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“Yes, I think that would be a good idea. The visit will last an hour, and Beth would like to see Dylan’s room, hear a little bit about how he’s been doing.”
“Okay.”
As I end the call, I wonder why I feel so nervous, the way I did the first day Dylan came to us—only a week ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I feel almost like a different person.
I’m certainly a lot more confident with Dylan. He’s still waking up at night, and I’m still spending most nights sleeping next to him, but the days have been going pretty well.
Well, they’re okay. He still screams sometimes and at least once or twice a day he has a complete and total meltdown—on the floor, kicking and screaming, spending himself utterly, but I wait it out and we are able to move on.
Of course, the rest of my life has been put almost completely on hold. I still haven’t managed to call Emma, and I can’t remember the last time I had a proper conversation with Josh, or even Nick, about something other than foster care.
My work, which usually takes twenty hours a week, has been whittled down to two and I am way behind the accounts for several of the firms I work for. I haven’t had a catchup with any of my friends, except for that semi-awkward drink with Julie, since Dylan came to us, and I can’t see it happening anytime soon.
I’ve already RSVPed to my book club, saying I couldn’t come to our meeting this month. I hadn’t even read the book, and the thought of discussing plot elements and literary themes makes my brain hurt. I’m way too tired for that.
I glance around the kitchen, which is pretty clean, and then I head over to where Dylan is lying on the carpet.
“Hey, Dylan.” He doesn’t look at me, but he tenses a little, so I know he’s listening. “Guess what? Your mom is going to come visit you today.” I’ve injected a note of enthusiasm into my voice, expecting Dylan to perk up a little, but he scrambles off the floor, knocking the tower apart in the process, and runs to the front door and starts yanking at the handle; thankfully I’ve already taken the precaution of locking it, after Josh left for school.
“Hey, not so fast.” I try for a laugh, although I am discomfited by the intensity of his response. “I can see you’re excited to see her, but she’s not coming yet, Dylan. Not for a couple of hours.” I touch his shoulder gently. “Why don’t you come finish the tower with me?”
Dylan flinches away from me, shaking his head firmly. He is standing by the door, his hands resting on the window ledge as he stares out at the driveway with focused determination, a sentinel at his post.
I try again. “Dylan, your mom isn’t going to be here for a long time. Why don’t you come back into the kitchen?”
Another shake of his head, firmer and longer this time, a back and forth that must make him dizzy. I sense we are skirting close to a meltdown, and I decide not to push it. If he wants to wait by the door for two hours, then fine, I’ll let him.
And that’s exactly what he does, standing there rigid and unmoving, almost unblinking, for nearly two hours. It’s unnerving to see him so still, so purposeful. He must be exhausted, but he never moves from his post. If I thought he was settling in here, that he was happy, then right now I realize I’ve been mistaken. All Dylan has been doing with me is biding his time.
A little before two, I join him at the window, waiting and watching for Beth’s arrival. I have no idea what to expect, or even how to be. I’ve put some cookies out, and made lemonade, but it all feels a bit strange and surreal.
A few minutes after two, the same beat-up Ford Focus from before pulls into the driveway and Susan, Dylan’s caseworker, climbs out of the
driver’s side. Dylan tenses, his body making me think of an arrow poised for flight, and then he scrabbles at the door handle. For the first time, I hear him speak.
“Mama—Mama!” He is belting it out, his voice an unsettling mix of joy and savage determination, as he tries to wrench the door handle right off.
“Let me unlock the door, Dylan,” I say as I fumble with the key. “Just a sec—”
The millisecond the lock turns, he is opening the door and flinging himself outside so hard he trips and nearly falls, but he rights himself before he takes a tumble and sprints towards the car, and the door that is just opening.
I stand on the stoop and watch as a woman emerges from the car; I can barely see her because before she’s straightened, Dylan has thrown himself at her, and they are a tangle of limbs, their heads, hair the same color, so close together I can’t tell them apart.
I glance at Susan, who gives me a wry smile. She does not seem surprised by the joyous ferocity of Dylan’s greeting, and for the first time, I wonder why the hell she decided to take him away from the mother he so obviously adores.
“Nice to meet you,” I call, futilely, because Dylan and his mother are in their own world. They are both laughing and crying at the same time, and Dylan is clinging to her like a monkey, his arms wrapped around her neck, his legs around her waist. She hoists him on her hip as if she’s carried him like this a million times before, even though he’s a bit too big to be carried like that—especially for someone so small.
I realize, as Beth comes towards me, her face tilted towards Dylan, barely aware of anything else, she is not what I expected at all. In my vague imaginings of what Beth looked like, I unthinkingly bought into some unfortunate stereotypes. I pictured tattoos, piercings, dyed hair, a slouching, vacant manner, a low-educated woman who was somewhat indifferent to the plight of her child, maybe a hint of drug or alcohol abuse, although neither had ever been mentioned. I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto these offensive clichés, constructing a framework around them, until I see Beth and acknowledge she doesn’t fit any of my ill-conceived notions.
She is slight, like Dylan, with long, wavy hair the same shade as his—a chocolate brown—and a petite, heart-shaped face, with wide, deep-set hazel eyes. She is wearing a dark green sweater and a pair of jeans, both a little worn-looking but nice enough, and so very normal. She looks like a well-brought-up, middle-class kid—like one of the young women I used to hire to babysit Emma and Josh when they were young.
As she comes towards me, she finally looks up at me, and something flickers in her eyes. She is taking me in just as I was taking her in, and I wonder what she sees. Middle-aged housewife whose hair needs coloring, trim enough, wearing clothes that aren’t quite preppy or funky, as if she can’t decide who she wants to be.
“Hi!” The word shoots out of me like a bullet, and my smile feels too wide, too fake.
Beth nods her greeting, not quite meeting my eyes or giving a smile back. “Thank you for taking care of Dylan.” Her voice is low, pleasant, another surprise.
“Of course. It’s been my—our—pleasure. He’s a wonderful boy.” I aim a smile at Dylan, but his head is buried in Beth’s shoulder.
