When You Were Mine

I am silent as I serve out the beef stew. Nick has gone into genial host mode, which he does so well, far better than I ever can, especially in these unusual circumstances. He is chatting easily, offering Beth wine, which she accepts, taking a sip from her very full glass almost immediately. I shouldn’t judge, I know that, and yet part of me still does.

Even Josh is rising to the occasion, helping Dylan cut the chunks of beef in his stew, something I’ve never seen him do before, although he has been making a bit more of an effort with Dylan—saying hello, or putting on PBS Kids in the morning. We’ve developed a rhythm over these last few weeks; it’s not perfect, but it works. Dylan has settled into school, even if he is still silent.

Last week, he had a psychiatric evaluation, and on Thursday afternoon, I took him to his first cognitive behavior therapy session. I don’t know what his diagnosis is, if any, but Monica said she’d keep me informed.

His therapist, Mark, is a very chilled guy, who seemed to feel the session was successful. Apparently Dylan drew a lot of pictures. He was happy to go in, and just as happy to come out. In fact, in the week and a half since Dylan started school, he’s had far fewer meltdowns, and he’s mostly stopped waking up at night. He still doesn’t talk, and he occasionally falls apart, but it’s all been easier than I expected.

In fact, it feels as if it’s my own family that’s falling apart, although no one is noticing but me. I still haven’t talked to Nick about Josh, and when I went into his bedroom a few days ago, the roll of money was gone. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried than ever. I knew I should have dealt with it sooner; what actually happened to that money? Do I ever want to know?

And as for Emma… I tried to talk to her during our dinner in Boston, but she remained monosyllabic, not meeting my eyes. I even asked if she was angry with me, braving that honesty, and she shrugged and asked me why I would think that. But when I said because she hadn’t really been talking to me, Emma just rolled her eyes and told me I was overreacting, as usual. The as usual stung, and I tried to pursue it; we went around in circles for a few minutes before, defeated, I finally dropped it.

Beth takes a seat next to Dylan, sipping her wine as her gaze darts around, taking us all in. From the outside, it looks like a perfectly pastoral scene—the stew in the center, the warm lighting, the full table. I want to believe in this scene, I want to take it at face value, but at the same time, I am afraid to. I am afraid it will collapse like a cardboard cutout, leaving nothing behind.

“So, Beth, do you live in West Hartford?”

“Yes, just off Boulevard.”

So close? I am discomfited by this realization, while Nick takes it in his stride. As he chats to Beth, I learn that she grew up in Bloomfield, where her father still lives. She works freelance making jewelry to sell on Shopify, and Nick duly writes down the address of her website, and even intimates he’ll buy some pieces for Emma or me.

“What about you?” Beth asks after we’ve finished our beef stew and the conversation has started to dry up. “You have a daughter… Emma?”

“Yes, she’s at college in Boston. Freshman.” Nick’s voice rings out with pride.

“And you’re a junior?” she asks Josh, who mumbles something in the affirmative. “You’re going to go to college?”

“Um, yeah.” Josh looks nonplussed by the question; of course he’s going to go to college.

“That’s nice.” There is something wistful about Beth’s tone and she doesn’t ask anything more as she rises to help clear the dishes.

“You don’t have to…” I begin, but Beth just ignores me. She’s been ignoring me all evening, at least I think she has. Maybe I’m just overreacting. As usual. But she hasn’t addressed me directly, and she doesn’t reply now, as she clears plates and I get some ice cream out of the freezer for an impromptu dessert.

Dylan has stayed silent through the whole meal, as usual, and his gaze tracks Beth as she moves between table and counter before coming to sit beside him. She gives him a reassuring smile and he looks away.

I can’t help but feel guilty about his new clothes and coat, the way I brushed his hair. I saw Beth take it all in, and I knew she didn’t like it, but the truth was, Dylan’s clothes were practically threadbare, and his coat wasn’t appropriate for winter. As his foster parent, I have a duty of care to make sure he has suitable clothing. As for his hair… well, I didn’t cut it, I know I’m not allowed without her permission, but I do like it better that way. I can see his eyes. But I knew Beth resented each and every thing, and I couldn’t blame her for it, even as I felt defensive.

I dole out the ice cream, and Josh gobbles his in a few seconds before saying he has homework. Nick pours out the last of the wine, but nobody but he drinks it.

“I should go,” Beth says reluctantly. She gives Dylan what I can only describe as a hungry look. “Maybe next week, Dylan, we can go back home for a bit? I’ve got some new craft stuff you’d like. Some Play-Doh…”

Dylan hesitates before giving a quick nod.

Beth reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his slight body and drawing him close. “I’ll see you soon, Dyl,” she whispers and I busy myself stacking plates in the dishwasher, trying not to seem invasive. Nick is watching them openly, a slight frown on his face. I feel like telling him to stop, but I can’t without being obvious.

A few minutes later, with a brief goodbye and mumbled thanks, she leaves, and I let out a little sigh of relief. I didn’t realize just how tense I was, having Beth here, until she’s gone.

“That was nice,” Nick remarks as he comes back into the room. He raises his eyebrows at Dylan. “Bath time, buddy?”

Dylan trots off happily enough; it’s become their thing. Pretty much their only thing, but that’s okay.

I keep cleaning the kitchen, trying to sort out my thoughts even as I try to keep from thinking at all. I should log Beth’s visit, along with the rest of Dylan’s day, something I’ve had to do every day since he came here. I am tempted to go onto one of the online foster parents’ message boards and surf for posts about socializing with birth parents, but I know I’ll get a lot of complaining and then a lot of sanctimonious responses and I don’t feel like reading either.

“That went pretty well, I think,” Nick says as he comes back into the kitchen. I realize I must have been staring into space for a while, if bath time is already over.

“Where’s Dylan?”

“Playing in his room.”

I nod slowly. Ever since I bought some puzzles and Lego for Dylan’s room, he’ll play there quite happily, sometimes for hours.