The Family Tree

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BARBARA DELINSKY

Something woke her mid-dream. She didn’t know whether it was the baby kicking, a gust of sea air tumbling in over the sill, surf breaking on the rocks, or even her mother’s voice, liquid in the waves, but as she lay there open-eyed in bed in the dark, the dream remained vivid. It was an old dream, and no less embarrassing to her for knowing the script. She was out in public, for all the world to see, lacking a vital piece of clothing. In this instance, it was her blouse. She had left home without it and now stood on the steps of her high school – her high school – wearing only a bra, and an old one at that. It didn’t matter that she was sixteen years past graduation and knew none of the people on the steps. She was exposed and thoroughly mortified. And then – this was a first – there was her mother-in-law, standing off to the side, wearing a look of dismay and carrying – bizarre – the blouse.

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‘I’ll love a girl.’

‘But you want a boy deep down, I know you do, Hugh. It’s that family name. You want a little Hugh Ames Clarke.’

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