When You Were Mine

emester to count, and I didn’t know whether to care about that or not. Part of me did, desperately. Another part of me was just so very glad she was alive.

As we drive back home, I have no idea what to expect. I’ve been so consumed with Emma, I haven’t even thought Nick or Josh or Dylan. It’s not until Beth comes down to the kitchen, just a few minutes after we’ve come home, that I realize I forgot about her visit with Dylan today. I can’t handle her cold fury, not on top of everything else, and I do my best to appease her. I’m not sure if it works.

After Beth has gone, I return to the kitchen, and gaze at the remnants of my family. Emma, silent and hunched over, at the table. Nick standing in the center of the kitchen, looking lost. Dylan by the sink, his eyes so wide and watchful. And Josh upstairs, barricaded in his room. He couldn’t even come downstairs to welcome his sister home.

“Let’s get you to bed, mister,” I say with a smile for Dylan, and he comes towards me quickly, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding on tight. I rest my hand on top of his head as I stroke his back. “It’s okay, Dylan. Don’t worry. Everything’s okay.” His body shudders, and my heart aches. The injustice of subjecting this poor little boy to more anxiety and uncertainty burns within me. I hate that I may have made things worse for him, just when they were starting to get better.

I spend longer than usual putting Dylan to bed, both to reassure him and avoid whatever is happening downstairs. Maybe Nick will have better luck with Emma than I have. I never considered her a Daddy’s girl before, but she’s certainly not a Mommy’s one now.

By the time Dylan is asleep, the downstairs is empty and dark. It’s nearly ten o’clock; I must have dozed off without realizing it. I go upstairs and knock on Josh’s door; at his grunt, I open it and see he is on his bed, looking at something on his laptop.

“Hey.” He simply stares at me. “Emma’s home.”

“I know.”

I swallow the pointless question don’t you want to see her? “Have you done your homework?”

“Yeah.”

I wait, longing to bridge this chasm, but having no idea how. It’s become far, far too wide. “Don’t stay up late,” I finally say, and Josh doesn’t respond. Just as I am opening the door to leave, he speaks.

“Was it drugs?”

I freeze, my hand on the doorknob. I don’t know what to say.

“Was it?” he asks, and there is a ragged note in his voice that tears at me.

“Yes.” I pause, not meaning it unkindly, but needing him to know. “Prescription drugs.”

Josh lets out a choking sound, his head bowed, and I take a step towards him.

“Josh…”

“I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible, but I know what he means. Finally, my son is sorry for what he’s done. And yet it took this? It took almost losing his sister?

I take a deep breath, needing the moment to weigh my words. “I know you are, Josh.” I pause, and Josh remains as he is, head lowered, shoulders slumped. My poor little boy. “Thank you,” I say softly. And then, because I can see that he’s worried, “She’s going to be okay.”

After a few endless seconds, Josh moves his head in the barest semblance of a nod. I want to go to him, I want to enfold him in a bone-crushing and life-giving hug, but I know he’ll resist. The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I’ve hugged him.

“Sleep well,” I say, and I slip out of the door, closing it behind me.

Nick is in our bedroom, already in his pajamas. He gives me a questioning look, and I mouth “Josh.”

“He’s okay?” He speaks in a whisper, conscious of all the fragile children around us.

“Yes. He’s… feeling it, I think.”

Nick nods. “It’s been a long couple of days,” he says. “I think we all need some sleep.”

“Emma…?” I ask, and he shrugs.

“She didn’t say much. She seems tired too.” Nick pulls back the duvet on our bed. “There will be time to work through everything tomorrow.”

“Yes.” I pull off my sweater, running a hand through my rumpled hair. I am exhausted, and despite everything, I am looking forward to going to sleep in my own bed.

“Ally,” Nick says as I come out of the bathroom, teeth brushed. I tense at his tone, which is faintly parental. “We can’t keep taking care of Dylan now.” He makes it a statement, one I can’t deal with right now.

I get into bed, my body and mind both aching. “I thought we were going to talk about things tomorrow.”