heart leaps unpleasantly in my chest. “I’m sorry, honey, but I need to go. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“I have class.” Emma sounds the tiniest bit sulky, and I know she’s hurt. I never cut short our calls.
“Text me a good time. I really want to hear what you’ve been up to, how everything is going. Please.” She makes another “mmm” noise and I strain my ears, but I can’t hear any screaming. “I love you,” I say, too quickly. “Talk to you soon. Bye.” And then I am throwing open the gate and jogging inside, to find out what has happened while I’ve been gone.
9
BETH
On Friday, three days after they take Dylan away from me, I get a letter in the mail, from the state. The court hearing is set for Tuesday, and I am relieved it is so soon, even as the days feel as if they pass endlessly. Still, one week from the time they took him, I could have my son back. I will have him back.
When I told Susan I was going to fight, she informed me that I could now have that lawyer I’d wanted. Dylan would have one, too. But when I met with mine, a nasal-sounding woman who droned on about the legalities of my case without seeming sympathetic to my cause at all, I felt worse off than before, as well as suspicious.
I ended up emailing Bruce, the webmaster of the CONNspiracy site, and he sent me a long, informative email telling me I shouldn’t trust any court-appointed lawyer, that they were all part of the failed system. He directed me to websites with information about representing myself in court—in fact, the Connecticut judicial site even has a page about it, and it’s perfectly legal.
So I’ve spent my days preparing to represent myself in the court hearing for custody of my son. I’ve amassed all the information I can about how trustworthy and stable I am—printouts of my bank statements, my filed taxes, even my high-school report cards. Anything to show I am able to have the care of my son.
I know DCF will be amassing information too, and I can imagine what some of it is—missed appointments, Susan’s previous visits, the testimony of neighbors, maybe even a statement from the preschool teacher Dylan barely met. All of it makes me burn with anger, because it is so unfair. There are so, so many worse parents out there than me, even just in West Hartford. Why has DCF—why has Susan—decided to go after me so hard?
It’s not a question worth pursuing, and so I do my best to focus on my case. I’ve spent hours on the CONNspiracy website, scrolling through pages of legalese that make my brain hurt but are necessary for me to know. I’ve written down everything I can remember about Susan’s visits, and what she did or didn’t do that she should or shouldn’t have. I’ve copied out laws that I struggle to understand but am determined to mention in court—even if the thought of standing up and speaking in front of a stern-faced judge is terrifying to me.
I’ve gone to the UPS store a couple of times to talk to Mike, because I need a friend and he’s the only one I have. He’s been encouraging, telling me he’s sure I’ll win, that the next time I come in I’ll have Dylan back with me. I so want to believe him, but I’m not so desperate that I can pretend he has any idea what he’s talking about. He has no experience of DCF, and I do.
I’ve also called Marco, to tell him what has happened. I didn’t want to, but I felt he deserved to know, even if he hasn’t seen Dylan since his sixth birthday, when he stopped by for fifteen minutes with a box of drugstore chocolates and a Matchbox car for Dylan.
“So how long are they going to take him for?” he asked when I phoned to tell him about the episode in CVS, and Susan. He sounded irritatingly unfazed that his son is being looked after by strangers.
“I don’t know. I’m contesting it, though.”
“Oh, Beth. Why?”
“Why? Because I want my son back.”
“Don’t you want a break?”
“This isn’t a break, Marco.” I couldn’t believe he would phrase it like that, even as I remained completely unsurprised. All Marco has ever wanted is a break—an easy out, an easy life. He’s been like that since I met him nine years ago.