The Cuckoo's Child by Margaret Thompson Page A

completely demoralized Mum. She towed me into Prince George to find what she called “something special—but not too posh.” She couldn’t define this more specifically than “maybe a nice dress, with a jacket, perhaps,” and seemed to hope that the perfect solution would rear up and there’d be a moment of mutual, relieved recognition.
    She begged me to go with her.
    â€œYou always seem to know what to wear,” she said. “You’ve got style .”
    It was news to me, but I went and steered her away from shiny polyester floral prints that made her look like an overstuffed sofa, ran interference between her and overzealous or patronizing sales staff, and fetched and carried a bewildering array of sizes and styles between rack and fitting room.
    She hated every minute. She doesn’t really fit any standard size, being short and dumpy. Everything was too big, too small, too tight, too loose, too hot, too revealing. On one return trip to the fitting room, my cautious knock revealed her standing in front of the mirror in her limp and faded slip, white flesh puffing beneath the straps and tears crawling down her flushed cheeks. I could see sweat pearling on her forehead.
    â€œThey don’t make clothes for people my shape,” she said. “We might as well go home.”
    Mum and I were never exactly close, but I felt for her in that moment. I knew exactly how hopeless she felt in that claustrophobic space, unable to ignore the mirror, every imperfection heightened by the ill-fitting, ugly garments, every one of which shouted at the top of its supercilious and overpriced lungs that she’d never, in a million years, be anything special.
    I gave her a quick hug.
    â€œMaybe we’re going about this all wrong,” I said. “Why don’t you get dressed and go and have a nice cup of coffee somewhere and I’ll look around and find some possibles for you?”
    It was a desperate throw—I had no idea what we’d do if I couldn’t find anything—but she agreed with relief and I left her furtively easing off her shoes with a coffee in front of her.
    I veered off into a fabric store and attacked the pattern books. It didn’t take long to find patterns for a simple sleeveless dress and an elegant fitted jacket with a peplum. A bit more ferreting turned up a supple green fabric for the dress and a beautiful heavy shot silk that reminded me of a peacock’s feathers for the jacket. Mum was enchanted.
    â€œBut who’s going to make it?” she said. It was apparently a revelation that there were seamstresses who made a living that way.
    â€œSaved the day, I hear,” Dad said, and that sort of approval made the remaining days buoyant. But the family could still take me by surprise.
    I was talking to Neil a couple of days before he was due to arrive and we were speculating idly about the reception.
    â€œWill there be speeches, do you think?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine Holly’s logger father making a speech any more than I could see Dad getting up in front of a crowd. “I suppose the best man will make one at least. I don’t even know who the best man is.”
    There was a little silence at the other end of the line.
    â€œIt’s me. I thought for sure Stephen would have told you that!”
    For a second I felt absurdly offended. Not at Neil being your choice, you understand, who better? Just at not knowing, at being no more in the know than the most distant second cousin twice removed among Holly’s tribe. And the niggling, humiliatingly unworthy feeling that Neil was actually closer and more involved in the family than I was. I gave myself a shake.
    â€œHe probably thought for sure you’d tell me!”
    Neil arrived for the ceremony, and we dressed up like mannequins and did our best to fill up the right side of the church. We gazed, somewhat bemused, at the crowded pews on the other side of the