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Susan murmurs something and then goes to get some crumpled napkins, which she hands t
o me wordlessly. I mop my face, trying to get myself under control. After a few minutes, I do. Sort of.
“So what now?” I ask in a raggedy voice.
“I assemble an action plan to determine the steps you need to take in the next few months. When I’ve done that, I’ll meet with you and we’ll go through each one.” Susan smiles at me. “Remember, Beth, we’re here to help.”
You’re here to take away my kid, I think, but I don’t have the energy to say it.
I bunch up the damp napkins as I take a steadying breath. “When can I see Dylan?”
“I can call Monica and try to arrange a visit for this afternoon, if you like,” Susan says, still smiling. “You wanted to see where Dylan is living…?”
“Yes.” I almost can’t believe it’s that easy. I can see Dylan today. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you.”
“Of course. According to the terms of the judge’s decision, you are entitled to see Dylan for an hour once a week for the next four weeks. After that, we can review the visitation schedule.”
I know she means well, but she makes me feel like a complete criminal.
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything—or break down again.
Susan’s expression softens. “Would you like me to drive you home? And I can call Monica and let you know the details of the visit, before I drop you off.” Susan glances at her watch. “I have another appointment in half an hour, but I should have time if we leave now.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
As Susan smiles at me again, I realize all that she’s doing for me—the coffee, the conversation, the ride home. I wonder if I am right to trust her, and then, with a sickening lurch of fear, I wonder if I made a huge mistake in not trusting her from the beginning.
But she took away Dylan.
I rise from my seat and dump my barely drunk coffee in the trash. As I look around the café, I see it is full of down-and-outers, people passing time with defeated looks on their faces, probably all of them waiting for their turn at the court next door. I’m one of them, and they all know it, and the thought depresses me unbearably.
This isn’t me—and yet it is. Now, it is.
12
ALLY
When Monica calls me on Tuesday morning, it’s to tell me that the judge decided in favor of DCF, and can Beth come visit Dylan this afternoon?
For a second I simply stand there and blink, my cell pressed to my ear, as I try to process all that information. “Um, yes. Of—of course,” I finally stammer. And then: “So… if she’s lost custody…”
“The next court hearing will be in three months, and we anticipate reunification happening at that time.” A pause, weighted. “Is any of that a problem for you?”
“A problem? What? No.” None of this is exactly a surprise, but it still feels like something new. This morning, Nick tousled Dylan’s hair and said goodbye to him before going to work, in a way that I knew was meant to be taken as final.
Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, he told me his views on the matter: “She’ll get him back. He’s got some behavioral issues, sure, but he seems like a fairly normal kid.” I pressed my lips together, not wanting to remind Nick that three days ago Dylan had been too weird for him. Now that he was possibly going, he was normal again? “It’s not as if he’s been abused,” he continued as he unbuttoned his shirt. “He doesn’t have a mark on him.”
“There are different forms of abuse.”
Nick shrugged. “He looks pretty healthy to me—well-fed, clean. You know. Anyway, the government can’t take kids away for no good reason. It’s got to be something serious.”
I didn’t answer, because his vague, sweeping statements were completely absurd. DCF did take kids away, for all sorts of reasons. You heard the horror stories—innocent parents whose child had a bruise from a stray ball during gym class and all of a sudden DCF swept in and removed him. And then the flipside—the poor children who were horrifically abused and somehow the social workers missed it. I didn’t understand how both could exist simultaneously, but I knew they did.
“What time would Beth like to come over?” I ask Monica.
“Two o’clock?”
That’s in less than two hours. “Okay. Should I… should I tell Dylan?” I lower my voice because he’s in the family room, absorbed in building a tower of Lego, just as Nick wished he would.
