“Sorry, buddy.” I give him a smile as I determinedly loosen my grip. I can’t cling; I can’t lose him, and the result is I don’t know how to be.
Ally opens the door as soon as we turn up her driveway; she must have been waiting and watching, even though I’m only a few minutes late.
“It’s so dark,” she says, as an explanation, and I don’t reply.
Inside, the house feels warm and welcoming, like a huge hug enveloping me that I instinctively resist. The kitchen is full of inviting smells and sounds; the rest of Ally’s family is there, and I do a double take at the sight of her husband standing at the counter, opening a bottle of wine, and her son, a dark-haired teenager, setting the table.
“Beth.” Her husband sounds delighted to see me. “I’m Nick. I’m so glad to meet you.” He holds out his hand and when I take it, he gives me a firm handshake. He’s that kind of man—purposeful, assured, with an effortless friendliness. “Do you want to join us for dinner?”
That’s the last thing I expect, and I glance at Ally, who looks surprised, but quickly masks it with a friendly smile.
“Yes, Beth. Why don’t you join us?”
The unexpected invitation puts me in a ferment of surprise and discomfort; I really didn’t expect this, and obviously Ally didn’t either. Is it even allowed?
The table is set for four, but Nick is already beckoning to the son to lay another plate, although I haven’t said anything. Part of me desperately wants to say yes, and another part of me wants to run away as fast as I can. I don’t belong here—and yet my son does?
I look down at Dylan, and he smiles at me, shyly, hopefully, and I am decided.
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be really nice.”
18
ALLY
I am silent as I serve out the beef stew. Nick has gone into genial host mode, which he does so well, far better than I ever can, especially in these unusual circumstances. He is chatting easily, offering Beth wine, which she accepts, taking a sip from her very full glass almost immediately. I shouldn’t judge, I know that, and yet part of me still does.
Even Josh is rising to the occasion, helping Dylan cut the chunks of beef in his stew, something I’ve never seen him do before, although he has been making a bit more of an effort with Dylan—saying hello, or putting on PBS Kids in the morning. We’ve developed a rhythm over these last few weeks; it’s not perfect, but it works. Dylan has settled into school, even if he is still silent.
Last week, he had a psychiatric evaluation, and on Thursday afternoon, I took him to his first cognitive behavior therapy session. I don’t know what his diagnosis is, if any, but Monica said she’d keep me informed.
His therapist, Mark, is a very chilled guy, who seemed to feel the session was successful. Apparently Dylan drew a lot of pictures. He was happy to go in, and just as happy to come out. In fact, in the week and a half since Dylan started school, he’s had far fewer meltdowns, and he’s mostly stopped waking up at night. He still doesn’t talk, and he occasionally falls apart, but it’s all been easier than I expected.
In fact, it feels as if it’s my own family that’s falling apart, although no one is noticing but me. I still haven’t talked to Nick about Josh, and when I went into his bedroom a few days ago, the roll of money was gone. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried than ever. I knew I should have dealt with it sooner; what actually happened to that money? Do I ever want to know?
And as for Emma… I tried to talk to her during our dinner in Boston, but she remained monosyllabic, not meeting my eyes. I even asked if she was angry with me, braving that honesty, and she shrugged and asked me why I would think that. But when I said because she hadn’t really been talking to me, Emma just rolled her eyes and told me I was overreacting, as usual. The as usual stung, and I tried to pursue it; we went around in circles for a few minutes before, defeated, I finally dropped it.
Beth takes a seat next to Dylan, sipping her wine as her gaze darts around, taking us all in. From