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In the dream, Dylan was small, maybe three or four, and although he didn’t look like himself—he was blond and blue-eyed—I knew it was him. We were on a train, one of those old-fashioned trains you find in Europe, with separate compartments and sliding doors. I was holding his hand and stumbling along the corridor, looking for seats, but all the compartments were full of blank-faced people, utterly indifferent to us.
I could hear a conductor lumbering behind me, and I was afraid, even though I knew I had a ticket. I reached my hand into my pocket and held it, anchoring me to the reality that I was allowed on the train, that we were safe.
I had finally found an empty compartment, and slid open the door, filled with relief, when I turned behind me and saw that Dylan had disappeared.
I wake up with my heart thudding, the fear of Dylan just disappearing trickling through me as I blink at the ceiling and try to remember my real life. Then I look at the clock, and my heart seems to stop right in my chest. It is eight o’clock, and the court hearing is in an hour.
I scramble up from bed, my mind darting in a dozen different directions. I tell myself not to panic, but I already am. An hour… I was meant to be so organized. I was going to get up early and go through all my notes, practice what I’d say… as it is, I will be rushing just to get there in time.
Last night after Marco left, I drank two glasses of wine, and on an empty stomach, and with my low tolerance, it was enough to send me stumbling to bed at eleven o’clock, my mind dazed and spinning.
I can’t believe I was that reckless, but I’d felt so unbearably low, so utterly alone, me against the whole world, with no one—except maybe Mike the UPS guy—that I could call on. No one to back my corner, no one to hold my hand. No Dylan to put my arms around, to feel his solid warmth. I couldn’t stand it, the g
aping emptiness at the center of my life, and in any case, I didn’t think two glasses would affect me so much, although obviously they did.
I didn’t even mean to drink two—I drained the one, and then I poured another, but I wasn’t really intending to drink it. I turned on the TV, and at some point I must have drunk it all, barely realizing what I was doing. Then I’d forgotten to set my alarm, although that wasn’t unusual since I’d never needed one with Dylan, but still, for the morning of the court hearing, you’d think I’d remember. You’d think I’d be on top of it, this morning that matters more than any other.
And now I’m here, racing just to be able to show up on time, never mind being organized and efficient and in control, showing the judge and everyone else that I am totally equipped to represent myself, and I should obviously have my son back.
I’ve already searched and copied down the bus route from here to the Juvenile Court in Hartford, and it takes thirty minutes minimum to get there, plus walking time from the station. If I don’t leave in the next five minutes, I am almost certainly going to be late.
“Damn it!” I practically shriek the words, because I’m so furious with myself. This wasn’t how today was meant to go at all. I force myself to calm down because I still have an hour, and panicking won’t help me—or Dylan. I need to stay in control.
I throw on the clothes I’d already picked out—a plain white blouse and a black skirt. It makes me look like a waitress, but it’s the most professional outfit I have. I drag a brush through my hair and shove some makeup into my bag to do on the bus. Then I grab all my notes and papers—fortunately I’d organized them all yesterday, with different color sticky notes and paper clips—and then I practically sprint out of my apartment.
I am breathless and sweating by the time I reach the bus stop on the corner of Farmington and South Main. There is not a bus in sight. I pace up and down, too jittery to stay still, and attract the suspicious looks of the handful of business-suited commuters waiting there.
Where is that bus? It’s already eight fifteen—only fifteen minutes since I woke up, and it shows. My hair is still in a tangle and I haven’t brushed my teeth. I’m a mess. What the hell was I thinking last night, drinking that wine? Stumbling to bed without setting the alarm? Feeling so damned sorry for myself?
I make a sound, sort of a moan, and a woman standing near me edges away. I take a deep breath and do my best to control myself, even though I feel like falling apart. I don’t have that luxury now.
A bus finally lumbers up to the stop five minutes later. As I join the line, I see how crowded it is, and I am terrified the driver will make me wait for the next one.
“Please…” I mutter under my breath, and I get another strange look from someone in line.
Thankfully, the driver waves me on wearily, seeming to sense my desperation. I must look panicked, maybe even crazed—carrying a sheaf of crumpled papers, my shirt untucked.
The bus ride to Hartford, although only a few miles, takes half an hour as the bus judders to a stop what feels like every few seconds. I manage to tuck my shirt in and smooth out my papers; I brush my hair and dab a little concealer and lip gloss on. It’s eight minutes to nine when the bus finally rolls into the Hartford station. According to my phone, it’s a fourteen-minute walk to the Court for Juvenile Matters on Broad Street.
Still, I tell myself, I’ll only be six minutes late. Five, if I hurry.
I half-walk, half-run down the street, stumbling in my heels. It’s four minutes after nine when I get to the Juvenile building, and I groan out loud, nearly a scream, when I see there is a security check at the front door, and a line of at least ten people waiting to go through.
“Please, I’m late,” I say a bit desperately to a man waiting in line. He has a baseball cap pulled low over his face and he wears baggy, low-slung jeans and an oversized T-shirt that hangs almost to his knees. “Please, can you let me go through?”
He gives me a dismissive look from under the battered brim of his cap. “We’re all waiting, lady.”
I take my place in line, biting my lips in frustration, tasting blood. They’ll wait, I tell myself. They must be used to people showing up late. They’ll have to wait. There might even be a law about it, a rule about having to wait.
It’s an agonizing twenty minutes after nine before I get through security, and it’s another four minutes before I finally locate the court where the hearing is taking place, a set of double doors amidst half a dozen others. As I run towards them, Susan steps from the shadows towards me. She’d been waiting outside, and the look on her face is sorrowful.
“Beth.”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I gasp. There are damp patches under my arms and my shirt is untucked again, my face undoubtedly red and shiny. “The bus—”
“Beth, the case has already been adjudicated.”
I stare at her blankly, refusing to let the words penetrate. “We can start now—”
