When You Were Mine

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes, a bit.” I opened the cupboard for a mug. “He must have woken up in the night and forgotten where he was. I’m not surprised he got scared.”

Nick rubbed his jaw as he reached for a mug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“There’s bound to be an adjustment period.”

Nick made a noncommittal noise and I felt myself getting irritated. “What is it?”

He looked at me defensively, a bit injured. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know, but you’re thinking something. What?”

He stared at me and I stared back; we knew each other too well to prevaricate. Finally Nick sighed. “All right, fine. I didn’t expect him to be so… weird. I mean, I thought he’d talk.”

“He does talk.” Nick gave me an eloquent look of disbelief. “Apparently, he does. We just haven’t heard him yet.”

“You know what I mean.”

Yes, I did, but that didn’t keep it from annoying me. I wanted Nick to be more compassionate, more patient, more involved. And I wanted him to be all those things without me having to say so. “These kids aren’t made to order,” I told him. “They’re bound to have issues. Insecurities. That’s why they’re with us. Why we’re helping them.”

Nick let out a sigh, as if I’d just said what he’d expected me to. “I know, Ally,” he replied, and he poured us both coffee. The conversation felt over.

We developed a rhythm over the next few days, but it wasn’t one I was completely happy with. I’d been planning to register Dylan for school, as Monica had suggested, but then she had called to tell me Beth hadn’t agreed to the voluntary placement after all, and so I was to hold off putting him into school until the court hearing next week.

“And if the court decides he belongs with her…?” I ventured tentatively.

“Then he’ll go back immediately. But if they don’t, then we’ll probably be looking at a slightly longer placement. A minimum of three months, rather than a maximum.”

I didn’t let myself dwell on either possibility for too long. Instead, I just tried to get through each day, and really, it wasn’t that hard. Dylan was so very quiet, and when I got some old jigsaws out of the cupboard, he amused himself for hours putting them together and then taking them apart again.

But even when he was being quiet, I was conscious of his presence, and it made me anxious because I never knew what might set him off. One afternoon, I gave him a snack of grapes and he started screaming again and hurled them to the floor, breaking a bowl that had been part of my wedding china. Stupid of me to have used it, I know. It was only after I’d cleaned it all up that I remembered he’d indicated he didn’t like grapes, but still. He didn’t have to act as if I’d tried to poison him.

I knew those types of thoughts were unfair, and they made me feel guilty. I didn’t want to think like that. I wanted to be magnanimous and generous and loving and patient, and for the most part, I think I was, but inside my head there was a snarl of unpleasant thoughts that I was ashamed to voice even just to myself. I certainly wasn’t going to admit any of them to Julie now, even though I could tell by her alert expression and wide eyes that she wanted all the juicy details.

“Just okay?” she asks, and I shrug.

“It hasn’t been easy, but it hasn’t been terrible. About what I expected.” And yet so not.

Julie nods and sips her wine. “So why was he taken into care?”

“I don’t know.” I called Monica once, hoping for a little more information about Dylan, but she didn’t answer. I left a voicemail but she hasn’t called back, so I’m as in the dark as ever.

“Do you think he was abused?”

“I really don’t know, Julie.” I love my friend, but I find her questions, this unabashed digging for details, unpleasant and distasteful. She’s treating Dylan as if he is a guest on The Jerry Springer Show, his life offered up as fair game to be analyzed and dissected, and then discarded.

“And you haven’t met the mom?” She has either not registered my discouraging tone or chosen to ignore it.

“Not yet.” Monica did text me that the planned visit had been postponed, which I was fine with.

“But you will?”

“At some point, yes, I think so.”

Julie finally seems to register my unwillingness to talk about it, for she sighs and sits back. “Well, I admire you, Ally, I really do. There aren’t many people who would do what you’re doing.”

“Which is part of the problem.” I take a sip of my wine, closing my eyes briefly as I enjoy its velvety warmth. In the last few days, the Indian summer has given way to a more seasonable chill. This morning, there was a thick white frost on the ground, the maple leaves that had fallen from the big tree in our backyard scarlet rimmed in white.