“Shall we go inside?” Susan asks in the comfortable tones of someone who is used to these meetings, and how to smooth over the inevitably awkward moments.
“Yes, yes,” I say quickly, almost babbling. “Come through.”
I lead them back towards the kitchen, my mind racing as I try to think of something innocuous to say. “Maybe Dylan can show you some of the puzzles he’s been doing…” I begin, only to realize Dylan is not going to budge from Beth’s lap, and neither is she going to encourage him to do so.
Beth sits at the table, still holding Dylan, and I offer lemonade and cookies, both of which are refused by Beth, although Susan takes a glass with a kindly smile.
“So, Beth, you can see Dylan has been very well cared for here,” she says in a slightly teacherish tone.
Beth doesn’t reply. She rests one hand on top of Dylan’s head, as if she is anchoring him to her. He is nestled against her, as if he is trying to fuse himself to her body. It’s touching, but it’s also a little strange. A little much.
“We’re enjoying having him here,” I say in the same jolly tone I struggled not to use when Dylan first came to us. “Are there any questions you’d like to ask me?” I give Beth what I hope is an encouraging smile.
She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes so very dark—they are the same hazel as Dylan’s, glinting with gold—and doesn’t say a word. Okay, that’s a little weird, too.
I shift in my seat and hold onto my smile.
“Beth?” Susan prompts gently. “Is there anything you want to know?”
“Has he been—happy?” she asks after a moment, her voice catching.
“Yes, I think so. We went apple picking this weekend and he seemed to really enjoy that.” I think about mentioning the woman he mistook for her—I can see the resemblance now—but I don’t.
“Apple picking, how fun,” Susan says. “I haven’t had a chance to go this year.”
Beth says nothing. This is starting to feel torturous, but I try to stay upbeat.
“He’s been enjoying puzzles while he’s here,” I try again. “Does he do puzzles when he’s with you?”
Beth gives me what can only be called a scathing look, so I can’t keep from cringing a little. “Yes, he does puzzles,” she says shortly, and I feel I’ve offended her with my question. Was I being patronizing? I can’t even tell. What am I supposed to ask her?
“Maybe you’d like to see Dylan’s bedroom?” Susan suggests and Beth gives a brief nod.
Gamely, I take them upstairs, Beth still holding Dylan. I try to think of something to say to ease the moment, but my mind is blank.
“Here’s his room,” I practically sing out, and step aside so Beth can see the guest room. It hasn’t changed much in the week since Dylan arrived. The two backpacks are in the closet, and his clothes fill up only one drawer of the dresser. His bunny is on the bed, propped against the pillows.
Beth catches sight of it, and she draws a quick, hitched breath, leaning closer as she clutches Dylan. I realize she is taking in the sewn-on ear, and I can’t tell how she feels about it. Should I have done a better job, or not done it at all? I have no idea.
“This is a very nice room,” Susan says, like it’s a hint for Beth to chime in, but she doesn’t say anything. She just turns away and heads back downstairs with Dylan, leaving us to follow. “This is challenging for her,” Susan says to me in a low voice as we walk back down the stairs. “She’s very… possessive… of her son.”
I don’t reply, because aren’t we all possessive of our children? They’re ours. It occurs to me then, in a way it never has before, how offensive it must be to Beth, that I am taking care of her child. That I am sewing on the ear of the bunny that she must have lovingly picked out and held and washed, that I am asking her if he likes puzzles when she probably helped him complete his first one, bought them for birthdays. She knows everything about her own child, and here I am, acting as if I can tell her something about him that she doesn’t already know by heart.
I feel a rush of shame, and even anger, although I’m not sure who it is directed at. Myself? Susan?