Wilson has been describing to her what he’s learned about Africa, about what kind of trip they’d take if they went, and instead of resisting—she is too tired to resist—Ruth finds herself listening intently, imagining herself far, far away from the city, their apartment, the living room where they’re sitting now, the tree looming in the corner behind them, Peter, Paul, and Mary singing “Go Tell It on the Mountain” from the speakers, Isabelle off wherever she is, furious at Ruth for reasons that became more than clear this afternoon, when Dr. Steingold finally returned her call.

“How was the appointment?” she had asked. “And the sketchbook—what do you think?”

“Today’s appointment was difficult,” he said.

“Well, these things take time,” Ruth said, unwilling to give up hope. “Isabelle takes her time warming up to people. But you’ve seen her drawings now, so you’ve got some insight.”

“I think you might be placing a little too much emphasis on her drawings, Mrs. Carter. It’s going to take a lot more to understand what is troubling Isabelle than a sketchbook.”

Ruth was silent for a moment. “I thought you said her art would be meaningful,” she said. “You said there is meaning in everything we make.”

“And there is. But what we make doesn’t hold all the answers. Isabelle’s sketchbook doesn’t hold all the answers. For therapy to work, Isabelle has to understand what is causing her to use silence. My job is to help her understand.”

Ruth did not respond. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She felt misled, deceived, incredulous, but at the same time what the doctor was saying seemed suddenly obvious, but something to which she’d willed herself oblivious.

“Isabelle is a willful child,” Dr. Steingold said into the silence.

“Are you telling me that my daughter is a willful child?” Ruth said, the desperation behind her silence suddenly breaking through. “Is that your diagnosis? My daughter is willful,” she scoffed. “Do you think anyone knows that better than I do?”

“I know your situation is difficult, Mrs. Carter.”

“You have no idea.”

“And I know that all you want is for your child to be happy, to be well, and I want to try to help you.”

“I let you have my daughter’s sketchbook,” Ruth said. “That is like giving you her diary. It’s something I would never do. But I let you have it anyway, under the impression that it would help. You led me to believe that it would help.”

“And maybe it will, Mrs. Carter. I’m not saying that it won’t. I still have it, and if you’d like, I can take another look through it, perhaps see what a colleague thinks.”

“You still have it,” Ruth repeated.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve still got it here in the office. Isabelle opted not to take it with her.”