Then I remember Ben, and guilt pours through me like acid. How can I see anything good about a boy who might be brain damaged? And my son is the one, accident or not, who caused it?

"I was thinking," I tell Lewis. "Maybe I should visit Maddie in the hospital."

Josh stills and Lewis glances over his shoulder. He hasn't mentioned whether he's called her or not, and I haven't asked. "Maybe," he agrees, but he doesn't sound particularly enthused.

"Just to see how she's doing. How Ben's doing. Considering..."

I can see Josh's shoulders tense, and I curse myself for not having this conversation with Lewis in private. But part of me is glad to have it now; we can't not talk about Ben. We can't pretend he doesn't exist, that he wasn't Josh's friend.

Isn't Josh's friend. Is.

"I could go tomorrow evening," I say. "I'll have to call the school to find out which hospital-"

"He's at Mount Sinai Roosevelt," Lewis says. He's turned back to the puzzle.

"Oh." Then I can't keep myself from asking, "How did you know that?"

"I texted Maddie. She'd called me, anyway."

I suppress the flicker of unease this offhand admission causes me. He told me he was going to call her. This is not really a surprise. And yet there is something so familiar about the way he talks about her. I don't think he even realizes it, how he says her name like he knows her.

"I'll check the visiting hours online," I say.

"Okay," Lewis says as he fits a piece into the puzzle. He is not looking at me. "That's a good idea."

I watch him for a moment, covertly searching for some reaction, something that will reveal how well he knows Maddie. I know I'm being paranoid; I know Lewis hasn't really said anything to make me think he knows Maddie better than as the parent of his child's friend. But I can't help being afraid, because I've often wondered if Lewis loves me as much as I love him.

Someone once told me that relationships are always unequal; one person loves the other more. I'm not sure what basis they had for that devastating bit of trivia, but in my and Lewis's case I know I'm the one who loves more. I'd die without Lewis. For the three weeks he left me, when Josh was three, I felt as if I were dying. I wanted to die. I even thought about it, I'm ashamed to say. But we never talk about that time; we drew a line across it and it's as if it never happened. We both wanted to move on, to forget.

But I've never been able to forget.

"Great," I say into the silence, and the oven timer pings to tell me dinner is ready.

Later, when I go into his room to tuck Josh into bed, I find him curled up on the window seat, his bony knees tucked into his chest as he stares out at the darkness.

"Josh?" I try to keep my voice light, upbeat. "So, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

"Go to the Lego Store."

Again? "What about the Bronx Zoo? Or skating in Bryant Park? Or the Children's Museum?"

He turns to me, and I see that gleam in his eyes that I know well. My son can be silent, but he is also stubborn. "The Lego Store," he says again, and I smile.

"The Lego Store it is, then." I pull back his duvet and beckon him. "Time for bed."

Slowly Josh uncurls himself from the window seat and walks towards the bed, dragging his feet.

He slides into the bed and lies on his back, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling. I tuck the duvet around him and wait; I sense he wants to say something, but I'm not going to push. I'm not.

"Josh?" I ask gently. "Do you have something you want to say?" So much for my resolutions.

He takes a deep breath, and I brace myself, although for what I don't know. For more silence? For a refusal? Or for something worse?

"We were on the rocks," he finally says, his voice so soft I strain to hear it.

On the rocks? It takes me a second to realize he means the rocks at Heckscher Playground, the towering rocks above the play structure that the children are never, ever allowed to climb on. They're read the riot act about the rocks every day before they go out to recess; the playground supervisors specifically look for anyone clambering on those high boulders, the tops littered with drunks and broken glass.

I sit on the edge of the bed, resting one hand on his rigid leg. "Why were you on the rocks?"

"Ben wanted to climb up there."

I take a careful breath, my mind racing as I try to figure out how to handle this. "Have you gone up there before?"

"No," Josh says after a moment. "We never did. We know you're not allowed to."

"Why did you that day?" I'm trying to keep my voice light, gently curious, as if this isn't really that important.

"I told you," Josh says, his voice becoming a little strident, "Ben wanted to."

"Why?" I feel Josh tense under my hand and I know I've asked too many questions. But the realization that Josh pushed Ben from the rocks makes my insides clench with horrified shock and an even worse fear. If Ben fell from the rocks...that feels different than a shove off the slide or swing. It feels... malevolent.

"But it was an accident," I say, and then curse myself for the note of uncertainty in my voice. "You didn't mean to push him."

"I did mean it," Josh says, and there is an almost savage note in his voice that utterly chills me.

"But, Josh," I protest, my tone turning pleading, "you didn't mean for him to fall."

Josh doesn't answer.

9.

MADDIE.

I'm at the hospital by seven the next morning, and there is no change. I sit with Ben for a while, and then I attempt to do some work in the waiting room. I finally steel myself to call Alwin's HR and discuss my length of compassionate leave. I'm dreading this conversation, because no matter how good the policy for leave is, I know instinctively it will not be good enough. It never is.

"Maddie, good to hear from you." Sheila, the woman I talk to in HR, is someone I've smiled at on occasion at the office, and no more. But now her voice is warm with concern, and I realize the news about Ben must have traveled around. I am officially the object of pity.

"I wanted to talk about my compassionate leave," I say.

"Of course." I can hear the rustle of papers and the click of a mouse. I realize Sheila must have a file on me, a file that is going to become thick and unwieldy as Ben's care continues. "I see you are on the fourth day of your ten remaining vacation days in this calendar year," she begins, all unemotional professionalism now.

"Yes."

"And after that you have ten further days of extraordinary compassionate leave."

"Ten days?" I repeat. "That's it?" In total that will be four weeks of work that I'll have missed. Ben hasn't even opened his eyes yet. There's no way that's enough.

"Most companies only allow three days," Sheila answers, and I can tell she is trying not to sound defensive.

"And after the ten days? What happens then?"

"Then you can take up to six months' unpaid leave, and we will hold your job for you. After that..." She pauses, and I close my eyes.

"After that, I'm out of luck."

"There are no guarantees," Sheila corrects. "We cannot hold a position open indefinitely. It's simply not possible. We're a business, Maddie."

"I know."

"Alwin's terms are far more generous than those of most corporations." Now she's really sounding defensive. But who wants to give the bad news to the mother with the brain damaged kid?

"I know." That's only because most corporations' terms are crap. "Thanks," I say, and Sheila waffles on for a minute about if there is anything she can do. I'm getting tired of that phrase now. It sounds so insincere. She knows there's nothing she can do. I feel like Spandex Man is the only one who meant what he said, but unfortunately there's nothing he can do, either.

I end the call and sit there with my phone in my lap. I have three and a half weeks before I'm broke. And I don't even know what Ben's medical bills are going to cost. Even with good insurance coverage, we could be talking thousands of dollars. I swallow hard. I have about two thousand dollars in my checking account. There is another eight grand in savings that's earmarked for Ben's tuition for next year. But maybe I won't need that money for Ben's school. I have no idea if he'll be able to return to Burgdorf soon, or ever.

I can't stand to think about money any longer, so I close my computer and go to sit with Ben.

The room is quiet except for the consistent beep and whirr of the machines that measure his vitals. At least he is breathing on his own. I watch his chest rise and fall, his lips parted as he quietly exhales. His body is working. It is doing what it needs to do. I have to believe his brain has been healing itself in the four days since the accident. There are so many stories of how a body has coped, compensated, healed and fixed itself completely...

Of course I can't actually think of any of those stories offhand. So far I have avoided the Internet's undoubted wealth of information on TBIs. I don't want to read the Wikipedia entries or search the message boards. I don't want to join the Yahoo group and introduce myself: Hi, I'm Maddie. My son Ben suffered a TBI four days ago and we're just waiting to see if he comes out of his coma. So grateful to have found this group and its support...

God knows I could use some support. But I don't want to hear other people's stories and have them walk me through the next days and weeks and months, telling me how it is because they've been there. I don't want to hear the sad stories, the tragedies, the ones whose children didn't recover completely or even at all. I can't handle all that information, and I don't want to be part of that club. So I've avoided the Internet; I haven't even read the brochures some of the staff have given me. Coping with Traumatic Brain Injury. Your Child and the Intensive Care Unit.

I'm a coward, but at least I know how much I can stand.

Just after lunchtime something finally happens. Ben's eyelids twitch. They don't open or even flicker, just a little twitch. I would have missed it except some machine that is monitoring him gives a sudden, louder beep, and I looked up. A nurse comes in and checks the print-out from the machine. Then she looks closely at Ben and says to me, "He's exhibiting some sign of consciousness."

What? I lean forward, even now waiting to see Ben open his eyes, smile at me, and say Hi, Mom. I don't believe in miracles. I haven't had any in my life. But I want one now.

"His eyelids are twitching," she explains, and then I see it: tiny muscles beneath the lids moving and jerking.

"What does that mean?" I ask. I am whispering, and I don't know why.

"It means he is starting to come out of the coma," she says with a smile and I sink back against the chair, shaky with relief with what's happening and fear for what's next. Ben is finally waking up.

I watch him closely for the next six hours, and his eyelids continue to twitch intermittently. His hand jerks several times, wild, unrestrained movements that unnerve me but which the nurse assures me is normal in this phase of recovery. Dr. Velas comes in around dinnertime, smiling widely as she scans Ben's notes.

"He's waking up," she proclaims cheerfully, then turns to me, serious once more. "When he opens his eyes, don't expect him to recognize you. He'll have trouble focusing on anything for some time. This is due both to the medication as well as the injury. It's still going to be a long road ahead."

I nod, accepting, but not really. Because I'm still, against all odds, against all sense, holding out for a miracle, for this to turn normal and recognizable and good.

A little after six the nurse on duty tells me I have a visitor. My heart lifts. Is it Juliet? Lewis?

I am already smiling, half-standing, imagining him coming into the room, pulling me into a hug, telling me it's going to be okay. Of course it's going to be okay.

But it's not Lewis. It's his wife. He sent his wife. Shock and hurt blaze through me. Is this his unsubtle way of sending me a message? I swallow down the choking sense of disappointment and smile stiffly. "Hi, Joanna."

I rise from Ben's bedside and stand there awkwardly; I can't shake her hand because she is holding a huge fruit basket, tied with a big yellow bow, which makes me unreasonably, unfairly furious. Does she actually think Ben is going to be able to eat a pound of black cherries?

"Hi, Maddie," she says quietly. She glances towards Ben. "How's he doing?"

"He's starting to come out of the coma. But until he does, we won't know how badly his brain is damaged." I say this flatly, without emotion, even though I can feel it coursing through me. My hands clench into fists and I force my fingers to relax. I'm angry and I have no right to be.

Joanna sets the basket down on a side table. "Sorry," she says as she gestures to it with an apologetic grimace. "You're not meant to bring flowers to the hospital any more. The scents can aggravate patients, apparently. But I wanted to bring something."

"No, it's very thoughtful of you," I say, and I am not quite able to inject sincerity into my tone. "Thank you."

She stands there for a moment before I think to get one of the other chairs in the room. I navigate it through the maze of machines so it is adjacent to mine, and then we both sit.

"How are you managing?" she asks. She sits with her shoulders slightly hunched, her hands tucked between her legs.

"Managing is the right word, I suppose." I study her covertly; this is the woman Lewis loves. I've met her before a couple of times, but she never made much of an impression. I never wondered about her; I tried to pretend she didn't exist, because when Lewis and I were together with the boys, it felt like she didn't exist. As if she didn't matter.

She is tall and gangly, without much grace. Her clothes are clearly expensive, but they don't hang on her well: jeans and a cashmere top, but the sleeves are too short, showing her bony wrists, and the jeans are too loose through the leg. When she crosses her legs they ride up so I can see a strip of bare leg and sock peeking over the edge of her ankle boot.

Looking at her now, I can't help but wonder, meanly, why he's with her when he could be with me. But maybe he doesn't realize he could be with me.

We sit in silence for a moment, and then Joanna looks up. There is so much naked honesty in her face, I am taken aback. I'm used to hiding my feelings, but Joanna wears hers openly, unashamedly, or maybe she's just not aware of how much she reveals. I almost feel embarrassed for her. Doesn't she know you're not supposed to do that?

"I'm so, so sorry," she says, and her voice chokes as her eyes fill with tears.

"Thank you," I say, although that doesn't feel like the right response. But what is?

"Josh told me..." she begins, and then stops.

I tense, realization coursing through me. Josh must know something. Finally I can get some information about how and when Ben fell. "Josh told you?" I prompt, an edge of urgency to my voice. "Did he see Ben fall?"

She stares at me, her jaw slackening, a look of what can only be horror entering her eyes. She can't hide anything. "What is it?" I demand and she licks her lips.

"I thought you... I thought Lewis would have said something..."

"I haven't really talked to Lewis," I say, because a few texts don't count. He's never even called me, which hurts. Considering the enormity of what has happened, couldn't he have put any awkwardness he feels aside?

"No, it's just..." She rubs a hand over her face, takes a deep breath. "Josh pushed Ben, Maddie," she says, and for a few seconds I only blink stupidly.