Daybreak

PRAISE FOR BELVA PLAIN AND
DAYBREAK

BOOKS BY BELVA PLAIN

LOOKING BACK

AFTER THE FIRE

FORTUNE’S HAND

LEGACY OF SILENCE

HOMECOMING

SECRECY

PROMISES

THE CAROUSEL

DAYBREAK

WHISPERS

TREASURES

HARVEST

BLESSINGS

TAPESTRY

THE GOLDEN CUP

CRESCENT CITY

EDEN BURNING

RANDOM WINDS

EVERGREEN

A
man and a woman, facing a doctor at his desk, sat staring at the wall behind the doctor’s youthful head—it was often surprising how young such distinguished research scientists turned out to be—where stood a case of medical textbooks in dreary brown and melancholy gray.

The doctor had turned his gaze away from them toward the window that framed the dogwood grove in the park beyond the hospital; through this newborn blooming whiteness ran the wind of the southern springtime; then, shifting his gaze but a trifle, he could see the brick edge of the wing in which this couple’s son lay dying.

To die at eighteen, he thought, in such a spring, with the dogwood, the redbud, and the fragrant grass!

The woman was first to break an unbearable silence. “He has suffered so much, ever since he was born. The lung infections, the pancreas, the malnutrition, everything exactly according to the books. And now cirrhosis of the liver. It’s too much.”

And the husband added softly, “We didn’t know this was part of the disease. We never expected it.”

“It’s one of the rarer developments, that’s true.” The doctor nodded, parted his lips as though he were about to continue, but closed them together instead, so that the silence, thick as wool, wrapped itself around them all again.

Then the husband produced a timid question. “Is there—do you think there’s any chance that, after all, he might possibly—”

The doctor reflected that he had seldom felt so much pity. He had to riffle through papers on his desk before he could find an answer.

“Well, ‘possible’ is one thing. He has come through a good many battles. Babies, three-year-olds—I’ve seen many die. On the other hand, I had a patient once who held on till forty. It can happen.”

“But not often,” said the wife.

“No, not often. And in this case, where the liver is affected, you see—” The doctor paused. “But by this time you people must have learned all there is to know about cystic fibrosis.”

“Oh, yes. A generalized disfunction of the exocrine glands. Fairly common among Caucasians. Its molecular basis unknown. My husband and I have all the words, Doctor. They’re embossed on our brains.”

Knowing better, especially because he could see that the doctor, out of compassion, was withholding the final hopelessness, the husband still coaxed and hoped.

“We thought maybe coming here with these genetic studies among so many different families, and with all the blood work on my wife and me, that maybe you had come up with something new.”

“We’re surely trying.” The young man in the white coat was restless, shuffling little objects on the desktop, a paperweight, a pile of paper clips. Perhaps his patience was ebbing away. It must be hard to talk to the parents of a hopeless case, thought the older man.

“Oh!” cried the mother in her bitterness, “I’ll never understand! A hereditary disease, and never before in either of our families. And our other child with no sign of it. Thank God,” she added quickly.

The doctor got up from his chair, rising so abruptly that the chair made a little shriek as it scraped the floor. He walked to the window and stood there a moment with his hands locked behind his back, looking out upon the white sea of dogwood. When he turned again toward the room, it was with so strange an expression on his face that the parents were shocked.

“You found something,” the mother said quickly. “Something in our blood?”

“Yes.” The single syllable was very quiet.

“What? What?”

“We found, without the shadow of a doubt, that your son, that the boy upstairs cannot be, is not, your son.”

PART
I
Peter

1

T
his must be what they mean, thought Margaret Crawfield, when they say “It hasn’t registered yet.” Now, with the funeral over—black cars moving slowly from the house then back to it, hushed voices, handclasps—now at the end of the dreadful week, with the flowers faded, the funeral foods eaten and kindly crowds gone, the terrible fact reveals itself at last. Peter is dead.

She walked. Through the rooms, down the hall, in and out, she walked. The rap of her heels was loud. The hum of the refrigerator and the slam of a car door across the street made the silence quiver.

Suddenly she heard herself ask aloud, “What are we going to do?” The high, piercing voice, asking the passionate question, repeated, “What? What?”