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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.
The last of the day’s sunlight streams through the window, touching everything in gold. The kitchen is quiet, the only sound the snick of my needle and the soft draw of Dylan’s breath. From the oven, I hear the chips sizzle. The moment is so peaceful, so poignant, I want to catch it in my hands, put it in a jar.
Instead, I keep sewing the rabbit’s ear back onto its head, stitch after careful stitch, in and out of its worn softness while Dylan watches.
“There.” I tie the seam off with a bulky knot, the best I can do. The ear flops forward a little, but at least it’s attached. The rabbit is whole again.
I hand it to Dylan and he takes it silently, clutching it to its chest.
“What’s your rabbit’s name?” I ask, but I get no answer.
Still, I’m feeling fragilely optimistic as I get dinner on the table.
Dylan stands by the big granite island and watches, and once again I keep up a cheerful patter. It feels easier now, almost natural.
“Do you like chips? What about ketchup? Emma loves chips, but hates ketchup. Josh has ketchup with everything, even peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” I make a face to show how disgusting I think that is, but Dylan’s expression is opaque and unchanging. “To be fair,” I allow, bringing the salad to the table, “he stopped dipping his PB and J’s in ketchup a while back.”
