Family Matters by Kitty Burns Florey

night’s debauch. I had all the things you told me to avoid.”
    Terry didn’t smile. “Your grandfather asked me to ask you—” She stopped and looked fixedly at the bookcases. “Maybe you should have a pregnancy test.”
    Betsy went clammy again and then flushed. Her heart seemed to have stopped. Everything seemed very quiet.
    â€œHave your breasts felt tender?”
    She swallowed. “A little. But I’m expecting my period.”
    â€œIt’s late?”
    This is an incredible conversation, Betsy thought. “I’m not sure. I’m not very regular.”
    â€œWell, you’ve got the classic symptoms.”
    Joy rose in her throat like nausea, and she coughed before she laughed. “Do you think so? Do you think so?”—taking Terry’s two hands. “It never occurred to me it could be morning sickness. I can’t imagine why. Do you really think so?”
    Terry frowned. Her hands were unresponsive. “You don’t—mind?”
    Betsy’s laughter bubbled up again. “Mind? Heavens, no. Judd and I both love children. He’s the man I live with, you know. I’m sure you know all about it.”
    â€œWell—” Terry was embarrassed; her shrug encompassed all the overheard gossip. Or perhaps Frank had told her. He had confided to her his fears about Betsy’s nausea, after all. This fact astonished her, and for some reason it delighted her. The idea of her grandfather going to his daughter’s nurse with the problem—a young girl of twenty-three advising Frank Robinson!
    Betsy laughed again and squeezed Terry’s hands. “Judd’s a photographer. He’s done some fine work with children. He does buildings now, but not exclusively. That’s all his work, on the wall. He’s marvelous with children. He has a real rapport with them.”
    â€œAnd you think he’d be glad to have one of his own?”
    â€œGlad? Of course!” But as she said it, the certainty left her. Glad? She had no idea. What had she been thinking of when she stopped taking her pills? Of a picture Judd had taken of little Bert hanging upside down from a tree branch. Another of two solemn little girls playing dress-up, for an insurance company ad. One of a Suzuki violin class playing in unison: six bent arms, six bows, six faces fiercely concentrating. Of the afternoon they spent hiking with Judd’s brother’s kids. Of her last chance. Of Judd, settled. Of joy. Of nothing. She had thought of nothing that could be linked with reality. It was a Norman Rockwell pregnancy. I must be crazy, she said to herself, and imagined a future of empty closets and gaping drawers.
    Terry was standing up, looking relieved. “It’s a happy occasion, then, after all.”
    Betsy looked up at her. “I’d better have a test before I celebrate, I suppose.”
    Terry sensed her deflated mood and said, to cheer her, “I’d put money on it.”
    â€œWell, don’t be too positive about it to my grandfather, Terry. I mean, if I am , I really ought to tell Judd first.” Betsy forced a conspiratorial grin.
    â€œYou’re right, of course.” Terry beamed. “He is an awfully inquisitive old man, though. Wonderful for his age.”
    â€œHe’s seventy-seven.”
    â€œAs old as the century. And you’d think he was no older than Mrs. Ruscoe.”
    â€œShe’s wonderful for her age, too. All things considered.”
    Terry’s face went somber. “It’s a privilege to see her through this.”
    â€œHow long, do you think, Terry?”
    â€œImpossible to tell, it’s such an unpredictable thing.” She frowned, flattered she was asked. “But I think she’s got a way to go.”
    Involuntarily, Betsy put her hand on her stomach. She felt strong and optimistic again. The nausea had passed, her tiredness had left her. She came, after all, from a stoic