A Mother Would Know (13)

“Where are the kids?” I asked.

“Oh.” He ran a hand down his face. “Upstairs doing homework.” His words came out a little too slow, slightly slurred.

“Have they had dinner?”

“Yeah, they wanted mac and cheese. Kendra made it.” He beamed with pride the same way he always did when he spoke of Kendra. Often, he told me about all the ways she’d helped out when I was gone. I’d assumed she liked helping her dad. They’d always been so close. But now I wondered if she did it out of necessity.

The thought made me feel slightly ill—and angry. I couldn’t help but think bitterly about all the times he’d gotten on my case about going out with the guys after shows and getting a ride home—on occasion—drunk. How often he’d compared me to Leslie and the other women in the neighborhood as if he wished I could be more like them. How dared he expect me to be some Stepford wife when he was at home getting shit-faced by six o’clock?

All that time I’d assuaged my guilt about leaving my kids with the fact that they had an attentive, loving dad at home. Many women I knew raised their kids alone, their husbands always gone. And those kids turned out fine. Why did it matter if it was the man or the woman home, as long as one parent was? But that night, as I stared at my husband’s red, sweaty face and unfocused eyes, I wondered if maybe I’d been wrong all along.

Maybe we were both absent parents.



* * *



I awaken in the dark to Bowie barking sharply. The floorboards creak. I sit up in bed, covers falling around my waist.

Grace?

I listen for the familiar sounds. The ones I’ve always assumed were her. Soft footfalls of a child. Rhythmic bouncing like that of a large ball. The plastic bouncy kind Darren used to buy for the kids from those big crates at the grocery store.

These footfalls are loud, though. Clunky.

An adult.

A man?

I glance at the clock. Two in the morning. Hudson? Getting out of bed, I follow the noise. When I first heard it, it seemed to be coming from the hallway, but now it sounds like it’s downstairs.

The house is pitch-black. I turn on the hall light, pale yellow flooding the space. I blink as my eyes adjust, then look around to see if Bowie is following. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Some watchdog.

At the bottom of the stairs, my soles hit the hardwood floor.

“Hudson?” I call out.

Nothing. Creeping forward, I suppress a shiver.

I peer to my left into the kitchen. Moonlight spills inside, casting a bluish glow. It’s empty. Turning to the right, I enter the family room. The light from upstairs drifts down here, and I can make out the shape of the couch and recliner, the piano beyond that.

I take a few more steps, and that’s when I see Hudson, curled up in a fetal position on the couch. Why is he down here and not in his bed?

He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, and he’s shivering.

I reach for the blanket draped over the edge of the couch and gently lay it over him. He doesn’t move. As I stare at him, I wonder if he’s been sleepwalking. It’s something he’d done sporadically as a child.

Once he’d gone outside and thrown a ball right through the window. Another time he’d tossed a cup of water all over his sister as she slept. She swore up and down he’d done it on purpose and only used sleepwalking as an excuse, but I believed him.

The other times, it had been like this. He’d walk into a room and either stand there, stock-still, mouth open, or curl up in a fetal position, breathing deeply. Once I found him nestled amid the shoes on the floor of my closet when I went to grab my robe off the door.

With him asleep, I feel bold. Reaching out, I place a gentle hand on his head and whisper good-night, the way I used to when he was a boy.





6





Kendra arrives an hour earlier than I’m expecting. She appears stressed, her hair a little disheveled, her face damp from sweat. She’s weighted down on both sides—an oversized diaper bag on one shoulder, the car seat hanging from her right hand. Mason is sound asleep inside, his long eyelashes resting against his porcelain cheeks. As she sets him down, I marvel at how serene he is despite all of my daughter’s nervous energy.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She drops the diaper bag, and it lands with a thud. “It’s just been a long day. Mason’s been whiny. I think he’s teething.”

“Well, he looks peaceful now.” I smile down at my grandson.

“Thank god.” She blows out a breath. “He finally fell asleep on the way here.”

“Where’s Theo?” I glance through the front window.

“He called an hour ago to say he’s working late tonight. That’s why I headed over early. I needed a break.”

Cupping my daughter’s elbow, I smile. I haven’t always been the person she runs to when in need. It feels good to be useful lately. Perhaps all it took was her becoming a mom to finally understand me better. “Come on, I’ll get you a glass of wine, and you can relax.”

She freezes. “You know I don’t drink, Mom.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Up until about a year and a half ago, Kendra would have the occasional drink. But when she and Theo decided to have a baby, they made a no-drinking agreement. I’d thought at first it was just going to be through the pregnancy. When she decided not to nurse, I assumed she’d have the occasional drink then. But now I get the feeling it may be indefinite. “Sorry. I forgot.”