When You Were Mine

But I’m afraid if I let Susan take Dylan away from me, things will change forever. I’ll never get him back, or, if I do, he’ll hate me. He’ll resent me for having given him up. And what if I have DCF breathing down my neck for the rest of my life because of this one slip? Once in the system…

“I’m scared,” I whisper, hating that I can’t keep myself from saying it.

“I know.” Susan nods in sympathy. “You feel powerless. I understand that, Beth, I really do. But you will continue to be involved in Dylan’s life, and all the decisions regarding his care. You can see the house where he is placed, and meet his foster carers. You can be involved in every step of the way.”

I nod, gulping back tears, trying to hold it together. Am I actually thinking of agreeing to this? What choice do I have? Against me, Dylan lets out a breathy sigh and nestles closer. I feel a physical pain, a tearing in my chest. Am I having a heart attack? I try not to gasp out loud.

“You can do this whether I agree or not,” I manage to get out. “Can’t you?”

Susan pauses before she replies. “I have made arrangements for an emergency hold,” she admits finally. “It lasts for ninety-six hours. After that, we’d have to go to court, unless you agree to a voluntary placement for Dylan, which is what I think would be best in this situation.”

And which was exactly what Marco wanted to do, all those years ago. Just give our son away like a raffle prize. But how can I do it now? It feels like such a betrayal of Dylan.

“We want to help you, Beth,” Susan says yet again. “Truly, we do. And you have time to think. I can come to your home tomorrow, and go over everything with you.”

Tomorrow, when Dylan might be gone. I sniff loudly, trying not to cry.

“Why don’t I drive you back to your apartment,” Susan suggests. “You can pack a bag for Dylan and explain to him what is going to happen. There will be some paperwork to sign, and then we can take him together to his placement. It’s already been arranged. There’s a very nice family waiting and ready to take care of him.”

It’s already been arranged. A sound escapes me, a sort of tortured gasp. My vision blurs and I don’t know whether it’s from the tears filming my eyes or the shock that this is happening. And, in the midst of it all, I feel myself nodding.

Susan sets everything in motion with quick assurance; she takes me home in her car, with Dylan buckled in a booster seat next to me. He’s woken up and he is alert now, his eyes wide with alarm, the only thing keeping him from melting down my hand in his, my thumb stroking his palm the way I know he likes. I can’t imagine telling him, telling him very soon, that he is going to leave me. That I will be abandoning him. How can I possibly explain any of this?

Back in my apartment, it feels like a lifetime has passed, and yet everything is still the same. Dylan’s cereal bowl, the milk chocolate-colored, is still on the kitchen table. A half-completed puzzle litters the living-room floor. Our bed is unmade, the duvet rumpled, the sheets creased. I’m conscious of the mess, yet I realize it doesn’t matter anymore. The worst has already happened. I hardly need to impress Susan with my housekeeping skills now.

Numbly, my mind a blur, I go into the bedroom and start to pack a bag for Dylan. He stands next to me, watching as I take his small Cars backpack from the closet. It’s the only thing I have, and it strikes me as somehow both pathetic and absurd, that I don’t own a single suitcase. Not even a duffel bag.

I bought this bag for preschool, when I had hopes that he might actually attend. We picked it out together, at the CVS where we just were this morning. He kept stroking it like a dog, cradling it like a baby. He was in love with that little backpack.

We’ve used it since—not for preschool, but for picnics in the park, or to hold the bag of stale bread we sometimes feed the ducks. For library books or a spare change of clothes when we go to the sprinkler park in the summer. Now I’m packing his things in it, so he can be taken away. I can’t bear it, and still I start packing, reaching for a pair of his socks, Dylan so silent and trusting next to me. He has no idea what is happening.

It only takes me about five seconds to realize his little Cars backpack is not going to be big enough for his clothes, his favorite rabbit toy, never mind the storybooks that he loves to have read to him every night. Will these anonymous foster carers read him stories? Will they know which ones he likes? How will they cope with his screaming, his fears? They won’t even know what scares him. What if they’re impatient, indifferent, or worse? What if they’re cruel?

As I stand there with the backpack dangling from my fingers, a single pair of his underpants chucked into the bottom, Dylan tugs on my sleeve. His wide eyes ask a silent question. What are you doing?

I take a breath, and then the impossibility of it all slams into my chest. I can’t let him leave. He will never understand. And wherever he goes, the people there won’t know that he’s afraid of crowds, or open doors, or grapes. I mean, what kid is afraid of grapes? They’ll never understand that, and yet I do.

Dylan tugs on my sleeve again and shakes his head, which just about shatters my already cracked-open heart. I can’t do this to him. I can’t.

And yet I have to. From my living room, Susan clears her throat, a purposeful sound.

I need to get a move on.

How?

I can’t bear to look Dylan in the eye as I find another backpack, this one a plain navy canvas one I used to use back in high school. I pack his clothes in that one, and a few of his books, toys, and the worn, lop-eared rabbit he sleeps with in the other. All the while, Dylan watches and shakes his head, faster and faster, as he realizes what is happening. He must be starting to feel dizzy.

Dylan is what is known as selectively mute, and has been since he was about three. At least, that’s what I diagnosed from what I’d read on the internet. He can talk, but he rarely does. A word here or there, given like a gift—duck when we’re at the pond, Mama when he’s falling asleep. Each one is unbearably precious.

I’ve learned to get by with his hand gestures and head movements, the occasional word. As much as I’d love him for him to speak, I’ve chosen not to let it bother me. Still, I know most people would find it odd, and even now, when he must know something is seriously wrong, he doesn’t speak.

It’s as I’m putting his bunny in the backpack, that Dylan breaks. He lets out that single, ongoing high-note shriek that people find so disconcerting.

I turn to him, forcing myself to look into his face even though it hurts—his eyes are wide and panicked. “Dylan…”

He shakes his head and keeps shrieking as he grabs the ear of his bunny.

“Dylan,