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Nick looks down, abashed.
“He’s been cared for,” he says quietly. “Honestly, Beth…” He trails off and I don’t reply. I can’t. Dylan is right there in the family room, listening to every word. I just keep cleaning the kitchen, and Nick lets me.
“Is Emma all right?” I ask abruptly, when the kitchen is nearly clean. I feel a flicker of guilt for not asking earlier, no more.
“She’s coming home with Ally. But…” He shakes his head, looking near tears again. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know what this seems like, but, honestly, Dylan has been cared for.”
“He needs to get ready for bed.”
Nick nods, humbly. “Do you want to give him a bath, or should—”
“I will,” I practically spit, and I walk towards Dylan. He looks up from the tower he’s been constructing, his expression wary as he scans my face. I try to smile. “Hey Dylan, guess what? Mommy’s going to give you a bath tonight.” Dylan frowns and then gives his head a little shake, and it feels like a punch to the gut. “Don’t you want me to?”
After another second, he nods, the movement barely detectable, and I reach for his hand.
Dylan is docile in the tub, which is a huge whirlpool one with jets and fancy taps, naturally. I scoop water in my hands and pour it over his back the way I used to, but it doesn’t feel the same. Nothing does. It’s as if we’re out of sync; we’ve lost that natural, easy rhythm that I realize now I took for granted. Whenever Dylan looks at me, I see a shadow of worry in his eyes, and I am so afraid he’s worried not about closed doors or broccoli or strangers, but about me. The thought is so intolerable, I simply force myself to stop thinking about it.
I am in his bedroom, drying his hair with a towel, Dylan in a pair of new Cars pajamas, when I hear the front door open and close, followed by footsteps, and Ally’s weary voice.
“Nick…?”
Dylan tenses and so do I, and then we exchange a taut look before he twists away from me and hurries downstairs. I sink onto his bed, the wet towel in my hands, and listen as my son runs towards his foster mother.
I can’t hear their joyful reunion from upstairs, but I can imagine it. I look around Dylan’s bedroom, with its big double bed piled high with pillows, the puzzles and games stacked in the bookcase. I rise from the bed and open a drawer in the dresser, surveying all the neatly folded clothes, some new, some clearly secondhand, that Ally got for him. I take a deep breath as I close the drawer, knowing I need to go downstairs.
I do so slowly, sensing already that Ally won’t be pleased I’m here. She won’t want me to see her kitchen, her family, her life, as anything less than gleaming and perfect, and yet I already have.
As I come into the kitchen, everyone stills to form an unthinking tableau—Ally by the sink, Dylan next to her, Nick by the stairs to the family room, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. A young woman, with dark hair like Nick’s and Ally’s brown eyes, is sitting in a chair at the kitchen table, her blank expression sharpening as she sees me. For a long, strange moment, no one speaks.
“Beth,” Ally finally says, and I can’t discern her tone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here this afternoon,” she says after another moment.
“If you’ve been having difficulty, you should have spoken to Monica.” I speak levelly, trying not to sound accusing, but Ally closes her eyes as if I’ve said something distressing or even intolerable.
“The situation is under control,” she says, opening her eyes. Briefly, she touches Dylan’s shoulder. “Dylan has been fine. But I appreciate this afternoon wasn’t…” Just like Nick earlier, she can’t finish the sentence, and I hate the fact that somehow I’m the bad guy in this scenario.
“All I’m saying is, according to all the guidelines and regulations I’ve read, if your home situation changes, you need to inform the proper authorities.”
From her place at the kitchen table, Emma lets out a disbelieving huff, and that makes me angrier. Who the hell is she to pass judgment? To act as if I’m the outrageous one? I have no choice but to entrust them with my child, while one of theirs tried to kill herself. Don’t I have a right to be concerned?
“Our home situation has not changed,” Ally says. Her hand rests on Dylan’s shoulder. “But I appreciate that you might have concerns, and if you do, then by all means speak to Monica or Susan.” She presses her lips together and meets my gaze, and in her eyes, I see both exhaustion and a torment of emotion, and I experience a rush of guilt, even though I don’t want to. This is not my fault. I’m not responsible for her child, yet she is responsible for mine.
I shake my head, because even though I do have concerns, I don’t want Dylan to be given to somebody else, passed around like the hot potato nobody wants. And, if I’m painfully honest, I’m not sure I’m ready for him home with me yet, not that DCF would make such an offer. My life still feels like a mess, and whenever I’d imagined getting Dylan back, I always had it all together—emotionally, mentally, physically, financially.
The silence in the room stretches on. Emma picks at the frayed cuff of her oversized cardigan, her head lowered. Nick rocks on his heels. Ally sways where she stands, and Dylan watches me with that wary expression I feel like an accusation, a judgment.
“All I’m saying is, it’s good to communicate about these things,” I finally say. “It all starts to fall apart if you keep secrets.”
“We’re not keeping—” Nick begins, but he falls silent at a look from Ally.
“You’re right,” she tells me. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.” Her apology has the effect of silencing me, because what can I say to that? Damn straight I’m right?
Nick glances at the clock above the stove, and then quickly looks away. It’s nearly eight o’clock at night.
“I should go,” I say. “Monica told you that I have two visits a week now, Tuesdays and Saturdays?”
“Yes, she mentioned that,” Ally says.
“So I’ll come by at one on Saturday.”
