A few different retorts spring to my lips but I force myself to stay silent. I'm not going to argue with Bruce.

"You know," Bruce says, and now he lays a hand on top of mine. "We'd do anything for you, Maddie. If you need anything...anything at all..."

How about a couple grand? I glance at him and with a ripple of horrified shock I recognize the look in his eyes. That intent look, and I acknowledge the sudden, sensual, sexual overtones his words have taken on. His hand is still resting on mine.

"That's so kind, Bruce," I say, and just to test it, I squeeze his hand. His pupils flare and the tension ratchets up a notch. I'm not imagining it.

And for a second, just one second, I actually think about it. I wonder if Bruce is one of those serial adulterers. Maybe he has a hotel room lined up, convenient for a quickie near Grand Central Station. I imagine how it will play out: he'll squeeze my hand back, suggest we leave. We'll rise from the table and as we walk out of the bar Bruce will rest his hand on the small of my back. We'll get to the street, look at each other. Hesitate, check to make sure we're both reading the same signals. Then maybe Bruce will say something about another place he knows, a quieter place, where we can really talk. I'll lower my gaze and murmur how that would be nice. And then we'll go to some hotel and have sordid, soulless sex.

I don't want that. I've done it before; Ben was conceived in an elevator with a man whose name I still don't know. The last time I had sex was five years ago, when I hired a sitter-the daughter of someone from work-and went out with a few colleagues. I got drunk and had sex with a guy in the bathroom of a bar. We didn't even exchange phone numbers. The memory makes me cringe in shame.

I don't want to sleep with Bruce. I don't want to feel ashamed and unloved after another emotionless hookup, because that's all I ever get, all I've ever managed to have.

But I don't want to be alone any more.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Maddie?" Bruce asks quietly. His hand feels heavy on mine. The alcohol is starting to affect me; I feel dizzy and slightly sick and also almost near tears Finally I pull my hand away from Bruce's. It takes more effort than I expected, and my hand falls into my lap like a dead thing.

I force myself to look up into Bruce's face; his expression is calculating, his lips pursed, eyes narrowed. "No, Bruce," I say as I blink back tears. "There's nothing you can do for me."

16.

JOANNA.

Lewis and I don't discuss the appointment with Will Dannon beyond what we said in the street. This is not surprising to me; in the six years since it happened, neither of us has ever brought up our separation or what caused it. When Lewis came back after three weeks, he stood in the doorway while I clutched Josh to my chest and tried not to cry.

Lewis dropped his duffel bag with a thud. "I'm back," he said. "I shouldn't have gone."

I let out a shuddering breath of relief and bowed my head as tears slipped silently down my face. Lewis came inside and Josh scrambled off my lap and ran to him. And we all moved on.

Yet now I find myself thinking about that time more and more. I wonder if Josh really was affected the way Will seems to think he was. I wonder if we should have talked about it, exorcised the memories that still hold the power to hurt me, and maybe hurt Josh too.

After all these years, I haven't let go of the hurt. I don't think about it; I pretend it's all forgotten. But now, as I remember, the pain rips the old wounds open and the anger bleeds and burns.

But do I really want to rake all that up with Lewis? Do I want to deal with all that mess? I'm afraid if we do, Lewis might leave me again, and I couldn't bear that.

The days slip by and I observe Josh covertly; he's eating his meals, practicing his knots-they seem to have taken the place of Lego books-and doing his homework. I tell myself that he is okay, even though I'm not sure I believe it. I sit with him at bedtime and chat about knots and Lego and meaningless trivia, wanting to make things feel normal for both of us.

My father calls to tell me he's made appointments for him and my mother. Two separate appointments, on separate days, so I will have to come to Danbury twice. I close my eyes at this realization, and make arrangements to go.

"Don't you think we have enough to be going on with?" Lewis asks one Monday night, after Josh is in bed. I am stacking dishes in the dishwasher and he is paying bills.

"Yes, I do, but these are my parents, Lewis, and I told you before, I want to be there for them."

"Even though they've never been there for you?"

I close my eyes. "Yes."

He sighs wearily. "I don't mean to sound unkind. But I don't want you to be hurt by them all over again, Jo."

Over the last fifteen years Lewis has witnessed my parents' little rejections and how they've hurt me: the bland picture frame they sent when Josh was born, rather than visiting; the delicate suggestion that we stay at a hotel rather than with them when we visited; the condo they bought that didn't allow children to stay overnight. Pinpricks of hurt, but eventually, with enough pin pricks, you can bleed to death.

I gaze at Lewis now, trying to work up the courage to talk about the hurt he's caused me. The little wounds that still bleed. I want to ask him the questions I never dared to six years ago, and yet just like our son, I am silent.

Lewis rises from the table and puts the checkbook away, and the moment has passed. When it comes to Lewis, I know I am a coward. I can't risk losing him.

Two days later I take the train to Danbury, a taxi to my parents' condo, and then drive them to Danbury Hospital for my mother's appointment with the memory clinic. My head is aching as I wait with my mother while my father stands at the desk and fills out a ream of forms. The room is half-filled with elderly people in various stages of dementia; some look completely normal and self-possessed, but others are accompanied by carers or children, people who clearly need to manage them. The room smells like disinfectant and old age.

"This is ridiculous," my mother huffs as she watches my father flip through the paperwork on a clipboard. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Just in case, Mom," I say wearily. To my surprise she reaches over and takes hold of my hand. Her own hand feels cold and claw-like, and the sensation of actually touching my mother is strange. She has never been one for physical affection, and I am moved that she needs me now, even though she hasn't for the last forty-one years, hasn't seemed all that interested in me. I keep holding her hand.

Eventually they go into the doctor's office, and I wait. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. I am so tired. I don't have the energy to worry about my mother. I am already worried about Josh, about Lewis, about my marriage. And what about Ben? I suppose I should be worried about him too. Perhaps I really should visit Maddie again.

My parents return after an hour; my mother is pale and fractious, my father silent and mutinous. I stand, look inquiringly at the doctor, but he's talking to my father.

"See you Thursday," he says and I blink. Wait. What?

"What did he mean, Thursday?" I ask my father as we leave the clinic.

"There's a support group for people suffering from memory loss or dementia. The doctor thinks it would be helpful for your mother to go."

"A support group? At the hospital?" He nods. "How are you going to get there? A taxi?" Why am I even asking?

My father juts his jaw, reminding me strangely of Lewis at his most stubborn. "You could drive us."

"Dad, I have a job. And a family."

"We're your family, Joanna."

I stare at him, disbelief and anger-no, rage-rising up in me so I can barely speak. The pinpricks of hurt are open now, bleeding freely. "You haven't acted like my family," I say in a voice that vibrates with anger.

My father jerks back a little. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Does he really not get it? Does he not look back and see all the years I was shuttled into childcare, ignored as a teen, and then rejected when I married the man I love? Does he not see any of it?

"I'm sorry, Dad," I say quietly. "You'll have to take a taxi." I am finally standing up for myself, but it doesn't feel all that good. It feels like another loss.

When I get back to New York Lewis tells me he's visiting Maddie the next night. His voice is casual, almost dismissive, but I can't handle this information on top of everything else.

"Why do you need to see her again?" I ask, my voice coming out more querulously than I mean it to. Josh looks up from his homework, his expression turning alert. I smile reassuringly at him before I turn back to Lewis.

"It's just," I say as mildly as I can, "it would be nice to have an evening together."

"We have every evening together," Lewis answers, his voice as deliberately mild as mine. "Ben is being moved to a rehab facility in a few days. I want to check in with Maddie, make sure she's okay."

"I could go, too," I say recklessly. "We all could. Josh hasn't seen Ben-"

"No," Josh says, and both Lewis and I turn to look at him.

"No?" Lewis repeats. "You don't want to see Ben?" Josh shakes her head. "Why not?" Lewis asks, and his voice is still mild, but I see a trapped look come into Josh's eyes and I tense.

"Lewis..."

"Why don't you want to see your friend?" Lewis presses, his tone reasonable. "He's doing better, Josh. I think it would make you feel better, to see how well Ben is getting on."

Josh shakes his head, his gaze darting between Lewis and me as if he is at a tennis match, watching the ball. "No, I don't want to see him."

"Is that because you're angry with him?" There is an edge to Lewis's voice now. I hear it, and I think Josh does too. "Did something happen between you, that made the two of you fight?"

Josh shakes his head again, more insistently. "I told you, we weren't fighting."

"Then why did you push him, Josh?" Lewis demands. The question explodes out him, raw and angry. Josh blinks and jerks back a little. "Why did you push your best friend from the top of the rocks? Were you trying to hurt him?"

"Lewis," I cry, a broken sound.

Josh stares down at his homework, his shaggy hair falling in front of his face. After a long, tense moment, Lewis blows out an impatient breath.

"I'm sorry for shouting, but you have to tell us at some point, Josh. We love you. We want to help you. But you have to tell us what happened."

Josh looks up, his opaque gaze fastened on Lewis. "You know what happened," he says, and it almost sounds like an accusation.

"What?" Lewis blinks. "Josh, what do you mean?"

"You know," he shouts, and then he runs into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

The ensuing silence feels like the moment after an earthquake; everything has been reduced to rubble. "What did he mean, Lewis?" I ask, and too late I realize my words sound like an accusation too.

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Lewis retorts. "What do you think he meant?"

"Is there something you're not telling me?" I ask evenly, although inside I am trembling with terror. I don't want to ask the question. I certainly don't want to know the answer.

Lewis is silent for a moment. A long, terrible moment. "No," he finally says, his voice firm. "Of course there isn't."

I don't press him; I don't have the strength right now. Instead I go into Josh's room. He is on his bed, his head against the wall, his arms folded and his knees drawn up, his expression mutinous.

"Josh..."

"Are you angry at me?"

"No, of course not." I sit down next to him on the bed. "And Dad isn't, either. We're just worried, Josh, and a little frustrated, if I'm honest. We want to help you, and we need to know what's going on." Josh doesn't say anything. "What did you mean, that Dad knows?" I ask as gently as I can. "What does he know, Josh?"

Josh is silent for a long moment. "He knows why I pushed Ben."

The words both chill and bewilder me. "He doesn't think he knows, Josh. Couldn't you tell him? Tell us?"

"No." Josh juts his lower lip out and shakes his head. "He knows."

And I can't get anything more out of him.

The next evening Josh and I are sitting on the sofa, looking at a Lego book together, when Lewis leaves to visit Maddie. It feels wrong; it feels like he is abandoning us. No matter how many times I tell myself not to be paranoid, I can't shake the growing sense that Lewis really is hiding something from me...and Josh knows it.

Lewis hesitates at the door, one hand on the knob. "I won't be long," he says, and there is a resolute note in his voice that makes my insides clench.

"Bye," I say. Josh doesn't say anything.

We turn the pages of the book together, examining the Lego creations carefully, as if we haven't both seen them a thousand times before. It isn't until a teardrop falls on the book that I realize I am crying.

I take a deep breath and will the other tears back. Josh cranes his head to look up at me, and I manage a wobbly smile.

"Hey, honey," I say, and he puts his hand against my cheek.

"It's okay, Mom," he whispers. "It's going to be okay now."

I nod, sniff. "I know, Josh," I say, even though I don't. "I know."

We turn back to the book but I don't think either of us is really paying attention. I ache with the thought of Lewis keeping secrets, talking to Maddie, and it breaks me apart to know that my nine-year-old son has to comfort me.

Lewis doesn't come home until eleven. I'm in bed by that time, staring up at the ceiling when I hear the door creak open.

"I'm awake," I say flatly, as Lewis tiptoes across the room. He hesitates, and then lets out a sigh. "How was she?" I ask, and I cringe at how jealous and bitter I sound.

"She's holding up," Lewis answers neutrally. I hear the snick and slither of his clothing as he undresses in the dark. I roll over onto my side, my back to Lewis.

He slides into bed and to my surprise he reaches for me. I resist for a millisecond before I relax against his body. He wraps one arm around my middle, rests his chin on my shoulder so I can feel his breath fan my neck. I can smell the hospital on him, that cloying scent of antiseptic and medicine.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

"For what, exactly?" I answer before I can think better of it.

"Maybe I shouldn't have gone tonight," he says after a moment. "Since both you and Josh seemed bothered by it." Which makes me feel like it's my fault. Mine and Josh's. "It's just that she's alone," Lewis continues, "and I feel guilty. It's because of us that her son is the way he is."

Us. Not just Josh, but us. I think again of what Will said. Children's issues are almost always closely related to those of their parents.

"We have another appointment with Will Dannon tomorrow afternoon," I say. Lewis's arm tightens around me.