It occurs to me I should call Marco, and let him know what has happened, but he won’t care as much as I want him to—he never does—and I can’t make that call now, when I am feeling so alone and broken.
So who? The answer, of course, is obvious. Nobody.
With no one to call, and nothing else to do, I warm up some soup because I can’t be bothered to make anything else, and although my stomach feels empty, I’m not hungry. Still, I force it down, for form’s sake, even though, of course, no one is watching. But already, in my head, I’m making a log of all the ways I can show Susan I’m a fit parent. A good mother. See, Susan? I made myself some dinner.
Later, I try to work on some jewelry, but my fingers fumble and I can’t concentrate, so I end up watching trash TV for a couple of hours, trying to keep my mind blank, before stumbling to bed.
I know there are a lot of people who would think it is weird for me to sleep with my seven-year-old son, but without Dylan’s warmth next to me the bed feels empty and cold.
Surprisingly, though, I sleep, deeply and dreamlessly, which is a blessed relief. When I wake up, I don’t feel refreshed, but at least I feel clear-headed. Today is the first day of the rest of my life. A trite phrase, but I want to make things matter. I need to get started on getting Dylan back.
So I shower and dress, force myself to eat breakfast, and then, just after nine, I head out to the UPS store to mail my packages.
It’s a beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, everything in sharp focus, the leaves just starting to turn, as I walk to Boulevard with purposeful steps. The treacherous thought of how easy this is without Dylan slips into my mind, and I push it away. That feels like a such a betrayal of him, and even of who I am, that I won’t let myself think it for one second.
The UPS store is little more than a cupboard, and as I step inside, it’s empty, save for Mike, the guy who works behind the counter most days.
“Hey, Beth!” He grins at me, then does a comical double take when he sees that I am alone. “Where’s my man Dylan?”
I swallow, try to smile. I hadn’t anticipated this, although I suppose I should have. Mike is probably the person Dylan and I know best—Mike and also Sue, the main librarian in the children’s department of the West Hartford Library, who is patient with him, and even makes sure she has books set aside that she knows he likes.
As for Mike—I’ve been coming to this store for nearly five years, always with Dylan, and Mike is almost always behind the desk. We’ve developed a rapport of sorts, little more than chitchat, but Dylan likes him, and Mike is unfazed by his silence and shyness, chatting to him easily even when Dylan is half-hiding behind me, saying nothing.
“He’s…” I stop before I’ve even begun, because I don’t want to tell Mike what has happened, and also because I might cry.
Mike’s forehead crinkles with concern. “He isn’t sick, is he?” he asks, his voice sharpening with alarm. My expression must be stricken. “He isn’t hurt?”
“No. At least…” I don’t think he is, but the truth is, I don’t know. Did he sleep last night? Did he cry? Does he understand any part of this?
“Beth?” Mike looks really worried now. “What’s happened?”
“He’s been taken by DCF.” I see his confusion and I clarify dully, “The Department of Children and Families. He’s been put into foster care.” It’s both a relief and a torment to say this, because I don’t want Mike to look at me the way the woman across the street did, the way the doctors always did when I went to those appointments, the way anyone does when you explain that DCF has involved themselves in your child’s life. The judgment, so badly masked—the narrowed eyes, the slight lip curl, the prim straightening of the shoulders, all layered over with a cheap patina of sympathy.
But Mike doesn’t look that way. He looks only concerned, and then I realize I am crying, tears trickling down my cheeks as I dump my packages on the counter so I can wipe my face.