I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Screaming/Not Screaming
Silent as the grave.
Which is a misnomer.
Graves scream so loud sometimes.
The real ones.
Sam Bates, Loving Father and Husband? The hell?
And the imaginary ones.
". . . earring, Norma?!"
"I don't know."
Emma had been subdued for hours.
Beyond quiet.
Talking to Katie.
Taking her to the store alone.
Changing her diaper, feeding her.
And though she did not attempt in any way to keep her from him . . .
"Everything okay?"
"Yep."
. . . she made no gesture to involve him in any way.
She did not look at him.
Did not touch him.
Did not speak to him.
And did not yell at him.
Which seemed to be the worst part of the whole situation .
She just took it.
She did not weep or bathe him in baleful expressions.
No hate nor disdain.
Nor fondness nor love.
She simply . . .
"Come on, Katie. Let's take a nap."
. . . left him alone.
And Dylan . . .
Finally some damn peace.
God, I hate peace.
. . . found the darkness covering him every passing . . .
She'll get over it. And maybe she'll leave it alone now.
. . . hour.
But that's not really the point, is it?
Until he could barely breathe through all the screaming quiet.
She was not punishing him. Emma wasn't like that.
She was just . . . leaving him be.
Alone.
To himself.
And that was somehow . . .
Shit.
. . . worse.
Right after Katie's second afternoon feeding, Dylan heard Emma come out of their bedroom.
Pad silently across the floor behind him, heading to rinse the bottle in the sink.
Next to the refrigerator full of uneaten . . .
"Sorry the spaghetti is a little tough."
"It's fine."
. . . pasta.
And he knew then . . .
"Emma, we need to talk."
. . . that the time had come.
He had played and lost over a dozen hands of solitaire thinking about it.
I promised myself I'd never tell her.
I'd protect her from it.
I'd lie forever.
But she doesn't understand.
She can't.
She won't.
And she never will now.
But I'd rather her hate me forever than have her think I hate her.
Or think she should be be less than what she is.
Which is perfect.
This problem is me, not her.
And Norman. And Norma.
It will never be her.
She has to know it's not her.
She deserves that.
And so much more.
But it's just me.
And I'm not more.
Okay, here goes.
"You need to know why I cut off contact with my mom."
It did not go well.
. . . insane! Why didn't you tell me?!"
Emma was raising her voice . . .
". . . want to scream and yell when we're upset. That was all I ever did with Norma and Norman. Screaming and ignoring and avoidance and shifting blame. I don't ever want us to be like that."
"Okay. When we disagree, we'll just talk."
"Okay."
"And we'll look at each other in the eye so we know we're being honest."
"That's great, thank you, Em."
"You don't have to thank me for being a decent human being, Dylan."
"I know. But I want to."
. . . and Emma never raised her voice in a bad way.
She was on her feet now, face distraught and Dylan . . .
"Because I didn't have any proof!"
. . . was too, mirroring her movements.
Raising his voice back, feeling panicked and scared.
". . . say anything because I didn't know!"
And he was stumbling over his words and the baby was crying and Emma was looking at him like he'd betrayed her trust . . .
Which is exactly what I did.
But not to hurt her, never that.
For her own peace of mind, he had taken the burden and carried it alone for two years.
The burden of fear that Norman had done something-
Murdered, you bastard, go ahead say it-
- to Emma's mother.
For Emma's own peace of mind.
And Dylan's . . .
"I was a coward and I left . . ."
. . . ability to stay with her.
". . 'cause I wanted to be with you!"
And the baby was still crying and Emma . . .
"I need to go get her."
. . . was drawing away from him, overwhelmed and afraid and confused while Dylan . . .
"No, let me get her."
. . . was just swirling with how much shit had hit the fan so quickly.
Will I ever not screw everything up?!
In the space of one day.
And Emma . . .
"No, you need to get out, you need to take a walk, you need to leave, before I start screaming-"
. . . was for the first time in their marriage sending him away. Kicking him out.
". . . and I don't want Katie to hear that."
And using their daughter . . .
Please, Emma, no, Em-
. . . to do it.
- wait, don't send me away.
Is this it?
Is it over?
Are we over?
Oh god.
And then because his wife told him to go and staying would only make everything worse . . .
Will the doors be locked when I get back?
Will she have taken Katie and left, gone to her dad's apartment?
Shit.
. . . he left.
And he was very, very afraid he would not be allowed to come back.
He almost went to a bar.
Screwed up anyway.
Drink to forget.
He wanted to.
But he wasn't that guy anymore.
He wasn't that Dylan.
He was a good guy, a responsible guy.
He was a guy with a wife and child now.
And the consideration of a strip club never even crossed his mind.
So Dylan Massett simply trudged out.
Climbed in his blue Ford truck he once been so proud to pay . . .
Not broke trash now, huh?
. . . weed cash for.
And drove to the new bagel shop he had been planning on stopping by sometime anyway.
Hey, got any 'I'm sorry my brother might have killed your mom but I didn't know for sure so I lied about it' bagels?
Not many pictures of Dylan existed in the 'before' time.
Norma never seemed interested in preserving memories of him much.
Unless he was with Norman, that was.
"Smile, boys! Oh, Norman, you look so sweet in this picture."
"What about me, Mom?"
"What? Oh. Yeah, Dylan, you too."
Now, however, his collection, mostly digital, was growing exponentially.
"Picture of the proud men, eh, Emma?"
Strong Will Decody hand squeezing his shoulder, warm acceptance washing through him.
"Hey, grill guy, wave!"
Tongs aloft, corn, steak, maybe chicken, dangling from.
"Dylan!"
Emma laughing as Dylan wrapped his arms around her from behind, reaching around to smooch her cheek, grinning.
"Okay, proud Momma and Daddy, smile!"
Cradling precious Katie, feeling Emma nestled into the crook of his neck, feeling so proud and alive and in the right place.
He kept a lot on his phone, added to it whenever something good happened.
Something sweet.
Something adorable.
Something hopeful.
Which, up until recently, had been really frequent.
"Dylan, I'm so sorry . . ."
He had just walked in the door, bearing bagel gifts.
Thinking, considering.
Not scheming, he didn't do that anymore.
Just figuring out how he, they . . .
We're-
. . . going to work through this.
Because they always did.
And they always would.
Because they had come too far . . .
Please, God, let me do this right.
. . . to do anything else.
But he was stopped in his tracks by a clearly distraught Emma.
Who seemed to have forgotten she was super pissed at him.
And he was a little more than confused.
"What?"
What a miserable situation, right?
My poor sweeties.
Well, thanks to my mystery guest and Lana Brown for so graciously reviewing!