“Well, there you go, I’ve got amnesia, too. Now that’s enough.”

“My favorite food is chicken schnitzel, too,” commented Olivia.

“It is not,” said Tom. “Think of your own thing! You copy every single thing I do.”

“What’s my teacher’s name, Mum?” said Madison.

“Now that’s enough,” repeated Nick.

“Oh! I know that one!” Alice managed to stop herself from putting her hand up. She’d seen a notice on the fridge door about a Year 5 excursion with a teacher’s name on it. “Mrs. Ollaway! I mean Alloway. Ollaway? Something like that.”

There was an ominous silence.

“Mrs. Holloway is the deputy principal,” said Madison quietly, in the tone of one pointing out an incredibly foolish, potentially dangerous mistake.

“Oh, yes, of course, that’s what I meant,” said Alice humbly.

“You didn’t,” said Madison.

“When’s my birthday, Mum?” asked Tom, and he pointed a warning finger at his father. “Don’t you answer for her!”

“Right!” Nick clapped his hands together and made a loud hollow sound. “Your mother had an accident and she’s a bit muddled about some things, that’s all. She needs you all to be extra helpful and extra quiet. She doesn’t need you interrogating her. So I want all three of you setting the table now.”

Olivia came and stood beside Alice and slipped a hand in hers. She whispered, “You know that my birthday is twentieth June, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, darling,” said Alice, and suddenly she felt like a mother. “That’s the day you were born. I could never ever forget that.”

She looked up and saw Madison standing in the hallway, staring at her with fierce concentration.

“You’re lying,” she said.

Elisabeth’s Homework for Dr. Hodges Dear Doctor Hodges,

You know what? I’m going to give in and call you by your first name. I was remembering today how you made such a point of it at our first session. “Jeremy,” you said firmly each time I said “Dr. Hodges.” You probably don’t like your name. I don’t blame you. Hodges is a plump, greasy name, and you’re not plump and greasy. You’re actually quite good-looking, which I find distracting. Your nice looks keep reminding me that you’re a real person, and I don’t want you to be a real person. Real people don’t have the answers. They make mistakes. They say things with great authority and they’re wrong.

But anyway, whatever, I’m officially taking you off your pedestal.

How are you, anyway, Jeremy? What are you doing this Sunday night? Are you drinking red wine with your pretty, fertile wife while she prepares a roast dinner and you help those fair-haired kids with their homework? Is the house warm and toasty and smelling of garlic and rosemary?

There is no roast dinner in the oven here. There is no conversation. There is only the sound of the television. There is always the sound of the television. I can’t stand to turn it off. I can’t stand the silence. “Couldn’t we just play some music?” Ben says. No. I want TV. I want gunshots and canned laughter and dog food commercials. Nothing seems too tragic when the television is blaring. (I lived for two years without a television when I was in my twenties. How did I do that? Now it’s like a narcotic.)

So, what did I want to tell you? Oh yes. Ben. We’re fighting.

On the way home from Alice’s place today, Ben started telling me about some man he’d met at last night’s party. I’d seen them talking while I was chatting with Alice’s new boyfriend, who, by the by, is sweet and awkward. It made me feel a bit weird. As if I was being unfaithful to Nick. But I liked him. Anyway, I thought, oh good, Ben’s found someone to talk about cars.

But no.

They were talking about infertility and adoption. Suddenly Ben is the sort of guy who reveals details of his personal life to strangers at kindergarten cocktail parties. I’ve had him wrong all these years. He’s not the silent, strong, damaged type at all. Oh no.

This guy’s sister went through eleven failed IVF cycles before adopting a baby girl from Thailand and the little girl is a talented violin player and they all lived happily ever after.

Ben got this woman’s number. He’s going to call her. My husband has a zealous new look in his eyes. It’s as if he’s discovered religion or golf. Mr. Never Ever Adopt has become Mr. I Can’t Wait to Adopt.

I asked how many years it took, but Ben didn’t know.

I changed the subject.

Then, tonight, we’re watching the news and they’re showing the cyclone in Burma.

There was a woman wearing a red dress a bit like Alice’s. She was standing in front of a pile of rubble that had once been her daughter’s school. She had a photo of a solemn-faced girl. She looked about Olivia’s age. The mother talked politely in good English to the reporter and explained that the local authorities were doing everything they could. She seemed fine, almost businesslike. The camera moved away. Then it came back and now the mother was writhing on the ground, wailing and biting her knuckles. The reporter explained that she’d just heard that there would be no further rescues from the school because it was too dangerous.

I was eating corn chips and watching a woman experiencing the worst moment of her life.

I have no right to be sad about anything. No right to have therapy from expensive doctors like you for losing children who never existed. There is real grief in the world. There are real mothers losing real children. I make myself sick.