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In the blink of an eye, the flip of a beer top, my whole life twisted shape and became something I no longer recognized or even liked. And yes, it was my fault. I have never sought to shift blame, as tempting as that could be. It was all my fault. And yet I can’t begrudge any of it, because of Dylan.
I met Marco at the nursing home where I volunteered; he was the cook, and still is. He was charming and full of life, with curly dark hair and ridiculously long lashes, and even though he’d been born in Bloomfield like me, he liked to put on an Italian accent and play the dashing Romeo.
He swept me off my feet, both literally and figuratively. We first met when he accidentally tripped me up as I was bringing a lunch tray into the kitchen. He was effusive in his apology, helping me up, insisting he clean up all the mess. I was dazed and tearful, if unhurt; it was only my third day of community service and I was still reeling from the sea change. All the staff at the nursing home knew why I was there, and they treated me with varying degrees of sympathy or scorn. I kept wanting to say this isn’t me, but I knew they wouldn’t believe me and so I didn’t.
The next day, he brought me flowers, and somehow the story of how I’d got the DUI came spilling out of me, and Marco was indignant on my behalf, insisting the police were pazzo—crazy—he liked to pepper his speech with Italian words, but he didn’t actually speak the language—and that I didn’t deserve anything that had happened to me.
I was so grateful for his understanding, and the fact that he actually seemed to like me, although in retrospect I think he probably just liked the adulation I so willingly heaped upon him. I’d never had a proper boyfriend before, and Marco seemed like a man. He had his own car, his own apartment; he was twenty-three, but he seemed older, worldlier, and far more experienced than I was. I was awed that he’d even look at me.
By the end of the week, we were dating; by the end of the month, I’d moved in with him. I’d been sleeping on my high-school friend’s sofa, but it was hardly an arrangement that could last forever, and Marco was insistent that he had space, that he wanted me there. A year later I was pregnant, and although he was surprised at first, when I said I wanted to keep the baby—because I’d always, always been sure of that—he promised to support me, said we should get married, although of course we never did.
I think he had a vision of himself as some sort of savior, although it was surely misplaced, because the truth is, by the time Dylan was born, things had already started to go pretty sour.
Marco was restless and bored with our couple life, and I was too timid to ask for anything. So I cleaned his apartment and I slept in his bed and I made his meals, while he worked and partied and basically lived his life without me, except when he chose to suddenly lavish me with attention, like a spoiled toddler who has found an old toy, or perhaps like a smug cat with a desperate, pathetic little mouse. Either way, it wasn’t working, even if I insisted to myself that it was, because I had nothing else.
And then came Dylan, like a ray of hope into my barren life, and I lavished all the love and attention on my little baby that no one else seemed to want—not Marco, not my mother, not my father. Meanwhile, Marco got more and more fed up, until, after a spectacular tantrum—Dylan’s, not Marco’s—he finally left.
In the four years since Marco abandoned us, he’s visited Dylan only a handful of times—birthdays, and one or two Christmases. He does put two hundred bucks in my bank account more months than not, but it’s not an official arrangement and I never ask for it. I know I could, and probably should, but it feels like too much trouble.
In any case, I wasn’t surprised by Marco’s response to DCF taking Dylan, merely disheartened, but it does surprise me when I open the door on Monday evening to find him standing there with a dozen roses, a bottle of wine, and a wide smile.
I stare at him dumbly, trying to take in all the disparate parts of his appearance—the slicked-back curls, the smell of soap, the gas-station flowers wrapped in plastic and already starting to wilt. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you needed cheering up.”
“I’m fine, Marco. I have the court hearing tomorrow.” I doubt he remembered, but he takes it in his stride.
“Exactly. I thought you’d be nervous, and you might appreciate a little bit of distraction. How are you doing, Beth? You look tired.” He saunters into my apartment without asking to come in, and even though I want to boot him out, I don’t.
I should, I know that. Confidence seeps from his pores along with cheap aftershave, and I know his being here can’t be anything good. But I don’t say anything because I’m lonely, and I’ve spent a week on my own, a week of obsession and fear and solitude and study, and a little company, even Marco’s, is far too welcome.
So I close the door behind him and watch as he walks to the kitchen to rummage in the cabinets for wineglasses. I don’t have any, because I hardly ever drink, but he makes do with a couple of plastic tumblers.
“So, how have you been?” he asks as he opens the screw-top bottle and pours us both generous amounts. He’s dumped the flowers in the sink, still in their plastic.
“How do you think?” I stare at him hard even as I accept the glass and take a sip of the cheap, vinegary wine. “What are you doing here, Marco?”
“Can’t I visit?”
“You generally don’t, unless it’s Dylan’s birthday. Even then I don’t know if you’ll feel like turning up.”
“Ouch, Beth.” He gives me a friendly grimace. “I do try, you know.”
I just shake my head. Marco tries, but not all that much.
From where I’m standing, I can see the price tag left on the bouquet of roses—five ninety-nine for the whole dozen.
“How is Dylan doing?” Marco asks, dropping the breezy charm, so for a second I let myself be fooled into thinking he actually cares. I’ve always wanted to think, deep down Marco must care, at least a little, about his own son. How can he not? He’s not a monster. The old ladies at the nursing home love him, although perhaps that’s just because he flirts with them all.
And, the truth is, even if it doesn’t feel like it, he does try, if only in his own small, pathetic way. He wouldn’t if he didn’t care at all. It’s small comfort, but it’s something, even as I get frustrated with how little he does.
“I don’t know how he’s doing. I haven’t seen him.” My voice is tight because I don’t want to cry, especially not in front of Marco. “Susan, his caseworker, has given me a couple of updates, but they’re brief.” She’s just continued with her line about him adjusting well, which makes me feel suspicious. It can’t be that easy for him, surely. But if all goes well tomorrow, I will know exactly how he’s doing, because he’ll be with me.
“I’m sorry, Beth.” Marco looks genuinely contrite, a hangdog expression on his face that I ache to trust. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. I know how much you love Dylan…”
“And you don’t?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Marco doesn’t even loo
