As the Dawn Breaks (10 page)

Thankful for her still unsteady movements, I catch up in two long strides, lifting her by the waist and tossing her into the air. Belly laughs ensue, and as I stare into her jade-colored eyes
—
my eyes
—
my heart overflows with joy.

“You couldn’t wait two minutes while I set up the blanket, could you, you little stinker?” I half-scold, half-tease her as I set her tiny feet back in the warm sand, confirming she’s stable before releasing my hold.

She peers up at me and flashes me her one-dimpled smile before refocusing her sights on the turquoise water. Remaining by her side as she approaches the waves, I wait for it,
k
nowing it’s coming,
and then, like every single time she does this, she squeals with delight
as loud as she possibly can,
when the tepid water washes over her ankles.

Our day trips to Oleta River State Park have become a weekly ritual for me and my little fair-haired princess this summer. Every Wednesday morning—my only day without work, class, or clinicals—we set up shop on a beach blanket and spend the day building sandcastles, searching for seashells, and playing in the water. Wednesdays are by far my favorite day of the week.

Last summer, I spent day and night playing catch-up with my classes from the fall semester I’d missed, and somehow managed to get back on track with graduating from the Doctorate program this December. Aurora was still an infant then, and even though she most likely won’t remember the countless hours spent in our apartment, usually playing in her jumper watching every Baby Einstein DVD produced, while my nose was either buried in a textbook or staring at a computer screen, I continue to feel guilty about not taking her on more fun outings and allowing the rectangular babysitter to be such a big part of her life.

Things are much improved now; I’m still quite the busy single mom between my bartending shifts, classwork, and internship at the hospital, but I dedicate every Wednesday and every Sunday evening to her, uninterrupted and without fail. If it wasn’t for my sister, however, none of it would be possible. Madison not only keeps Aurora for me while I work and go to school, but she’s my rock in every aspect of my life, my support system, my confidant, and the best friend a girl could ever ask for. Our parents made a detour from their traveling lifestyle when I first had the baby. My mom stayed with me for about a month helping me adjust and teaching me tricks of the mothering trade, but they’re back on the road again now, only popping in every couple of months to shower their granddaughters with presents from all over.

“Mama,” she coos, grabbing hold of my legs. “Wawa, mama. Rora, wawa.”

Bending at the knees, I squat down next to her and grin. “That’s right, baby girl. Mama and Aurora are in the water. You love it here, don’t you?”

She nods emphatically, her blonde ringlets bobbing up and down as she watches her toes sink into the sandy granules. “Beeeesssss,” she states proudly. “Mama Rora bees.”

“Yep, Mama and Rora are at the beach,” I confirm, pulling yet another smile from her heart-shaped face.
Damn, I must have the smartest kid on the planet; maybe those videos weren’t so bad after all.
“You want to go with me to get the bucket, so we can build princess castles?”

She doesn’t answer with words; instead, she grabs my hand and begins pulling me towards where our stuff is. I knew she couldn’t resist if I called them ‘princess castles’. Not quite two years old, and Disney’s already brain-washed her into believing all little girls will grow up to be beautiful princesses who live happily ever after in extravagant castles with their own Prince Charming. Sighing softly to myself, I grab the various-sized pink and purple shovels and buckets and follow her to where she’s plopped down in her ruffled swimsuit. Walt Disney doesn’t have anything on my castle architecture.

Later in the evening, once we’re back at our apartment, both thoroughly bathed and in pajamas, I throw together a quick dinner of chicken and rice casserole and join her on the living room floor amidst her favorite toys while it bakes. Startling me from our playtime, Jasmine Thompson begins to sing
Sweet Child of Mine
from the side pocket of my purse. I crawl on my knees over to the kitchen table and grab my phone, assuming it’s either my sister or my mom, who between the two of them comprise ninety-five percent of my phone calls, the other five percent being wrong numbers.

Needless to say, I’m more than surprised to see it’s Noah, one of my fellow graduate students, who’s calling. I remember the day several of us programmed each other’s numbers into our phones in case of an emergency, but this is the first time he, or anyone else for that matter, has called.

“Hello?” I answer hesitantly.

“Ummm, hello, is this Trystan?” an equally tentative male voice replies.

“Yes, this is she.”

“Hey, it’s Noah from the psych program. I hope this isn’t too late to call; I know you’ve got a little one.”

As if she heard him mention her, Aurora begins to let loose a high-pitched shrill while she bangs two toys together. She’s staring right at me, sees me talking on the phone, and does her best to make as much noise as possible, with a mischievous grin on her face the entire time.

“Yeah…no…it’s a fine time,” I finally blurt out. “Sorry about the background noise though.”

He laughs softly, and I can almost hear his shoulders relax over the phone. “No worries. Hey, uh, I was calling to ask you a favor. This weekend, I’m scheduled to do clinicals on Sunday from noon to midnight, but I just found out my brother is coming home from Afghanistan that afternoon and my mom is throwing a big party for him. I was wondering if you would be willing to trade shifts with me. I’d take your Tuesday day shift in return.”

My initial thought is,
No way, Sunday nights are for Aurora,”
but before I can even explain to him why I can’t, he continues talking. “I know this is last minute, and I promise I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I can help you find a babysitter if you need me to. I just haven’t seen my brother in over two years, and this party is really important to my mom.”

The sincerity in his voice pulls at my heart strings, and I find myself saying, “Sure thing. I should be able to make arrangements for the baby.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he shouts into the phone. “I owe you one…anything…anytime.”

“It’s really no problem, Noah. I hope you guys have a great time.”

After we hang up, I overlook the tiny twinge of guilt I feel over not spending a Sunday evening with Aurora, knowing I’ll make it up to her on Tuesday, and I’m doing a great thing for Noah and his family. I call Madison to make sure she can watch her Sunday evening instead of Tuesday morning, which of course, she has no problem with. Much to my surprise, she even tells me to leave her to spend the night Sunday, since I’d just be bringing her right back Monday morning for my nine o’clock class, claiming her girls will be over the moon to have their little cousin stay for a slumber party. I agree nervously, as I’ve never spent a night away from my baby girl—even on nights I bartend, I
always
pick her up—but I guess it’s bound to happen sometime. Plus, I’m pretty certain I’ll be exhausted after my shift anyway.

It’s not until the smoke alarm goes off that I remember the casserole in the oven…the now extremely burnt casserole. Carefully extracting the blackened dish and placing it on the stove top, I take one glance and whiff of what was supposed to be our healthy dinner and sigh with exasperation. The baby is crying, hungry, tired, and scared from the loud noise, so I leave the mess to cool down and do what every good mom does…

“Come on, baby girl; let’s go get some Happy Meals from McDonald’s.”

SEVEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE LONG DAYS.

Seven hundred and seventy-one lonely nights.

Seven hundred and seventy-one sunrises to remind me of the
one
who changed everything.

A little after five o’ clock, I awake from yet another night of restless sleep, no longer needing an alarm, my body now a well-trained machine. Shuffling my feet to the compact kitchen in my apartment, I throw frozen bananas, strawberries, and pineapple chunks into the blender with some orange juice and a scoop of yogurt, and flip the switch to ‘high’. Thirty seconds later, my frothy fruit shake is ready, the healthy alternative to what used to be a couple cups of black coffee. My stomach thanks me daily.

I grab my glass and stroll through the living room to the patio area—my morning sanctuary. Settling in my chair, I take a few minutes to drink in the view. The beach is still empty, as are the neighboring patios, and only the sound of waves crashing against the shore can be heard. The sliver of a moon still hangs high in the sky, but very soon, its faint light will be overpowered and concealed by the intense brightness of the sun.

As if she heard my thoughts, the fiery temptress lifts her head up over the horizon, a burst of bright colors shooting up announcing her arrival. I slowly sip my refreshing breakfast, my stare glued to the impressive vista as the memories come rolling in with the surf. Every day, without fail, I torture myself for these few minutes, allowing my mind to reminisce about the time I spent with Trystan, the time when I realized I wanted more from life than the one I was living. I wanted to love and to be loved unconditionally. I wanted someone—the
same
someone—to wake up with every morning, and to go to bed with each night. And I wanted a family to protect, support, and experience life with, but then I came home and remembered all the reasons why I couldn’t have those things.

I am a murderer.

I killed a man in cold blood.

And though my intentions for the act were honorable—at least in my mind—my life in exile is my punishment, devoid of any of the things
she
made me realize I truly want.

Going back for her has never been an option. I can’t live in the States, and I can’t ask someone I knew for two days to move to the other side of the world, especially now that she has a child. I’d give damn near anything for a chance to make it work, but with both of our situations, it just isn’t feasible, even though I still try to help from afar.

I’m left with visions of long blonde hair whipping in the breeze, the faint scent of coconut and lime swirling in my nose, the branding of bright emerald eyes onto my soul, and...sunrises. Inevitably, the dawn breaks each and every day, and inescapably, so does my heart.

The last of my drink slides down the back of my throat and I stand up, ready to face yet another day. Alone. Counting the hours until the next sunrise.

Seven hundred and seventy-two.