During the second session, I talked about my mother and then about Marco, and first there were tears and then, to my surprise, there was anger—a consuming rage I never expected to feel. I was nearly shaking with it, and as ever, Anna seemed unfazed by my reactions.
“Who are you angry with?” she asked, and to my surprise I said, “Me. For caring so much. For letting myself be hurt. And for being taken in by Marco. He was so shallow. He’s always been so shallow.” It was such a relief to say it, and yet it led to more tears and tissues, until I sagged against the seat, utterly spent, and Anna told me she’d see me next week.
In some ways, it’s been easy to talk to her about my distant, sorrowful past—my dad, my mom, Marco. All those relationships are essentially over. Neither of my parents even know Dylan has been taken from me, and I haven’t spoken to or heard from Marco since the night before the court hearing, when I booted him out of my apartment.
Talking to Anna about the present feels much more frightening. Much more dangerous. I don’t want to tell her about what Susan said and Mike admitted—that maybe I’ve been too much as a mother, that maybe I’ve got so much wrong, even things I don’t know about yet. I don’t want to tell her that I both hate and envy Ally and her perfect house, her perfect life, and how, in the dark and despairing middle of the night, I wonder if Dylan is happier there than he’s ever been with me.
The day after I had dinner with Mike, I called Susan. She sounded tired and hassled, a reminder that Dylan and I am far from her only case.
“Beth? Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I was just wondering how Dylan has been doing.”
A pause and I suspected she was trying to gauge my tone, the reason for my call. Was I gathering ammunition or just in a funk? The truth was neither. I simply wanted—needed—to know.
“He’s doing well, Beth, but I haven’t seen him in a while. In fact, I haven’t seen him or anyone associated with your case since I last drove you to Ally’s house. Is there a reason you’re asking?”
So Susan hadn’t seen him since before I had? That shouldn’t really surprise me; Angelica and Diane both saw their caseworkers only once a month. “He’s in therapy?” I pressed. “And you mentioned he had an… an evaluation?”
“Yes, but I don’t have the results yet. As soon as I do, I will certainly discuss those with you.”
“What about the therapy? Is it helping? Have any… issues come up?”
Another one of those pauses. “The therapy is for Dylan to process his own feelings and experiences, Beth, but I do believe it is a helpful resource for him.”
I felt chastised, but I did my best to shake it off. “I’m not asking to be difficult,” I told her. “I just want to know. I want to be sure that this is all working. I’m doing my part.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.”
“How many cases do you have right now?” I asked, and I felt Susan’s wary surprise, even through the phone.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss my other cases with you, Beth.”
“I was only asking because you sound tired,” I explained quietly. “That’s all.”
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when I went to see Dylan, I braced myself for another lukewarm welcome. Ally seemed distracted, fluttering around the kitchen as if she didn’t know where to go, and neither Nick nor Josh were at home.
“Is everything okay?” I asked her, and she gave me a sharp look.
“Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know.” I backed off immediately. Who was I to comment on her life? Besides, what could be wrong in Ally’s perfect world? A broken nail?
I took Dylan by the hand; he didn’t resist but he didn’t seem to enjoy it, either, his little hand limp in mine as we went outside into the darkening twilight of a wintry afternoon. The snow from a few days ago had been no more than a dusting, but it was certainly cold enough to snow, with a hard, steely edge to the air, the sky already turning impenetrably black.
It was only a month until Christmas, but I couldn’t think about that yet. Christmas without Dylan would be grim indeed, although the holiday had always been quiet for us—a small tree, a present