Wilson blinks again. Ruth looks up toward the ceiling so that he can see her profile, backlit by the green glow of the stereo lights on the shelf beside her. He is thinking, he thinks. “I am.”

“Wilson. This has nothing to do with Africa.”

“Sure it does,” Wilson says. “She did that drawing. There’s something to that drawing.”

“I know it,” Ruth says. “Whether consciously or not, there is meaning in everything we make.” She feels herself blush. “The shrink said that.”

“And the drawing is of Africa,” Wilson says.

“What I think is that you want to go to Africa.”

“I’ve been to Africa.”

“I’d rather have her at school than in Africa come January.”

Wilson turns his head, opens his mouth to say what he shouldn’t have to, when Ruth interrupts him. “I know,” she says. “I’m sorry, I know you would, too.”

They are quiet.

Finally, Ruth takes a breath. “Regardless,” she says, “I wanted to thank you for suggesting that we show that drawing to the shrink. Whatever she’s trying to communicate by it.”

Wilson flattens his lips.

“He seems good,” she continues.

“Well, good.”

“And he thinks there’s really something to what she draws. I was thinking of finding an art class or something, something, I don’t know.” She turns her head toward Wilson as if asking him a question, or for his approval. He nods. “Anyway,” she says, “I wouldn’t have thought of showing him that drawing, so thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Wilson says.

Ruth shrugs.

“When’s the next appointment?”

“Oh, next Thursday, and I wanted to ask you about that. I have an appointment at noon on Thursday, and Isabelle’s appointment is at eleven, which means I can’t get her home and then get downtown for my own appointment. I was thinking that I could leave her off at the shrink and you could pick her up and take her out for lunch somewhere, and then I could meet you guys wherever you decide to go and take her home.”

“Thursday?”

“Next Thursday, and her appointment ends at noon.”

Wilson pictures himself and his daughter, sitting silent in a noisy restaurant, Isabelle drawing away on her placemat, Wilson making meaningless comments about the flower arrangement on the table, or the funny hairdo on the lady at the next table, or how he just can’t decide whether to get the burger or something a little more healthful, like the chicken sandwich, and what did Isabelle think he should have? “Thursday,” he says, and then he remembers that he’s got a lunch meeting with clients flying in from California. “Shit,” he says. “I have a lunch meeting Thursday. Do you think there’s a chance the doctor could reschedule?”

“How about you reschedule?”

“They’re from out of town,” Wilson says. “They’re flying in.”

“Wilson,” Ruth says. “I don’t ask that much of you. I spend every day with Isabelle. I don’t work anymore so that I can take care of her. I’m asking you for an hour of your time, two at the most.”