It's basically what his receptionist said, and yet both Lewis and I recoil a little at this. So it really is our fault. I force myself to acknowledge the possibility. What if Josh pushing Ben is related to us, to something we did or didn't do, either now or long before? What if the way we responded to each other or to Josh has made him respond the way he did to Ben? The thought is terrifying.

"Okay," I say, and glance at Lewis. He is staring straight ahead, his jaw bunched, but at least he's not refusing. I wonder what another session will do to us.

Slowly I rise from the chair, and so does Lewis. We shake Will's hand and then we leave in silence.

Out in the street Lewis lets out a low breath. "Do you believe him?" he demands.

"About what?"

"That Josh's issues might be related to...to us."

I take a deep breath. "It seems possible, Lewis," I say. "Children pick up on all sorts of things and feelings."

We stare at each other for a moment, the memory of six years ago stretching between us. Then Lewis turns and starts walking down the street. I follow, taking small, careful steps. I feel fragile; I feel like an egg Will Dannon has tapped with a spoon. There is a crack inside me, and if he taps again it will widen. I will break.

15.

MADDIE.

The next two weeks are the longest of my life, longer even than the week and a half waiting for Ben to wake up from the coma, to open his eyes.

Now that he is regaining consciousness, Dr. Velas and her team have begun a battery of tests to assess his cognitive and motor skills, as well as to begin to rehabilitate him. I meet with a raft of specialists and therapists, cheerful people in colorful scrubs who are going to help Ben walk, talk, and remember. Yet at first he can't even lift a finger or say a word.

For three days after Ben first opens his eyes, nothing really changes. He doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge anyone or anything. His eyes open, close, open, close. And then they open some more, and then his gaze moves around the room but I can't tell anything from it. I can't tell if my son is still inhabiting that familiar body, and the waiting is making me crazy.

Now, every morning is taken up with Ben's therapies: moving his arms and legs, offering him mental and physical stimulation, monitoring his responses. One therapist, Jose, keeps up a steady banter as he exercises Ben's nearly-lifeless limbs. Sometimes Ben is conscious for these, and his gaze rests on Jose's face. Sometimes it moves to me, but it feels like he is looking at a stranger. I am still waiting, still hoping, for him to smile and say Hi, Mom.

Another therapist, Katie, suggests I bring some of Ben's favorite things into the room, play music he likes, as this can help with recovery. I bring his soccer ball and his old teddy bear, even though he hasn't slept with it in years. I bring my iPod and play Bruno Mars's Uptown Funk which Ben was listening to incessantly in the weeks before the accident. I was so tired of that song and its relentless, chirpy beat, and now the simple lyrics, and the memory of Ben bopping around to them, can make me cry.

I talk to Ben too, which is harder than I expected. I struggle to keep my voice cheerful and upbeat, to talk about things that are innocuous. I tell him about the weather, about Halloween; the neurology department was decorated with paper pumpkins and a nurse gave out mini Hershey bars. I make promises I don't know if I'll be able to keep, about letting him do soccer after school at the club on the Upper West Side; I'd always said it was too far to travel after work. I tell him we can get a pet, not a cat or a dog because my building doesn't allow them, but maybe a gerbil or a hamster. We will change. I will be a better mother, more attentive and loving and grateful. So grateful.

The hours of therapies every morning clearly exhaust Ben, because when they're finished he falls into a deep sleep and I sit by his bedside, almost as exhausted, and wonder and wait. How long will this go on? There has been progress, yes; Ben is conscious for longer periods, and Dr. Velas says there have been some good signs; yesterday he strained to slowly, painfully lift his hand to push a red button that turned on music in his room. Dr. Velas explained to me how this shows how not only are his motor skills starting to come back, but his brain recognizes the connection between the button and the music.

Now I watch Ben sleep and think about money. I have three more days of paid leave.

I think about the lawsuit again, whether it's worth dragging everyone into something that is potentially messy and hurtful. But then I think about Juliet not calling me, about Burgdorf distancing themselves from the whole thing, about how they basically lied about Josh and Ben being up on the rocks.

And then I think about Josh, and I wonder yet again why that quiet, gentle little boy pushed my son.

All those people who are involved, who are culpable, and Ben and I are the only ones paying the price.

That night I stop by Brian's apartment. I've seen Brian a few times over the last few weeks; he's knocked on my door in the evening, when I'm tired and dirty from a day at the hospital and dressed in sweats and an old T-shirt, to ask how Ben is.

More than once I've ended up inviting him in and blathering to him about the minutiae of my day, from the cold coffee in the cafeteria to Ben's finger twitching promisingly. I have no one else to talk to, and Brian actually listens.

"So you're going to look into the lawsuit," Brian says when I ask for the name of a lawyer.

"I just want to see," I say. "The truth is, I'm strapped for cash." And then I flush, because the last thing I want is for Brian to offer to loan me money. "I mean, I'm fine, I've got savings," I say quickly. "But, still. This whole thing is costing..." I stop, because it's not just about the money. Of course it's not. It's about the fact that my life has been one rip-off after another, people disappointing me, dropping me, leaving me, and I'm tired of it. I finally want something back. But I can't explain all that to Brian right now, so I settle for, "It's about what's right."

Brian nods and gives me the name of a personal injury lawyer he knows in midtown, and the next day I make an appointment.

The office is in a nondescript boxy building near Grand Central Station. It's not high market but it's not a dive, either. The first consultation is free, so I tell myself there's no risk as I sit in a bland waiting room and gaze at the out-of-date magazines.

Then the lawyer, Keith Ellis, comes to the door. I'm expecting someone stereotypically flash, with slicked-back hair and an ostentatious watch, maybe a shiny tie the same color as his shirt, a purple or pale pink. Keith Ellis has none of those things.

He looks...dorky. He has a round face and a bit of a paunch, thinning hair and thick glasses. His smile is surprisingly kind, but his eyes are sharp. I wonder if he takes people by surprise in court, if they think he'll be a pushover. I hope he's not.

"Madeleine Reese?"

"Yes. Please call me Maddie." We shake hands and he leads me into his office. It's as bland as the rest of the building, all wood laminate and neutral shades.

"So." He sits behind his desk, pulling a yellow legal pad towards him. I sit across from him, my big leather bag in my lap. "You're here to discuss the possibility of a personal injury case."

"Yes, but I'm not the one who is injured. It's my son."

"Why don't you tell me everything from the beginning," Keith says, and so I do.

I tell him about Ben and Josh and the rocks, about Burgdorf and Juliet and Helen on the playground, and how no one told me where he'd fallen from, how the accident report was wrong. Keith doesn't say anything, just makes a few encouraging 'mms' as he writes notes on the legal pad.

Finally I fall silent and wait for his verdict. He looks up, taking off his glasses and polishing them with his handkerchief. "So you want to know if you have a case," he says, and I nod.

"Yes."

"Everyone has a case," Keith says. "It just depends how strong it is."

"How strong do you think mine is?"

"It's impossible to give you a definitive answer at this stage. On the surface, yes, I would say you have a fairly strong case. But of course there are questions. Was your son told by the supervisors to get off the rocks? Were they attempting to get him to come down when he fell? Was he even on the rocks?"

"Why would he say-"

Keith holds up a hand. "You'd need witnesses who saw him and the other boy there. Reliable witnesses."

This is all sounding very...legal. "I'm sure someone saw them there," I say. "And Juliet-one of the playground supervisors-didn't tell me that she'd warned them off, or anything like that."

"You've spoken to one of the supervisors?"

"She's a friend of mine." Was a friend. And certainly won't be any longer if I proceed with a lawsuit. My hands turn clammy.

"If you decide to pursue a lawsuit," Keith says, "it would be better not to speak to anyone involved." I swallow, nod. "The way to start is to file a third party claim against the school's insurance provider that presumably covers the parent volunteers and their actions while supervising students. Then, most likely, we will begin settlement negotiations. If, however, the insurance company refuses a settlement for some reason, you have the option of taking the case to court, and filing a lawsuit against the school for negligence."

"And then?"

"Then the lawsuit goes to trial. But only about five percent of all personal injury lawsuits go to trial." He pauses before continuing, "However, I should tell you that ninety percent of personal injury lawsuits that do go to trial are lost by the plaintiff."

"Those aren't great statistics."

Keith gives me a small smile. "No. But hopefully we could agree on a settlement."

"And if we couldn't? Can I...drop the lawsuit?"

"Of course. But you should consider the strength of your case before we file."

"Right." I feel dizzy with all this information.

"If it does come to a lawsuit," Keith continues, "we could claim joint or several liability, which means we can file against the other parties involved in the accident. In this case, it would be the state of New York, although I advise against that as suing the state is difficult, and the family of the child who pushed your son."

My stomach drops. "I don't want to go after the family," I say quickly. I can't lose Lewis on top of everyone else. "He's just a little boy, and it was an accident. Besides, he was-is-Ben's best friend."

"All right," Keith agrees equably. "But be prepared for them to be dragged into it if the school refuses to settle and the case goes to trial. The school could claim the boy has some apportioned blame."

My head is spinning. I am not prepared for this; I don't understand it all. I certainly don't want Lewis to be dragged into some kind of court case.

"As for fees," Keith continues, "I would offer you a contingency agreement, which means you would pay my fees if we won a settlement or lawsuit. If it went to court and we didn't win, then you wouldn't owe me anything, but you would still be liable for the defendant's costs, which could run to the thousands of dollars." I swallow hard, because even though I know that isn't much when you're talking lawyers and lawsuits, it still feels like a lot to me. And if ninety-five percent of these court cases are lost by the plaintiff...

"I advise you to think hard about your course of action," Keith says quietly. "I know we live in a culture where the first thing people often think of is suing for damages. Sometimes it feels like free money."

I feel my face heat. "This isn't just about the money."

"Of course not," Keith agrees. "If the school was truly negligent, and your son's health and quality of life has been compromised as a result, then it is right and just for you to take legal action." He smiles, his eyes full of sympathy behind his glasses. "But that doesn't mean there won't be consequences."

I am thinking about those potential consequences as I step out of his office building into a dreary gray November afternoon. I call the hospital, and learn that Ben is sleeping after his therapies this morning; I don't feel like going back to Mount Sinai Roosevelt just yet.

The smell of the hospital has got into my clothes, my hair and skin. Sometimes I wake up in the night and still feel like I'm there; I strain to listen to Ben's breathing before I realize I'm at home. Alone.

But now, for a few hours, I want to do something else, be someone else. I'm just not sure who or what.

I cross the street and wander through the food market at Grand Central Station, browsing the selection of gourmet meats and cheese, filets of salmon and tilapia lying on beds of crushed ice, sun-dried tomatoes and lumps of feta swimming in brine. I imagine being the sort of person who would buy a few of these little delicacies and make something delicious with them, share a meal with a man, someone like Lewis, over candlelight. For a second I will away Josh and Joanna, even Ben. For one evening I would like to simply be a woman with a man, and a lovely meal, and interesting, flirtatious conversation. Just for one evening. But it's never going to happen, and certainly not with Lewis.

I am just coming out of the food hall when I hear someone call my name. I look up and see Bruce Decker striding toward me. Juliet's Bruce, wearing an expensive trench coat and carrying a briefcase that probably costs more than anything I own.

"Maddie." His voice is confident and smooth, the male equivalent of Ruth James's voice. I don't trust either.

I tense, not sure if I should smile or not. Before this all happened with Ben, I was friendly with Bruce. I flirted with him a bit, and there was that incident at the party. But I've never really liked him.

He's clearly in command of the situation as he stands before me and puts a hand on my shoulder, looks deeply into my eyes. His eyes are a very pale blue.

"Maddie," he says again, meaningfully, his gaze never wavering. I force myself not to look away.

"Hello, Bruce."

He squeezes my shoulder. "Juliet and I have been so worried about you. And Ben. How is he?"

"He's come out of the coma," I say. "But he still has a long way to go." As I say this I remember what Keith Ellis advised. Not to talk to Juliet. Or, presumably, her husband, who is also the chair of the board of trustees for Burgdorf.

"But he's making progress," Bruce says. His hand is still on my shoulder.

"Yes..." I am afraid that anything I say might damage the case I'm not yet sure I'm going to bring against Burgdorf. "Anyway..." I begin, but Bruce talks over me.

"Do you have a moment? Why don't we get a drink?"

I hesitate, knowing I should say no, wanting to say no, except a part of me actually doesn't want that. Part of me wants to do anything, with anyone, as long as it means not going back home to my empty apartment where the silence screams at me, reminding me how much I've lost, how much I've never even had.

"Sure," I say and Bruce steers me to a bar in the train station, a place with deep plush booths and a huge flat-screen TV above the bar that is thankfully on mute. He leads us to a corner booth, and then asks what I'd like to drink.

"I'm having a martini," he says. "It's the evening, right?"

It's four o'clock in the afternoon, but whatever. I drop my bag on the seat next to me and smile up at him. "I'll have the same."

Bruce goes to the bar and I watch him. He is an attractive man, in that rich, charismatic, silver-haired way. He reeks of privilege and entitlement and while he is definitely charming, I wouldn't say he comes across as sincere. I think of the party when he let his hand slip. It was only a few seconds, but why did he do it? Had he just drunk a little too much and was feeling the love? Or was he testing the waters? Looking back, I think it was the latter.

At the time I waited a few seconds and then stepped away, easily, as if I wasn't even aware of where his hand was. Bruce dropped his hand just as easily, didn't even blink or break in his conversation. He's always been a smooth operator.

I'm not actually sure what Bruce is up to now. It isn't like him to ask me out for a drink. I've known him for ten years, but we're not that friendly.

He comes back with the drinks and sits in the booth perpendicular to me so our knees are brushing under the table. I take a sip of the martini and the alcohol burns the back of my throat. I can't remember the last time I had anything alcoholic, and this is on an empty stomach. I take another sip.

"This has been so tough for you," Bruce says, his tone one of such obvious sympathy that I have to resist rolling my eyes.

"Yes, you could say that, Bruce."

He doesn't acknowledge my light sarcasm. "I can't even imagine."

No, you can't. "It's been very hard." I take another sip of my martini. I don't want to talk about Ben. "How are things with you?"

"Oh, the same." He waves his hand and I wonder if he gets manicures. "Lots of travel, long days at the office..." He shrugs. "But Juliet can't complain, can she?"

"And the girls?" I ask after a pause. I like Juliet's girls, although they can sometimes be a little whiny and spoilt. But what kid isn't? They've always been polite to me. I wonder what they think of me now, of Ben. It would have been nice for them to visit, or even for Josh to visit. Now that Ben is awake, I think he would like to see some people other than me. But no one's suggested anything.

"They're fine," Bruce says, and his tone is dismissive. "But I want to talk about you. Juliet was so broken up about what happened with Ben."

"Was she?" My tone must be a little sharp because Bruce's gaze narrows.

"Of course she was. She loves Ben, Maddie, you know that. She'd do anything for him."