When You Were Mine

“Also…” Ally hesitates, looking a little shy, and now I am the one tensing. What else is she going to ask me? “We’re planning to go to a farm out near Granby to get our Christmas tree this weekend—it’s one of those old-fashioned farms where you can cut it down yourself. I thought Dylan would enjoy that.”

“I’m sure he would.” Is she just tormenting me now, telling me all the stuff she can do with my son, that I can’t? That I wouldn’t?

“And I was wondering if you’d like to join us? We could go on Sunday, so you could still have your Saturday with Dylan.” Ally pauses. “With the court hearing a month away, you know, I thought it would be good for you to have more time with him. And from what I’ve read on the foster care message boards, it’s not something you have to have approved by DCF, or anything like that. We can just go.”

“That…” I hesitate, my mind whirling from all she’d said. Christmas trees. More time with Dylan. Foster care message boards… what has she been posting on those? “That would be nice,” I say, because of course I am going to accept. There’s absolutely no question about that.

At this point, whether well-meaning Ally realizes it or not, I am in a battle with her for the love of my son.

26

ALLY

The morning after Emma comes home, I wake up groggy and heavy-hearted, to the sound of music and laughter from downstairs. It’s so incongruous to how I’m feeling, as well as to how the evening ended yesterday, with Nick and I in silent disagreement and despair, that at first I think it must be coming from the TV.

I check the clock and see that it’s half past eight, and my heart lurches with alarm as I scramble out of bed. I usually take Dylan to school at eight fifteen, and Josh should have caught the bus an hour ago. I set my alarm for six forty-five. What’s going on?

I grab my bathrobe and thrust my arms into the sleeves, already heading downstairs as I knot the sash. I come into the kitchen and blink in surprise, fighting blank incomprehension. I feel like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a sitcom, or the alternate reality fashioned from my wistful, woebegone dreams.

Nick is at the stove, flipping pancakes. He’s swathed in his “Kiss the Cook” apron, which he wears for the rare occasions when he makes a meal—Saturday breakfast, or the occasional multi-ingredient stir fry. Josh is setting the table, a bit sullenly, but still, and Emma and Dylan are curled up on the sofa watching Arthur on PBS Kids. Dylan’

s head is on Emma’s shoulder, her arm around him, even though they must have only met this morning. All of it, every single bit, fills me with a sense of unreality, along with a fragile unfurling of hope, so I could burst into tears right there.

“What…” I shake my head, unable even to finish that question.

“I turned off your alarm,” Nick explains. “I thought you needed the sleep.”

“But it’s after eight-thirty.” I try not to sound panicked. “Dylan and Josh should be at school.”

“I thought we’d all take the day off,” Nick says easily. “And don’t worry, I’ve already called the school and explained we were having a family day. They were fine with it.”

“Were they?” The principal, along with Monica, have drilled into my head the importance of routine for Dylan, and this is decidedly off-piste, but how can I possibly complain when everyone seems so… happy?

“There’s coffee,” Nick says with a nod towards the coffeemaker. “Fresh.”

“Thanks.” I reach for a mug, trying to untangle the unsettling jumble of my thoughts. I’m happy and hopeful, of course, but there is also a little nettle-sting of resentment buried in the gratitude. I’ve been trying so hard, and the second I’m asleep, everyone decides to become easy?

Of course I know that thought is utterly unreasonable, shamefully petty, and I banish it immediately. I don’t want to think things like that, even for a second, and so I choose not to. I turn around, leaning against the counter as I take my first much-needed sip of coffee.

“So what brought all this on?” I ask Nick.

He shrugs and flips another perfectly round and golden pancake. “I just thought we could all use a reset.”

“Definitely.” I glance at Josh, and then Emma and Dylan snuggled on the sofa. “How was Emma this morning?” I ask, lowering my voice.

“She seemed okay.”

“She and Dylan seem to be getting along.”

“You know, I can actually hear you, Mom,” Emma calls.

I give Nick a shame-faced smile as I call back to her. “Sorry.”

“I love Arthur,” she continues. “Although someone else is doing his voice now. Weird.”

“Someone else?” Josh calls from the table. “No way.”

I struggle not to do a double-take. My children are actually bantering. If someone walked in on this scene, they’d think we were a happy, harmonious family. Yet I can’t keep from feeling a sense of unreality, an expectation that someone will shout “cut” and we’ll all go back to our usual morose places.