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4 JOANNA

That night I don’t sleep well, because I’m worried about Josh. I don’t bother Lewis with my concerns; I tell myself I’m overreacting.

“Just let him be, Jo,” he’d say, if I mentioned Josh’s withdrawn silence again. And so I don’t. I tidy the kitchen a little more and I pack Josh’s lunch for tomorrow and leave it in the fridge. Lewis finishes his paperwork and then stretches out on the sofa to watch the news while I get ready for bed.

At eleven I slip into Josh’s room to check on him. He is asleep, curled on his side in the fetal position, and when I bend closer I can see the streaks of dried tears on his cheeks that are still smooth and soft as a baby’s. I draw a quick, horrified breath at the thought of my child crying alone in the dark. I touch his head; his hair is soft beneath my fingers.

Then I tiptoe out and go into our bedroom; Lewis is stripping down to his boxer shorts but even the sight of his well-muscled body, a body that takes my breath away even after twelve years of marriage, does not distract me.

“Josh’s been crying,” I say quietly. Lewis glances at me, eyebrows raised.

“How do you know? He’s asleep, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I could tell he’d been crying. I could see the tears dried on his cheeks.” A lump forms in my throat and I swallow hard. “Something’s really wrong, Lewis.”

“Okay.” Lewis sits on the edge of the bed to take off his socks. “Something’s bothering him, obviously. We can talk to him in the morning.” He glances up at me. “But you know if he wanted to tell us, Jo, he would.”

“You know Josh isn’t like that.”

Lewis sighs. “You know it too, and yet you keep pushing him. He’s not going to talk if he doesn’t want to.”

“He’s nine years old, Lewis. He doesn’t have the necessary tools to talk about his feelings.”

“I don’t know what else we can do besides ask him in the morning.”

I don’t either. I wish there was something more, something I could be sure of. When it comes to your children, you never know when you’re getting it right, and I am constantly terrified that I am getting it wrong.

Maybe Lewis’s let-them-be hard knocks school of philosophy is better for your kids, I think as I slip under the covers. Maybe I’ve mothered Josh too much; maybe I’m smothering him.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, my stomach knotted with anxiety.

I turn on my side and tuck my knees up to my chest like Josh had. Eventually I fall into a doze, only to waken a little when Lewis pulls me towards him and fits me snugly against the warm wall of his chest.

He strokes my hair gently, his palm cradling my cheek. “It’ll be okay, Jo,” he whispers, and finally I relax into a deeper sleep.

The next morning Josh is silent and a bit morose, and I react by being almost manically upbeat, as if I can jolly him into a good mood by sheer force of will. I push back my morning appointments so I can take him to school, and I make scrambled eggs and toast instead of the usual low-sugar cereal and fruit for breakfast. I even allow him a cup of hot chocolate, an unimaginable treat. He only drinks half of it.

Lewis comes in as Josh is cutting his untouched toast into even pieces.

“Hey, buddy,” he says lightly, resting a hand on Josh’s shoulder. I see Josh tense, and he gives Lewis a quick, searching look that I don’t understand. “How are you doing this morning?”

“Fine.”

“Do you mind if we go bowling another day?” Lewis asks, and Josh stares at him unblinkingly. I frown.

“Bowling…?”

“I was going to take Ben and Josh bowling,” Lewis explains. “After school. But I’ve got an appointment uptown.” He glances at Josh whose expression has not changed. I cannot read it at all. “That okay?”

“Yeah.” The word is barely audible.

“Everything’s okay with Ben, isn’t it?” Lewis asks, his voice deliberately light. “You guys haven’t argued or anything?”

Josh’s eyes widen and I see his hands clench on his knife and fork. “No,” he says after a moment, but I feel as if he is hiding something. But why would Lewis think Josh and Ben had argued? Is that why he canceled their plans? What does he know that I don’t?

I feel like I’ve missed a scene in a movie, as if someone pressed fast forward without telling me.

Josh rises from the table. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

After he’s left, I turn to Lewis. “What was that about?”

Lewis takes a sip of coffee, shrugging. “What do you mean?”

“Why do you think Josh and Ben have argued?”

“I thought that might have been what made Josh upset.”

“But they don’t argue usually, do they?” In that moment I realize how little I know about Josh and Ben’s friendship. Lewis is the one who handles the play dates, who picks the boys up from school. I’ve never considered just how ignorant I am about the details. I’ve just been happy that Josh has a friend.

“Not often,” Lewis says, and reaches for the newspaper. “But I thought it might be a possibility. In any case,” he adds as he snaps the paper open, “Josh will tell us in time. We’ve just got to be patient.”

Josh comes back into the room and so I don’t press Lewis. Instead I smile and ruffle Josh’s hair. For once he doesn’t duck away from my hand; instead he leans a little into me, and my heart melts and yearns with mother love.

“Ready for school?” I ask, and he nods.

Lewis heads to his workshop uptown while Josh and I wait for the subway on Ninety-Sixth Street. It is another beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear, the sky a brilliant, hard blue. In the distance the leaves on the trees in Central Park are just starting to turn. Everything dazzles.

We don’t speak on the subway; the morning commute makes conversation impossible anyway. At Seventy-Second Street Josh gets a seat and I remain looming over him, hanging onto one of the straps. We make it to Burgdorf with just two minutes to spare before the doors close; being late costs twenty dollars a pop, a fact that outrages Lewis, considering the over thirty grand price tag the school has already. So far this year we’ve paid over a hundred bucks in late fees.

I bustle Josh towards the door; parents are encouraged to stay outside so children can ‘value their independence’ and get to the classrooms by themselves. Of course, most parents ignore this rule. We Manhattan mothers are a pushy lot. I consider going into Josh’s classroom, introducing myself to Mrs. Rollins, and mentioning that I think something is bothering Josh. But then the bell rings and the doors close and I know his teacher—whom I haven’t even met yet—will be annoyed at having a parent wanting a private word when the school day has already started. Plus I have an appointment at nine.

Still I take a moment before Josh goes in to hold him by the shoulders, look into his eyes. “I love you,” I say, and Josh blinks rapidly. For a second I wonder if he is going to cry, and the thought makes me want to cry. “You know that, don’t you, Josh?” I press, my voice choking a little. “I really, really love you.”

He nods, still blinking, and then he twists out of my grasp and goes into the classroom. I turn away from Burgdorf and head downtown to my office on Forty-Second and Sixth, trying to banish my lingering fears.

Two years ago I opened my own private dental practice, after working for a larger practice uptown. In theory it was meant to give me more flexibility so I could spend more time with Josh, be there for drop offs and pick up and the sports games that have never actually materialized, because Josh hates sports. In reality operating a private practice is a ton more work. I’m responsible for everything, and the bills and maintenance costs I have to heft by myself mean I never turn away business. I rarely get home before seven at night, and I’ve even had to go in for emergency appointments on weekends since they pay the best.

Still, I enjoy my work. I went into dentistry by default; my parents, retired now, were both cardiothoracic surgeons and although they’d never said it out loud, I always knew they wanted me to go into the same field. Their disappointment in my life choices has always been conveyed by silence rather than words.

I would have gone into cardiothoracic surgery just to please them, but I couldn’t stand the intensity, and the idea that you might, quite literally, have someone’s heart in your hands made me feel sick and faint.

So I applied to dental school instead, and spent four years training to become a dentist with a specialty in periodontics at Columbia with my parents acting as if I were learning how to clean toilets. Of course, they never said that. But their silences have always been eloquent.

The surprise for me was that I actually enjoyed it. Defaults are usually disappointments, but I’ve never regretted becoming a dentist. I like being able to fix problems, and usually relatively easily. A cavity can be filled; a broken tooth can be capped.

Of course, there are the usual hassles: patients come in with an abcess or dentures or a need for multiple root canals. Sometimes there are worse problems, white spots or bumps on the gums that indicate oral cancer. I’ve had several cases where I’ve had to refer a patient to an oncologist. But at least I was there at the start. I don’t want to be the one who is there at the end.

Normally, though, my day is one of scheduled appointments, fillings and root canals and restorations, along with the cosmetic work our culture of airbrushed beauty demands. I’ve said on more than one occasion that I can see the charm in a crooked smile. In point of fact, my own teeth are not perfectly straight, but I don’t have any fillings, either.

Barbara, my receptionist, raises her eyebrows at me as I come into my small office on the second floor of a Brownstone across from Bryant Park. I’m not usually this late, and my nine o’clock is already waiting, flipping through one of the magazines in the waiting room.

“Everything okay?” Barbara asks in a murmur after I’ve greeted the patient and go back to take off my coat.

I nod. “I just wanted to take to Josh to school. He’s having a bit of a tough time.”

Barbara clucks sympathetically. She has no children, has never married, and I’ve only given her sparing details about Josh because I know she won’t understand. I don’t know if anyone will understand; so many people want to either label or fix Josh, or just leave him alone. I want none of those and all of them at the same time.

I’ve just finished my third appointment, a straightforward filling, when my cell rings. I check the screen and my heart seems to hang suspended in my chest when I see it is Burgdorf calling.

“Mrs. Taylor-Davies?” a woman asks and I clear my throat.

“Yes?”

“This is Mrs. James from The Burgdorf Institute for Committed Learning.” Mrs. James, I’ve noticed, always refers to the school by its full and rather ridiculous name.

“Yes?”

“I was hoping you and your husband might come into the school today, to talk about Joshua.”

My hand, now slippery, tightens on the phone. “Josh? Why? Is something wrong?”

A tense pause. “I don’t like to discuss these things on the telephone. Could you and Mr. Taylor-Davies come in at one-thirty?”

I glance at my watch; that’s in less than an hour. It will be difficult, but it’s obviously important and I don’t really feel like I have a choice.

“Okay,” I say, and then, my stomach knotting, I call Lewis.

“Why the hell does she want us to come in so quickly?” he demands.

“She wouldn’t say on the phone—”

“Of course she wouldn’t,” Lewis says in disgust. Lewis has never been a fan of Burgdorf and its alternative approach to education. When I first showed him the brochure, he did an Internet search on the educator whose philosophies Burgdorf is founded on, Johann Pestalozzi.

“You realize this guy was a total loser, right?” Lewis asked me as he looked up from his laptop. “He reduced his family to poverty, he tried to farm and it failed. He started a school and it failed.”

I scrabbled for the brochure, searching for the brief paragraph on Pestalozzi. “He started another school at Burgdorf Castle that was innovative for its time,” I read a bit desperately. Lewis just shook his head.

Lewis might not have liked Burgdorf but he accepted its necessity; he recognized that the intense atmosphere of Manhattan’s competitive private schools would be unbearable for Josh, and the brutal social dynamics of public school would swallow our son whole and spit him back out in seconds.

“This meeting is obviously important, Lewis,” I say quietly. “Maybe she’ll tell us what’s bothering Josh.”

“You really think she knows?” Lewis asks, but he relents. “I’ll meet you at Burgdorf.”

At one-twenty I am standing outside Burgdorf’s bright blue doors, waiting for Lewis. Tension coils tighter and tighter inside me as I scan the busy streets for his familiar figure, that easy, loping walk. I have no idea what awaits us inside the school, what Mrs. James wants to discuss with us, and why she wouldn’t mention it on the phone. Josh may be quiet, but he’s generally a good kid. He obeys his teachers, he does his homework, he doesn’t tease or bully or fight. Yet Mrs. James sounded as if he were in trouble, and considering how withdrawn Josh has been for the last two days, that doesn’t seem like an impossibility. But I hate the thought of it.

Lewis finally shows up at one thirty-five. “Subway stalled,” he mutters, and I can tell from the way his mouth compresses and his nose looks pinched that he is worried about this meeting too.

We head into the school together; although Burgdorf is in an office building, they have done a good job of making it child-friendly; the walls are covered with children’s art work and there are chalkboards and whiteboards for children to add their own spontaneous creations.

Mrs. James’s assistant Tanya ushers us into her office, that inner sanctum, immediately, which makes my stomach lurch. This is feeling more urgent and awful with every moment.

Mrs. James rises from behind her desk and holds out a hand which Lewis and I shake in turn. I would have expected the headmistress of an alternative school like Burgdorf to be relaxed, easygoing, even a bit hippyish, but Ruth James is none of those things. In her mid-fifties with a steel-gray bob and pale blue eyes, she is elegant and dignified and more than a bit remote. Sometimes I wonder how much of Burgdorf’s philosophy she actually believes in. Maybe this was the only headship she could get.

She waits for us to sit before sitting down herself and then folding her hands on the desk in front of her.

“Obviously you know about Ben Reese’s accident yesterday,” she begins, and Lewis and I both gape.

“I’m sorry, we weren’t aware that Ben had an accident,” I say after a few seconds’ silence. “Is he all right?”

Mrs. James’s eyes narrow and her lips purse. “No, he is not. He is in the hospital with a serious brain injury.”

“Oh, no.” Shock ices through me. How will Josh cope without Ben, his best and only friend? And then I feel ashamed because I am thinking of Josh, rather than Ben, who sounds like he is seriously injured. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“Josh didn’t tell you?” Mrs. James says after another expectant pause, and I feel my face heat even as my hands go clammy. Josh’s sorrowful silence last night makes sense now, but why wouldn’t he tell us his friend was hurt? Why wouldn’t he share something like that?

“No, he didn’t,” I say, because how can I say anything else? I glance at Lewis; he is silent and stony-faced, but I see how his face is pale with shock. We endure another few seconds’ silence.

“Don’t you think,” Mrs. James finally says, her gaze swiveling from me to Lewis, “that’s rather odd?”

I glance again at Lewis; he has folded his arms and is staring straight ahead.

“Yes,” I finally say. I meet Mrs. James’s gaze, squaring my shoulders. “Yes, I do think it is rather odd. But there must be an explanation.”

“There is,” Mrs. James answers, and now her voice sounds decidedly cool. She draws herself up, her steely gaze moving between the two of us. “The truth is, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor-Davies,” she says, “I have reason to believe that Josh pushed Ben.”