Winnie
I practically fainted with relief and love.
I took the paper and said, “Hello there, Dawn.” It was shocking how much she looked like Lincoln. She had his eyes, his nose. My mouth and hair. I wanted to kiss each of her little toes.
On the paper, in crayon, she’d drawn—“scribbled” might have been a better word, but it was more valuable than a Picasso could ever be to me—a bright yellow sun at the top and a lot of green at the bottom with pink blobs I assumed were flowers.
I crouched down so that I was at her eye level and said, “This is beautiful. Thank you.”
She threw her arms around my neck in such an easy gesture of affection, my eyes filled and my vision blurred. I hugged her back and willed myself not to cry.
“Come see my castle,” she said, taking my hand and leading me into the living room, where Mom sat on the floor beside an impressive tower of Legos. I couldn’t remember my mother ever playing with us on the floor.
“Hi, Mom,” I said as I slid to the floor on the other side of the castle.
“It’s nice to see you, Winnie,” Mom said, and it even sounded like she meant it. Her smile was warm. Dawn seemed to have that effect on people.
Miranda settled herself on the couch next to us, and over Dawn’s head, I mouthed, Thank you so much. She nodded, and Dawn and I started to play.
I visited three more times, and each time I felt more and more jangly with nerves, not less.
The love I felt for Dawn—especially because of how much she resembled Lincoln—was so much more than I’d ever imagined I would, or even could, feel.
Being with her felt like being high and hungover at the same time; it was intense, euphoric love combined with wrenching loss.
These dueling emotions landed in my body the only way they knew how: in the context of drugs and alcohol.
And paradoxically, even though the low was mixed with the high, all I wanted was something—a glass of wine, a spliff—to help me file the sharp edges off the intensity.
My sponsor Julia called me after the first visit and asked me how it went, and I said, “It was great.”
“That’s all?”
“I mean…she’s beautiful. And smart and funny, and adorable, and every good word you could use to describe her.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Madly in love.”
“Are you coming to the meeting tonight?”
Dutifully, I went, but I didn’t say anything about what I’d experienced that day. I wanted to keep it close.
Julia kept encouraging me to share my feelings. “Get it out so that you don’t have to drink it away,” she said, many times.
I knew she was right, and yet, I couldn’t open my mouth in any of the meetings I made myself attend.
Alone at home, I started rehearsing ways to talk to Miranda. “If my visits go well for a year, could we talk about the possibility of me taking over as her mother?”
But any version of that request felt like breaking the promise I’d made to Miranda—and myself. And what of the upheaval to Dawn? Little kids were resilient, but this would be a pretty big change for her.
I even wondered about finding Lincoln and telling him all about how wonderful Dawn was, and how much she looked like him, and could we try, please, to be the family I knew we were meant to be?
In my best imagined version of that conversation, he told me he’d been hoping I’d contact him, and of course a reunion was what he wanted, and he loved me so much, and yes, let’s do it.
In my vivid daydreams, I had us living in a little bungalow in Marin, both of us teaching our arts to eager young students while we raised our daughter to cultivate her own talents and to be her own person.
I’d drift into sweaty nights of sleep, and dream nightmare versions of those conversations. Even the dreams that seemed to go “right” felt like nightmares.
I’d wake up and in the clear light of day, I’d renew my vows to myself: Dawn is Miranda’s daughter. You promised, and you don’t break promises anymore. Someday you can have one of your own.
But another child wouldn’t be Lincoln’s, and something about that truth sent shooting pains into my heart.
My fourth visit was on an unusually warm late-October day close to Dawn’s fourth birthday.
I’d gotten myself in such a state of internal conflict, I drove without thinking to the liquor store on my way to Hartley and I downed two nips of vodka in the car before I got out.
Just this once, I told myself. I didn’t see then how I’d essentially taken this drink weeks ago, when I’d gone to that meeting and kept my mouth shut.
“Open your mouth to save your ass,” as they say.
I’d stopped sharing my stories, stopped holding myself accountable, so of course there I was drinking the edge off of seeing my sister and daughter again.
By the time I let myself into the house—since Mom had told me not to ring, just to come in—I felt the alcohol coursing through me, mellowing my nerves exactly enough. I hugged Dawn hello, and I thought, I’m okay. I can handle this.
We played hide-and-seek outside, and I reveled in Dawn’s squeals of delight when I’d sneak up on her—even though I made sure she saw me coming—and say “Boo!” when I popped my head around the side of the tree she was standing behind.
Then she asked me to read her a few books, and she was thrilled when I suggested we do it in the hammock.
We snuggled in together, and I felt relaxed and content with her little body beside mine.
By the end of the first book, I could barely keep my eyes open. The alcohol had worn off and I felt droopy. “Can we take a little nap?” I asked her.
“Sure, Aunt Winnie,” she said, making a big show of yawning and putting her head on my shoulder.
That head on my shoulder. The weight and warmth of it. I was asleep in seconds.
I woke to a scream. “Mommy!”
And then Miranda’s voice: “Dawn! Where are you!?”
I sat up in the hammock, totally out of sorts, a headache already gathering strength at my temples.
Dawn wasn’t in the hammock anymore. Shit.
I caught sight of Miranda running, and I got up and followed her.
What had I done?
Dawn was on the ground, clutching one arm and crying.
It was the strangest thing, but I felt totally numb staring down at her.
Miranda turned to me and said, her tone savage, “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered. “I fell asleep, and…”
“You fell asleep?” Her tone additionally incredulous now.
“I climbed the tree, Mommy. I know I wasn’t supposed to, but…”
I’ve replayed this moment so many times, berating myself with the way her little face turned red and her open mouth let out howls of pain. It’s not your mistake, darling, I wanted to say.
I had let this happen. I had fucked up royally.
Miranda scooped Dawn up and kissed her on the cheek. “This is not your fault, sweetheart.”
My sister glared at me.
The rest is a blur, except for one thing. As I drove Miranda with Dawn on her lap to the hospital, the nips that I’d put under the seat rolled out and clinked against my foot, and Miranda saw them.
I felt like I was eating my own heart the whole time we waited at the hospital, Miranda stonily ignoring me, while Dawn got her arm x-rayed, then casted.
When we finally got back to Hartley, it was dark, and Dawn was conked out in Miranda’s arms. She handed her off to Mom, then shut the front door and finally looked me in the eyes.
“I’m so incredibly sorry,” I said. “I’m going straight to a meeting, and—”
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Winnie.”
I knew then. There was no apology I could make for this. I’d blown my last chance with my sister. My only chance with my daughter. I felt like the world’s biggest failure.
And yet, I didn’t want her to be the one to say it.
I wanted to have some modicum of dignity in this horrible moment, so I said, “I get it. You can’t have me in her life messing things up all the time.
You can’t be worried if she’s safe with me.
I understand.” And I did understand. I didn’t want to worry, either, and I did not trust myself.
Miranda didn’t reply, but I could see the muscles in her jaw tense, could see the watery glisten in her eyes.
“I’m glad you understand,” she finally said, her voice tight, her expression so hard to parse. She seemed sad, improbably, as well as furious.
“I won’t come back.”
“What should I tell her?”
“Tell her I’m dead. If I know there’s no way for me to come back, it’ll be easier.” At least, it seemed that way in the moment.
“Okay,” she rasped.
“Again, I’m so, so sorry.”
“So am I,” she said, her jaw set against the telltale tremble of her chin.
That loss put Lincoln into sudden, appalling perspective.
Losing him was nothing compared to the soul-obliterating pain of losing Dawn.
I would have traded a thousand Lincolns for one Dawn, but life doesn’t work that way.
Some of us have to lose everything, all bargaining chips gone, before we figure out what’s left inside us that no one can take away.