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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 to
o 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.
