"Mrs. Taylor-Davies?" she says, and she doesn't sound friendly. "A word?"

I follow her up to her office and she gestures for me to sit down in front of her desk. I feel like a naughty pupil being called in for a scolding. Again.

"I'm sure you're aware of the publicity caused by this entire episode," she begins and I nod.

"Yes, I am."

"Are you aware that when you enroll a child in Burgdorf you sign a form agreeing never to post anything online about the school, on any website?"

I stare at her. "You think I posted the thing on MetroBaby?"

She holds my gaze evenly. "It has occurred to me."

And no doubt to other people too. So that's why they were glaring at me. I almost want to laugh. "Trust me, Mrs. James, publicity is the last thing I want."

"Even so, you might be angry about Josh's suspension, looking for a way to lash out-"

I hold up a hand. "Spare me the psychoanalysis. I didn't write that post." I almost tell her about Jane, but I'm no whistle-blower and in any case I doubt she'll believe me.

"We take this kind of defamation very seriously, Mrs. Taylor-Davies."

"Oh, I'm sure. You take a lot of things very seriously." I shake my head. "The only thing you don't seem to take seriously is how my son isn't coping."

Mrs. James's expression freezes. "If you wish to file a complaint against Burgdorf..."

"File a complaint? I'm not talking about a lawsuit, Mrs. James. Maybe you're confusing me with Maddie." I lean forward, nearly shaking with anger. "I'm talking about decency. The whole reason we sent Josh to this school. Because he is quiet, and a little different, and we thought this was the right place for him. And it was, at least I thought it was, until a bad thing happens and then you back away so fast you practically trip over your own feet! I know why you suspended Josh. You wanted someone to blame that wasn't Burgdorf. You were protecting yourself, because you knew someone was negligent. Juliet or Helen or whoever the hell was on the playground and should have been watching. So you took the coward's way out, the cruel way out, and blamed a child." I break off, panting, and Mrs. James stares at me rigidly.

"If you are not satisfied with what we offer at Burgdorf, then maybe-"

I let out a wild laugh. "Not satisfied? That's an understatement." I shake my head, as a sudden, stunning realization crashes over me. Why have I kept Josh in this wretched school? Why have I insisted Burgdorf was necessary, important, when it's only been contributing to our misery? I rise from my chair, filled with a sudden surge of reckless triumph. "You know what? I'm done. I'm done with you and your sanctimonious finger-pointing, and I'm done with this awful school. Consider this my notice. I'm withdrawing Josh."

Mrs. James nods. She almost looks relieved. "I'm afraid at this late juncture the tuition for the academic year is nonrefundable."

I stare at her in disbelief. "You think I care about the money? Keep it, Mrs. James. The last thing I want is to wrangle with you about money. I'd prefer never to see you again."

I walk out of the office with my head held high, but it's all posturing because in the stairwell down to the classrooms I collapse against the wall, trembling, as I realize all the things I just said and what I've just done. I've just withdrawn Josh from Burgdorf. I have no idea where he can go to school, what we'll do.

It feels like there is no part of my life that is safe or sacred. No part that has remained untouched, all from one simple push.

Josh's face pales and his eyes widen as I stand in the doorway of the classroom.

"Josh," I call. "Josh, get your things. We're going."

This sets off a round of whispers like dominoes falling, and Josh rises from his desk and goes to his cubby on the far side of the room.

"Mrs. Taylor-Davies..." Mrs. Rollins says cautiously, as if she's trying to calm a wild animal.

"We're leaving," I tell her shortly.

Josh comes to my side and slips his hand in mine. It feels like a gesture of solidarity, a statement. I squeeze his hand and look Mrs. Rollins in the eye.

"Goodbye," I say, and walk out of the room with Josh.

Neither of us speaks as we leave Burgdorf behind us. The halls are empty, and nobody but the security guard, who is watching something on his phone, sees us go. I don't mind. I don't want a spectacular exit or a final farewell. I just want to get out of there.

Outside it is bitterly cold, with a hint of snow in the air. A few flakes drift down as we walk towards Fifth Avenue. I don't know where we're going. I should go to my office, to the list of appointments waiting for me, but I can't. My whole life, I realize, has been derailed, and yet I still feel exultant for standing up to Mrs. James. Standing up for my son.

"Where are we going?" Josh asks.

"How about we look at some of the store windows?" I suggest. It is the first week of December and all the big department stores-Bloomingdales, Bergdorfs, Saks-have put up their incredible Christmas window displays. We stand in front of Saks's windows, which are full of jungle animals decorated in diamonds and fake fur, the backdrop one of an English manor's Christmas party. It's bizarrely fascinating, and we stand in front of it for a while as the snow drifts down.

"Am I going back?" Josh asks after a few minutes and I hesitate.

"I don't think so, Josh," I finally say. "Is that...is that okay?"

"I didn't want to go back," he says, and I put my arm around him and squeeze his thin shoulders. "Where am I going to go to school?"

"I don't know. We'll figure something out. You were getting out for Christmas vacation next week anyway. We have a little time."

Josh nods slowly and I take a deep breath. Maybe this will actually be okay.

We head for the subway and as we reach the station at Fifty-Seventh Street I ask Josh if he wants to go up to Harlem to visit Lewis in his workshop. We don't go there very often; I see it as Lewis's private space, and with all the power tools and lathes and stuff it's not exactly a safe spot for a nine-year-old boy to hang out. But today is different. I don't want to go home yet, and I need to see Lewis.

Josh's face lights up when I suggest we go up to Harlem, but then he nibbles his lip anxiously.

"Will he be mad?" he asks as we take seats on the train.

"Why would he be mad?"

Josh shrugs. "Because he's working. And I'm supposed to be in school."

"And I'm supposed to be at work." I shrug back at him, smiling, trying not to give in to the worries and fears that are starting to press down on me. "Some days you get a free pass to do what you want."

Josh searches my face, looking for answers. I keep smiling. "Okay," he finally says, and settles back against the seat.

Half an hour later we knock on the door of Lewis's workshop, an old garage on One Hundred and Twenty-Eighth Street. He comes to the door and unlocks it, his jaw dropping with surprise and his eyes narrowing in concern as he catches sight of us.

"Jo... Josh..."

All my strength fades away and I can feel my face collapsing into sadness. My voice trembles as I say, "I took Josh out of Burgdorf."

Lewis simply holds out his arms, and Josh and I step into them. His arms close around us, holding us tight. Holding us all together.

We stand there in his workshop, surrounded by tools and blocks of wood, and I feel as if Lewis is shielding us from everything. He is protecting us, loving us, with his arms around both Josh and me, and for this moment at least, we are all safe.

25.

MADDIE.

I manage to ignore everything-Juliet, Bruce, Burgdorf, Lewis, the press-for a couple of days as I focus on Ben and his continued recovery. My world has shrunk to a single room, to the flexing of a foot or the mumbling of a word. Ben is making progress every day, saying more words, moving more freely. Each painful, laborious step or syllable feels like an overwhelming triumph for both of us.

On Saturday Brian and I drive out to Peekskill in his car. It has been three days since the article came out and I am hopeful that the media attention is dying down. I checked MetroBaby last night and BurgMom's rant wasn't even on the trending list. The Daily Mail didn't feature it in their newspaper today. I left a voicemail for Lewis, apologizing, after an embarrassed pause, for everything. I hope he knows what I mean.

It's a beautiful day, cold and wintry, the sky bright blue and the fields as we leave the endless sprawl of New York's suburbs behind are glittering with frost. I can see the slate-blue winding of the Hudson in the distance as we drive up to Peekskill.

Brian came to my apartment having bought two large lattes and pastries from the coffee shop on the corner, and as we settled in his car with the paper cups in the drink holders, the pastries dropping crumbs onto my lap, this felt so wonderfully normal. I felt like I was finally living the kind of life everyone else takes for granted.

We chat all the way to Peekskill, steering clear of difficult subjects, just shooting the breeze about the city, films, whatever light topic takes our fancy. It feels good.

Ben is sitting up, dressed and alert, when we arrive. I go over and drop a kiss on his forehead, something I never actually did before his accident. It feels natural now, necessary and right. Ben grins up at me.

Brian waves hello and then we decide to go into the rec room. Brian helps me get Ben in his wheelchair; he can use a walker now but it is physical work and I don't want Ben to tire himself out too quickly.

I talk to Brian as I wheel Ben out of his room; I've gotten into the habit of including Ben in any conversation, so it's become second nature. "Ben loves the racing game, don't you, Ben? It's one we don't actually have at home but I think we might have to buy it. What do you think, Ben?" He makes a garbled response which I take as an affirmative. "I know, I know, you'll kick my butt," I say with a laugh and smile at Brian, who is smiling at both of us.

"So." I park the chair by the TV. "How about a game on the Xbox?"

But to my surprise Ben points to the ping pong table, which is vacant. I feel a shiver of apprehension at attempting a new and more difficult skill, followed by a stronger sense of determination. "Ping pong?" I say, as if he'd spoken aloud. "Sure, okay. You'll kick my butt at that too, I'm sure." I wheel him over and fetch the paddles.

"What do you think?" I ask Brian. "Me and Ben against you?"

"Sure," he says easily, and takes a paddle.

It's not easy. I put a paddle in Ben's hand and he grips it so slackly that the paddle turns down towards his lap. I put my hand over his, guiding his movements.

"Bring it on, Brian."

Brian lobs an easy shot over and with my guiding Ben's hand we actually manage to hit the ball. It bounces uselessly into the net, but who cares? This is success.

Brian retrieves the ball and we try again, missing this time. Again, and we hit it into the net. After about a dozen tries we finally get one over. I cheer, especially when Brian-intentionally, I suspect-misses the return.

"Good shot," he says to Ben, and tosses the ball to us to serve. I glance at Ben, and he is grinning, drool on his chin, his eyes bright, reminding me of how he used to be, when I took him-and everything-for granted. He's actually having fun, and it makes me so happy, so grateful, that my hands tremble and we serve into the net. Never mind. I don't care. This isn't about winning; we've already won, just by being here. By getting this far.

We hit the ball over a few more times and Brian concedes the game gracefully. We go to the dining room for lunch; on Saturdays it's overwhelmingly busy, full of noise and visitors. Brian takes it in stride, and even helps me feed Ben.

Ben has gotten to the point where he can feed himself, if I cut up his food in tiny bites and sometimes help him guide the spoon to his mouth. Drinks are tricky, although using a straw helps.

Brian is still relaxed about it all, and in the middle of the meal he notices Ben gesturing to his drink and helps him before I do, a simple gesture that has the power to make me feel profoundly grateful.

Ben is tired after lunch, and so we take him back to his room and after an arduous trek to the toilet with the help of his PT, we settle him in bed. I turn on the TV and we watch football for a while, Brian and I sitting in chairs on either side of Ben.

Ben dozes off, and I look apologetically at Brian. "I want to stay until he goes to bed, but I can take the train back if you need to go." I'm sure Brian wasn't planning to stay for ten hours.

"I'm good," Brian answers, and we sit in companionable silence, watching TV, until Ben wakes up and I wheel him back to the rec room.

Brian and Ben play the Xbox for a while, with Brian helping Ben with the controller, and I watch. Then it's time for dinner, and finally we settle Ben back in his room for bed.

By eight o'clock I'm tired but happy, happier than I've been in a long time. We both say goodbye to Ben and he gives Brian a sloppy grin, waving frantically.

As we leave my heart breaks just a little, because I don't want to go. I want my son back at home with me; I want to be a family again. I force the feelings back as we walk out into the cold darkness.

We've just reached Brian's car when he surprises me by stopping me with one hand on my shoulder. I turn in surprise, my body going rigid when Brian puts his arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug.

"God, Maddie," he says. "You are the strongest person I know."

I let out a wobbly laugh. "I'm not strong at all, Brian. You have no idea how weak I really am." I take a shuddering breath, savoring the feel of his arms around me. "But it was good to have you there today. Ben really appreciates having visitors, and so do I."

"I'll come again," Brian promises, and I hope he means it. Lewis said the same thing, and he hasn't come back. But I don't want to think about Lewis. That part of my life needs to be over. I accept that now.

On Monday I go back to work. It feels unbelievably strange to be donning my work suits, wearing makeup. I've lost so much weight the clothes hang on me, and I have to roll the waistband of my skirt over several times to keep it from sliding down my body.

At Alwin everyone gives me tight smiles, uncertain looks. No one is sure what to say, how happy to be. My son is still brain damaged, after all. I try to set the mood by being upbeat, and people follow my example, mostly. A few people make some decidedly thoughtless remarks about Ben, commenting about how there are good special schools in the city, how it must be a relief to have him taken care of so I can go back to work, like he is some problem I have to solve, some inconvenience I have to get out of the way.

I just ignore them.

Still, being back at work, doing the whole office thing, is exhausting in an entirely different way. Five hours later I am glad to be finished even as I am grateful to be getting a normal life back. Although normal has been redefined for me, forever. And that's okay.

The rest of the week passes both slowly and too fast, because Friday is the settlement conference and I am both looking forward to it-to a resolution-and dreading it. After the mess with the media, I have no idea what to expect.

On Friday I dress in a shift dress of navy blue wool, putting a black patent leather belt around my waist to cinch it in as it bags on me. I think I look okay, polished and serious, not someone out just for money. I hope.

Brian meets me outside of my apartment; we've seen each other a little over the last week, just checking in, as we've both been busy, but it's been good. Normal.

He puts a hand on my shoulder as we walk towards the elevator. "It'll be okay," he murmurs, and I want to believe him.

My stomach is jumping with nerves as forty-five minutes later we enter the judge's chambers. The representatives for Burgdorf are already there: the claims adjuster, a lawyer, and Bruce.

My gaze clashes with Bruce's pale, glittering one and I look away before I can think better of it. I feel as if guilt is written all over my face.

Everyone shakes hands as if this is all very polite and civilized, and maybe it is. Bruce's hand is cold as his fingers close over mine and my skin crawls. I try not to yank my hand away, but I think I do.

Then we sit down and the judge, a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair and a no-nonsense expression, looks over the papers in front of her that Keith and the school's lawyers have submitted. I clench my hands in my lap and try to look both composed and alert.

The judge starts speaking, reviewing the aspects of the case, but the legal language is confusing, and I feel as if I'm hearing everything from a distance, through a tin can. It's taking all my energy simply to look as if I'm listening.