He raises his eyebrows, waiting for more, but I don't give it to him. I'm not about to explain to a near-stranger how I ended up pregnant with Ben, no matter what he just told me.

"So you do see him?" I ask. "Do you have some kind of custody arrangement?"

"An informal one. His mother and I are friendly, more or less." He sighs. "Basically, it was a casual fling and neither of us wanted anything more. But when she found out she was pregnant, she decided she wanted a baby. Not that I...well." He blushes, his gaze on the carton of basmati rice he's just opened. "I offered, I mean I asked, if she wanted to try for a relationship when she told me she was pregnant, but she didn't want to. I said I wanted to be involved, but it still kind of felt like her thing. Her decision, her...project." He glances at me, worried. "That makes her sound bad. She loves Adam. I know she does. She's a good mom."

Adam. "Right." It's strange to hear Brian tell me his story. I can relate to his unnamed girlfriend's plight; wasn't I pretty much the same? I found out I was pregnant and decided I wanted a baby. It actually seemed simple then. I had no idea about anything, how hard it would be, how alone I would feel. More alone with a baby than without one.

"Two years ago," Brian resumes, "she moved to Seattle, met a guy. So." He looks up, shaking his head. "Sorry, the last thing you need is to hear all this. How is your son?"

"Ben."

"Ben," he repeats and ladles rice and chicken onto two plates. "How is he doing?"

"He opened his eyes this evening," I say. "So that's something."

"That's great," Brian says with such enthusiasm that I smile.

"Yeah, it is. It's a start, anyway."

"You said before that it takes time to come out of the coma?"

"Yes." I brace my hip against the counter and wrap my arms around myself, even though I'm not cold. "So the doctors keep telling me. I've learned more about traumatic brain injuries in the last week than I ever wanted to know. And I'm sure it's just the beginning."

He hands me a plate and we head over to the sofa, because he doesn't actually own a table or chairs. "And you don't have any help?"

I don't let myself think of Juliet...or Lewis. "Nope."

"No parents?"

"I was a foster kid."

"So no siblings, either?" I shake my head and he says softly, "Friends?"

I lift my chin a little bit. "Not that kind."

"Not many people have that kind, you know," he says quietly. I don't answer.

We eat in silence for a few moments; the chicken is delicious but I've lost my appetite and I end up just pushing it around on my plate.

"How did he get injured?" Brian asked eventually. "If you don't mind me asking."

"He fell at school." I pause, and then I find myself telling him everything: the playground, Josh, the rocks, Juliet.

Brian cocks his head as he looks at me. "You think you have a case?" he asks, and I am jolted by his perception.

"Are you a lawyer or something?"

"Actually, yes. But not personal injury. Corporate, boring stuff."

I shake my head slowly. "I didn't even tell you I was thinking like that."

"It was the way you said it all, listing the facts."

I nod in acceptance. "I guess I was." I pause, take a deep breath. "So do I? I know you can only offer your opinion, but...do you think I might have a case? I haven't thought of it before now, but with the way the school tried to cover it up, it feels wrong..."

Brian chews slowly, clearly thinking it over. I wait, feeling more and more tense. I don't know if I'm thinking about this seriously. A lawsuit could drag on for months, even years. Drag me and Ben and Juliet and Josh and his parents all through the mud. I don't really want to do that, do I?

"I think you could," Brian finally answers, "although obviously I don't know all the details. But if there were playground supervisors in attendance whose job is specifically to keep children off the rocks...you could argue that they had breached their duty of care, and sue the school for negligence." I swallow hard, the lawyerly terms already overwhelming me. "But," Brian continues, "you would have to check what rights you might have signed away. All those pesky permission slips you scrawl your signature on in September?" I remember the ream of paperwork with a grimace. "You could talk to a personal injury lawyer," he adds. "I could give you the name of a good one. You might get a settlement out of court, which would be best for everyone. Less hassle and publicity."

"Yeah, maybe," I allow. "I'm not sure I want go down that whole route, have some big courtroom circus."

"Understandable. I'm a lawyer, and I'd probably feel the same."

But then I think of Ben lying so still in that hospital bed, and I think no one can know what I'm feeling who hasn't been through it. No one can know what I'm capable of, what I'm willing to do for my son. Maybe not even me.

I unfold myself from the sofa and take the plate to the kitchen. "Thanks for dinner."

"You didn't actually eat much."

"I haven't got much appetite lately."

"It's a cliche, but you need to keep up your strength."

I just nod. I know it's true, but I'm not going to eat any more tonight. My stomach is seething with nerves, my mind with questions. We both awkwardly head for the door.

"Look," Brian says as I stand in the doorway, about to launch into the thanks-and-goodbye speech, "I know I don't know you very well, or at all. But if you need anything...anything I can provide..." He flushes a little, and then hastens to explain, "I mean, I have a car. It's parked beneath the building. So if you need a ride anywhere...or just...you know...something." He laughs and runs a hand through his hair, which is too short and bristly to run your hand through. It's more like he pats it, and somehow this is endearing. "Sorry. I'm not being very coherent."

"You're being thoughtful," I say. "And I appreciate it. Really."

And as I head into my apartment, I wonder if I'm desperate enough to take him up on his offer.

14.

JOANNA.

I don't tell Lewis about my father's request. I know it will infuriate him and I can't handle any more stress. So I tell Lewis that my dad can't drive any more and so I'm going back to Danbury in a couple of weeks to take him and my mother to the doctor's. I leave it at that.

"They can't call a taxi?" Lewis asks. He has zero time for my parents, and I can't blame him. They have zero time for him.

"They want me to be there."

He arches an eyebrow. "When have they ever wanted you to be there, Jo? They're the most selfish people on the planet."

I wince at this, even though I can't argue with it. "All right, then. I want to be there. They're my parents, Lewis."

"I know." He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "I just wish you'd stop trying so hard with them. You're not going to change them."

"I know," I say. "But I still want to help." He lets it go with a shrug, and I ask, striving for lightness, "Have you heard from Maddie recently? About Ben? How is he doing?"

A brief and telling pause. It's been a week since he visited her, an endless week of wondering and worrying about everything-about Lewis, about Josh, about my parents. A week since Josh has been back at Burgdorf, and things seem to be going okay. Ish. He's talking to us, at least about trivia, so I consider that a win. And he's taken to practicing the knots Lewis has shown him-bowline, soft shackle, pile hitch. Lewis has looked up a few more knots online, to teach him. I'm glad they have something to do together, that Josh has another interest. Surely that can only be a good thing.

But right now I want to hear about Ben. And Maddie. Over the last week I've tortured myself with thoughts of Lewis and Maddie. I've gone over in my head all the things they might have done together, that I never realized because Lewis never actually said Maddie was there. But then I never asked. Trick or treating last year. When Lewis made kites for Ben and Josh. Ice skating. Bowling. Did Maddie go along to all of those? Did they have a whole thing, the four of them, traipsing around Manhattan like a family?

Lewis has never said, and I assumed he took the boys on his own. Maddie works full-time, after all, just as I do. But now I picture a whole montage of moments they've had together, family times that I was clueless about, with Maddie stepping in as mother and wife. It makes my stomach hurt.

"I think he's coming along," Lewis finally says. "He opened his eyes a week ago now, and recently he's been able to squeeze Maddie's fingers to indicate he understands things. They've done another CT scan on his brain and the swelling has definitely gone down. They're starting different kinds of rehabilitation."

I nod, a bit manically. "That's great," I say, but inside I'm thinking that's a lot of information, and I am wondering how many times he's talked to or texted Maddie.

"Maybe I should visit her again," I suggest, mainly to see Lewis's reaction.

"Sure," Lewis says. His head is lowered as he sorts through the mail. "I'm sure she'd appreciate that."

I don't go to see Maddie though, and Lewis doesn't call my bluff. We're focused on Halloween; last year Ben and Josh dressed up as mummies and Lewis-and Maddie?-took them trick or treating on the Upper West Side, as Hell's Kitchen isn't exactly the neighborhood you want to be in as a kid on Halloween. I was at work.

I think about that now, as we attempt to make this year's Halloween a Taylor-Davies Family Event. Why wasn't I there last year? Why didn't I make more time? Why did I assume as long as Josh was with Lewis, things were okay? Why didn't I safeguard my marriage?

In any case this year the three of us all go out trick or treating. Josh is dressed up, of all things, as a knot. He's got rope wrapped around him in intricate loops and Lewis is accompanying as a sailor, complete in whites and jaunty cap. I'm carrying the camera.

The Upper West Side is transformed into a trick or treating paradise for Halloween. Some of the side streets are closed to traffic and a few of the privately-owned Brownstones have gone all out with decorations: cobwebs and pumpkins and ghosts, creepy music playing from speakers, spiders dangling on bobbing strings from the branches of the trees.

Josh is more animated than I've seen him in a while, taking it all in. And Lewis and I react accordingly, with over-wide grins and loud laughs, getting way too excited about his eighth Hershey bar, because we have this compulsion to prove to ourselves that we are having a lot of fun, that we are a normal, functioning family.

I watch him dart looks at us, first at Lewis, then at me, as if he is assessing us and our reactions. He seems satisfied, because he smiles and later in the evening, he takes hold of both of our hands. We walk along, swinging hands, as night falls.

"Can I eat some of my candy after dinner?" Josh asks as we head up the elevator to our apartment.

"One piece," I answer.

Josh goes to his bedroom to sort his candy, and Lewis and I head to the kitchen.

"Sometimes I feel like we're a couple of circus seals," he murmurs as he pops the bottle top off his beer.

I turn in surprise. "Really? Because I always thought I was the only one who felt that way." I let out an uncertain laugh. "You always make it seem like everything is so easy."

Lewis's face is inscrutable as he raises the beer bottle to his lips and takes a long swallow. "That's the thing, Jo," he says quietly. "You've never thought anything was hard for me."

I stare at him, uncomprehending, because it sounds like a criticism and I don't understand it. "That's not true," I finally protest. "It's just you make things look easy, Lewis. That's a good thing."

"Is it?" he asks, and then sighs. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

But I feel like it does, and I want to ask more. Lewis doesn't let me. He goes into Josh's room, and I hear him asking Josh how many Twix he has scored.

Another week blurs by, a haze of work-filled days and evenings spent negotiating this new, fragile peace. Josh seems like he is in a fairly good place, talking to both of us, teasing us, regaling us with trivia. We don't talk about Ben or the fall; it feels like cowardice, but I tell myself it's okay. We can't dwell on Ben's accident forever. We need to move on, as a family.

And Lewis gives me the updates about Ben, via Maddie, which I tell myself is no big deal. So they're talking. So they're friends, even. I am not threatened. At least Ben is doing better, entering rehab, possibly moving to a facility outside the city. This news brings me a guilty relief; I want Ben and his mother far away.

Then one day in early November, over three weeks since Ben fell, Mrs. Rollins phones me.

"Mrs. Taylor-Davies? Do you have a moment?"

My stomach roils and I swallow hard. "Yes, of course. Is everything...is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes, yes," Josh's teacher hastens to assure me. "Nothing's...nothing's happened. I mean, Josh is..." She lets that sentence fade away. "I just wanted to speak to you, to make sure Josh is getting the care he needs."

The care he needs? Her words feel like an accusation, an indictment. "Very well," I say, and I can hear how frosty I sound. "I have appointments all day today-"

"What about during your lunch hour?" Mrs. Rollins suggests. "The children will be at the playground, but I'll be at school."

At the playground. Is every day a reminder to Josh? I hate the thought.

"Okay," I say, and we arrange a time. I think about calling Lewis, but then I decide I should run interference first, see if this is worth him knowing about. So I go alone.

The school is strangely quiet and empty with all the children at the playground. The security guard waves me in and I walk down the hallway towards Josh's classroom. Mrs. Rollins meets me at the door.

"Thanks for coming," she says, and ushers me inside. She sits at her desk and I sit at the chair on the other side, my handbag on my knees.

"I don't mean to concern you," she begins, "but I know that Ben's accident has been traumatic for Josh, and I wanted to make sure his needs are being met."

"Thank you," I say, although I am still waiting for the sting.

"How does Josh seem at home?" Mrs. Rollins asks.

"Fine," I say and then I amend, "Relatively speaking. This has been hard for him." I swallow, my hands clenching on my purse before I deliberately relax them. "How has he seemed at school?"

"Quiet," Mrs. Rollins says, and I nod.

"You know Josh has always been quiet."

"Yes, but he's quieter than normal. Before this happened...he might not have contributed in class voluntarily, but he would answer a question if I called on him."

I feel my insides tighten, my chest start to hurt. "And now?"

"Now he won't say anything. I haven't called on him much, because I figured he needed a little space. But in the last few days I've tried calling on him, just for easy questions, things I know he knows, and he won't say a word. He doesn't speak, Mrs. Taylor-Davies, from the moment he enters school to the moment he leaves."