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“The judge has a policy of waiting fifteen minutes. After that, she makes a decision.”
Fifteen minutes? I missed my chance, my whole life, by a mere five minutes? I simply stare at Susan, refusing to take it in. “But… but that’s not fair. The bus—”
“Beth, according to the guidelines on the website, you are advised to arrive at the court at least forty-five minutes before proceedings.”
I swallow. Had I read that online? I can’t remember. Of course, if I’d had a lawyer, I’d have known that. If I’d had a lawyer, someone would have been here to represent me. But I chose not to have one, because I was so sure I could do this by myself.
“But…” I try again, and then I shake my head. “No.”
“Beth—”
“No.” I shake my head, harder this time, the way Dylan does. All my work… all the research… Then, stupidly, a flash of wild, pointless hope. “What did the judge decide?” Maybe…
“Dylan will remain in custody,” Susan states gently. “There will be another hearing scheduled in three months.”
Three months! Three months. I let out a long, low moan, an animalistic sound that comes from the depths of my being. My knees buckle, and Susan grabs my arm to keep me from crumpling to the floor.
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
I turn to her, scrabbling at her arm, desperate now. “Can’t I talk to the judge? I wasn’t that late—”
Susan shakes her head. “Another case is being heard now. They schedule them very closely together. I’m sorry, Beth, but it’s been decided. There’s nothing you can do.”
I close my eyes, bracing myself against the tidal wave of recrimination that slams into me. This is my fault. Again. All my fault. Once more a single, reckless decision has the power to make a shipwreck of my whole life, and this time it matters so much more. I can’t stand it; I feel as if I could be sick, as if I could tear my hair out, as if I could scream like Dylan and never stop.
“Let me get you a cup of coffee,” Susan says again, gently, and I am so devastated that I let her lead me away from the court doors like a child.
I’m not even aware of where we are going, lost in my own despairing haze, but somehow we end up in a coffee shop outside the Juvenile building, and Susan places a cup of coffee in front of me, a Styrofoam cup of a dark, oily, and unappetizing brew.
“Sorry,” she says. “This isn’t Starbucks.”
I take a sip of the drink and wince. I can’t speak; I can’t even think. I feel frozen, something locked inside me. If I unleash it, I will fall apart; I will simply disintegrate.
“What happened?” Susan asks gently, and I shake my head. I don’t want to explain about Marco, the wine. She’ll just use it against me at some point, and anyway it sounds too pathetic.
“The bus was late,” I say after a moment, my voice monotone.
“Yes, I understand that, but…” Susan pauses. “You look as if you’d been rushing anyway.”
“I forgot to set the alarm.” I look up from the disgusting coffee. “I never needed one with Dylan.”
Susan nods, and I look back down. I wonder if she can smell the alcohol on me. A measly two glasses of wine and she probably thinks I’m a lush, a drunk. Tears prick my eyes and that locked part inside me starts to crumble.
“Isn’t there any way…” I begin, and Susan shakes her head.
“Court decisions are final. But I’m very optimistic that there will be a different result in three months. Very optimistic.”
She’s optimistic? I realize then that even in three months I might not get Dylan back, especially now that I have this on my record. Mother could not be bothered to show up to court. And that’s when I start to cry—not a few trickling tears, but a wail of anguish that rises in volume like a siren. I realize, as I hear it coming out of me, that I sound like Dylan.
“Beth.” Susan touches my hand, more of a warning than a comfort. “Beth.”
I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes like a tap has been turned on. I manage to lower the sound of my sobs, to something soft and snuffling, but I am still a wreck. I am completely undone.
“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” Susan says in that steady voice I both crave and despise, “but I honestly think it will be better for you and Dylan. This gives you a chance to seek support, Beth. And for Dylan to, as well.”
She’s giving me her same old spiel, but I can’t fight against it anymore. I can’t tell her any longer that I don’t agree, that I know what’s best for Dylan, because that right has been taken away from me, and it’s my fault that it was.
So I just shake my head and cry, because I don’t have anything left but grief.
