When You Were Mine

“There must be eight inches here,” Nick says, sounding both impressed and benevolent, almost as if he had something to do with it.

Ally murmurs something in reply, but I can’t hear what it is. She’s been pretty quiet for the whole journey, her expression preoccupied, her fingers tapping against her thigh, and I wonder what’s going on. Is she worried about Emma and her Harvard plans? Or is there something else?

At the farm, we troop into a barn that has been festooned with Christmas decorations right up to its beams, and are given a saw and a map.

“We always get a blue spruce,” Nick tells me, and I nod and smile even though Christmas trees look all the same to me.

Soon we are setting off in the snow, which sinks up past the edge of my boots and soaks my socks. I look for Dylan, but I see he has run ahead and is now walking hand in hand with Emma. I swallow my hurt and tell myself it’s fine. I’m not going to force anything. We don’t have to spend the entire afternoon in each other’s pockets.

“They’ve really bonded,” Ally says as she falls in step with me, a dozen feet behind everyone else. “Watching children’s shows on PBS Kids, of all things. I think Emma enjoys the simplicity.”

“How is Emma?” I’d rather talk about her with Ally than about Dylan.

Ally sighs. “She’s okay. She doesn’t talk to me about anything. She’s been home for over two weeks and we’ve barely had a conversation. I’m trying not to push, but… it’s hard.” She shoots me a quick, furtive sort of look. “Sorry. You don’t want to hear all this.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I don’t think it’s affecting Dylan’s care—”

I wave my hand. “Don’t worry about that.” It’s all too obvious Dylan is settled and happy with the Fieldings. Any protest I make now would be petty, and I don’t want to, anyway.

“I think it’s nice they’ve struck up this friendship,” Ally resumes quietly. “It feels… uncomplicated. And maybe that’s what they both needed.” She shoots me another one of those glances. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.” I dig my hands into the pockets of my jacket, which feels too thin now that the New England wind is cutting through it. “My relationship with Dylan is complicated. I do realize that.”

“I think every mother’s relationships with her children is complicated,” Ally says with a raggedy laugh. “I thought mine weren’t, but I’m discovering they are, very much so.”

“Because of Emma?” I ask cautiously. I appreciate her honesty, but it startles me.

“And Josh.” She presses her lips together as if she wished she didn’t say that much, but now I’m curious.

“What’s going on with Josh?”

“Oh…” Ally lets out a wavery laugh. “He’s made some bad choices. I suppose all teenagers do.”

“I certainly did.” I wonder what Josh is up to—alcohol? Drugs? Porn? Or maybe he just got a B in chemistry. I tell myself that’s not fair; Ally has one suicidal daughter already. Josh’s problems could be pretty serious.

“Did you?” Ally glances at me uncertainly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what were they? I mean… how…” She trails off and I grimace.

“How did I end up like this?”

“No, I don’t mean that,” she says quickly. “I just wondered… you don’t seem to have much support. Susan said something about it. Are your parents…”

“My dad lives in Bloomfield, but we’re basically estranged. My mother walked out in the spring of my senior year of high school, married someone else, and moved to New Hampshire.” I smile wryly as I do my best to relate this without bitterness. “It screwed me up, to be honest.”

“Oh Beth, I’m sorry.” Ally looks genuinely aggrieved on my behalf, and that comforts me.

“It was a long time ago now, and I wouldn’t have had Dylan if she hadn’t left.”

“Why…”

Briefly I give her the highlights of my misbegotten youth—the DUI, the withdrawal of my college offer, Dad kicking me out and Mom not wanting to know. And Marco.

“That all sounds so tough,” Ally says when I finish with what I hope passes for a wry shrug. She looks quietly appalled, and I’m wondering what she’s thinking. Has all I’ve said changed her opinion of me for better—or for worse? “Are you still in touch with your dad?” she asks. “Your mom?”

“Not really. I talk to my dad maybe once a year. My mom…” I blow out a breath. “A bit more. My therapist suggested I contact them, actually. Work to reconcile, or at least for some closure.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but it actually feels kind of good to talk to another woman, someone who has some wisdom and experience.

“And do you think you’ll do that?”