn came home at 3.45 p.m. that Friday afternoon, as though she had just returned from school. She dropped her bag in its usual place in the hall and slipped out of her shoes.
‘Good day?’ I asked as normal.
‘Yes thanks, Cathy.’ She smiled.
I felt sly – I hate deception in any form – but now I had the upper hand. ‘What did you do today, Dawn?’ I asked. ‘Anything exciting?’
‘Only the usual lessons.’ She smiled again and bent down to Adrian, who was trying to pull himself into a standing position using the hem of her skirt.
‘Which were?’ I asked. ‘What subjects did you have?’
She hesitated – this was more than my usual greeting – and I couldn’t keep the deception going any longer.
‘Natasha phoned,’ I said bluntly. ‘She wondered how you were.’
I watched as Dawn let go of Adrian and slowly straightened. ‘I’m sorry, Cathy,’ she said too easily. ‘But I couldn’t face going into school after everything.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me instead of running off? I thought we’d agreed that you would tell me if something was bothering you so that I could help. Now you’ve done what you always do and just disappeared!’
She continued to look at me, her expression neutral. ‘I know I’ve let you down again,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I did tell you I was bad; now perhaps you’ll believe me.’
I was furious at Dawn’s easy acceptance of what she saw as her badness. ‘You’re not bad. But you take the easy option sometimes. I don’t understand why you couldn’t have said something on Tuesday. I wouldn’t have forced you to go to school, having come out of hospital the day before. But oh no, you decided it was easier just to slip off. It’s not good, Dawn, and I’m very disappointed. I also felt a right fool when I told Natasha you were in school.’
‘Sorry,’ she said again but with no great conviction.
‘Right, Dawn,’ I said. ‘I accept your apology but you’re grounded for the weekend. You are not going out tonight or on Saturday. You can spend the time catching up on the school work you’ve missed.’
She looked at me, quite surprised. ‘I don’t have my books,’ she grumbled; then, turning, she stomped up to her room.
I left her there for half an hour and then went up to check on her, for I was now worried that if she was upset she could self-harm or, heaven forbid, even make another suicide attempt. But when I knocked on her door and poked my head round she was lying on her bed listening to her music. I returned downstairs without saying anything and only called her when John came home and dinner was ready.
I told John of Dawn’s truancy before she arrived at the table. After a particularly demanding week at work, which hadn’t been without its problems, he needed it like a hole in the head. ‘I’ll speak to her after dinner,’ he said.
Dinner passed in unnatural silence; even Adrian in his high chair seemed to sense the atmosphere and kept his chuntering to a minimum. When we had finished, I cleared away while John told Dawn he wanted to speak to her in the lounge. She followed him in and I heard him tell her to sit down and listen. I could hear him through the open lounge door as he gave her a good talking to
– father to daughter. Dawn was very quiet as John lectured her about her behaviour and how she had let down not only herself but us as well. When he asked her where she had been all week, she predictably said, ‘Just hanging out with my mates.’
‘Well, don’t in future!’ he stormed. ‘On a school day, you are in school, not with your friends. Do you understand me, Dawn?’
I heard her small voice answer yes, and then she said she was sorry for all the trouble she’d caused and promised she wouldn’t do it again; it sounded heartfelt. John said he was pleased to hear that and he’d say no more of the matter, as he didn’t want an atmosphere all weekend. He reiterated that she wouldn’t be going out, and then sent her through to apologise to me. I accepted her apology, and said, as John had done, that we would put it behind us and move on, for what else could we do?
On Saturday we had a barbecue in the garden, as the weather was so good, and I hoped the family activity might help cement Dawn’s loyalty and feelings of belonging. On Sunday evening Dawn said she would go to see her mother, but agreed that if her mum wasn’t there, or went out while she was there, she would come straight home.
When Dawn returned, dead on time, she said her mother had been in and had stayed in for the hour of Dawn’s visit. I wondered if Barbara had spoken to Dawn about her overdose the previous Sunday, but when I asked Dawn she said no, and that they had watched television. I found it incredible that Dawn had attempted suicide, using her mother’s tablets, and Barbara hadn’t seen fit to mention it, let alone discuss it with her daughter.
That night Dawn was up at 2.00 a.m., sleepwalking out of her bedroom. I don’t know how we knew she was out of bed: perhaps it was a sixth sense, or we had subconsciously heard her, for suddenly John and I were wide awake and knew instantly why. We found her in the hall on her way to the kitchen, and as usual we turned her round and steered her back to bed, where she slept until I woke her for school in the morning.
