When You Were Mine: An utterly heartbreaking page-turner Read online

  “So, Dylan,” Susan says. “This is where you’re going to be staying for a little while.”

  Dylan doesn’t respond; I’m not sure he can even take it in.

  “Should I show him his bedroom?” I ask, and then feel guilty for talking about him like he’s not there. Why does this feel so fraught?

  “Maybe in a few minutes,” Susan says. “Perhaps I’ll show Dylan outside while Monica briefs you on the situation?” She gives Monica a significant look, and she nods.

  “Oh, okay. Sure.” I practically leap to the French windows. “I’ll just unlock them,” I mutter, fumbling with the key and finally opening the doors. I step aside as Susan takes Dylan out onto the deck. It’s late afternoon, the sunlight like liquid gold, and the air still holds the warmth of a forgotten summer.

  I watch them for a moment, noting how Susan keeps up a steady, cheerful patter while Dylan remains silent and unresisting, almost like a little zombie as they walk around our fenced-in yard, a few fallen leaves caught in the grass like discarded jewels—crimson, ochre, gold.

  I turn to Monica. “Can I get you a coffee, or…?”

  “I’m fine,” she says easily. She gestures to the table by the windows. “Why don’t we sit down and I can get you up to speed?”

  “All right.” I feel like a student about to take an exam. Why am I so nervous? I wanted to do this. “So, Dylan,” I say. “He seems nice.” I bite my lip at that inanity. “Quiet.”

  “Yes, he’s what is known as selectively mute.” I blink. “He can speak,” Monica explains, “but he often chooses not to.”

  “I see.”

  “He was removed from his mother’s care this afternoon, after an onlooker called DCF when she lost her temper with him in public.”

  Lost her temper? Is that code for being abusive? I nod, not sure what to say, trying to absorb it all.

  “Dylan’s mother, Beth, has been known to DCF for around five years. She’s a single mom, and she genuinely loves her son, but obviously there are some concerns with his care that we are looking to address.”

  “What kind of concerns?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know all the details, but Dylan has been very isolated. He hasn’t been in school, hasn’t attended any doctor or therapist appointments, doesn’t have any friends or acquaintances.”

  I nod, swallow. “Okay.”

  “The goal here is for him to be able to attend school, attend those necessary appointments, and hopefully get a diagnosis for his behavior—besides the mutism, he has some issues with anxiety. There might be some further concerns, but there’s been no medical confirmation yet. We’re also hoping that Beth will be able to receive the support she needs. Susan is hoping that this will be a case of voluntary placement, which means the courts won’t have to be involved initially, and reunification can happen as soon as it is deemed appropriate, ideally within three months.”

  Three months. That suddenly seems like a long time.

  I nod again. “That all sounds…” I don’t manage to finish that sentence.

  “We don’t know how Dylan will react to this placement,” Monica tells me matter-of-factly, “as he’s never been away from his mother, but Susan is keen to discover how he behaves when he’s not in her presence.”

  What does that mean?

  I just nod. Again.

  Monica continues in the same brisk, businesslike tone. “So the first thing we want to do is let Dylan settle in with you here, and then you can register him for school, ideally by next week. Susan will give you a list of the appointments made for him when they come through—they should hopefully all be local to the Hartford area. If you have any concerns or questions, any at all, you can call me on my cell or, if you can’t get hold of me, call DCF’s direct line. Does that all sound good?”

  Monica is already rising from her chair, and I can’t believe this is it. She’s going to leave me with the complete care of a strange child after about five minutes of debriefing? It feels wrong; it feels criminal. I don’t know what I expected, but surely more than this. Surely there are forms to sign, phone numbers to be given. Shouldn’t I have a file of information on Dylan or something, rather than just be told things so casually?

  “Yes, thanks,” I say, rising too, because what else can I say? “That all sounds good.”

  The next few moments seem to pass in a blur. Susan comes in with Dylan, who still hasn’t spoken or even lifted his head. Monica stands by the front door while Susan explains to Dylan that she’s going to leave, but she’ll see him in a few days, and his mother will visit then, too. She tells him that I’m really nice and I’m going to take good care of him, and if he’s worried about anything, he can always tell me to call her, and she’ll talk to him or come visit.

  Dylan doesn’t say a word to any of this; he doesn’t react at all. I wonder if he’s in shock, or if he really is that shy. I can’t imagine how utterly overwhelming this must be for him, especially if it really is true that he’s never been away from his mother. Beth.

  And then they’re gone, with cheery waves and kind smiles, the front door clicking firmly behind them. I am alone with Dylan. I realize I don’t even know his last name. Surely, surely there should have been some sort of paperwork to fill out. I feel like I should have signed a paper, a contract, or that Susan or Monica should have given me a folder of information, anything. There’s so much I don’t know. Does Dylan have allergies? What kind of food does he like? If he’s selectively mute, how am I supposed to communicate with him?

  He stands in the middle of the kitchen, his head lowered, his shoulders hunched, unable to look me in the eye. As I stare at him, my eyes suddenly fill with tears, because I can’t even imagine what he must be feeling, how frightened he must be. He’s only seven, and he’s just been left—practically dumped—with a strange woman in a strange house. I mean, what the hell? I feel outraged on his behalf, even though I know I can’t blame Susan or Monica or anyone at the Department of Children and Families. They’re doing the best they can, with the incredibly stretched and limited resources they have. They wouldn’t have left him here if they had any other choice, or if they didn’t trust me.

  I remind myself that I have training, that I have references, that I can do this. I tell myself that I may be a stranger to this little boy, but I’m kind and I wish him nothing but good. I take a deep breath and begin.

  “Hey, Dylan, I know this must seem strange, but I’m sure things will feel normal soon.” My tone is friendly, but the words still sound stilted. “How about a snack? Do you like grapes?”

  He looks up then, if only a little, his bangs sliding into his eyes, as he gives his head an infinitesimal shake. No grapes, then.

  “Okay. How about an apple? Or a banana?” A pause as he considers, still not making eye contact, everything about his posture wary and defensive—shoulders hunched, head lowered, as if he is trying to make himself as small as he can. Invisible, even. Then he gives a tiny nod, and I nearly sag with relief.

  “Great.”

  I spend an inordinate amount of time slicing an apple and banana into appealing, evenly sized pieces. All the while, I chat away, or try to, telling Dylan about Nick and Josh coming home soon, and how I can show him his bedroom, and how we have some games and puzzles he might like. I can dig some out of the attic, and I will definitely be going on Amazon tonight and buying some suitable toys and books.

  Throughout all of this, Dylan doesn’t say a single word, and I still haven’t actually seen his face. His gaze has remained firmly fixed on the floor, his hair hiding his expression.

  I bring the bowl of fruit to the table and tell him cheerfully to hop up on a chair. He comes, slowly, carefully, sitting gingerly on the edge of the chair as if he doesn’t trust it to hold him.

  I stand back, feeling a weirdly euphoric sense of success—he is eating healthy food in my house!—and then I hear the front door open.

  “Hello?” Nick calls, and he has a cheerful teacher’s voice, a little too loud, like he’s just walked on stage in a sitcom.

  “We’re back here, in the kitchen.” I mimic that slightly manic tone, even though I don’t mean to. “Come and meet Dylan.”

  Nick comes into the kitchen, Josh sloping in behind him, looking unenthused and a bit suspicious, his backpack half-falling off one shoulder.

  “Hey, guys, this is Dylan,” I practically chirp. “And Dylan, this is my husband Nick, and my son Josh. He’s a bit bigger than you. Say hi, guys.” I really need to stop sounding like a demented playgroup leader.

  “Hey, Dylan,” Nick says with an easy smile, sounding more relaxed than I do now. “Great to meet you, buddy.”

  When Nick puts on the charm, he dazzles. It was what drew me to him all those years ago back at Cornell—that effortless, easy way of talking to people, so different from my own shy, stilted attempts at the time—but even so, Dylan doesn’t even look at him, and I can tell Nick is a little thrown, although he tries not to show it.

  “Josh,” I prompt with an expectant look, and he lifts one hand in a wave.

  “Hey.”

  And then we all stand there, smiling like loons, having no idea what to do next.

  Dylan picks up a slice of apple and nibbles it.

  “How was practice, Josh?” I ask, striving for normalcy.

  He shrugs. “It was okay. I finished a 10k in forty-four minutes.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  He slides towards the doorway, tilting his head towards the stairs as he mouths “Can I go?”

  I nod, grateful that he showed that much consideration. Josh is a nice kid, really; it’s just he’s in that grunting, monosyllabic teenaged-boy stage, or so my friends with older sons tell me. One of my best friends, Julie, who lives down the street and has two sons in their twenties, told me, with a cackle, that it only takes about ten years to grow out of.

  “So, Dylan.” Nick comes forward with a friendly smile that Dylan doesn’t see because his head is still bowed over his bowl. “Do you like baseball? Or soccer? We could toss a ball in the backyard, if you like.” Nick places a friendly hand on his shoulder, his smile still wide and easy.

  What happens next shocks us both—Dylan goes rigid, his head jerking up, his face pale and terrified. And then he lets out a scream, an unholy shriek of a sound, one single, piercing note that goes on and on and makes me want to clap my hand over my ears as Nick and I stare at each other in horror.

  5

  BETH

  I don’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk, staring after Susan’s car. It left my street a long time ago, and yet I can’t seem to move. My feet feel as if they are stuck in the concrete and tears are still trickling down my face. An old lady from across the street has come onto her stoop and is staring at me suspiciously, her hands planted on her bony hips.

  I live on a street of modest duplexes just off Boulevard; some of them have been carved up into apartments, like mine, and others are owned by single families who take pride in their neat yards and full flower boxes. It’s a bit of a tense mix, and I feel that now as my neighbor continues to stare. No doubt she witnessed the whole, terrible show of Dylan being taken to the car, me pounding on the window.

  Dylan. Grief swamps me, and I couldn’t care less about my nosy neighbor. I want my son back. I need my son back. I can’t live like this, without him. I don’t know how. I wrap my arms around my waist as I double over, choking sobs escaping me. Across the street, I hear the slam of a screen door, and I know the woman has gone back inside. I feel as if I could be sick.

  Footsteps pound behind me and then come to a stop. Someone touches me gently on the shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

  Slowly, I straighten to look into the face of a jogger, a trim man in his thirties decked out in Lycra. He frowns at me as he pulls his earbuds out. They dangle from where they are looped around his neck.

  “Are you okay?” he asks again.

  “Yes,” I manage. The last thing I need is more people involved in this. “I just…” I can’t think of any explanation, so I shake my head and turn back towards my front door.

  The man watches me, still frowning, but as I head inside I hear him jog off. No one cares that much, really.

  Inside, I walk around the apartment in a daze. My mind skitters like a pinball in a machine, going nowhere. I can’t think; I can barely breathe. How am I going to survive this?

  At some point, I stop wandering and start cleaning. It’s the only thing I can think to do that is actually useful. My hands shake as I clear the breakfast dishes off the table and then wash them in the sink. Then I strip the sheets off the bed and bundle them into the washer in the kitchen, even though part of me resists even that. They needed a wash, but they’ll smell of Tide, and not of Dylan.

  When the apartment is clean, I go to my craft table in the corner of the living room, where I make jewelry. I have a couple of orders that need packaging and mailing, and so I work on those, and then I answer two emails inquiring about custom-made pieces. I’m no artistic genius; I twist wire and set small, semi-precious stones. I make necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and rings, but they’re all pretty basic and I sell them for really cheap.

  I had a dream once, of setting up a craft shop, a place where kids could come and make jewelry, where I’d have bins of colorful beads and flower murals on the wall, and maybe a funky little café in the back, selling coffee and cake. It would be a place for people to hang out and have fun, a creative safe space for the young and old together.

  Of course, I never got anywhere with that dream, with everything that I’ve had to deal with. The closest I’ve come to it is this: my little page on Shopify, a card table in the corner of my living room and a jewelry-making craft kit that cost forty bucks on Amazon.

  After I package up the orders, I decide to head to the UPS store on Boulevard. I can’t believe how productive I’m being, but I know if I stop and think, I’ll fall apart. It’s only as I’m about to leave that I realize it’s after six, and the store will be closed.

  I stand at the door, my arms full of packages, and feel despair flood me. All the determined focus I’d dredged up over the last few hours drains away, and I am left with nothing. The whole evening stretches ahead of me, empty and endless. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone, with nothing left to do to keep my grief at bay.

  Normally I’d spend the evening with Dylan. We’d eat dinner together, and then I’d give him a bath, which he loves. I’d kneel by the tub and scoop up soapy water and pour it over his back while he played with his bath toys—a set of plastic farm animals I bought at the dollar store. I forgot to pack them in his backpack, and he plays with them every night. How will he manage without them? Should I call Susan? Am I even allowed? It hits me all over again that Dylan is gone, that I don’t know where he is.

  I won’t give him a bath tonight. We won’t curl up on the sofa and read stories until he is sleepy, and I won’t sing lullabies as I lie next to him in bed until he finally drops off. None of that will happen now.

  Without Dylan, my evening has no shape, no purpose. The hours feel like they’re going to stretch on and on and I have no idea how to fill them. I feel like I can’t.

  Slowly, I walk back to the table and dump the packages on top of it. I’ll have to mail them tomorrow, which already feels like a lifetime away.

  In the ensuing emptiness, I can’t keep from thinking about Dylan. Wondering how he is. It’s been a couple of hours already, so he must be in the foster parents’ house by now. What is it like? Is he crying? Screaming? If he’s melting down, how will they manage him? Love him?

  I sink onto the sofa, my head in my hands. I can’t bear to think of Dylan in some strange place, sad and scared, with only strangers to comfort him. I imagine two brisk, stern-looking parents who tell him to settle down or ignore him because they think he’s just spoiled. How could Susan have taken him? How could she possibly think that kind of scenario is better than him being here with me?

  A sob escapes me, like a hiccup. I can’t do this. I can’t do this for one night, never mind however long Susan thinks Dylan and I both need before we can be together. Before we can thrive. Who is she to decide what that even means?

  I want to talk to someone, to tell them what has happened, but I don’t know who that person would be. My mom? She’s the most likely person, but her disinterest is always evident, audible in the tiny sighs she gives, her distracted tone of voice whenever I call her. She left my dad—left me—when I was seventeen, in my last semester of high school. If I felt like it, which I sometimes do, I could blame her for all my problems, or at least the start of them.

  Her departure was so abrupt, so absolute, while she explained to me, somewhat tearfully but with a certain sense of purpose, that she needed to find her own happiness before looking to mine. She insisted that I’d be a better person for it, that no child thrived with a miserable mother. She was sure I would understand. I didn’t.

  I started to do badly in school, and then, the May before I graduated, I received a DUI while driving home from my job at The Gap. How that happened is another story, but it led to a whole lot of things that led to me meeting Marco, which of course led to Dylan.

  So, really, my mom caused me to have Dylan, and so I don’t want to blame her for anything.

  But who else could I call? My dad will care even less than my mom; we haven’t actually spoken in over a year. During my childhood, he was gruff but there, and after my mom left, our relationship fell apart completely. We never see each other now, and we rarely speak.

  As for my friends from high school, or the ones I made while volunteering at the nursing home where I met Marco—the one hundred hours of community service I had to do as part of my sentencing—they have all long gone. I haven’t been in touch with any of them for years.

  It occurs to me I should call Marco, and let him know what has happened, but he won’t care as much as I want him to—he never does—and I can’t make that call now, when I am feeling so alone and broken.