I couldn't keep the bitterness at bay as we left, taking the train back to the city.

"Aren't you even going to ask where Josh has been?" I asked Lewis in a low voice as we took our places on the train. Josh, thankfully, couldn't hear; he was wearing headphones plugged into Lewis's phone as he played some mindless Tetris-like game.

"Where was he, Jo?" Lewis asked. He sounded weary.

"He was by the vending machines in the hallway." This felt like a bit of an anticlimax. I wanted Lewis to apologize, to explain, not actually ask the question.

"I figured it was somewhere like that."

"You were obviously enjoying yourself," I retorted. I hated myself and what I was doing but I literally could not hold back. The emotions were bursting within me, bubbling over. I saw how they interacted. I saw how they touched. I saw the look in Maddie's face and knew she was in love with my husband. I knew.

And so, I thought, did Josh.

Lewis sighed. "I was playing the Xbox with a brain-damaged boy I've spent a lot of time with over the last few years. I wouldn't necessarily call that enjoying myself," he finished, and turned to look out the window.

"You didn't even notice Josh had gone."

Lewis turned back to me, temper in his eyes and voice now. "I'm sorry. I was a little busy. I wanted Josh to be there. I wanted him to talk to Ben. I was trying to make the situation work."

I lapsed into silence, because there were too many things I didn't want to say. About what I'd seen in Maddie's eyes. About what I was afraid Josh knew.

Instead I stared blindly ahead, wishing I could erase the images in my head of Lewis and Maddie together. Seeing them together was like having a mirror angled at all my fears; they were reflected a thousand times over, so they became all I could see or feel. I stood and watched, saw the shared smiles, the lingering looks. Once Lewis put his hand on Maddie's shoulder and she laughed and tilted her head towards his hand in such an unthinking, instinctive gesture of affection that I dug my nails into my palms hard enough to break the skin.

I felt like I could be sick. Did Lewis not realize I see all that? Did he think I was blind? Or was he simply not aware of how he was with Maddie? I considered asking him if he'd had an affair but I couldn't bear to form the question. I didn't think I'd survive his answer.

And so I stayed silent.

Sunday passed in a haze of misery; I took Josh out for bagels in the morning while Lewis stayed home and read the paper. A few weeks ago there would have been no question of us all going together. How is this happening? I wondered as I nibbled at a toasted sesame seed bagel. It tasted like dust. I felt like I was losing my family and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. They were slipping from my grasp no matter how hard I tried to hang on.

"Do we have to see them again?" Josh asked as we picked at our bagels.

"No, Josh," I answered firmly. "We don't."

His expression cleared a little, but his mouth turned down at the corners. "Will Dad see them again?"

I took a deep breath. "Would that bother you, if he did?"

Josh stared at me for a moment. "Would it bother you?" he asked and I swallowed.

"No, of course not." I didn't want to feed my fears to Josh. "You've spent a lot of time with Lewis and Maddie and Ben, Josh. I understand Dad wanting to see them. It's okay."

But Josh didn't look as if he believed me.

Sunday night Lewis and I lay in bed like two statues and he didn't pull me towards him as he usually did, didn't fit me around his body, his hand resting on my stomach. I had no idea what he was thinking, if he was regretting taking us to see Ben, if he wished he'd gone alone.

I forced myself to break the silence. "Will you visit her again?" I asked.

Lewis sighed. "I don't know," he said, and it felt like a confession. As if we'd both acknowledged there was something between them, even if neither of us had named it.

On Monday I take Josh to school myself, so I can tell Mrs. Rollins he has to leave early the next day for his appointment with Will Dannon.

I'm just stepping outside through Burgdorf's bright blue doors when Jane, the mother who came up to Lewis and me before, approaches me.

"Hey," she says with a cringingly sympathetic smile. "How are you doing?"

I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and shrug. I feel wary, although I'm not sure why. "Okay," I say. "I guess."

She nods, and I think she'll leave it at that. Then she says, "Do you have time for a cup of coffee? If you want? I know what you're going through, in a small way." I stare at her blankly-has her child pushed another child off some rocks and caused brain damage?-and she quickly clarifies, "I just mean, Amelia has had some issues with other children."

I want to tell her that Josh hasn't had any other issues with other children. He hasn't had problems; he's just been quiet. There's a difference. At least, I want there to be one.

"Okay," I say, and we walk to the Starbucks on Sixth Avenue. We don't really talk as we get our coffees and head to a small table in the back of the narrow shop. It's filled with people who are clearly not on the eight-to-six or even nine-to-five schedule that most Manhattanites are. There is a mix of arty types who have set up shop with their laptops and iPods and the high-powered business people who make a big deal of checking their watches or their phones, and who take a conference call on an ear piece along with their coffee. I watch a man impatiently toss a five dollar bill on the counter instead of handing it to the cashier, and I wonder why I live in Manhattan.

"So." Jane pries off the lid of her latte and takes a frothy sip. I ordered an Americano but I don't think I can drink it; my stomach feels as if it is already filled with acid. I cradle the paper cup with my hands, savoring the warmth instead.

"How are you, really?" Jane asks, and I wonder how she expects me to confide in her when she is barely more than a stranger.

And yet part of me wants to, because I feel like I have no one else to talk to. Part of me craves a connection, and yet still I try to hold back.

"It's hard," I say, trying to keep my voice measured, even diffident. "Josh is taking all of this very hard."

"Of course he is," Jane says. She leans forward, animated now, coffee forgotten. "Amelia takes the other children's reactions to her behavior very hard. They don't realize it, of course, because they just see and experience her acting out. But their rejection is painful to her. I know it is."

I'm not sure how to reply. I'm sensing that Amelia is a little different than Josh, although I've never even seen her. "What kind of...issues does Amelia have?" I ask politely.

Jane waves a hand in what seems to be dismissal. "Hitting. Kicking. Biting." Biting? I nod in alleged understanding. "She has a lot of anger issues and trouble with self-control, due to her upbringing before we adopted her." Jane makes a face. "We have her in therapy, of course, and we are working on her destructive behaviors. But it's a long road."

I keep nodding, trying not to look as appalled as I feel. I instinctively want to distance Josh from someone like Amelia, someone who is clearly labeled a problem child. "I'm sorry," I tell Jane. "That must be so hard."

She nods, grimacing. "And Burgdorf doesn't exactly make it much better. They pay a lot of lip service to the whole child but in actuality they don't do that much."

"Has Amelia ever been...disciplined?"

Another grimace. "She was threatened with suspension. Twice."

Threatened? And she bites? The injustice of Josh's treatment hits me all over again. Why did the school turn on him so quickly? Was it because, like Lewis seems to think, that they feared a lawsuit? And now they're getting one. I think of Maddie's insurance claim and feel another panicky dart of fear. What will that mean for us? Will people blame us? Will we be dragged into some hellish court case?

And then I wonder if we might have a lawsuit, for unfair treatment. Maybe we should sue Burgdorf too. Inwardly I shake my head; I feel like I'm going crazy with all my circling thoughts. I know I can't handle a lawsuit on top of everything else. I just want my son to get better. My marriage to survive.

"How is the boy's mother taking it?" Jane asks as she takes a sip of coffee. "Ben, right?"

I nod. "Hard, of course. He's suffered a serious brain injury." I hate even thinking about Maddie. "He's in rehab now. We saw him over the weekend." Jane's eyebrows raise and I explain, "Josh was-is-his best friend."

"Do you know why he pushed him?"

I cringe at how bluntly she puts him. "No. He won't say." But I'm afraid that I am beginning to understand, to guess. Because Josh knows something about Lewis and Maddie. Did Ben tell him? Maybe Ben saw something, and told Josh while they were up there on the rocks. Terror clutches at me. What did Ben see? Dare I ask Lewis? Or even Maddie?

"His mother can hardly blame Josh, though," Jane says. "It's the school's fault for not being more on the ball when they were playing."

"She's filing a lawsuit against the school," I tell Jane. I take a sip of coffee, wincing at the acidic taste. "Well, a claim against their insurance policy for negligence."

Jane nods vigorously. "Good for her. That's the way to do it. I've wondered about doing something similar myself. I mean, Mrs. Rollins just ignores Amelia sometimes. And she's put her in the corner of the room several times as some sort of time-out. Shaming children should not be part of Burgdorf's 'accepting the whole child' policy."

But, I think, your daughter bites. I just smile and nod once more.

Ten minutes later I extract myself from Jane and hurry to the office. I'm five minutes late for an appointment, and I really can't afford to annoy my patients.

Yet worries still needle and niggle at me as I work my way through my patient list. I have to go back to Connecticut on Thursday for my father's eye appointment, and the thought of my parents' ongoing care feels like a millstone tied around my neck. I cannot keep my parents and my own family afloat. I can't do it all. I don't feel like I can do even half of it.

During my lunch break I flip through one of the magazines in the waiting room and my gaze rests on the glaring headline: Ten Signs To Tell If Your Husband Is Cheating On You.

The article is written in a light and almost flippant way; I scan through the expected working late at the offices excuses, unexplained receipts in his coat pockets, lipstick on his collar. Then I read number nine: A sudden, noticeable emotional distance.

I swallow my mouthful of rubbery cucumber and sit back in my chair. I don't want to think like this. I don't want to fear like this. And yet I do.

Barbara bustles in, taking off her coat with a theatrical shiver before she goes to her desk with her own salad from the same deli. It's just the two of us in the office this afternoon, and my next patient isn't for another hour.

"Barbara," I ask, and then clear my throat. "Have you...have you ever been cheated on?"

Barbara looks up in surprise, and then her face collapses into an expression of sympathy. I cringe. "Oh, Joanna," she says. "You aren't thinking of Lewis...?"

"I don't know," I say and stab a squishy tomato with my fork. "I honestly don't know. There have just been a few...signs."

Barbara raises her eyebrows. "What kind of signs?"

I shrug. "Emotional distance," I say, thinking of the article. Of how Lewis and I lay in bed, still and separate. "And he's...friends with a mother from school."

"Friends?"

I realize I haven't even told Barbara about Josh, about Ben. How could I have not, I wonder, since it has consumed my life? And yet work has simply become an exercise to complete, an experience to endure. "Something happened," I say, and haltingly, hating every word, I tell her about Ben's accident, Josh pushing him, and then about Maddie.

"That's so tough," Barbara says after I finish. She looks sympathetic but I know she can never really understand. "As for cheating..." She shakes her head slowly. "I don't know. Had Lewis mentioned this Maddie before all this happened?"

I rack my brains trying to think if he had, but all my memories are now colored by my current fear. Did he mention Maddie? And if he didn't, was it because he was hiding something?

"I don't know," I admit.

"How does he even know her, really?"

"Through Ben and Josh. He took them out in the afternoons sometimes, after school. And on Saturdays..." I feel my face heat and my stomach clench as all those innocent outings take on a terrible, sordid context.

"With her? With Maddie?"

"I don't...I don't know," I say again. My mind is racing, snagging on memories. "I don't know if they did things together or not. I never thought about it." I never considered Ben and Josh's play dates beyond how good they were for Josh. But now I can picture Lewis and Maddie all too clearly, laughing about the boys' antics, just as they were laughing together at the rehab center. Maybe she'd invite him in, ask if he wanted a coffee. Maybe the boys would run into Ben's room, hoping for a few more minutes on the Xbox, while Maddie and Lewis lounged in the living room, trading war stories of parenthood.

I feel petty and small for thinking this way. A boy is brain damaged, for heaven's sake. Our son is struggling. And yet my fear eats and eats at me, a canker that will consume me if I let it. A canker that is, perhaps, the root of everything.

"I don't know," I say to Barbara yet again, and this time the words burst from me. "I don't know what he feels for her or how much time he has spent with her. But I know there's something there. I feel it. I see it when they're together. He put his hand on her shoulder..." It sounds so small, and yet I know it meant something. I swallow back a sob.

Barbara nods. "A wife knows," she says, and this time the sob escapes me, unruly and helpless, because I am so afraid she is right.

21.

MADDIE.

Monday and Tuesday are hard days. Ben doesn't want to do his therapies; he resists, flinching away from Eric, who is trying to help him flex his legs. He moans when I try to feed him some yogurt, and his hand jerks up and knocks the bowl from my hand. It sprays me with cherry goop and the bowl clatters to the floor. Worst of all, Ben glares at me, with so much heat and hatred in his eyes that I struggle not to cry.

Sheila, one of the nurses, tells me to take a break while she cleans up the mess. I leave the room, hating that I feel like I am abandoning Ben, but knowing I can't stay and have him see me break down. And in that moment I am close to breaking down.

I can't be this strong, I think as I pace the hall outside Ben's room. My fingers bite into my palms and my heart is thudding; cold sweat prickles under my armpits, between my shoulder blades. I can't do this. I can't do this one more day, never mind forever. Not on my own.

I take a deep breath and sink into a chair, fisting my hands in my hair, telling myself to pull it together because I have no choice. This is my life. I can't walk away from it, even if in this moment I want to.

I fight the urge to call Lewis, to lean on him just a little. It was so good on Saturday, to have his company, to see him with Ben.

I slide my phone out of my pocket and glance at the texts from Lewis. He hasn't texted me once since Saturday, and the knowledge is bitter. Has Joanna warned him about me?

Recklessly I thumb a few buttons. Hey, Lewis. Just checking in. Thanks so much for Saturday. Ben was so grateful to have you there, and so was I. I hope we can do it again sometime.

I press send and then slide the phone into my pocket.

Sheila pokes her head out the door and gives me a smile that manages to be both sympathetic and bracing. "All clean in here."

"Okay." I rise from the chair, every muscle I have aching. I feel like an old lady; last night I studied my reflection in the mirror, amazed in a distant sort of way by the new lines on my face, around my eyes, from nose to mouth. I look haggard, spent, and I'm only thirty-four.

Ben is still agitated and restless, and he continues jerking and moaning and acting out until Dr. Spedding comes in at three o'clock and diagnoses a bladder infection. He puts him on antibiotics and assures me things will be better tomorrow.

Tomorrow. I feel like he might as well have said next year. I'm not sure I can survive until tomorrow.

I leave the rehab center at seven, after I've helped Ben with his dinner: tiny bits of chicken and peas speared onto the tines of a fork. He eats a few bites, his face so full of wretched misery that my voice wobbles all over the place as I keep up a monologue of cheerful chatter.

I realize as I get on the train that I smell like yogurt, urine, and sweat. Fortunately the train isn't crowded, and so I have a seat to myself. I stare out the window at the endless night and after a few stops I fall into an uncomfortable doze, waking as we pull into Grand Central with a terrible crick in my neck.

I stumble off the train into the icy darkness; midtown has already emptied out and the last few commuters are hurrying towards the platforms, shoulders hunched and heads bent low.