When You Were Mine

Nick shrugs and sips his wine. “I suppose that’s a natural consequence of the situation. It will be better once he’s back with her full-time.”

“Yes…”

He turns to look at me. “You do think she’ll be given back custody, don’t you?”

“I hope so.” As much as I’ve come to love having Dylan with us, I know it’s best for him and for us—and of course for Beth—for him to go back home. It’s just over a week now till the court hearing, and I feel both anxious and eager for it. I want Dylan to be settled, and I want us to be able to move on as a family. I want Beth to have her son back, but I will miss him. Everything is a tangle of emotions, the feelings too close together to separate.

“Hey, I wanted to tell you something.”

Both of us turn to see Emma standing in the kitchen, her hands deep in the pockets of her holey jeans. Nick puts down his wine glass as we both adopt that friendly, hyper-alert expression common to all parents when their teen announces they want to tell them something.

“Yes?” Nick says with raised eyebrows and a smile. “What’s up, Emma?”

“I’m applying for a job at the music store on Park Avenue.”

“Okay…”

“I didn’t get the job at Subway, and I like this better. Also… I’m thinking of taking some music classes at Hart Music School. Piano and voice.”

“Okay,” Nick says again, looking a little flummoxed. Emma stopped piano lessons when she was twelve.

“It’s just something I’ve been wanting to do,” Emma says. “It might not come to anything.”

“Not everything has to have a result,” Nick says in his easy way. “You can just do something for the fun of it, Emma.” She nods slowly, and I wonder if, in our ambition to get her into an Ivy League, she somehow forgot this. If we all did.

“That sounds great, Emma,” I say, and she narrows her eyes, instantly suspicious.

“Because it’s not McDonald’s?” she jeers, and I try not to flinch.

“Because you’re following an interest and you seem excited about it.” I do my utmost to keep any edge from my voice, and after a second, seemingly appeased, Emma nods and slopes out of the room.

It’s only when we hear the click of her bedroom door shutting that Nick turns to me. “Progress,” he says, and I nod.

Yes, progress, even if in the smallest of weary increments. It still counts.

The next week passes in a flurry—Josh back to school, Emma getting an interview at the music store, Dylan’s last CBT session, and Beth’s visits, both of which go better than before, if only just. I can’t keep from feeling that Beth has somehow mentally checked out; there is a distance to her demeanor and expression that makes me uneasy even as I do my best to dismiss it. I’ve become paranoid about everything; I know I need to relax.

The Tuesday of her last visit, the day before her court hearing, I ask if she wants a cup of tea after she brings Dylan back. It’s a little after five, and dinner is in the slow-cooker; shadows are gathering outside and there’s a crust of hard, icy snow on the ground, typical January weather.

Dylan has run off to find Josh, who has humored him more than usual lately, doing puzzles or playing with Lego, and Beth stands in the middle of the kitchen, seeming isolated and adrift.

“A cup of tea would be nice,” she says, surprising me.

I put the kettle on the stove and take two cups out, while Beth simply stands there.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” I ask sympathetically, because of course she has to be. Mother on trial. I feel, in a way, as if I’ve been on trial, at least in my mind, these last few months, but Beth’s situation is so much more nerve-wracking and real. “I’m sure it’s going to go well, Beth. You’ve done everything you’ve been meant to, haven’t you? The parenting course…”

“Triple P.” She gives me a twisted sort of smile. “I’m the only one who completed it, actually.”

“Are you?”

I frown, and she explains, “Angelica dropped out before Christmas. She’s got a two-year-old and was pregnant—she must have had her baby by now. She’s only sixteen, but she’s decided to surrender both children to the state.”

“Oh…”

“And the other parent in the course was Diane, who is in her forties, a single mom with an adopted son. She missed the last session and she’s considering terminating her parental rights, too, although maybe not.” She gives me a wry look. “Some company I’m keeping, eh?”

I’m not sure what to say, so I focus on making the tea. “I’m sure they had good reasons.”