I should, I know that. Confidence seeps from his pores along with cheap aftershave, and I know his being here can’t be anything good. But I don’t say anything because I’m lonely, and I’ve spent a week on my own, a week of obsession and fear and solitude and study, and a little company, even Marco’s, is far too welcome.
So I close the door behind him and watch as he walks to the kitchen to rummage in the cabinets for wineglasses. I don’t have any, because I hardly ever drink, but he makes do with a couple of plastic tumblers.
“So, how have you been?” he asks as he opens the screw-top bottle and pours us both generous amounts. He’s dumped the flowers in the sink, still in their plastic.
“How do you think?” I stare at him hard even as I accept the glass and take a sip of the cheap, vinegary wine. “What are you doing here, Marco?”
“Can’t I visit?”
“You generally don’t, unless it’s Dylan’s birthday. Even then I don’t know if you’ll feel like turning up.”
“Ouch, Beth.” He gives me a friendly grimace. “I do try, you know.”
I just shake my head. Marco tries, but not all that much.
From where I’m standing, I can see the price tag left on the bouquet of roses—five ninety-nine for the whole dozen.
“How is Dylan doing?” Marco asks, dropping the breezy charm, so for a second I let myself be fooled into thinking he actually cares. I’ve always wanted to think, deep down Marco must care, at least a little, about his own son. How can he not? He’s not a monster. The old ladies at the nursing home love him, although perhaps that’s just because he flirts with them all.
And, the truth is, even if it doesn’t feel like it, he does try, if only in his own small, pathetic way. He wouldn’t if he didn’t care at all. It’s small comfort, but it’s something, even as I get frustrated with how little he does.
“I don’t know how he’s doing. I haven’t seen him.” My voice is tight because I don’t want to cry, especially not in front of Marco. “Susan, his caseworker, has given me a couple of updates, but they’re brief.” She’s just continued with her line about him adjusting well, which makes me feel suspicious. It can’t be that easy for him, surely. But if all goes well tomorrow, I will know exactly how he’s doing, because he’ll be with me.
“I’m sorry, Beth.” Marco looks genuinely contrite, a hangdog expression on his face that I ache to trust. “I can’t imagine how hard this is for you. I know how much you love Dylan…”
“And you don’t?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Marco doesn’t even look abashed. “You know it’s not the same. You’d be pissed off if I acted like it was.” That much is true. “You were always closer to him than I was, you know. Right from the beginning. Sometimes it felt like you were obsessed.”
“I was a first-time mother of a newborn baby, Marco. Of course I was a little bit obsessed.” I remember those first weeks of Dylan’s life—the joyous incredulity I felt at this little person who was now my whole world. I used to watch him sleep; it was better than a movie, tracking the up and down of his tiny chest, the little angelic pursing of his lips. He was beautiful. He still is.
“I’m not complaining,” Marco says. “I’m just saying it’s always been different for you, even before I left. It was like… the two of you had your own little world. Your own language.”
I shake my head. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not. Don’t you remember? Even before he could speak. He’d make some little grunt and you knew what it meant. You filled in his words before he even said anything.”
“That’s just how mothers are.” But it’s true that I’ve always felt attuned to Dylan; the fact that he is mostly mute hasn’t really bothered me. It’s almost as if the words I know he’d want to say are already in my head.
Thinking about that makes a lonely sweep of sorrow rush through me. I miss him so much, it’s a physical pain inside me, a gnawing away of my insides, until I feel hollowed out and empty. I take another sip of wine, but it tastes sour in my mouth. I still don’t know why Marco is here.