We’re on the Hawkesbury River. This is our magical houseboat holiday.

Alice lifted her head from the water and looked at Gina. She had her eyes shut; her long curly hair was floating out from her head like seaweed.

“Gina! You’re not dead, are you?”

Gina opened one eye and said, “Do I look dead?”

Alice was filled with exquisite relief. “Let’s have champagne to celebrate!”

“Oh, definitely,” said Gina sleepily. “Definitely.”

There was someone swimming toward them. Bobbing up and down in a clumsy br**ststroke. Brown shoulders rising in and out of the water. It was Dominick. His hair plastered close to his head. Drops of water sparkling on his eyelashes.

“Hi, girls,” he said, treading water next to them.

Gina kept quiet.

Alice felt embarrassed in front of Gina. For some reason it was wrong. It wasn’t right that Dominick was here.

Gina rolled over onto her stomach and swam away.

“No, no, come back!” shouted Alice.

“She’s gone,” said Dominick sadly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Alice to Dominick. She splashed him and he looked hurt. “This isn’t your holiday.”

The radio alarm went off. An eighties song, loud and jarring in the morning silence.

There was a flurry of movement and the quilt slid off her shoulders. “Sorry.” The radio was switched off again.

She turned over and pulled the quilt back up again.

A Gina dream. She hadn’t dreamed of her for so long. She loved those dreams that felt so real, it was almost like she was seeing her again, spending another day with her. Except Dominick shouldn’t have popped up like that. It felt like a betrayal of Nick to let Dominick into her houseboat holiday memory. Nick had loved that holiday. She could see him standing on the top deck of the boat, loping about, pretending to be a pirate. “Arg! Arg!” He would grab Tom around the waist and say, “Time to walk the plank, my boy!” and throw him high, so high in the air. She could see Tom’s exhilarated face so clearly, his little brown boy’s body suspended forever against a bright blue sky.

Tom.

She opened her eyes.

Had Tom come home last night?

He’d promised to be home by midnight and they’d gone to bed early. She’d meant to get up and check on him, but for some reason she’d fallen asleep so soundly.

Was that a memory of his key in the door? The car scraping in the driveway, music hastily switched off, the explosive sounds of teenage boys trying to be quiet. Huge feet thumping up the stairs.

Or was that another night?

Maybe she’d better go and check, but it was so early, and she was sleepy, and it was Sunday. Her one sleep-in day. She would get up, push open his bedroom door, and he’d be there, sprawled out fully dressed on top of his bed. The room dank and musty with the smell of aftershave and unwashed socks. Then she’d be wide awake with no chance of getting back to sleep. She’d have to spend the next two hours sitting in the kitchen, waiting for someone to wake up.

And it was Mother’s Day! They were meant to bring her breakfast and presents in bed. If they remembered. Last year they forgot entirely. They were teenagers, full of the tragedies and the ecstasies of their own lives.

But what if Tom hadn’t come home? And she didn’t report him missing until ten a.m.? “I was asleep,” she’d have to explain to the police officers when they asked why it had taken her so long to report that her eighteenyear-old son was missing. The police officers would exchange glances. Bad, lazy mother. Bad, lazy mother who deserves to have her son killed on Mother’s Day.

She pushed back the covers.

“Tom came home,” said a sleepy voice beside her. “I checked earlier.”

She pulled the covers back up.

Tom would always come home. He was reliable. Did what he said he would. He didn’t like being asked too many questions about his life (no more than three in a row was his rule), but he was a good kid. Studying hard for his exams, playing his soccer, and going out with his friends, bringing home pretty, eager-faced girls, who all seemed to think that if they just sold themselves to Alice they’d be in with a chance. (How wrong they were! If Alice showed too much interest in a girl, she was never seen again.)

It would be Olivia who wouldn’t come home one night.

Alice couldn’t stop being surprised at the transformation of Olivia from sweet, angelic little girl to surly, furious, secretive teenager. She’d dyed her beautiful blond curls black and pulled her hair dead straight, so she looked like Morticia from The Addams Family. “Who?” Olivia had sneered. You couldn’t talk to her. Anything you said was likely to give offense. The slamming of her bedroom door reverberated throughout the house on a regular basis. “I hate my life!” she would scream, and Alice would be researching teenage suicide on the Net, when next thing she’d hear her shrieking with laughter with her friends on the phone. Drugs. Teenage pregnancy. Tattoos. It all seemed possible with Olivia. Alice was pretty sure she was going to need intense therapy when Olivia was studying for her HSC in two years’ time. For herself.

It’s just a stage, Madison told her. Just ride it out, Mum.

Madison had got all her teenage angst over and done with by the time she was fourteen. Now she was a joy. So beautiful to look at that it sometimes made Alice catch her breath in the morning when she saw her come down to breakfast, her hair tousled, her skin translucent. She was studying economics at uni and had a besotted boyfriend called Pete, whom Alice had begun to think of as a bonus son (which was unfortunate, because she had an awful feeling that Madison would be breaking his heart in the not too distant future). It had all gone so fast. One minute they were driving her home from the hospital, a tiny, wrinkled, squalling baby. The next she was all legs and cheekbones and opinions. Whoosh. It made Alice’s head spin.

“It goes so fast,” she told Elisabeth, but Elisabeth didn’t really believe her. Anyway, she was the expert on all things mothering now. Even if she didn’t have teenagers yet, she still knew best. Alice wanted to say, Just you wait until your beautiful little Francesca is sleeping until noon and then slumps about the house, flying into a rage when you suggest she might want to get dressed before it’s bedtime again.

But Elisabeth was too busy to hear it. Busy, busy, busy.

She and Ben had ended up adopting three little boys from Vietnam after Francesca was born.