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“So.” Diane flexes her hands on the steering wheel. “You’re probably wondering why I’m taking that course.”
I can’t keep from letting out a little laugh because, of course, that is exactly what I’ve been wondering. “Well, yeah,” I admit. Then I ask bluntly, “Have you wondered why I am?” I’m afraid she might say no, that I look exactly like the kind of bad mother who would end up in a class like that, but she nods and shrugs at the same time.
“Yes, I mean… I suppose on some level everyone should take a parenting course, right? It doesn’t always come naturally. At least it didn’t to me.”
It did to me, I think, but don’t say. But I can’t remember a moment’s doubt after I held Dylan in my arms. Being with him felt as natural as breathing, even when it was hard. I never doubted myself, never thought I was doing it wrong, although I certainly worried about all the things out there that could hurt him—all the dangers he would face. But isn’t that what a loving mother does?
“My son Peter is adopted,” Diane says. She is staring straight ahead as she navigates onto I-91. “I got him when he was five, from Georgia. The country, not the state.”
“Okay,” I say
after a moment. I’m not sure what response she’s looking for.
“He’d been in an orphanage since he was a baby. I’m sure you’ve read about what they’re like.” She shakes her head. “Horrible places. They just… leave the kids in cribs, crying all day. They don’t even change their diapers. I’m sure not every place is like that, and I know they’re understaffed and all that, but… it was terrible.”
“I’m sorry.” That doesn’t seem like the right response, but again I’m not sure what is.
“The thing is, you can realize all that and it still doesn’t make it easier, you know? Peter has issues, of course he has issues, from all the neglect and abuse. But heaven help me…” She shakes her head slowly. “I had no idea how hard it would be.”
“I don’t suppose you would have been able to,” I say after a moment.
“I thought I was going to be so patient. So understanding. I read books, I went to support groups, I did it all.”
“So what happened?” I ask, because obviously something did.
“It got to be too much,” she says simply. “First he was suspended, then expelled from school, kicking, screaming, biting… often non-verbal, breaking everything. I don’t have a single piece left of my mother’s Meissen set. Not one piece.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I stay silent, and after a few seconds she continues.
“I couldn’t take it. I just couldn’t.” She turns to me almost wildly, taking her eyes off the road, so the car starts to careen into the next lane before I draw a quick, sharp breath and she quickly rights it. “Sorry. Sorry. You must think I’ve completely lost it.”
I sort of do, but I understand, as well. How can I not? I’m the mom who grabbed her son’s wrist in a CVS, hard enough for someone to call the DCF hotline. I’m the mother who drank too much the night before and couldn’t show up for a custody-hearing case on time. If anyone’s lost it, it’s me.
“I understand,” I say quietly.
Diane seems to sag, the fight drained out of her. “In the end, I put him in a voluntary placement. I just couldn’t hold out any longer. And I’m going to this class because I have to, in order to get him back, but the truth is… the terrible truth is…” She pauses, her face haggard, and I already know what she’s going to say, but I don’t want her to put it into words. Make it a fact. “The truth is,” she finishes heavily, “I’m not sure I want him back.”
16
ALLY
“Isn’t this fun?”
Nick’s voice is full of cheer as we stand on the sidelines of the Harvard–Dartmouth football game, clutching travel mugs of coffee and trying to stay warm. It’s a beautiful day—crisp, clear, and very, very cold. Every time one of us speaks—not that I’ve said much—our breath comes out in frosty puffs of air.
We arrived in Boston last night, and took Emma out for a pizza in Harvard Square before heading back to our hotel. A week ago, I called Monica and asked her if Dylan could be put in respite care for this weekend. I could tell Monica was a bit taken aback by the request; after all, at that point we’d had him for less than two weeks. I explained about the parents’ weekend at Harvard, and she said she understood, and then, after a delicate pause, asked if I’d consider taking Dylan with us, if Beth gave permission.
I struggled with an answer, because I had thought of taking Dylan, and I’d asked Nick about it, and he’d said, quite firmly, that this weekend was about Emma and if Dylan came with us, it would have to be about Dylan.
I understood his reasoning, and I knew it was true, but it still tore at me, to think of sending Dylan away when he was just getting used to us. When he was just starting to trust me.
That first day I picked him up from school, he ran over to me and threw his arms around my waist, burrowing his head into my stomach. It was the first time he’d hugged me, or touched me in any way, and I let out a little laugh of pleased surprise.
“Dylan… how was your day?”
He didn’t answer, of course, but his special ed assistant, Larissa, did. “He had a good day,” she said firmly. “A really good day. There were a few ups and downs, but everyone has those, right, Dylan?”
Dylan, his head still buried in my stomach, didn’t reply, but I felt both hopeful and worried by her response—what were these ups and downs, exactly? I didn’t ask and she didn’t tell me, but that evening, Dylan seemed especially cuddly and close to me, and we read an extra three stories at bedtime. I didn’t mind—Dylan’s head on my shoulder as I read Sylvester and the Magic Pebble—one of my favorites—for the third time felt like an unexpected and poignant bliss.
