"Alan Voss is a psychiatrist," I said slowly.
"He's a friend. I just asked him an informal question." Derek smiled. "I'm on your side, babe. Always."
I nodded and thanked him.
I thanked him.
The night that changed everything was Sunday, October 25th, and it began with a bath.
I was sitting on the edge of the tub while Eli splashed in a tangle of dinosaurs and bubbles. He was quiet, which was unusual, and after a while he said, without looking at me, "Mommy? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, baby."
"Are you going to get better?"
I felt my heart squeeze. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm fine. I'm just tired."
"Grandma says you're sick. She says that's why you sleep so much." He pushed a plastic stegosaurus under the water. "She says the sugar helps."
I went still.
"What sugar, honey?"
"The special sugar in your tea." He said it very simply, the way six-year-olds say everything. "It's in a little bottle in Grandma's bag. She lets me help stir it in. She says it's grown-up medicine and it's a secret, 'cause you'd worry."
I could hear the water dripping from the faucet.
"When does Grandma put the sugar in?" I asked carefully. My voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel.
"Every night. Before she gives it to you." Eli looked up, and for the first time I saw that he was frightened, that he'd been frightened for days, in the quiet, watchful way of a child who has been told something is a secret and doesn't know why it feels bad. "Did I do something wrong?"
I reached into the water and took my son's wet hand.
"No, baby," I said. "You did something very, very brave."
That night, Lorraine appeared at half past eight with my mug.
"Here you are, sweetheart. Drink it while it's hot."
I looked at my mother-in-law. I looked at the mug, at the steam curling from the surface, at the faint pale swirl of honey.
"Thank you, Lorraine," I said, and I smiled.