When You Were Mine

I let out a hiccup of tremulous laughter and do as she says.

We pull up in front of the courtroom at eight thirty-two. Ally lets me out while she goes to park. There are three people in the security line, and my attorney, Lisa, is waiting on the other side as I practically stumble towards her. She smiles when she sees me; it’s now eight-forty.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I half-mumble, trying to flatten my hair down in the back.

“It’s fine,” she says briskly. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

I start to relax for what feels like the first time in weeks. Months. There are damp patches on the underarms of my blouse and my hair is still a little wild, but I’m here. I made it.

“So we’ll be hearing from Dylan’s caseworker as well as the Fieldings’ written statements,” Lisa explains. “And the judge will also look at the reports that have been filed from Dylan’s teacher, his therapist, and his psychiatrist who did the evaluation.”

“I’m not sure he liked me,” I say, trying for some sort of smile, but I sound and feel near tears, especially when I think of that damned evaluation, of having any part of it read aloud.

Lisa puts a comforting hand on my arm. “This isn’t about being liked or disliked. Everyone involved in this case wants to see you and Dylan reunited, Beth. Everyone.”

“It hasn’t always felt that way,” I mumble, ducking my head, and Lisa squeezes my arm.

“I know.”

As we head into the courtroom, I fight a sickening wave of terror that threatens to completely undo me. I feel like fainting, or throwing up, or running away. Maybe all three. I’m afraid of everything that is going to be said and heard, the judgments that need to be made as a necessity. The way people will look at me, and also the way they won’t. I am, quite literally, on trial.

I’m afraid of getting Dylan back and having him hate me; I’m afraid of not getting him back and maybe even losing him forever. I’m afraid, so afraid, but I’m here, and as we take our seats, I see Ally hurry in and sit in the back. As I glance at her, she gives me a wide smile and a thumbs up. I smile back as hope—faint, fragile, precious—unfurls within me. Whoever would have thought it would be Ally, of all people, who got me here, who stayed by my side?

A few seconds later, the door opens for the judge to enter. Another wave of terror rolls through me as I stiffen my spine. I’m here to fight for my son, and I’m going to do it. I know it won’t end here in this courtroom, that there will be many battles ahead of me. Battles for Dylan, battles with Dylan. Battles fought for love, to be the best mother I can, just as Ally is trying to be. I straighten my shoulders as the bailiff intones, “All rise.”

Epilogue

BETH

Eighteen months later

“What about this one?” Mike calls, and holding Dylan’s hand, I stroll towards him. It’s a beautiful June day, warm but not hot, the sky a robin’s-egg blue, the air sweet and drowsy.

“Maybe,” I tell him as I peer in the dusty window. I glance down at Dylan with a smile. “What do you think, Dyl?”

He shrugs and looks at the empty storefront. “Maybe,” he parrots me.

It’s been a long, hard year and a half, since the judge listened to all my flaws and strengths, her face impassive, and then decided in my favor. Susan hugged me, and so did Ally. I cried, and tried not to, and then realized it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t on trial any longer.

That day in court, Dylan was returned to me. According to the law, I could have picked him up from school that afternoon and that would have been that. He never had to see the Fieldings again if I didn’t want him to. We could have simply walked away from them all. Once, that is exactly what I would have wanted.

Fortunately, though, that’s not the way it happened. Ally and I agreed to have a more gradual approach, for all our sakes. Dylan came home with me that night, but he spent many afternoons at the Fieldings’, and he still does. Josh has been his Cubs leader since March.

As idyllic as all that sounds, it hasn’t been easy. That first night, Dylan flailed and screamed for hours, and I could hardly blame him. I lay next to him as he hit his hea

d against the floor and did my best to speak calmly, although I was in tears too. I was trying to be less emotional, less panicked, but it was so hard. I still felt alone, even though I knew I wasn’t. Not anymore.

Slowly, so slowly, as the weeks and months passed, we began to find a new normal. Dylan continued at school, and with therapy, and so did I. We saw the Fieldings regularly, and I began dating Mike for real. I made friends in unexpected places; Diane got in touch with me. She decided to keep custody of Peter, and we’ve met up a few times, with the boys. I never heard from Angelica again. I’ve seen my mother a few times. I even wrote my father a letter, and he didn’t respond, and that was okay. All of it has been progress, of one kind or another.

Dylan has started speaking more—not much, not yet, but enough. He has a friend in school named Jenna. She is autistic, and Larissa tells me they’re pretty much inseparable.

And now we’re here, on this beautiful June day in the center of Bloomfield, to look at potential retail spaces for Crafty Kids, the shop I’m hoping to open, with the help of a business loan—in part thanks to Nick—and also Ally’s offer of doing my accounts for free. I can hardly believe it’s even a glimmer of possibility, but it is.

“What do you think?” Ally calls as she, Nick, Josh, and Emma come down the street. We’ve agreed to meet in Bloomfield to look at possible spaces and then go out for a pizza.

“I’m not sure. It might be too small.”

“But it might not,” Ally says cheerfully. She’s had her challenges this last year and a half, as well. About a year ago, Josh was suspended again, this time for drinking at school. Emma quit the job at the music shop and drifted for a while, depressed and aimless.