I bite my lip. This is how preschool was. I thought we were past this awful silence. I really thought Josh had moved on. But it seems this accident, this whole incident, has propelled him backwards, at least at school. It has propelled us all backwards, into that terrible time of uncertainty and fear.

"I think Josh should see a psychologist," Mrs. Rollins says. "Someone who can help him process what has happened. This has to be very difficult for him."

"Yes, it has been," I say tightly. When Josh was three, we went through the whole ream of specialists, looking for a diagnosis, something definable. We didn't see a psychologist, although one doctor recommended it, because Josh was so young. "He's not even putting two words together," Lewis had said. "And they want him to talk about his feelings?"

"There are other kinds of therapies," I said. "Art therapy, music..."

Lewis just shook his head. "He's too young. Give him a chance to grow out of it before we have people sticking all sorts of labels on him."

I saw the wisdom in this, and Josh had grown out of it. For three years, since starting Burgdorf, Josh has been your average shy kid. He's been quiet, thoughtful, maybe a little weird, but still well within the normal range. I hate that he's losing that. We are.

"I'll certainly think about it," I say.

Mrs. Rollins hands me a card. "Will Dannon comes highly recommended. Several Burgdorf families have used him in the past." Which makes him sound like a realtor or stock broker. I take the card and put it into my purse.

"Thank you," I say. "That's very kind of you."

That night, when Josh is in his room, I tell Lewis about Mrs. Rollins's suggestion.

"Maybe that would help," he allows, and it scares me that even Lewis realizes Josh needs help. Have I been willfully blind these last few weeks, thinking we were starting to seem okay, that we might all actually be moving on, at least a little bit?

Later, as Josh is getting ready to go to sleep, I go into his room and sit down on his bed. "Hey, buddy," I say softly. Josh looks up from his Lego book, wariness entering his eyes. My tone must not have been right. "I spoke to Mrs. Rollins today," I say, and his eyes darken with understanding. "Why aren't you talking at school, Josh?" I ask. "What's going on?"

He stares down at his book. "Nothing," he says after a moment.

"Mrs. Rollins is worried. We're worried." Josh doesn't answer. "Josh," I say, and touch his hair. He ducks his head away from my hand. "Is this...is this about Ben?"

He glances up at me. "The other kids are afraid of me," he says and I school my face into a neutral expression.

"Afraid of you? Why do you think that?"

"Because I pushed Ben. And they keep talking about it."

"But they know it was an accident." How many times have I said that? Insisted it? And now Josh corrects me.

"No, Mom," he says, and he closes his book. "It wasn't."

I stare at him, searching his face. "Josh, honey, what are you saying?"

"I meant to push him." His lower lip juts out, like a toddler's. "I meant him to fall. I'm glad he fell." I stare at him, appalled, as he flings his book on the floor and then curls his knees up to his chest and scrunches his eyes shut. "And you should be, too."

"Josh, what do you mean?" My voice rises in panic and fear that I try hard to suppress. "Tell me what you mean, Josh," I plead, but he's scrunched up into a ball, his eyes closed, everything about him shutting down. "Josh..." I decide not to press him for information, even though everything in me demands an answer. "I love you," I say softly, and then I rise from the bed. Josh hasn't moved at all.

I walk out of his room in a daze, still reeling from what he admitted. I meant him to fall. I'm glad he fell. I heard a note of something almost like triumph in his voice, and I quake inside.

Lewis is in our bedroom, stripping down for a shower. He glances up at me and frowns. "What's wrong?"

"Josh..." I let out a long breath.

"What?" Lewis asks, his tone sharpening. We're all under such stress, even if we pretend we aren't. Even if we act like everything is fine. It's still an act, and it's exhausting, and I don't know how much longer any of us can keep it up.

I sink onto the bed, running my hands through my hair, trying to make sense of what Josh said, make it seem reasonable, logical. "He just told me now that he meant to push Ben. That he's...that he's glad he fell." Lewis doesn't respond and I drop my hands and look up at him. He's taking off his watch. "Lewis?"

"He's nine, Jo. He doesn't know what he's saying."

I want to believe him, but I can't. "He sounded like he did, Lewis. He sounded like he really meant it." I hesitate, my mind still reeling, my stomach clenched with grief and fear. "Why do you think he's glad Ben fell? I mean, this is Ben. His best friend. What do you think is going on?"

Lewis's jaw is tight, his expression shuttered. "I don't know."

"But you must know," I fire back, my voice rising suddenly. "You must have some idea. You've spent the most time with them, Lewis. You-and Maddie."

I dare him to contradict me, but he simply stares at me, unblinking.

"Did you ever notice anything?" I ask more quietly. Now is not the time to mention Maddie. "Did Ben and Josh ever seem...at odds?"

"No, not really." He pulls a T-shirt over his head, his tone diffident.

"Lewis, you must have noticed something," I press. "Did they ever argue? Did Ben ever say something to Josh? Did Josh ever seem...I don't know, upset? Angry? Jealous-"

"What do you want me to say, Jo?" Lewis cuts me off, his voice hard. "That I noticed my son was harboring violent tendencies but never did anything about it? What the hell do you want me to say?"

We stare at each other, Lewis angry, me appalled. This is the closest we've ever come to fighting.

"No, of course I don't want you to say that," I whisper.

Lewis sighs. "I'm sorry. But if I'd noticed something, I would have said. Of course I would have said. And in any case..." He trails off, defeated, and I step closer.

"In any case?"

"Just because Josh said he's glad Ben fell..." Lewis hesitates. "It doesn't mean anything, Jo. It doesn't have to mean he's a serial killer or something." He closes his eyes briefly. "I mean, this is Josh we're talking about. He'd never violent. He's so gentle it hurts sometimes. I've always wanted him to stick up for himself a bit more."

"But not like this," I say quietly.

"We don't even know if that's what he was doing. We don't know what happened."

"But we need to find out." More and more I realize this. And more and more I realize how terrified I am of learning the answers to our questions.

"Fine. Yes." Lewis nods wearily. "We need to find out."

"Maybe if Josh visited Ben," I suggest. "Maybe if he actually saw him, he'd realize how serious this is, and he'd open up a little more."

"You want to scare him?"

"No, of course not. But I want him to understand. And I want to understand him." I shake my head, tired and now near tears. "I don't know what to do, Lewis. I don't know what the right thing is. For the last few weeks I've just been blundering forward, hoping we can put this behind us. But I know we can't. Whatever happened needs to come out into the open. We need to deal with it, all three of us."

Lewis stares at me for a moment before he finally nods in resigned acceptance. "Fine," he says, and silently we both finish getting ready for bed.

The next day I call Will Dannon and am discomfited when his receptionist tells me he will meet with Lewis and me first.

"A whole session?" I say when she says she will book us in for an hour. "I mean..." We're not the patients.

"It's Dr. Dannon's standard procedure," she answers smoothly. "Talking to the parents first often helps him to understand the child's issues."

"Okay," I say after a pause. I'm not really comfortable with this, and I don't think Lewis will be either, but reluctantly I accept that might be part of the problem. "Okay," I say again.

Lewis balks when I tell him about the appointment. "Why does he need to talk to us? It's Josh who needs help."

"Dr. Dannon feels it's important to get the parents on board first-"

"But we're already on board. We called him in the first place."

"He thinks talking to the parents helps. In understanding Josh's issues."

Lewis stares at me for a long moment. "So what, it's our fault?"

"I don't think it's about blame." Even if it feels like it is.

"Fine," Lewis says. "I'll come."

We are both tense as we meet in front of Dr. Dannon's office down on Christopher Street. Therapy is so not us. There are things we don't talk about, ever, and there is a reason for that. It's easier, safer. Our happiness depends on a certain amount of silence.

Dr. Dannon's office is on the first floor of a Brownstone; when we walk into the waiting room, I feel almost as if I've entered a movie set: a few leather club chairs, some tasteful prints and antiques, an Oriental rug. The room is intentionally peaceful, and it makes me tense. It feels forced, even fake, and then when Will Dannon opens the door to his office and smiles at us, I feel like the leading actor has just come on the stage.

He's tall, slightly gangly, and wearing mismatched socks, an Argyll sweater, and old but expensive corduroys. His office extends the movie set: bookshelves line the walls, and a huge mahogany desk takes pride of place by the windows that are open to the street. On the other side of the room there is a sofa-of course-and two easy chairs around a wood coffee table. I continue my inspection and see against the wall the kind of shelf with cubbyholes you'd see in a school; in the different compartments are markers and paper, beads and bits of fabric, various small toys. Tools of the trade, I suppose.

"Please, take a seat." Dr. Dannon indicates two of the chairs, and Lewis and I both sit down. I sit stiffly and Lewis lounges in his chair looking unconcerned and indifferent, which I know is his defense mechanism.

I manage a smile. "I'm Joanna Taylor-Davies, and this is my husband Lewis."

"Will Dannon." He shakes my hand; his is warm and dry. "Please call me Will." He turns to Lewis and they shake hands as well.

"So, Joanna, Lewis." Will sits in the chair opposite us, crossing one long, lanky leg over the other. He actually steeples his fingers together as he smiles, playing the role to the hilt. "You're both here because of your son Josh."

"Yes."

"What about Josh's behavior concerns you?"

I hesitate, glancing at Lewis. Which one of us is meant to answer? Lewis does not look inclined to say anything. "I think you have Josh's file from school..." I temporize, and Will nods.

"Yes. But I'd like to hear what you both think." He looks at me, and then at Lewis.

I sit up straighter, as if I am in school, about to answer a teacher's question. "I'm concerned, naturally, about how Josh has responded to his friend's accident. To Ben falling, especially considering Josh...Josh was the one who pushed him. Both Lewis and I feel that Josh isn't telling us something about what happened, but we don't know what it is." Obviously. Will says nothing, just gazes at us over his steepled fingers. I wonder which one of us will break first. "He's gone very quiet," I continue. Of course it would be me. "At school he refuses to answer any questions. He's not talking at all."

"And at home?" Will asks. His voice is gentle and kind, and yet it grates on me. I wish Lewis would say something.

"He seems...normal," I say. "Maybe a bit quiet. A bit...worried."

"He doesn't seem worried," Lewis interjects. Will cocks his head.

"He was worried about me," I say quietly. I don't know if I'm telling this for Lewis's sake or for Will's. "On the train, when we were visiting my parents. He asked me if I was okay."

"What's the problem with that?" Lewis asks, and Will nods slowly, although whether in response to what I said or Lewis said, I can't tell.

"Did his question concern you at the time, Joanna?" Will asks.

"A little," I confess. "Because he seemed so...worried. As if he'd been worried about me for a while."

Will nods again. "Has Josh spoken to you about the accident?"

"He's been very reluctant to. When I've asked him for details all he's told me that they were on the rocks in Heckscher Playground, and that he...pushed Ben."

"He didn't say it was an accident?"

"No, he's never said that." I pause, glancing at Lewis. "Actually, the opposite. Recently he's intimated that he pushed Ben on purpose, but he won't say why." I don't want to admit what Josh really said. I'm glad he fell. I don't want to prejudice this man against my son. And maybe Josh didn't really mean it. "He's a gentle, kind boy," I say, my voice coming out a little strident. A bit ragged. "He always has been. His issues have stemmed from being shy, being quiet. Not...aggression."

I realize I'm clutching my purse and I put it down by my feet and then smooth my hands along my skirt. I take a deep, even breath. "Josh has had issues with not talking before."

Next to me I feel Lewis stiffen. "Joanna..." he begins but now that I've referenced that episode in our lives I doggedly continue, for Josh's sake. I'll do whatever I can to help him. "When Josh was three," I tell Will, "he became selectively mute for a year. He wouldn't speak, not even to us, not a single word. He could make sounds, so we knew it wasn't some kind of physical problem. We had him assessed but nothing was conclusive."

"Lots of kids go through that kind of thing," Lewis mutters.

"Did this correspond with any trauma or instability at home?" Will asks and now I'm the one to stiffen.

"No," I say after a tiny pause. Will waits. I can feel the tension emanating from Lewis. I don't want to say anything else; I don't want to revisit all those painful memories that Lewis and I have suppressed. But this is for Josh. I take a deep breath and keep talking. "Six months earlier Lewis and I had some...difficulties. But it was long before. Six months," I repeat.

Will turns to Lewis, whose face is blank, although his body is still tense. "Lewis? Do you want to say anything about that?"

"It's just what Joanna said. We had a bit of a rough patch, just like most married couples have. We got through it."

"Could you elaborate?" Will asks easily. "What kind of difficulties were you having?"

I wait, wondering what Lewis will say, what his version of those awful days is. "Just the usual," he finally says. "We went through a hard time and had trouble talking about it." He doesn't look at me. "Like I said, we got over it."

"I don't think Josh even noticed," I blurt. Will's silence on this point is eloquent, and I quickly correct myself. "Well, he probably noticed. But it was a long time before. If his not speaking was related to that, surely it would have manifested itself earlier."

"It depends," Will answers. "But it does seem likely that the two are related. A child doesn't become selectively mute without a reason."

Lewis shifts in his chair. "Maybe not, but that doesn't have anything to do with what's going on now. We know what's causing Josh's problems now, and he's not actually selectively mute. He's just a little quiet, because the kids in his class are giving him a hard time. What we want is for you to talk to him about it, to help him process what happened."

"To understand why Josh is responding the way he is now, it's helpful to know what has gone before," Will answers. His voice is gentle, patient, and it makes me want to grit my teeth. Again. He glances at the clock. "I'm afraid our hour is up."

"So you'll see Josh now," I say, and even as I say it I know what Will Dannon's answer will be.

"I could," he allows, "but I think it would be more helpful if I saw both of you again first."

"But the important person here is Josh," I protest.

"Exactly. Children's issues are almost always closely related to those of their parents."