When You Were Mine

Nick’s eyes were nearly as wild as Dylan’s. “Hey. Hey,” he said shakily, a weak attempt at calming him down. “It’s okay, Dylan…”

I picked up the towel and wrapped it around him more firmly. “Let’s find your jammies, Dylan. Do you know where they are?”

I glanced at Nick, who shrugged helplessly and spread his hands.

“It was all going fine,” he said. “He had a bath. He loved it. Then we came in here and he just went—”

“That’s enough.” I knew it was hard not to talk as if Dylan wasn’t here, especially when he didn’t speak, but I also knew we needed to talk to Dylan, not about him. I reached for the backpack we’d ended up not unpacking because of the bunny detour. “Let’s find your jammies, Dylan,” I said again.

Fortunately he stopped screaming as I fished a raggedy pair of Blues Clues pajamas out of the backpack—they were far too small, but I helped him into them, mentally adding pajamas to the shopping list I’d been composing in my head.

The rest of the evening went okayish; I read Dylan a story and tucked him into bed. Nick had disappeared again, back to his office, and it occurred to me what an escape hatch it was turning out to be, since I had to go outside to the garage to fetch him back. He was probably banking on me not wanting to make the effort, or leave Dylan alone.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” Nick asked, sotto voce, as we got ready for bed three hours later. Josh had stayed holed up in his room, and thankfully Dylan had stayed asleep.

“There’s nothing wrong with him.” I sounded irritable, and I wasn’t sure why. I couldn’t decide how much I resented Nick going to the office and leaving me to deal with Dylan alone. In some ways it was easier, but it still felt unfair.

“I mean the—What did you call it? Selectively dumb.”

“Selectively mute.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Please don’t be PC with me. Save it for the social workers.”

“Words matter, Nick.” I sounded prissy even to myself, but I couldn’t help it. Even after several productive and calming hours of tidying up and shopping for some toys and games on Amazon, I still felt edgy about everything. I had no idea what tomorrow would hold.

“Why do you think he’s selectively mute, then?” Nick asked, putting unnecessary emphasis on the words I’d told him to say.

“I don’t know. A coping strategy, maybe.”

“Do you think he’s been abused?” Nick gave me a frank look. “I looked him over when he was in the tub, and I didn’t see any bruises or burns or anything like that.”

“That’s good, I guess.” I shook my head. I was exhausted, and I wanted to read my book and not think about Dylan for a little while. “Hopefully we’ll learn more from Monica when she visits in a couple of days.”

Nick seemed content not to continue the conversation, and we did our usual twenty minutes of reading in bed, although for Nick that was swiping through news articles on his phone. I was trying to get into this month’s book-club selection, a rather pretentious tome with a lot of overblown language, but my mind kept skimming away.

I was tired but I couldn’t sleep; Nick dropped off almost right away, but I lay in bed, rigid yet trying to relax, straining my ears for any noise. I heard Josh open his door and then, a few minutes later, the flush of the toilet. It was after midnight and he should have been in bed over an hour ago, but I’d forgotten to remind him, or to check if he’d done his homework. I would have to do better tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after. Right then, the days marched ahead, each one feeling impossible to fathom, never mind get through.

Another hour and I dozed in and out of sleep, my eyes gritty every time I opened them. And then, almost as if I’d been waiting for it, and I think I probably was, Dyl

an started screaming again, that piercing note splitting the still night air.

Nick lurched up in bed, hair standing on end, eyes wild. “What the—”

“I’ll deal with it.”

I ran into Dylan’s room, tripping over a backpack, and ending up half-sprawled on the bed. “It’s okay, Dylan, it’s okay,” I kept saying, as I reached sightlessly for him in the darkness. When I connected with his shoulder, he flinched away. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I was dazed as I righted myself and sat on the edge of the bed, willing him to calm down, or at least to stop screaming.

The hours of that night blurred together; I can’t remember what happened when, or how, only that at some point Dylan stopped screaming, and I was so very tired, my head drooping towards my chest as I waited for him to fall back asleep, but every time I thought he had, I’d get up as quietly as I could and tiptoe towards the door, only to have him whimper and fling a hand out towards me. It was like having a newborn baby again.

Eventually, too exhausted to continue the same futile pattern, I stretched out next to him and fell asleep. When I woke, it was past dawn, greyish early-morning light filtering through the curtains. From outside, I heard the clatter of bottles as the recycling bins were being emptied; we’d forgotten to take ours out. My body ached and my head pounded, but at least I’d slept.

I turned on my side and saw that Dylan was still asleep, long, dark lashes fanned out on his cheeks, which were as round and smooth as peaches. His lips were slightly pursed and he had his bunny tucked in close to his chest. He looked so young, so innocent, that my heart broke all over again for whatever he’d seen and endured in his short life. I wanted to make our house a loving home for him, for however long I could.

I slipped out of bed, grateful that he didn’t wake, and headed downstairs for a much-needed cup of coffee. Nick was already brewing it as I came into the kitchen, still in his pajamas, his hair rumpled and his face bleary.

“How long was he screaming for?”

I prickled at that, although I wasn’t sure why. “Not too long. He settled eventually.”