outside and her house smells of cinnamon. “It can’t be long until the court hearing, can it?”
“January twelfth.” The letter came in the mail yesterday, and the date writ in stark, black letters terrified and excited me in just about equal measures.
To my surprise, Ally grasps my hand. It’s a brief touch, no more than a few seconds, and she looks as surprised as I feel, removing her hand with a little apologetic smile. “I’m sure it will go well for you.”
I nod, not knowing how else to respond. This whole conversation feels weird, almost inappropriate.
“What about you?” I ask. “How is Emma?”
“Oh.” Her smile wobbles and then slides off her face. “She’s okay. She’s not going back to Harvard for the rest of the semester.” I’d already figured that much, but Ally says it as if it’s a death sentence. “She’ll have to redo the whole semester,” she explains at my blank look. “Because she won’t have taken her exams.” Based on what happened, I wonder if Emma should go back to Harvard at all, but I don’t say as much. “And how’s Josh?” I ask, thinking I’m lobbing her a softball, but Ally tenses right up, stiff as a poker.
“He’s fine.”
“Good.” Judging by her response, I think he’s probably not, and I wonder if one day I’ll have concerns and conversations like this about Dylan—a normal teen, struggling through high school and college, adolescence and then adulthood. Will I worry about what friends he makes, what grades he gets? Such concerns feel like a luxury, and yet, for the first time, not entirely out of reach.
“I meant to tell you—I’ve written it in the log I keep. Dylan has started speaking a little. Has he been speaking with you?”
I stare at her, trying to gauge her innocently interested expression, unsure if this is a parry-and-thrust for daring to ask about her children, or if she genuinely thinks he must have.
“Not really,” I say when what I mean is not at all. “What do you mean, he’s been speaking?”
“Oh, just words here and there. He said ‘again’ when I was playing with him, and he’s said a few other words since—yes, goodnight, things like that. His teacher has said the same.” She smiles at me, looking so genuine I have to believe she thinks this isn’t hurting me. “He’s made some other noises, as well—laughing, humming, that sort of thing. Isn’t that good news?”
My throat is so tight and aching it hurts to swallow. “Really good news.” I have to force the words out. It feels wrong of me to be angry and hurt, and yet I am. Why is he speaking with other people, and not with me?
“Also…” Ally hesitates, looking a little shy, and now I am the one tensing. What else is she going to ask me? “We’re planning to go to a farm out near Granby to get our Christmas tree this weekend—it’s one of those old-fashioned farms where you can cut it down yourself. I thought Dylan would enjoy that.”
“I’m sure he would.” Is she just tormenting me now, telling me all the stuff she can do with my son, that I can’t? That I wouldn’t?
“And I was wondering if you’d like to join us? We could go on Sunday, so you could still have your Saturday with Dylan.” Ally pauses. “With the court hearing a month away, you know, I thought it would be good for you to have more time with him. And from what I’ve read on the foster care message boards, it’s not something you have to have approved by DCF, or anything like that. We can just go.”
“That…” I hesitate, my mind whirling from all she’d said. Christmas trees. More time with Dylan. Foster care message boards… what has she been posting on those? “That would be nice,” I say, because of course I am going to accept. There’s absolutely no question about that.
At this point, whether well-meaning Ally realizes it or not, I am in a battle with her for the love of my son.
26
ALLY
The morning after Emma comes home, I wake up groggy and heavy-hearted, to the sound of music and laughter from downstairs. It’s so incongruous to how I’m feeling, as well as to how the evening ended yesterday, with Nick and I in silent disagreement and despair, that at first I think it must be coming from the TV.
I check the clock and see that it’s half past eight, and my heart lurches with alarm