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His head is bent over the pie, his dark lashes fanning his cheeks as he sprinkles the sugar with painstaking concentration. Every few seconds, he looks up at me, a shadow of anxiety in his eyes, to check that he is doing it correctly, and I lavish him with praise—he soaks it up like a sponge, basking in it like a cat sleeping in the sunshine.
As he finishes the pie, I take the risk of doing the unexpected and dot a bit of cinnamon sugar on his nose. He blinks in surprise, and then shyly touches his nose, catching the sparkling grains of sugar, before licking them off his finger. I smile, and he laughs—the first time I’ve heard him laugh—the sound as pure and crystalline as a ringing bell.
“Again,” he says, and I am so shocked that for a second I simply stare. Is he even aware that he spoke?
He waits expectantly, and some deep instinct tells me not to make too much of this moment.
“Okay, Dylan,” I say casually, and I dot another bit of sugar on his nose. He wipes it off again and licks his finger, giving another little laugh, and then I smile and cover the pies for later, trying to act as if this moment is normal and expected, and not unbearably poignant and wonderfully sweet.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of sorrow punctuated by moments of fragile happiness—Josh comes to the table and hurls himself in a chair as if he can think of nothing worse than eating a meal that has taken me four hours to prepare. Even Nick seems preoccupied, unable to summon the same level of genial bonhomie he usually has on these occasions, when we’re all together and he is at the head of the table, carving knife and wine glass to hand. Now he puts his phone by his plate. I cut Dylan’s turkey for him, and he smiles at me.
It’s always been our tradition to say one thing—just one thing—that we are thankful for as we are eating the meal, and with aching effort, I summon the energy to remind my family of this. Josh looks blank and Nick looks trapped.
“Come on,” I say firmly, trying for cheer. “There has to be something.”
“I’m thankful for this wonderful meal,” Nick says, giving me a shamefaced smile. He knows he should make more of an effort.
“Thank you.” I steel myself as I turn to my son. “Josh?” He shrugs. “One thing.” I’m not looking for a showdown, but if it comes to that, fine.
“The meal, I guess,” he half-mumbles, and I feel like pounding the table in frustration. Is that all you can manage? I don’t say it.
“Dylan?” I say, smiling at him, and after a few seconds’ pause, he points to me. My heart, battered thing that it is, heals just a little. I smile back at him.
“And I’m thankful for you,” I say, meaning it more than I ever thought possible.
We smile at each other, Josh exhales under his breath, a sort of non-verbal mutter, and after Nick says grace, we begin to eat.
I am just bringing out the pies that Dylan so proudly helped me with when the house phone rings. It’s so unusual for it to ring, everything goes to our cells, that Nick and I exchange a surprised look.
“It’s probably my parents,” I say. “I’ll call them back later.”
The phone switches to voicemail, and we hear the automated voice’s annoying staccato echo through the kitchen, followed by a beep, a pause, and then a message I never expected or wanted to hear:
“I’m calling for Ally Fielding, the mother of Emma Fielding? This is the Emergency department of Massachusetts General Hospital.”
23
BETH
The Tuesday after Thanksgiving I show up for my reg
ular visit with Dylan and, to my surprise, Nick answers the door. He’s haggard, unshaven, his shirt untucked. I stare.
“Sorry,” he says. “It’s been…” He shakes his head and lets me in.
I come cautiously, as if he’s dangerous. This is not at all what I expected. Panic is icing my insides, everything in me tense with a nameless dread.
“Where’s Dylan?”
Nick jerks his head back towards the kitchen. Dylan is where he has been the last two times I’ve come here, curled up on the sofa watching PBS Kids. But this time, the house is a mess—dirty dishes piled in the sink, a fetid smell of trash needing to be taken out in the air. An upturned box of cereal leaves a trail of stale Cheerios across the smeared counter. I look at Nick, who shrugs apologetically, and then I go to Dylan.
“Hey, Dyl.” I wrap my arms around him and he comes willingly, holding me tightly. My heart expands with relief—and anger. I turn to Nick and say as mildly as I can, “What’s going on?”
He rubs his jaw. “Ally’s not here.”
That much is all too obvious. “Where is she?”
“She’s…” He stops, shaking his head. “Emma…” he starts again, and his voice cracks. He covers his face with his hands while I watch, holding Dylan, struggling between a natural concern and a growing fury. If there was a problem, they should have told me. How has Dylan been affected by this—whatever this is?
