“No, it can’t.” The realization burns through me and suddenly I am angry, and it feels so much better than reeling with devastation did. That can’t be right. Susan had said there was paperwork to sign, but I didn’t sign a single thing. Now that I am thinking about it properly, she didn’t explain anything to me, not really. She just took my son. “I don’t know what to do,” I tell Mike, and I watch as he reaches for his phone and swipes the screen.
“Let me look it up. There’s got to be some information online.”
I wait anxiously, conscious he’s on company time, and that if someone comes in, it could be awkward for him. I should have looked this stuff up last night, but I was so numb and blank inside, I couldn’t think about anything. Now I can.
What we learn from a legal website is basically what Susan told me—that DCF is able to take Dylan for ninety-six hours without a court order, but after that, unless I agree to the voluntary placement she was suggesting, there has to be a court hearing, and I have to be given an attorney. It’s both reassuring and terrifying. I don’t want to go to court, but I also don’t want to hand over my child like he’s some spare change.
“I think you should go to court,” Mike says as he slides his phone back in his pocket. “I can be a character witness, if needed. I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know if they call character witnesses for this type of hearing; I don’
t know anything at all. I’m scared to talk to a lawyer, to set this all in motion, but what is the alternative? I just roll over and do whatever Susan says, trust everything she tells me?
Another customer comes into the store, cutting short our conversation, and Mike processes my packages. I pay and then I leave, promising I’ll update him on the situation as soon as I can.
There is a determined swing to my step as I head back home. I will google lawyers who deal with this type of situation, I think, only to realize that I can’t afford a lawyer, any lawyer. I’ll have to accept whoever DCF gives me. Fine, I think, then I’ll do that. I’ll call Susan and tell her I’m not just signing over my rights—my child—like she wants me to. What kind of mother does that, anyway?
But as I near my apartment building, I see that I don’t need to call her at all, because she’s standing in front of my door waiting for me.
“Beth,” she says, smiling. “It’s good to see you.”
I can’t exactly say the same, so I say nothing. I stop in front of her, my keys in my hand. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to go through the paperwork with you that we weren’t able to yesterday.” She raises her eyebrows, no doubt sensing my hostility. “Is now a good time?”
Does she think I’d say it wasn’t, that I needed to do my nails instead? I am so furious, it feels as if I am choking. Yesterday she manipulated me, played on my fears and insecurities. I can see that now, and it is not going to happen today.
“Yes,” I say in a level voice as I unlock my door. “Now is a great time.”
6
ALLY
The scream goes on and on, one piercing, single note, so it feels like a time warp, the same second played over and over again, a needle on a record player stuck in this one awful groove.
Nick is staring at me in shock and dismay, and I am staring back, and Dylan is screaming. His mouth is open like the Edvard Munch painting, a dark, yawning hollow in his pale face. And still it goes on, and I feel frozen and terrified and also weirdly out of control myself, even though I am standing still.
“Make him stop,” Nick says, and I think how absurd and unfair that is, that this is somehow my responsibility, or even that I could actually accomplish that.
I have no idea what to do. But I try, for Dylan’s sake rather than my husband’s.
“Dylan.” I extend my hand to touch his shoulder, and then think better of it, since that’s what set him off in the first place. At least, I think that’s what set him off. I actually have no clue. “Dylan,” I say again, gentling my voice as much as I’m able, although I’m not sure he can even hear me. His face possesses a terrifying blankness, as if he’s caught in some private nightmare. “It’s okay, Dylan. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe here. I promise, you’re safe. Look, here’s another piece of apple.” I hold out an apple slice rather desperately. This is all I’ve got, and if it doesn’t work, I really don’t know what I’ll do.
The seconds pass, each one feeling like an eternity. Josh has come downstairs and lurks in the doorway with an uncertain scowl on his face. Nick is still frozen, as frozen as Dylan, who is still screaming.
And then he stops. It’s like a tap being turned off, the flick of a switch. The room is plunged into silence, and I let out a shuddery sigh of relief. My whole body is tense and twitching, and there is cold sweat prickling in my armpits and between my shoulder blades.
Dylan takes the apple.
“That’s it. There you go.” I am laughing a little, nervously, as I swipe my hair away from my face and give Nick a look of both triumph and relief. I’m not actually sure what I feel, but I am very glad he has stopped screaming.
Nick takes a step back, his hands in his pockets. “Well,” he begins, and then says nothing more. Josh heads back upstairs without having said a word. It feels as if we were all on the edge of an abyss, and we’ve just taken a teetering step back, but it still looms there, dark and deep and terrifying.
Dylan resumes eating his fruit, almost as if nothing has happened. His head is lowered again so I can’t see his face. Nick looks a bit winded, and as he rakes his hand through his hair, he takes another step back, as if he needs to distance himself from Dylan.
I try for some normalcy. “I think I’ll start making dinner. And then, Dylan, would you like to see your room?” No response, but I don’t let that matter. “Okay, then,” I say as if he has answered me.
“I’ve got a bit of work to do,” Nick says with a half-hearted smile of apology. “I’ll just head up to my office for a few minutes…” He’s already edging towards the door, and I try not to feel annoyed. He’s absenting himself already? Couldn’t he sit down next to Dylan and make an effort?