Family Tree by Susan Wiggs

things to say. How odd that this man was a stranger to her. There had been a time when she knew everything about him—the smell of his skin and the taste of his breath. What his laughter soundedlike, what his anger looked like. The shape of his hands. The things he dreamed about. His passion and his frustration.
    They’d made two beautiful children. They had grandchildren together. Yet these days, she had no idea what he was thinking. She didn’t know who he was, or how he’d gotten that whitish scar on the back of his hand, or if he needed reading glasses now that he was in his fifties.
    The old songs kept coming. Most were from Annie’s growing-up years. She gazed helplessly at the figure on the bed, that colorless face like a marble icon, smooth and unmoving.
    â€œSleeping beauty,” Ethan said.
    Caroline nodded. “I’ve been so scared. I hope the doctors are right about her coming around.”
    He pressed his forefinger and thumb against his closed eyes in a gesture she recognized—his way of containing his tears. “I hope so, too,” he whispered.
    â€œEthan, they did warn me not to expect her to be exactly the way she was before the accident. There could be . . .” She didn’t want to say it. “Some impairment. Deficiencies, I think someone called them. And no one will know the extent of it until she’s fully awake. Even if there’s no permanent deficit, she’ll need intensive rehab.”
    â€œWe’ll do whatever it takes,” he said.
    â€œIt’s likely to go on for weeks. Or months.”
    â€œWhatever it takes,” he repeated.
    Oh. Well, that was something. In previous years, Ethan had come to Vermont only twice a year to see Annie and Kyle—two weeks during the holidays and another two in the summer, spending his short stay at his parents’ place in Milton.
    When he said “whatever it takes,” did that mean he planned to stay? She bit her lip to keep from asking.
    â€œBrand New Day” was playing now. The part of the song about turningthe clock back hit Caroline hard. “I wish I could,” she said softly, gazing at her daughter.
    â€œCould what? Turn back the clock?”
    She nodded. “Did I push her into that life, or is it what she really wanted?”
    â€œWhat, producing a hit TV show? It seemed like exactly what she always dreamed of.”
    All Caroline could remember were the arguments. “Maybe I should have been more supportive of her and Fletcher,” she said now. “You never met him, did you?”
    â€œNo. Annie told me about him. Hometown sweethearts.” He shot Caroline a look. “It happens.”
    â€œBut they were so young. How could I have known?”
    â€œCut it out, Caro.” Ethan was the only one who ever called her Caro. “You don’t get to take responsibility for your grown daughter’s decisions.”
    â€œOne of us had to take responsibility for everything,” she fired back, falling into their old pattern as if no time at all had passed.
    â€œRight,” he said, his voice taut with anger. “And how’s that working out for you?”
    Annie heard voices, quietly arguing in the way people fought when they didn’t want anyone to know they were fighting. They ought to realize that the technique never worked. Just because a quarrel was quiet didn’t mask the fact that it was a quarrel. Even if the words were inaudible, the fight infested the air like a fog.
    There was a haunting familiarity in the tense, sibilant whispers hovering over Annie’s eyelids. She was ten years old, lying in the dark long after bedtime, straining to hear what her parents were saying to one another. She couldn’t hear their words, but some part of her already knew they were on the brink of stripping away the safe cocoon of her family. She had caught Mom crying and hugging Gran, and she’d seen her grandfather’s icy