a Christmas shop and café. It’s one tradition we’ve never broken; the kids have always been up for it.
Emma presses her lips together, seeming to resent the change in subject, but then she nods. Josh shrugs his agreement, but even that feels like a win, considering what life has been like lately.
“And I thought we could invite Beth,” Nick continues, surprising me. He glances at Dylan. “Would that be fun, buddy? If your mom came with us?”
Slowly, warily, Dylan nods. And then he smiles, and Nick nods back, pleased. We’d talked last night about having Beth over more as we head towards reunification, but I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her accompanying us on a sacred family tradition.
But then, as I look at my children finishing their hot chocolate, and then the view of fields and farms that stretch on forever, I realize that nothing is sacred. All the rules, all the promises, have already been broken, for Beth—and for me.
I never thought I’d be here, with a suicidal daughter considering dropping out of college, and a son who might still be dealing the kind of drugs she took in her attempt to kill herself. It’s all so horrible, and yet it’s real, and I’m staring out at fields and sky and beauty and I want to both cry and laugh and shake my head in wonder.
Nothing is sacred, and yet everything is.
As we head back down the mountain, I feel as if we’re re-entering reality. We’ll need to talk with Emma about her future, and we really should have a follow-up conversation with Josh about what he’s been up to, confirming that he is done with the drugs for good, keeping the communication open. Dylan has a CBT session tomorrow, and Beth is coming over on Saturday for her second visit, which for some reason feels like it takes out the whole weekend. Julie has texted me twice, asking me if I’m okay, since Nick saw her when he was taking out the garbage and alluded to our situation, although with no concrete details.
All of life presses down on me, heavier and heavier with each step that I take. Part of me wishes that I could have stayed on top of the mountain, simply staring out at the view, breathing that clean air.
As we reach the bottom of the mountain and head towards the car, Nick takes my hand.
“Okay?” he asks quietly, and I manage to nod.
“It just feels like a lot.”
“I know. But we’re in this together, Ally. Really.”
I nod again, and he squeezes my hand. I’m grateful for all he’s done and shared today, so grateful, but some small, cynical seed in me has already taken root.
Nick can be a man of grand gestures rather than small, everyday actions. I just hope he means what he says, and we’ll be in this together tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after that. Because I really don’t think I can do all—or any—of this alone.
27
BETH
Sunday, the day when I’m meant to accompany the Fieldings and Dylan to cut down a Christmas tree, is as bright and perfect as a postcard, tailor-made for this kind of family activity—blue skies, a hard frost that almost looks like snow, and the air is as crisp as an apple, as clear as a drink of water.
I show up at their house feeling more nervous than usual, both because I don’t know what to expect from today, and also because of yesterday, when I had the wretched therapy observation with Dylan. Ally drove us both to the psychiatrist’s office in Simsbury, which awkwardly made her feel like my mom, and James, the psychiatrist, a friendly but studious-looking guy with glasses and a beard, sat in the corner of the room, jotting notes on a pad of paper as I desperately tried to be normal with Dylan and wasn’t. I’m not sure I even know what normal is now, if I ever did.
It certainly wasn’t what was happening between us then, with my voice high and wavering and Dylan seeming to deliberately ignore me. He was concentrating on building a tower of blocks, and I tried to help, afraid that if it fell over, he might have a meltdown, and guess what? It did, and so did he. I tried to keep the tower from falling, lunging forward to catch the blocks in my hands, and that’s when Dylan started screaming.
“I’ll fix it, Dyl,” I said desperately. “Don’t worry I’ll