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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.
