“I lost my temper in CVS and someone called DCF. They said they were taking Dylan away from me.”
“What!” Mike swells up with outrage, his chest puffing out. He’s about my age, late twenties, with a round, homely face and a slightly chubby but still muscular build. I’ve always thought he’s the sort of person who actually looks kind, and right now he is and I can’t bear it. “Surely they can’t do that—”
“They can. And, anyway, it’s more complicated than it sounds.” I don’t want him thinking that this was a one-time thing, totally out of the blue, when it wasn’t. Even if it felt completely unfair.
“Complicated? How?”
I look behind me, but no one is coming into the store.
Mike props his elbows on the counter. “You can tell me, Beth.”
But I don’t want to, because I don’t want Mike to think badly of me. And yet it would be such a relief to talk to someone, to tell them what has happened. And so it all spills out, in fits and starts, a jumbled mess of fragmented stories—Marco calling DCF, the one trip to that psychiatrist, and then the whole thing about school, how the neighbors must have said stuff, and how Susan thinks she’s trying to help.
“She took him yesterday afternoon. He was screaming, and then he just went so still…” I cover my mouth to keep the sobs in. I feel as if I could cry and cry and never stop, but I don’t want to, and certainly not in the middle of the UPS store.
Mike shakes his head slowly. “This can’t be right. I mean, you’re a good mom, Beth. I see that every time you come in here with Dylan. He adores you, and you love him. You’re a great mom.”
Different tears prick my eyes, tears of gratitude. It feels so good to have him say this, to have him mean it, after everything that happened yesterday. Until Mike said it, I hadn’t realized just how much I’d started to doubt myself. To feel like I really was the failure Susan made me feel.
“I want to get him back as soon as I can,” I tell Mike. “I don’t even know where he is.”
“They shouldn’t be able to do that.” Mike shakes his head again, looking so wonderfully aggrieved on my behalf. “They really shouldn’t. Have you talked to a lawyer?”
“No.” I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that.
“You should. I’m sure you must have that right, before they took him away. They can’t just grab him like that. At least, I don’t think they can.”
“Susan—the case worker—said she’d gotten a court order, but it was only good for ninety-six hours.”
“Then you can get him back after that?”
“I—I don’t know. She was going to explain everything to me, but then she left so quickly.”
“That can’t be right, either.”
“No, it can’t.” The realization burns through me and suddenly I am angry, and it feels so much better than reeling with devastation did. That can’t be right. Susan had said there was paperwork to sign, but I didn’t sign a single thing. Now that I am thinking about it properly, she didn’t explain anything to me, not really. She just took my son. “I don’t know what to do,” I tell Mike, and I watch as he reaches for his phone and swipes the screen.
“Let me look it up. There’s got to be some information online.”
I wait anxiously, conscious he’s on company time, and that if someone comes in, it could be awkward for him. I should have looked this stuff up last night, but I was so numb and blank inside, I couldn’t think about anything. Now I can.
What we learn from a legal website is basically what Susan told me—that DCF is able to take Dylan for ninety-six hours without a court order, but after that, unless I agree to the voluntary placement she was suggesting, there has to be a court hearing, and I have to be given an attorney. It’s both reassuring and terrifying. I don’t want to go to court, but I also don’t want to hand over my child like he’s some spare change.
“I think you should go to court,” Mike says as he slides his phone back in his pocket. “I can be a character witness, if needed. I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know if they call character witnesses for this type of hearing; I don’t know anything at all. I’m scared to talk to