Raising Dawn Read online

  RAISING

  DAWN

  Diana Richmond

  RAISING DAWN

  Copyright © 2017 Diana Richmond.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  ISBN: 978-1-5320-2502-0 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-5320-2321-7 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910345

  iUniverse rev. date: 07/13/2017

  Contents

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  For C.W. and E.W.S.,

  With deep gratitude

  1

  From this memory there is no respite. It spools within my head like a timeworn family movie trotted out every year, in which the children are always children, always happy, cavorting around a lawn sprinkler in July, perhaps, or wearing coned hats and blowing out birthday candles. My sister Patty and I are lounging on the soft white carpet in her and Doug’s living room, eating buttered popcorn on the floor, which is astounding by itself because she doesn’t normally allow eating in her living room. Dawn calls her the original Idy-Tidy. Patty and I are laughing together, giggling like freshmen comparing the junior boys we think are hot. I am forty-one years old, trying to pick out a sperm donor for the child I am determined to have all by myself. As if this would be simpler than finding a compatible real father who would marry me. Abe had left me by then, or I him, and I am achingly lonely. I think a child who is at least half me will be the perfect life companion.

  Doug is upstairs, putting Sandra and Ian to bed, as far away from us as he can get. He has spawned his two children in the ordinary manner, and he doesn’t even want to know about my alternative. Both Patty and I know better than to ask him to be the sperm donor.

  The memory is loud with laughter, an occasional scream of delight. It won’t shut up in my head.

  “Oh, you can’t have this one.” Patty laughs so hard she has to hold her sides.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I want him. Listen: ‘Six feet tall, 180 pounds, blue eyes, blonde hair, Protestant, Northern European ancestry, 24 years old, first year medical student, state tennis champion in high school.’ ” Patty’s tastes run to the conventional. Yet, he is on my list of five finalists, and I want her to vet them all. “‘Not available in the five Bay Area counties.’ Why not?”

  “They don’t want too many half brothers and sisters mingling and committing incest in high school. Fortunately, we’re out of range.” We are in her home in Roseville, a suburb east of Sacramento, where this guy’s relatives would fit in well. I live a bit further up Highway 80, in Nevada City, where quirky is more common.

  “You can’t do this one either,” Patty continues. She has come to the 38-year-old African-American musician, a drummer who teaches high school, my stealth favorite. I lean toward opposites, even in sperm.

  “Why create problems for a child, especially when you’re already going to be a single mother?” She echoes my own private concern, though I don’t admit it to her. I want her reactions. She is the sane and solid one, I the one who is “takin’ the long way around.” Patty gave me that Dixie Chicks album, saying that song reminded her of me. I think she has always been fascinated by my wayward life, which gives her all the details but none of the problems of living it.

  “I know which one you should choose,” Patty pronounces when she comes to the bottom page.

  “The one with red hair.” I read her mind. As sisters, we often did. She nods, happy I had come to the same decision.

  “He’s nothing like any of your old boyfriends.”

  “None of them would be suitable parent material.”

  She nods. No one in our family has ever had red hair, and Patty and I were always drawn to these pale English types we’d only seen in movies, with horn-rimmed eyeglass frames, argyle sweaters, books under the arm, sky-blue eyes, and flaming red hair. This donor (number Y6478) is six-foot-three, weighs 187 pounds, with blue eyes and Welsh ancestry (like many of the early miners in Nevada City), Protestant, 42 years old (I like that he is one year older than I), a history professor who plays flute and reads poetry as his avocations.

  That’s as much as I ever learned about Dawn’s father. I’m starting to think I know even less about Patty, or myself for that matter.

  Patty had it all put together, I thought, a husband who loves her and two healthy children. Though I could never lead her conventional life, I admire her practicality. She’d been practical about getting a husband, and I never was, never would be. My time with Abe, my last boyfriend, is the perfect example.

  Abe and I met when he came to a little book party that Harmony Books gave for me when I published Cleo and the Leopard. Parents had brought their children, and the back part of the store had more little people’s chairs than ones for adults. It was a dank February evening, with mist sulking low over the roads, and the children’s jackets smelled like wet puppies. He hadn’t known there was a book party until he got there; he was just in town to stock up on some new reading. He stood in line where I was signing books, fingering his full brown beard, as curly as a spaniel’s ear. It softened his narrow face. When I asked to whom I should sign it, he just asked me to sign my name, and add my phone number at the bottom. I glanced up at him, but his dark eyes just looked thoughtful, not flirtatious, and I assumed he wanted the phone number in case he wanted to buy more books. I did notice he had no children with him.

  He called me the next day and asked if he could cook me a good dinner, at his house. He did mention he lived in Washington, one of many old gold mining towns in this part of the Sierra foothills. It lay at the bottom of a deep gorge, next to the South Fork of the Yuba River. To get there, I’d have to drive six miles down a steep, winding road that terrified me in any wet weather and I refused to drive at all in the winter except on a dry warm day. If you slipped on ice on that road, your car would probably take off in a spectacular arc like a dying firework and drop right to the bottom of that cold canyon. Even to get
to the turnoff to his town, I had to drive half an hour on a woodsy, winding road that sometimes closed in the winter before the snowplows could get in. On a perfect day, it took forty-five minutes to drive those twenty miles.

  I told him I’d meet him for dinner somewhere in Nevada City. After grumbling a little bit about how you can’t get a good meal in Nevada City (which isn’t true), he agreed to meet me for dinner at the Corner House Café. It was my first clue as to how little he liked leaving the canyon. People should pay more attention to the first issue they have to negotiate with another person; it could save a lot of time and trouble.

  In the beginning I was sort of enchanted by where he lived. The town itself had most of its original buildings, all six of them – a hotel with a false front and saloon at the bottom, a general store, a stone jail with metal doors, the remains of a lumber mill, and two clapboard houses. No school. Abe lived in a trailer outside the town, just enough above the river that his home wouldn’t flood in the spring. The Yuba never froze; its burbling in late summer changed to a surging roar in a wet winter. He had built a detached screen porch, where we slept on hot summer nights, and sometimes we saw deer or coyotes just outside. Sex with Abe was untamed, ragged and surprising. After the baby arguments began, it went extinct, or nearly so. And then we began to argue about whether he’d drive to my house or I to his.

  His trailer sat among fifteen or twenty others and a few shambling houses, set far enough apart from each other to give almost total privacy. Some of the trailer owners – Abe was one of them – had active mining claims on the river, though I never saw anyone actually working his mine.

  In the summer, we followed winding trails from where he lived to the most secluded, idyllic swimming holes on the river. We took camp chairs and books and perched on huge boulders overlooking the river, where we’d read for hours. Sometimes he fished, and we grilled trout on an open fire. He was an incredibly good cook, even with the tiny amenities of his trailer kitchen. He grew most of his own vegetables and stir-fried them in a huge wok.

  Summers were easier than winters. After it started to rain in November and the days went dank and cold, I wanted us to stay in my little house in Nevada City, where we could light a fire in the fireplace and I, at least, would not have to drive down that winding road. We argued many times about where we’d meet. In the winter, I won most of the arguments, and between late April and October, he did. We never actually spent more than two or three nights a week together.

  It wasn’t until the third year we were together that we started to argue about having a child. He told me a hundred times it wasn’t practical, and of course he had the better side of that argument, but practicality was the least of my concerns. Our relationship wasn’t the least bit practical. That he didn’t want to become a parent at all was a larger issue. He’d hinted at his own parents being neglectful and derisive. One of them - I can’t remember now which one – was a drinker. Abe learned to grow up on his own and he liked living alone. He didn’t drink at all, not even a beer, which made him something of a social outcast in his town, but I liked that about him.

  Toward the end, I practically begged him just to let me have a child with him. He would have no responsibility, I promised.

  “I couldn’t have a child that way,” he told me.

  I thought I was making the same deal with Patty, that she’d have no responsibility for my child.

  The night with the popcorn was six years ago. Patty agreed to drive down to Berkeley with me for whatever number of inseminations required. I told her I could drive perfectly well myself, but she insisted.

  “You might need to lie down afterward.”

  “Huh?”

  “And the stress might distract you from driving safely.”

  I thought of asking her whether she thought it necessary to lie down and refrain from driving after she had sex, but I appreciated her generosity and didn’t say anything. Usually she had to bring her kids along, which I loved and they didn’t seem to mind. Sandra was four then and had just started preschool in the mornings. Ian was just over a year when we began these journeys. I’d read them books like The Runaway Bunny or Where the Wild Things Are or sometimes a book I was writing. Illustrations came later in the process, and it was difficult to hook them on the text alone.

  Sandra was unnaturally serious, like her namesake Sandra Day O’Connor, one of Patty’s heroes when she was in law school. That’s where she met Doug, who joined an insurance defense firm after graduation.

  That Patty chose to become an attorney is a curious story all its own. In the summer when she was fifteen and I was about to start my senior year in high school, she went off to a cheerleading camp in Sacramento for a month. Our parents must have worried that I would miss her or be jealous of her becoming a cheerleader – or both. She, the pert, limber one with the bright smile, cast a light in any group. I, though slim, receded into any available background. Patty was athletic; I couldn’t do a split without injuring myself. However jealous I might have been, cheerleading was out of the question for me. At dinner one evening before Patty left for camp, our dad suggested, a bit too casually, that I should get a job that summer and that he could use me in his law office. I wasn’t angling to become a lawyer, then or now, but the idea of working with Dad beat out all other likely summer jobs. I glanced over at Patty, who had stopped chewing, and, fork in hand, gave me a look that wanted me dead, and a really quick glance at Dad that was naked with its longing. Both her looks vanished in a second, and I don’t think either of our parents noticed them. In the next moment, before I could say anything, Patty smiled her cheerleader smile and announced what a good job that would be.

  Although I told Dad I would really like to work for him, I wondered whether there would be anything useful for me to do. He started me filing papers, showing me himself what papers belonged where in a client file, how to keep the pleadings separate and how to label them. That’s where I learned to read legal documents. When his secretary went on vacation, I answered the phone for two weeks. I liked the work, and I loved being close to Dad, who was spare with his criticism and generous with his time, but there was never any question that the law held no interest for me. It was too negative. He worked every day with people arguing with each other. And the rules: every step he took was bounded by some code section or local rule. I couldn’t be that bounded.

  Later, when Patty announced she wanted to go to law school, I wasn’t entirely surprised. I didn’t think she’d like it, but that was beside the point. The next two summers, before her senior year and before she went off to college, Patty worked in Dad’s office. She’d spend an hour pouffing her hair and putting on makeup before joining him at the office, strutting out the door as if she ruled the world.

  By the time Patty started law school, Dad had left Mom, telling us almost nothing about why. ‘We had irreconcilable differences,’ was all he told us. Which I knew from my summer with him was the legal ground for divorce in California.

  By the time Patty finished law school three years later, Dad’s practice was already in shambles. But by then, Patty had found Doug, a fellow law student at Davis. They married the summer after their graduation. Patty became pregnant right away, giving her the perfect excuse for not having to practice law.

  My niece Sandra (Patty doesn’t use any diminutives for children’s names) listened very intently to The Runaway Bunny, then told me, very seriously, “I don’t think the little bunny really wanted to run away.” Ian was easier: he had a ready sense of humor and I could make him laugh just by rhyming his name. Ian be-an, string be-an; Ian amphibi-an, a painted turtle; Ian crayon, an orange crayon. “Crayon doesn’t rhyme with Ian,” Sandra corrected me.

  By the time I gave up on my being inseminated, Patty and I had driven to Berkeley nine times, and Ian had celebrated his second birthday. My Nevada City gynecologist wondered whether I had any viable eggs left, but I didn’t believe her until I
saw a gynecologist at the fertility center at UCSF. I learned from her that each month at menstruation a woman loses one of the eggs she was born with, and over time the quality of those eggs diminishes. Mine were worthless. She suggested I consider an ovum donor. I could pick an anonymous donor, or – as she recommended – I could ask a friend or relative to donate her eggs. Of course I thought of Patty.

  When I told Patty my news – I had made this trip myself and driven home in blinding rain, sobbing much of the way, wishing I’d had windshield wipers for my eyes, stopping at her house on the way home – she immediately offered to donate her eggs. After all, she said, pointing at Sandra and Ian, “you know I have good eggs.” “You’re a good egg yourself,” I told her, managing a half-laugh in my misery. She’d said it spontaneously; it struck me as incredibly generous. Even more so when we learned what she would have to do in order to donate her eggs: take hormones to synchronize her periods with mine and then undergo mini-surgery to ‘harvest’ her eggs. It was no small feat. Doug, to his credit, tried to talk her out of it. He didn’t know why, he said, but it seemed like a dicey thing to do.

  Patty really did have good eggs. She went through the whole process of injecting herself with hormones and having her eggs surgically extracted, without any help from me. I conceived on the first try. I remember whooping on the phone to her as soon as I tested positive: “It worked! It worked!” She told me to come right over, and I sailed down the hill to her home. She cooked me what was then my favorite dinner – curried shrimp – and announced to Sandra and Ian that they were going to have a cousin. After seeing their blank looks – they didn’t know what a cousin was – she explained that I was going to have a baby.

  “Where is it?” Sandra looked skeptical. “Your belly looks too tiny.” How could a child of five be so dour?