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“That’s great.” I couldn’t sound more thrilled if I tried. I’ve got this.
After I finish the call, I drink the last of my wine, smiling to myself, imagining going upstairs and seeing Dylan all freshly washed and in his pajamas, smelling of baby shampoo and soap, ready for a bedtime story.
Then, as I take my wine glass to the sink, I hear that scream again.
7
BETH
As I lead Sus
an up to my apartment, my resolve hardens to steel. I am not going to give up my son without a fight. A big one.
Susan must sense what I’m feeling, because she looks friendly but cautious as she puts her bag down on a kitchen chair, and then pulls out another one to sit in. She gives a quick glance around the kitchen, and I’m pretty sure she’s taking in how clean it is, but she doesn’t comment on it.
I stand in the doorway, my arms folded, trying not to fidget.
“So, Beth,” she says with one of her smiles, “how are you feeling today?”
“I’m feeling like I want my son back.” I didn’t mean to come out swinging quite so much, but I can’t help it. Mike’s words are ringing in my ears, and right now I can’t believe I just let Susan take Dylan the way I did. I’m sure if I talked to a lawyer, he or she would tell me how I’d been coerced and manipulated. Something about what happened yesterday felt not just wrong, but illegal, and part of me wants Susan to know that I know that now, even as another part of me shies away from such a confrontation. It never goes well for someone in my situation. Susan can use anything and everything against me, when the time comes, and no matter how sympathetic she seems now, I’m sure she will.
“I want that too, Beth,” she answers carefully, keeping her smile in place. “And that’s why I’m here. To talk about how we can make that happen.”
“And why do we have to do anything to make that happen?” I demand. I can’t keep the aggression from my voice, or my fists from clenching. “I thought I was supposed to sign some paperwork yesterday. I didn’t even see whatever order you were meant to have so you could take Dylan from me, and surely I should have. And now you’re going to tell me what hoops I have to jump through just so I can get my own child back, when maybe you didn’t have the right to take him in the first place?”
All the while I’m ranting, Susan gazes at me steadily, her hands folded on the table in front of her. She looks unfazed but still sympathetic, and I wonder if this is a look social workers have to learn to perfect, no matter what the situation.
“I can see you’re frustrated, Beth, and I understand that.”
“Frustrated?” I repeat incredulously. “I’m a lot more than frustrated, Susan. I’m angry. What happened yesterday was wrong.”
“What happened yesterday was unfortunate,” Susan corrects me carefully. “As I’m sure you remember, I had to leave abruptly, due to Dylan’s extreme reaction, which is why I’m here today, so we can go over the paperwork you mentioned, as well as address any questions or concerns you might have. And I’m sure you’re curious as to how Dylan is getting on.”
I stare at her in disbelief, filled with sudden, vehement loathing for this woman who keeps pretending to be on my side. “Curious?”
She nods, a flicker of apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry. That was the wrong word. I’m sure you’re very concerned about Dylan’s well-being, and how he has adjusted to his placement.”
Susan maintains eye contact, that calm, unflappable look still on her face despite her lapse, and suddenly I can’t steam ahead anymore, buoyed by self-righteous rage. She’s sympathetic, she’s so very understanding, and yet, at the end of the day, she still wants my son to be with someone other than me, and she has the power to make sure that happens. Being angry about it accomplishes nothing.
I pull out a kitchen chair and sink into it. “How is he?”
“He’s doing really well, Beth. Ally—that’s one of his foster carers—was very encouraging and enthusiastic when Monica, her social worker, spoke to her last night. She said he’d settled in really well, had a bath and was ready for bed.” She smiles at me as tears fill my eyes.
I know I should feel relieved, and I am, of course I am, but at the same time, I fight a sweeping sense of hurt, even grief. How could Dylan settle in with someone else so quickly? What if I really am that crap a mother, that the second he’s with someone else he adjusts? Or what if Susan is lying? Or Monica, or Ally is? Maybe this Ally has him locked in a basement, chained to a chair. How the hell am I supposed to know?
I drag my hand across my damp eyes. “What now?” I ask in a clogged voice.
“Now I can explain to you what happens next.” Susan speaks gently, but even so, I think I hear a thrum of satisfaction, maybe even triumph, in her voice, like an expensive engine purring in the background. She thinks she has me submissive and docile now, and maybe she does in this moment, but I’m not signing anything yet.
“So what happens, then?”
Susan settles more comfortably in her chair. “What we talked about yesterday is you agreeing to a voluntary placement for Dylan. What this means is that you would agree for DCF to have custody of Dylan and continue the placement with this family. You would still keep your parental rights, and you would be able to decide any important issues for him—about religion, or school, or medication, for example.”
“But if I can decide all that, why does he have to be taken away from me?” I stare Susan full in the face for a moment and for the first time I see her look discomfited, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes like a shadow. She masks it quickly, smiling again, shifting once more in her chair, but I wonder what she is thinking. What I am missing. I realize I need to always be on my guard. No matter how sympathetic Susan seems, I can’t trust this woman. Ever.
“We talked yesterday about you getting the support you need,” she says after a second’s pause. “And Dylan as well. Both are paramount.”
“What support do I need?” I am curious to hear the answer, even as I resent having to ask the question. Why should Susan decide what I need? I know what I need, and it’s my child back.
