said nothing. I can’t help but feel we’ve somehow made everything worse, yet what else could we have done? Where’s the parenting manual for this situation? How to Discipline Your Drug-Dealing Kids. Wouldn’t exactly be a bestseller, would it?
“Did you have fun?” Nick asks without much enthusiasm when I find him in the family room, listlessly flicking through channels.
I sit on the edge of the sofa with a sigh. “Not really.”
We’re both silent, staring at the TV screen and the montage of commercials as Nick continues to scroll through Saturday night’s unappealing offerings.
“It’s not going to feel like Thanksgiving without Emma,” I say after a moment, because it’s easier to talk about her than Josh.
“No. We could invite someone else, I guess.”
“Who?”
He shrugs. “Beth?”
I actually brighten at this thought, even though Beth makes me uncomfortable and I have a strong feeling she seriously dislikes me. Still, it would be a nice thing to do, and I feel like helping someone, since I don’t seem to be able to help myself or my family. “That’s a good idea. But I don’t have her phone number or any contact information.”
“Call Monica?”
“I suppose I could.”
But when I call Monica on Monday, it flips over to voicemail; she’s taken the week off. Even DCF employees get vacations. I don’t have Susan’s number, and the DCF number is only for emergencies. I leave it, because the truth is I’m too weary to make more of an effort for Beth’s sake.
“We could go to your parents’,” Nick suggests on Monday night, as we’re undressing for bed. Tomorrow is Josh and Dylan’s last day of school before the break; usually I’d be flying around, making pies, decorating, feeling festive and homely and happy.
Instead, I spent the morning trying to work, and the afternoon taking Dylan to get the last two of his fillings. The dentist kindly decided to use a general anesthetic to reduce his anxiety, and the result was that Dylan was sleepy all afternoon, and went to bed promptly at seven, with a mouth full of healthy teeth.
“We can’t,” I tell Nick dully. “We need permission to take Dylan across state lines.”
“Oh, for…” Nick shakes his head. “Would they even have to know?”
“I think that’s a big one, Nick. Anyway, my mom would just worry about Emma not being there.” My parents are lovely and well-meaning, and they’ve been supportive, if a bit skeptical, about the whole foster care thing, but I feel too fragile to endure any concerned barbs about anything related to my parenting choices right now, even if they’re deserved. “Let’s just stay here,” I tell him dispiritedly. “Anything else is too much trouble. I’ve bought the turkey already.”
“If you’re sure.” Nick gets into bed and reaches for his phone to scroll through the news.
I pull on my pajamas and climb into my side before I say, “I think we might have to tell Monica about Josh.”
Nick lowers his phone before turning to me with a direct, almost challenging look. “Why?”
“Why? Because he’s been dealing—”
“I looked online, Ally. DCF only has to be informed if someone in the foster family has been convicted of a felony, and from what I’ve read, they usually don’t care unless it’s child-related.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to gauge his tone, what he’s actually saying. “But if we know, Nick—”
“What? You want to ruin Josh’s life? If DCF knows, Ally, everybody knows.”
“That didn’t seem to bother you too much last night, when you were telling Josh how he had broken the law.” I try to speak levelly, lowering my voice because of Josh and Dylan nearby, and also because I don’t actually want to accuse him of anything. Still, I can’t help but point out his about-face.
“I’ve been thinking,” Nick says after a moment, his gaze back on his phone although I don’t think he’s actually looking at it, “it’s not like Josh has been dealing meth or crack or something like that.”
I recoil slightly, more of a twitch than anything else. “That’s what he said.” And what I thought. And yet it all feels so wrong.
“I know, I know, but really, Ally, the drugs he’s been selling… you or I could get them online with a couple of clicks. They’re not actually illegal substances.”
“They’re not M&M’s, Nick. If anyone found out—”
“But they’re not drug drugs,” Nick insists. “We’re not talking hardcore here.”
I simply stare at him until he looks away. I don’t know what to think. Part of me is desperate to agree