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bothered him even more.
    And as for referring to Naomi as her “doctor” … well, everybody knows psychiatrists aren’t real doctors.
    At least, not the way he was a real doctor.
    But Naomi had been selected specifically for her “doctorness.” Josh had picked a psychiatrist so that she could quickly and chemically fix his broken wife. No waiting for a referral. A prescription to get Rose going, talk therapy to keep her moving.
    But Rose had resisted the offered drugs.
    She was nursing, she said. She worried about what might pass to the baby. How it could affect her still-wrinkling brain.
    But she was glad to go to the appointments. The appointments meant she could justify a babysitter. The appointments meant she could buy two hours of freedom from her never-ending obligation to her family.
    And so, Rose talked herself better.
    Marginally better, but better. Better enough to activate a dormant love for her newborn daughter. Better enough to be able to smile when the occasion called for it. Better enough to get by. Better enough for Josh.
    Still, as she listened to herself talk, it drove her mad how cliché her life was. The things that she struggled with were nothing compared with the real problems other people had.
    â€œWhat are ‘real’ problems?” Naomi would ask.
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œBut what comes to mind? I’m sure you’re thinking of something when you say that.”
    Images flew through Rose’s mind. Foreclosure signs. A man with a sign by the highway. The hungry African children in those late-night commercials. She shook her head. Even her ideas of real problems were cliché.
    â€œThere’s a woman at the boys’ school. Another mom. She just got implants.”
    Naomi laughed. “Okay…”
    â€œI mean, her boobs are huge. So fake. And there’re always just out there. Like she wants you to look.”
    â€œThat’s possible.”
    â€œIt’s just she got them to save her marriage. But then she made a joke about the fact that if her husband left her, at least her new boobs were one thing he couldn’t get fifty percent of.”
    â€œShe said that?”
    â€œThat’s the thing—I don’t even know this woman. I’ve just seen her in the parking lot. It was another mother who told me she said that stuff.… People are talking about her, making jokes about her marriage. Thinking about her sex life. It’s possible none of this is true, I wouldn’t know.”
    â€œSo this woman, she’s who you think of when you think of someone with real problems?”
    Rose shrugged. “They seem more real than my problems.”
    Rose also told Naomi about Hugo and the island.
    Naomi was intrigued. She encouraged Rose to talk more about them. Her adventures with Hugo, the same tales that enraptured the boys, seemed stale and immature in Naomi’s clean, dark office.
    And she sensed that Naomi didn’t believe her. Naomi would call the dreams “fantasies” and ask Rose what she thought they meant.
    â€œI don’t think they mean anything. They’re just dreams.”
    Which is what Rose said but was in truth not what she believed. Her time with Hugo meant a great deal, but it didn’t represent anything. It just … was.
    Besides, she was happy with her dreams.
    It was her life she didn’t like.

 
    five
    Rose hated soccer.
    The boys had been dutifully enrolled in a mini-league when Isaac turned four. Rose, as always, had done her research, questioning other mothers about which association was best—as if “best” could be used to describe anything that involved a passel of preschoolers clumping around a ball and aiming kicks at one another’s shins.
    But of course the other mothers had a great deal to say about which league was best. Some leagues were noncompete, all games ending in a tie—while others sidelined the less