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But it doesn’t feel okay as we say goodbye, promising to talk soon, and when I end the call, the silence in the apartment seems weirdly loud, like a ringing in my ears. I have a sudden urge to make a noise, to scream, but I don’t.
I half-wish I’d said yes to Mike, even as it feels impossible. Yet the whole evening empty in front of me feels impossible too. And another and another and another—nearly ninety evenings like this at least.
What will I do? How will I survive?
And then I think about how if I can’t go back to the beginning and reset, then I want to skip to the end. It would be so easy. I’d go to the doctor, I’d tell him how I’m not sleeping, how I’m depressed. He’d prescribe something—I’ve never taken anything before, so I don’t think I would be seen as a risk.
And then I’d sit on my bed and swallow all the pills with a mouthful of water. I’d curl up on my side and just drift away. It really would be that easy.
But of course I can’t do that, even though right now I want to, with that same gut-kick sense of urgency I had at Ally’s, when I almost ran out of the house. But I didn’t, and I’m not going to do this, either.
Because of Dylan.
Dylan. I need to remember why I’m here, who is important. Dylan. Everything I do is for him.
14
ALLY
“You ready, bud?”
I give Dylan what I hope is a cheerful smile as I unbuckle my seatbelt. It’s eight-twenty in the morning and we’re parked in the lot in front of the local elementary school that Emma and Josh used to attend. A line of long yellow school buses has pulled up in front, and children are trotting in with backpacks and lunchboxes, all under an azure sky, the scene framed by the scarlet leaves of the trees in the school yard. It’s a quintessential American moment, and yet I don’t yet know where we fit into it.
Two days ago, Susan and Monica both came over and went over Dylan’s action plan with Nick and me—I asked him to stay so he’d know what was going on, and thankfully, with some badly masked reluctance, he agreed.
He’d been surprised that we still had Dylan on Tuesday evening when he’d come home from work, but he’d tried to cover it, giving Dylan a cheerful smile and then sitting down and doing a puzzle with him before dinner. I appreciated the effort, even if things were a little strained between us still.
There was a lot to take in from Susan—a plan for Dylan to go to school, and a raft of appointments over the next few weeks—pediatrician, dentist, psychiatric assessment, and weekly sessions with a cognitive behavioral therapist.
Susan had been liaising with the school, so Dylan would have his own special education assistant to help him, at least at the beginning, but the truth is, I cannot imagine him going into school willingly, and staying there all day.
“What if school doesn’t work out?” I asked Susan and Monica, as we sat at the kitchen table with the papers spread out before us.
“Helping Dylan assimilate to a school environment is a crucial part of his action plan,” Susan said, which wasn’t actually an answer. “It’s important that we are all committed to it.”
“Is Beth committed to it?” Nick asked unexpectedly, and Susan nodded.
“She has agreed, yes.”
“Well, we’ll certainly do our best.” I lifted my gaze to the view of the backyard, where Josh was attempting to kick a ball with Dylan. Dylan wasn’t really playing, but it heartened me to see them together, and that Josh was at least trying.
Yesterday we’d spent nearly two hours at the pediatrician, getting all Dylan’s health forms filled out, including giving him a boatload of vaccinations he’d never had.
“He has no record of any vaccinations?” The nurse had asked me with more than a hint of censure in her voice and I’d shrugged apologetically.
“He’s… he’s not mine.” I regretted phrasing it that way as soon as I said the words. Dylan’s expression didn’t change, but I felt something from him, a sort of mental flinch. “I’m his foster mother,” I amended. “He’s been living with us for the last nine days.”
Dylan did spookily well with the needles. I remembered having to hold a screaming Emma down with the help of two nurses, but Dylan simply sat there, and he didn’t even make a sound when the needle went in—again and again, because he had to have so many. By the time we were done, both arms were speckled with colorful Band-Aids, and he’d stayed completely silent.
“Aren’t you a brave boy?” the nurse said, thawing from earlier, but then she gave me a look of sympathy, as if she knew Dylan’s reaction, or lack of it, to having the vaccinations was a bit off. It had made things easier, especially since he had to have another round in two months, but it seemed weird; I’d been fully expecting to have to have him in a wrestling hold while the nurse administered the shots. I realized then how little I understood him; I didn’t know what upset him, or what didn’t.
We went to Dunkin Donuts afterwards for what was meant to be a post-doctor treat, but as soon as the door closed behind us, Dylan started screaming. I hustled him out as quickly as I could, wondering why Dunkin Donuts set him off and four needles into his arms didn’t, and we had a chocolate milk at home instead.
And now we’re here, and I really am wondering how this is going to work.
“So this is your new school, Dylan,” I say as I help him out of the car. He has a new lunchbox—a Cars one, like his backpack—and he carries it carefully, like a briefcase. He hasn’t responded to any of the changes in the last few days how I expected him to—with resistance, screaming, tantrums. He’d just been eerily silent and wide-eyed, blank-faced. It’s definitely a little spooky, but at least it makes it easier. Still, I’m worried about leaving him. He looks so small.
We walk hand in hand to the doors; the principal, a friendly, round-faced woman, and Dylan’s special ed assistant, a hip-looking African-American woman with braided, waist-length hair, are waiting for him in the office as we come in. They both give him wide smiles as we enter the room, and while Dylan doesn’t smile back, he doesn’t scream, either.
