lowered again so I can’t see his face. Nick looks a bit winded, and as he rakes his hand through his hair, he takes another step back, as if he needs to distance himself from Dylan.
I try for some normalcy. “I think I’ll start making dinner. And then, Dylan, would you like to see your room?” No response, but I don’t let that matter. “Okay, then,” I say as if he has answered me.
“I’ve got a bit of work to do,” Nick says with a half-hearted smile of apology. “I’ll just head up to my office for a few minutes…” He’s already edging towards the door, and I try not to feel annoyed. He’s absenting himself already? Couldn’t he sit down next to Dylan and make an effort?
But then I remember the screaming, and I decide maybe Nick should leave for a little bit, to give Dylan as calm and unstimulated an environment as possible, since it seems that’s what he needs, although I really don’t know what he needs, because nobody has told me.
Dylan sits docilely at the table while I start dinner. I decided to keep it simple tonight, just chicken strips—the expensive, free-range, organic kind—and chips, which I think most kids like. As I slice tomatoes for a salad, things almost feel normal. Dylan continues to eat his apple, and from Josh’s bedroom upstairs, I can hear the low bass thump of his music.
Yet as normal as this seems from the outside, I don’t feel normal. I feel tense and brittle, entirely on edge, and I desperately want a glass of wine, but it doesn’t seem right to drink in front of Dylan. In fact, I can’t remember the rules about alcohol while fostering—am I even allowed? Or is it just with children who come from a background of substance abuse where you’re not meant to? In any case, I don’t know if Dylan comes from that background or not, so I decide to leave the wine chilling in the fridge.
Perhaps I’ll indulge in a glass later when he is asleep, although I can’t even imagine that right now. First, we have to have dinner, and then, I suppose, he should have a bath, and some semblance of a bedtime routine—each one feels like a mountain to climb. This evening is going to be endless.
It’s as I’m slicing bell peppers and feeling overwhelmed about bath time that it suddenly occurs to me how ridiculous I’m being. Dylan is a child. Yes, he’s different, and he might have some emotional issues because of his background, but he’s still a seven-year-old boy, and I had one of those once.
I brought up two healthy and well-adjusted children with appropriate boundaries and firm rules and lots of love. I can do this.
It’s such a relief to realize that, that I almost sag with it. I almost laugh out loud. I can do this. Dylan isn’t some alien or monster; he’s a child. A little boy. I’ve been blowing everything way out of proportion, because it’s all so unfamiliar.
I take a deep breath, nodding to myself as I finish the salad. I can do this.
Then I feel a little hand tugging on my sleeve, and I turn to see Dylan standing next to me, regarding me solemnly. It’s the first time I’ve been able to look him full in the face, and he’s beautiful. Huge dark eyes, like liquid chocolate, and a scattering of golden freckles across his nose. He has a bow mouth like a cherub. He looks so serious, and there is a question in his eyes, but I don’t know what it is.
“Are you finished with your fruit, Dylan?” I glance at the empty bowl. “That’s great. Maybe now you want to see your bedroom?”
He nods, and I realize that’s why he must have come to tug on my sleeve. Again, I feel that sunburst of relief bloom inside me; I can do this. I’m already doing it.
I take Dylan’s little hand; it is limp in mine, but he lets me hold it as we walk up the stairs. “This is Josh’s room,” I say, keeping up an instinctive steady patter, the way Susan did earlier, “and this is Emma’s room. She’s my daughter, Josh’s sister. She’s a big girl. Eighteen.” I smile at him. “She’s away at college—do you know about college? It’s when you go away for school, when you’re bigger. This is Nick’s and my room,” I continue, “and here is yours.”