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“I’ll get it,” Ally says, and she comes back with a navy blue puffa parka that I’ve never seen before. I stare at it blankly before I look at her in silent accusation. “I bought him a coat,” she explains awkwardly. “The jacket he had was so thin…”
Thin? It was fine. Maybe it wasn’t one hundred percent down from Nike like this one, but it did the job. I take the parka without a word and help Dylan into it. He’s silent, but not in a way I understand. I usually know exactly how he’s feeling, I can translate every sigh or twitch, but right now I’m adrift. We both are. I feel an urgent need to get out of this house with its underlying and cloying, lemony scent, its smug neatness. Even the smell of the dinner cooking offends me somehow.
“You could walk down to the park by the elementary school,” Ally suggests. “Fernridge…”
As if I don’t know it. We’re only a ten-minute walk from my house, if that. I don’t bother replying, even though part of me knows I should. I can’t afford to antagonize Ally, even though she’s antagonized me with the coat and the clothes and the way she brushes his hair.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Thank you,” I say, and then I lead my son out of the house.
Dylan and I walk in silence down the street, in the last of the afternoon’s mellow light, although there’s a nip to the air and shadows are gathering. It will be dark by the time we get to the playground, or almost. It’s mid-November, Thanksgiving next week, and in New England it is starting to feel like winter.
“Do you like school, Dylan?” I ask. Ally and Susan have both told me the basics, that he has a special-education assistant and that it’s been going well, but I don’t know anything else.
Dylan, of course, doesn’t answer, but I can usually tell what he’s thinking. I see it in his eyes, in the duck of his head or the way his hand tightens in mine, but he doesn’t give me any of these signals, and for the first time I feel as if we’re speaking different languages.
“Dylan?” I crouch down on the sidewalk and put my hands on his shoulders to turn him towards me. I want him to look me in the eye; I want to feel that connection. He stands still, staring at me steadily, but something feels off, less than. I think about what Susan said, about our relationship being too intense, and then I don’t know what to think, because it certainly doesn’t feel that way now. “Do you like school, Dylan? It’s okay if you don’t.” No reply, nothing, just a steady, blank blinking. “And it’s okay if you do,” I say, surprising myself with the words, and, I realize, surprising Dylan. His eyes widen and then he leans forward a little, so his head almost touches mine. I put my arms around him in a hug that he submits to rather than participates in, but I tell myself not to mind.
After a moment, the cold seeping through the knees of my jeans, I stand up and we walk hand in hand to the park, through the lengthening shadows.
We stay for half an hour, sitting on the swings. Dylan has always loved the swings, just as I used to. When he was a baby, I used to swing with him on my lap, one arm wrapped around his chubby middle, and fly high—higher probably than I should have, considering how little he was—but it felt so freeing. As soon as he could, he started going on the swing on his own, painstakingly learning how to pump his legs, his one real act of independence, and one I always encouraged.
As we sit and swing in silence, my thoughts veer from fear to anger to simply wanting to be with Dylan. Am I too intense? Is there something wrong about my relationship with my son? I reject the idea instinctively; everything I’ve done with Dylan, the way I’ve been, has always felt right.
I never second-guessed myself, until he was taken away. Not even when Marco lost his temper and called DCF, not even when Susan came poking around that first time. I knew I had to appease the powers that be, and I knew life with Dylan could be hard, but I didn’t doubt.
Now I am full of doubts. I look at Dylan in his parka and khakis, his hair brushed back like a little businessman, and I wonder if he’s been tolerating me all along. What if he prefers Ally and her neat house, his big bedroom, his brand-new lunchbox? What kid wouldn’t?
But those are just things. They’re not love. They’re not his mother.
By the time we walk back to Ally’s house, it is dark. Cars are turning into driveways, lights flicking on in houses, giving me even more of a sense of being on the outside looking in. As we walk down Ally’s street, my steps slow. I don’t want to give Dylan back. I’m afraid of what will happen if I do. What will he be like next week? Will he hold my hand? What about a month from now? Two months? What if, by the time I get him back, he doesn’t want me anymore?
The powerlessness I feel is choking. I struggle to breathe. My hand tightens over Dylan’s, and he squirms a little.
“Sorry, buddy.” I give him a smile as I determinedly loosen my grip. I can’t cling; I can’t lose him, and the result is I don’t know how to be.
Ally opens the door as soon as we turn up her driveway; she must have been waiting and watching, even though I’m only a few minutes late.
“It’s so dark,” she says, as an explanation, and I don’t reply.
Inside, the house feels warm and welcoming, like a huge hug enveloping me that I instinctively resist. The kitchen is full of inviting smells and sounds; the rest of Ally’s family is there, and I do a double take at the sight of her husband standing at the counter, opening a bottle of wine, and her son, a dark-haired teenager, setting the table.
“Beth.” Her husband sounds delighted to see me. “I’m Nick. I’m so glad to meet you.” He holds out his hand and when I take it, he gives me a firm handshake. He’s that kind of man—purposeful, assured, with an effortless friendliness. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”
That’s the last thing I expect, and I glance at Ally, who looks surprised, but quickly masks it with a friendly smile.
“Yes, Beth. Why don’t you join us?”
The unexpected invitation puts me in a ferment of surprise and discomfort; I really didn’t expect this, and obviously Ally didn’t either. Is it even allowed?
The table is set for four, but Nick is already beckoning to the son to lay another plate, although I haven’t said anything. Part of me desperately wants to say yes, and another part of me wants to run away as fast as I can. I don’t belong here—and yet my son does?
I look down at Dylan, and he smiles at me, shyly, hopefully, and I am decided.
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be really nice.”
18
ALLY
