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I hate hearing myself say these things, but I say them, as if to abdicate, to place the blame where it belongs. I detest this vision of myself. I tell myself viciously that I am a walking cliche of the bad mother, a bad mother, bad mother. I am brutal with myself and a shrew to Stephen.

I am someone I never imagined, an isolated, bitter, defensive mother navigating by shame the deep waters of her son's adolescence, a changeling so different from the woman with a baby on her hip, walking with her mother and sisters, older son, nieces, and nephews to fill bags full of cherries, bags that will be left in rental cars, in airports, or actually carried home, pitted, and made into a pie.

Cherry juice stains the dress she will travel in, stains that, laughing, she shows to her sisters as the children hold up their hands, sticky with cherry juice and the rich sap from the tree. Carrying her Stephen, she is capable, happy. She is a good mother, like her sisters a fierce mother, and her children will therefore be good, smart, educated, caring, successful—better people, no doubt, than she.

Fall, 1992

The first week of the ninth grade in Amherst, Stephen is once again in trouble. Stan and I get the call around eleven on a Friday evening. We've been preparing to get in the car to go and look for Stephen, who was supposed to be home by ten. We've been lingering in the kitchen, hoping he might walk in.

Stan's tired. He arrived in Amherst about dinnertime, having driven up from Maryland for the weekend.

“Guess what.” He shakes his head as he hangs up the phone. “We ought to let him sit out the night in jail.” Stan picks up his car keys and heads out the door.

Alone in the house for a few minutes I'm dizzy with disappointment. How can this be? I slide down the wall and put my head in my hands, thinking, searching the screens inside my head for an image, a mooring. When the car pulls in the driveway, I brace myself.

The scene that is about to take place is predictable. I detest its familiarity, Stephen stonewalling Stan and me, me following Stephen up to his room, pleading, trying to make contact, Stephen turning with accusations and profanity. Then Stan, thinking to come to my rescue, getting between us, insisting, “You can't talk to your mother this way!”

In this tiresome drama, how well we know our parts.

Tonight there is one notable exception.

As a rigid Stephen, rubbing his recently cuffed wrists, walks in the door, G.Q., our new English bulldog puppy, runs right over to him, jumps up on his leg, and wriggles and whines with happiness, G.Q., who couldn't care less about the events of the evening, about open and sealed records, lawyers, court dates.

The puppy's joy interrupts the well-worn script we are each ready to play out. G. is so excited to see Stephen that he relents, stops the rubbing of his wrists and picks up the dog. We can't help but drop our guard a bit in surprise.

“Still—” Stan's heavy brows are knit frighteningly “We've got to deal with this.”

But GQ. is licking Stephen's face, slobbering with joy Stephen tries to stifle a grin. Holding the dog close to his chest he steers him—as a weapon, it might appear, or a shield. He turns his head from side to side, trying to avoid G's enormous wet tongue. Stephen and his dog make their way between Stan and me and head up to Stephen's room.

“Follow him,” Stan urges, his voice tinged with helplessness.

“Wait,” I say. “Let it go for tonight.”

“But we've got to deal with this! We've got to deal with it now. He's out of control.”

While Stan is yet excited, focused, intense, I feel an unstoppable draining of energy. Stan is trying to do the right thing, the way he knows, the way we know, though it fails us over and over.

We believe that to do the right thing means to confront Stephen, make him understand what he's done wrong, and then resolve this episode as best we can.

Then we must try like hell to regain our control.

Control, yes, this is the modus operandi. We must regain control of this kid, where he goes,