A Mother Would Know (18)

“I was a little surprised you two went out,” I say honestly.

“Me, too. It was his idea. I almost said no, but thought, what the heck. He’s my brother-in-law. I should give him a chance, you know?” A slow smile creeps across his face. “And you know what? That guy isn’t half bad.”

“Really?” This is even more shocking to me. “Did he drink?”

Hudson hesitates, then says, “Yeah, but don’t tell Kendra.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not getting involved in this.” I rub my fingers over my temples to suppress my raging headache. I hear the dog door swinging open from the kitchen, and Bowie’s paws on the floor. He bounds into the room and heads straight to me. I lower my tired arm, resting my hand on his head.

Hudson’s smile slips. “Are you sick?”

“Yeah, maybe.” I press the back of my hand to my own forehead, the way I used to do for my children when they were young. My skin does feel hot. Honestly, I feel relieved. A virus, I can handle. Losing the entire day to Alzheimer’s is something I cannot. Not yet.

Not now.

Reaching up, I touch my greasy hair and cringe. “I need to take a shower.”

“Why don’t I help you upstairs?” Hudson stands, reaching for my arm.

I gratefully accept his help, allowing him to guide me upward. As we walk up the stairs, I rest my head against his shoulder. Bowie passes us and disappears into my room before we reach the fourth step. My mouth is dry, my tongue sticky. I swallow hard. Once inside my room, I shake Hudson off. I’m desperate to change out of my walking clothes. They still feel damp as they cling to my skin in an uncomfortable way.

“I’ll be fine,” I say to him. “Thanks.”

“You sure?”

I nod.

“Okay.” He starts to back out of the room, but then stops. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

While I’m in the shower, a wave of nausea rolls over me, and I have to lean against the wall, breathing deeply in and out until it subsides. When it finally does, I wash my hair and body swiftly and then turn off the water. Shivering, I wrap myself in a towel. Moisture fills my mouth as the nausea returns.

Dropping to my knees, I hunch over the toilet bowl. Nothing comes out, though. Maybe I just need to eat something. Peeling myself off the floor, I go into my room and put on a pair of fuzzy jammies.

Bowie leaps onto my bed, already curling up at the bottom as if anticipating I’ll be in it soon.

Too weary to go downstairs, I lie in my bed, propping the pillows up under my head. I know I should eat something—it’s well past lunch and I can’t remember eating anything this morning. Then I text Hudson, asking if he could bring me a bowl of soup.

For sure, he texts back.

Within fifteen minutes, he enters with a bowl of soup on a TV tray. I force myself to eat half of it before he returns to retrieve the bowl.

I read for a little bit before falling back into a deep sleep.

My dreams are disjointed, a jumble of memories that don’t fit together.

Heather sitting in my living room looking exactly like she did the last time I saw her, drinking tea with her mom. But Leslie’s not the age she was back then. At first it’s hard to tell. She’s worn her hair in the same style for fifteen years. A short, bleached bob. She’s always worn one side tucked behind her ear, too. It’s her clothes that show her age—the elastic pants and floral top, indicative of the way she dresses now...

I join them, my own cup of tea in hand, just as Kendra walks in holding Mason. We all sit together chatting like nothing is amiss.

Several times in the night, I awaken from stomach pain and nausea. When I do, I find proof of Hudson’s presence. A cup of fresh water on the nightstand, a plate of crackers and one time miraculously still-fizzy Sprite in a glass. It gets me through the night.

And in the morning, I feel a little better.

On my way to the kitchen, I pass the living room, noticing that Hudson has cleaned up my mess from yesterday. The cups have been picked up, the blanket folded on the edge of the couch, the pillows fluffed.

The kitchen is bright and airy. Even though I feel a lot better, my stomach is still a little iffy, so I decide to stick with a piece of toast. I pop a slice of bread into the toaster before filling the coffeepot.

Leslie is outside talking with Beth and Shelly. She’s wearing the same kind of elastic-waisted pants and floral top that she’d had on in my dream as if she’d stepped right out of it and onto her front porch. It causes a chill to brush up my back. Staring at them, I think about how different our lives could have turned out. In my dream, we’d been having tea together with our daughters. It’s what I’d envisioned for our future back when we were friends. For seven years, I saw Heather almost daily. She was as familiar to me as my own children. Her laugh, her smile, her mannerisms—I knew them like the back of my hand. Now they haunt my dreams.

“Mom?” Hudson’s voice startles me. I’d assumed he’d already left for work. But then I glance at the clock. It’s early. Way earlier than I usually wake up.

I whirl around, feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Forcing a shaky smile, I’m glad he can’t read my thoughts. Then he’d know that I was thinking about the one thing we never talk about—Heather—and what we did.