don’t know it. We’re only a ten-minute walk from my house, if that. I don’t bother replying, even though part of me knows I should. I can’t afford to antagonize Ally, even though she’s antagonized me with the coat and the clothes and the way she brushes his hair.
I take a deep breath and nod. “Thank you,” I say, and then I lead my son out of the house.
Dylan and I walk in silence down the street, in the last of the afternoon’s mellow light, although there’s a nip to the air and shadows are gathering. It will be dark by the time we get to the playground, or almost. It’s mid-November, Thanksgiving next week, and in New England it is starting to feel like winter.
“Do you like school, Dylan?” I ask. Ally and Susan have both told me the basics, that he has a special-education assistant and that it’s been going well, but I don’t know anything else.
Dylan, of course, doesn’t answer, but I can usually tell what he’s thinking. I see it in his eyes, in the duck of his head or the way his hand tightens in mine, but he doesn’t give me any of these signals, and for the first time I feel as if we’re speaking different languages.
“Dylan?” I crouch down on the sidewalk and put my hands on his shoulders to turn him towards me. I want him to look me in the eye; I want to feel that connection. He stands still, staring at me steadily, but something feels off, less than. I think about what Susan said, about our relationship being too intense, and then I don’t know what to think, because it certainly doesn’t feel that way now. “Do you like school, Dylan? It’s okay if you don’t.” No reply, nothing, just a steady, blank blinking. “And it’s okay if you do,” I say, surprising myself with the words, and, I realize, surprising Dylan. His eyes widen and then he leans forward a little, so his head almost touches mine. I put my arms around him in a hug that he submits to rather than participates in, but I tell myself not to mind.
After a moment, the cold seeping through the knees of my jeans, I stand up and we walk hand in hand to the park, through the lengthening shadows.
We stay for half an hour, sitting on the swings. Dylan has always loved the swings, just as I used to. When he was a baby, I used to swing with him on my lap, one arm wrapped around his chubby middle, and fly high—higher probably than I should have, considering how little he was—but it felt so freeing. As soon as he could, he started going on the swing on his own, painstakingly learning how to pump his legs, his one real act of independence, and one I always encouraged.
As we sit and swing in silence, my thoughts veer from fear to anger to simply wanting to be with Dylan. Am I too intense? Is there something wrong about my relationship with my son? I reject the idea instinctively; everything I’ve done with Dylan, the way I’ve been, has always felt right.
I never second-guessed myself, until he was taken away. Not even when Marco lost his temper and called DCF, not even when Susan came poking around that first time. I knew I had to appease the powers that be, and I knew life with Dylan could be hard, but I didn’t doubt.
Now I am full of doubts. I look at Dylan in his parka and khakis, his hair brushed back like a little businessman, and I wonder if he’s been tolerating me all along. What if he prefers Ally and her neat house, his big bedroom, his brand-new lunchbox? What kid wouldn’t?
But those are just things. They’re not love. They’re not his mother.
By the time we walk back to Ally’s house, it is dark. Cars are turning into driveways, lights flicking on in houses, giving me even more of a sense of being on the outside looking in. As we walk down Ally’s street, my steps slow. I don’t want to give Dylan back. I’m afraid of what will happen if I do. What will he be like next week? Will he hold my hand? What about a month from now? Two months? What if, by the time I get him back, he doesn’t want me anymore?
The powerlessness I feel is choking. I struggle to breathe. My hand tightens