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

  So who? The answer, of course, is obvious. Nobody.

  With no one to call, and nothing else to do, I warm up some soup because I can’t be bothered to make anything else, and although my stomach feels empty, I’m not hungry. Still, I force it down, for form’s sake, even though, of course, no one is watching. But already, in my head, I’m making a log of all the ways I can show Susan I’m a fit parent. A good mother. See, Susan? I made myself some dinner.

  Later, I try to work on some jewelry, but my fingers fumble and I can’t concentrate, so I end up watching trash TV for a couple of hours, trying to keep my mind blank, before stumbling to bed.

  I know there are a lot of people who would think it is weird for me to sleep with my seven-year-old son, but without Dylan’s warmth next to me the bed feels empty and cold.

  Surprisingly, though, I sleep, deeply and dreamlessly, which is a blessed relief. When I wake up, I don’t feel refreshed, but at least I feel clear-headed. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A trite phrase, but I want to make things matter. I need to get started on getting Dylan back.

  So I shower and dress, force myself to eat breakfast, and then, just after nine, I head out to the UPS store to mail my packages.

  It’s a beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, everything in sharp focus, the leaves just starting to turn, as I walk to Boulevard with purposeful steps. The treacherous thought of how easy this is without Dylan slips into my mind, and I push it away. That feels like a such a betrayal of him, and even of who I am, that I won’t let myself think it for one second.

  The UPS store is little more than a cupboard, and as I step inside, it’s empty, save for Mike, the guy who works behind the counter most days.

  “Hey, Beth!” He grins at me, then does a comical double take when he sees that I am alone. “Where’s my man Dylan?”

  I swallow, try to smile. I hadn’t anticipated this, although I suppose I should have. Mike is probably the person Dylan and I know best—Mike and also Sue, the main librarian in the children’s department of the West Hartford Library, who is patient with him, and even makes sure she has books set aside that she knows he likes.

  As for Mike—I’ve been coming to this store for nearly five years, always with Dylan, and Mike is almost always behind the desk. We’ve developed a rapport of sorts, little more than chitchat, but Dylan likes him, and Mike is unfazed by his silence and shyness, chatting to him easily even when Dylan is half-hiding behind me, saying nothing.

  “He’s…” I stop before I’ve even begun, because I don’t want to tell Mike what has happened, and also because I might cry.

  Mike’s forehead crinkles with concern. “He isn’t sick, is he?” he asks, his voice sharpening with alarm. My expression must be stricken. “He isn’t hurt?”

  “No. At least…” I don’t think he is, but the truth is, I don’t know. Did he sleep last night? Did he cry? Does he understand any part of this?

  “Beth?” Mike looks really worried now. “What’s happened?”

  “He’s been taken by DCF.” I see his confusion and I clarify dully, “The Department of Children and Families. He’s been put into foster care.” It’s both a relief and a torment to say this, because I don’t want Mike to look at me the way the woman across the street did, the way the doctors always did when I went to those appointments, the way anyone does when you explain that DCF has involved themselves in your child’s life. The judgment, so badly masked—the narrowed eyes, the slight lip curl, the prim straightening of the shoulders, all layered over with a cheap patina of sympathy.

  But Mike doesn’t look that way. He looks only concerned, and then I realize I am crying, tears trickling down my cheeks as I dump my packages on the counter so I can wipe my face.

  “I’m sorry…” I choke out.

  “You don’t need to be sorry. What happened?”

  “I lost my temper in CVS and someone called DCF. They said they were taking Dylan away from me.”

  “What!” Mike swells up with outrage, his chest puffing out. He’s about my age, late twenties, with a round, homely face and a slightly chubby but still muscular build. I’ve always thought he’s the sort of person who actually looks kind, and right now he is and I can’t bear it. “Surely they can’t do that—”

  “They can. And, anyway, it’s more complicated than it sounds.” I don’t want him thinking that this was a one-time thing, totally out of the blue, when it wasn’t. Even if it felt completely unfair.

  “Complicated? How?”

  I look behind me, but no one is coming into the store.

  Mike props his elbows on the counter. “You can tell me, Beth.”

  But I don’t want to, because I don’t want Mike to think badly of me. And yet it would be such a relief to talk to someone, to tell them what has happened. And so it all spills out, in fits and starts, a jumbled mess of fragmented stories—Marco calling DCF, the one trip to that psychiatrist, and then the whole thing about school, how the neighbors must have said stuff, and how Susan thinks she’s trying to help.

  “She took him yesterday afternoon. He was screaming, and then he just went so still…” I cover my mouth to keep the sobs in. I feel as if I could cry and cry and never stop, but I don’t want to, and certainly not in the middle of the UPS store.

  Mike shakes his head slowly. “This can’t be right. I mean, you’re a good mom, Beth. I see that every time you come in here with Dylan. He adores you, and you love him. You’re a great mom.”

  Different tears prick my eyes, tears of gratitude. It feels so good to have him say this, to have him mean it, after everything that happened yesterday. Until Mike said it, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d started to doubt myself. To feel like I really was the failure Susan made me feel.

  “I want to get him back as soon as I can,” I tell Mike. “I don’t even know where he is.”

  “They shouldn’t be able to do that.” Mike shakes his head again, looking so wonderfully aggrieved on my behalf. “They really shouldn’t. Have you talked to a lawyer?”

  “No.” I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that.

  “You should. I’m sure you must have that right, before they took him away. They can’t just grab him like that. At least, I don’t think they can.”

  “Susan—the case worker—said she’d gotten a court order, but it was only good for ninety-six hours.”

  “Then you can get him back after that?”

  “I—I don’t know. She was going to explain everything to me, but then she left so quickly.”

  “That can’t be right, either.”

  “No, it can’t.” The realization burns through me and suddenly I am angry, and it feels so much better than reeling with devastation did. That can’t be right. Susan had said there was paperwork to sign, but I didn’t sign a single thing. Now that I am thinking about it properly, she didn’t explain anything to me, not really. She just took my son. “I don’t know what to do,” I tell Mike, and I watch as he reaches for his phone and swipes the screen.

  “Let me look it up. There’s got to be some information online.”

  I wait anxiously, conscious he’s on company time, and that if someone comes in, it could be awkward for him. I should have looked this stuff up last night, but I was so numb and blank inside, I couldn’t think about anything. Now I can.

  What we learn from a legal website is basically what Susan told me—that DCF is able to take Dylan for ninety-six hours without a court order, but after that, unless I agree to the voluntary placement she was suggesting, there has to be a court hearing, and I have to be given an attorney. It’s both reassuring and terrifying. I don’t want to go to court, but I also don’t want to hand over my child like he’s some spare change.

  “I think you should go to court,” Mike says as he slides his phone back in his pocket. “I can be a character witness, if needed. I’d be happy to.”

  “Thank you.” I don’t know if they call character witnesses for this type of hearing; I don’t know anything at all. I’m scared to talk to a lawyer, to set this all in motion, but what is the alternative? I just roll over and do whatever Susan says, trust everything she tells me?

  Another customer comes into the store, cutting short our conversation, and Mike processes my packages. I pay and then I leave, promising I’ll update him on the situation as soon as I can.

  There is a determined swing to my step as I head back home. I will google lawyers who deal with this type of situation, I think, only to realize that I can’t afford a lawyer, any lawyer. I’ll have to accept whoever DCF gives me. Fine, I think, then I’ll do that. I’ll call Susan and tell her I’m not just signing over my rights—my child—like she wants me to. What kind of mother does that, anyway?

  But as I near my apartment building, I see that I don’t need to call her at all, because she’s standing in front of my door waiting for me.

  “Beth,” she says, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”

  I can’t exactly say the same, so I say nothing. I stop in front of her, my keys in my hand. “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to go through the paperwork with you that we weren’t able to yesterday.” She raises her eyebrows, no doubt sensing my hostility. “Is now a good time?”

  Does she think I’d say it wasn’t, that I needed to do my nails instead? I am so furious, it feels as if I am choking. Yesterday she manipulated me, played on my fears and insecurities. I can see that now, and it is not going to happen today.

  “Yes,” I say in a level voice as I unlock my door. “Now is a great time.”

  6

  ALLY

  The scream goes on and on, one piercing, single note, so it feels like a time warp, the same second played over and over again, a needle on a record player stuck in this one awful groove.

  Nick is staring at me in shock and dismay, and I am staring back, and Dylan is screaming. His mouth is open like the Edvard Munch painting, a dark, yawning hollow in his pale face. And still it goes on, and I feel frozen and terrified and also weirdly out of control myself, even though I am standing still.

  “Make him stop,” Nick says, and I think how absurd and unfair that is, that this is somehow my responsibility, or even that I could actually accomplish that.

  I have no idea what to do. But I try, for Dylan’s sake rather than my husband’s.

  “Dylan.” I extend my hand to touch his shoulder, and then think better of it, since that’s what set him off in the first place. At least, I think that’s what set him off. I actually have no clue. “Dylan,” I say again, gentling my voice as much as I’m able, although I’m not sure he can even hear me. His face possesses a terrifying blankness, as if he’s caught in some private nightmare. “It’s okay, Dylan. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe here. I promise, you’re safe. Look, here’s another piece of apple.” I hold out an apple slice rather desperately. This is all I’ve got, and if it doesn’t work, I really don’t know what I’ll do.

  The seconds pass, each one feeling like an eternity. Josh has come downstairs and lurks in the doorway with an uncertain scowl on his face. Nick is still frozen, as frozen as Dylan, who is still screaming.

  And then he stops. It’s like a tap being turned off, the flick of a switch. The room is plunged into silence, and I let out a shuddery sigh of relief. My whole body is tense and twitching, and there is cold sweat prickling in my armpits and between my shoulder blades.

  Dylan takes the apple.

  “That’s it. There you go.” I am laughing a little, nervously, as I swipe my hair away from my face and give Nick a look of both triumph and relief. I’m not actually sure what I feel, but I am very glad he has stopped screaming.

  Nick takes a step back, his hands in his pockets. “Well,” he begins, and then says nothing more. Josh heads back upstairs without having said a word. It feels as if we were all on the edge of an abyss, and we’ve just taken a teetering step back, but it still looms there, dark and deep and terrifying.

  Dylan resumes eating his fruit, almost as if nothing has happened. His head is lowered again so I can’t see his face. Nick looks a bit winded, and as he rakes his hand through his hair, he takes another step back, as if he needs to distance himself from Dylan.

  I try for some normalcy. “I think I’ll start making dinner. And then, Dylan, would you like to see your room?” No response, but I don’t let that matter. “Okay, then,” I say as if he has answered me.

  “I’ve got a bit of work to do,” Nick says with a half-hearted smile of apology. “I’ll just head up to my office for a few minutes…” He’s already edging towards the door, and I try not to feel annoyed. He’s absenting himself already? Couldn’t he sit down next to Dylan and make an effort?

  But then I remember the screaming, and I decide maybe Nick should leave for a little bit, to give Dylan as calm and unstimulated an environment as possible, since it seems that’s what he needs, although I really don’t know what he needs, because nobody has told me.

  Dylan sits docilely at the table while I start dinner. I decided to keep it simple tonight, just chicken strips—the expensive, free-range, organic kind—and chips, which I think most kids like. As I slice tomatoes for a salad, things almost feel normal. Dylan continues to eat his apple, and from Josh’s bedroom upstairs, I can hear the low bass thump of his music.

  Yet as normal as this seems from the outside, I don’t feel normal. I feel tense and brittle, entirely on edge, and I desperately want a glass of wine, but it doesn’t seem right to drink in front of Dylan. In fact, I can’t remember the rules about alcohol while fostering—am I even allowed? Or is it just with children who come from a background of substance abuse where you’re not meant to? In any case, I don’t know if Dylan comes from that background or not, so I decide to leave the wine chilling in the fridge.

  Perhaps I’ll indulge in a glass later when he is asleep, although I can’t even imagine that right now. First, we have to have dinner, and then, I suppose, he should have a bath, and some semblance of a bedtime routine—each one feels like a mountain to climb. This evening is going to be endless.

  It’s as I’m slicing bell peppers and feeling overwhelmed about bath time that it suddenly occurs to me how ridiculous I’m being. Dylan is a child. Yes, he’s different, and he might have some emotional issues because of his background, but he’s still a seven-year-old boy, and I had one of those once.

  I brought up two healthy and well-adjusted children with appropriate boundaries and firm rules and lots of love. I can do this.

  It’s such a relief to realize that, that I almost sag with it. I almost laugh out loud. I can do this. Dylan isn’t some alien or monster; he’s a child. A little boy. I’ve been blowing everything way out of proportion, because it’s all so unfamiliar.

  I take a deep breath, nodding to myself as I finish the salad. I can do this.

  Then I feel a little hand tugging on my sleeve, and I turn to see Dylan standing next to me, regarding me solemnly. It’s the first time I’ve been able to look him full in the face, and he’s beautiful. Huge dark eyes, like liquid chocolate, and a scattering of golden freckles across his nose. He has a bow mouth like a cherub. He looks so serious, and there is a question in his eyes, but I don’t know what it is.

  “Are you finished with your fruit, Dylan?” I glance at the empty bowl. “That’s great. Maybe now you want to see your bedroom?”

  He nods, and I realize that’s why he must have come to tug on my sleeve. Again, I feel that sunburst of relief bloom inside me; I can do this. I’m already doing it.

  I take Dylan’s little hand; it is limp in mine, but he lets me hold it as we walk up the stairs. “This is Josh’s room,” I say, keeping up an instinctive steady patter, the way Susan did earlier, “and this is Emma’s room. She’s my daughter, Josh’s sister. She’s a big girl. Eighteen.” I smile at him. “She’s away at college—do you know about college? It’s when you go away for school, when you’re bigger. This is Nick’s and my room,” I continue, “and here is yours.”

  I push open the door. It still looks a bit sterile, the decor all in different shades of cream and beige, but at least it is welcoming. The double bed is piled high with throw pillows in various satins and silks, and the gauzy curtains are pulled back from the window to frame the view of the backyard, and the houses beyond, Avon Mountain visible in the distance, a dark, rugged fringe on the horizon.

  “We could unpack your things now,” I suggest, and Dylan hesitates before he nods. “Let me go get your stuff.”

  I run down stairs and a few seconds later return with the two backpacks.

  Dylan holds his hand out and I give him the Cars one unthinkingly; it’s almost as if we’ve figured out a new language, words formed in silence.

  He unzips the backpack and takes out a worn, well-loved rabbit. One ear has been torn off and he fingers the gaping hole on top of the bunny’s head with such a grief-stricken look on his face that my heart feels as if it is twisting and writhing inside me.

  “Would you like me to fix that for you?” I ask. I can see the ear is still in the backpack, along with some cotton stuffing, and I can’t bear to think too closely about why it’s like that just now. Did he and his mother—this Beth—fight over the rabbit? Was he distraught when he was being removed from his home, or was she? Was she the one who put it in the backpack, in hopes that his foster mother—me—would sew it back on? “I could sew it,” I suggest. “It would almost be as good as new.”

  Dylan stares at me gravely for a few seconds; I can tell he’s deliberating my offer. Then, wordlessly as ever, he holds his rabbit out.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll get my sewing kit.”

  I’m not the world’s craftiest person by any means, but my parents made sure I could do the basic things in life—sew a button, change a tire. Now I sit at the kitchen table and sew as if my life depends on it. Dylan stands behind my shoulder and watches every painstaking stitch.