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“Secretive.”
Nick shakes his head slowly as he reaches for his tie. “Ally, sometimes it feels like you’re looking for problems. Josh is fine. He works hard, he does well. I was thinking of encouraging him to apply to Dartmouth, actually. Just think. In two years, we might have one on each side for the football game. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Yes, it would.” I smile, trying to share his mood. I know I’m being a killjoy, and I really don’t want to ruin this weekend. Dylan is probably fine, and I’m sure Josh has an explanation for the money, and as for Emma… I’ll make an effort tonight at dinner. Get to the bottom of whatever is going on with her, if anything. Maybe it’s just PMS, or typical teenaged moodiness. I don’t need to take it to heart.
An
hour later, we are at a table for four in the back of the restaurant, all candlelight and clinking glasses. Nick orders a particularly expensive bottle of champagne and toasts Emma, giving both Emma and Josh half a glass each with a wink for the waiter, and as we all raise our glasses, I catch her eye and smile. She smiles back, faintly, and I choose to be encouraged.
I look around at my family, our glasses raised, our smiles out, the whole world before us, and I remind myself to stop worrying and be thankful. I really am blessed. Nothing, I tell myself, has changed about that.
17
BETH
In the car on the way to my third visit with Dylan, Susan asks me how the Triple P class is going. We’ve had two sessions now; more forced sharing and positive parenting tips that I don’t need, but I like Margaret and Diane feels like a sympathetic soul. She drove me home again, but she didn’t talk about her son or the fact that she might want to give him back, and I didn’t ask.
Still, I think of Diane’s wild confession in the car, of Angelica chewing her gum, and Margaret telling us all yet again to be nice to our kids, and I struggle to say something positive about the experience.
I’m determined to be upbeat, though, to show Susan that whatever she’s suggested I do is working. I know now that she’s actually doing a lot for me—after talking to Angelica and Diane about their caseworkers before the last class, I realize Susan is going above and beyond for me—taking me to visit Dylan, checking in with how I’m doing. I don’t know whether to be appreciative or not, though; why is she being so nice? Is it because I need so much help, or because I don’t?
I can’t second-guess myself or Susan too much, though, or I’ll drive myself crazy. It’s been hard enough keeping an even keel—going to the parenting classes, keeping my jewelry business afloat, getting through my endless evenings without falling into despair. I’ve gone up to Angela’s a couple of times to write letters for her, which is a poignant and painstaking process. She struggles to think of something to say, and I end up making so many suggestions that the letter might as well have been from me. There’s been no reply yet, as far as I know.
“The class is okay,” I tell Susan, because I don’t want her to think I’m being completely fake. “I’m not sure why I have to take it, though, to be honest.”
“Oh?” Susan gives me a friendly smile, encouraging me to say more. “Why is that?”
“Well, it’s not as if I neglect Dylan,” I say a bit recklessly. “I mean, Margaret, the teacher, is always going on about how we have to spend time with our kids, even if it’s just ten quality minutes. That’s not exactly my problem, is it?” I was trying to speak levelly, but my voice has risen.
I take a calming breath and look out the window. I wasn’t trying to pick a fight, but I love spending time with Dylan. I give him affection, and positive reinforcement, and hugs and cuddles all the time. Or at least I did, when he was with me. The two times I’ve seen him with Ally have been so short, they hardly count.
In fact, the visit last week was a bit of a disappointment. Dylan had just had his third day at school—which seems so strange—and he was really tired. He hugged me hello, but he didn’t want to do anything, and so we ended up cuddling on the sofa in the family room while Susan and Ally drank coffee and made chitchat at the kitchen table. When I said goodbye, he hugged me but he didn’t cry or scream—which is a good thing, obviously, but it still hurt.
Susan is silent for a long moment, and I sneak a look at her. She is staring straight ahead, her lips silently pursed, her forehead crinkled. She looks both thoughtful and troubled, and I feel a sudden tremor of fear. What is she thinking right now, about me?
“I wouldn’t say that’s your problem, no,” she says at last. “But, Beth…” Again I feel that flutter, wild and uncontained, and I have a sudden certainty that I don’t want to hear what she’s going to say next.
“What?” I ask, even though I don’t want to know.
“Have you started your counselling sessions yet?”
“No, there wasn’t an available spot until next week.” Why is she asking me about that now? What does she think is wrong with me? “What were you going to say?” I demand, because now I realize I do want to know.
“Have you ever considered that your relationship with Dylan might be… a bit too intense?” Susan asks, choosing each word as if it’s fragile and likely to break.
“Too intense?” I stare at her blankly. What does that even mean? “What are you trying to say?” I ask, and now I sound aggressive.
“I’m not saying anything definitively, Beth. I just want to encourage you to think about that.”
“Think about what? That I’m too intense? That I’m somehow bad for my son?”
“You and Dylan have lived very isolated lives. I think it’s lent a certain intensity to your relationship that might not be very helpful to Dylan.” She gives me a quick smile that I think is meant to be reassuring. “But perhaps this is something you can discuss during your counselling sessions.”
She turns into Ally’s driveway, leaving me both reeling and defensive, and when I unbuckle my seatbelt, she doesn’t unbuckle hers.
“I thought you could have an unsupervised visit with Dylan today,” she says. “Since the last two visits have gone so well. If you’d like to take him for a walk or to the park… In another week, we can discuss a longer visiting arrangement—I’m planning to recommend two hours, twice a week.”
“You’re not coming?” I say dumbly.
