A Mother Would Know (20)

“It’s a mouse.”

I squealed and jumped, Andie’s voice startling me. She stood in front of me, long nightgown skimming her bare feet.

“What?” I held my palm to my heart and breathed deeply.

“The scratching in the wall. It’s a mouse. Trapped.”

“Trapped?” I felt cold all of a sudden, little bumps rising on my skin until my arms looked like chicken legs before they’re cooked.

She shrugged. “But don’t worry. It’ll die soon.”

“It will?”

“Yeah,” she said, like I was stupid. “But that’s a good thing, right? Then you won’t have to hear the noise anymore.”

I nodded, but my stomach felt all yucky like that time I got the flu.

“Besides, it’s the mouse’s fault for going in there.”

Every night since then, I’d been unable to sleep. Clutching the edge of my covers, I lay in bed on my side and listened to the scratching. I stared at the wall, picturing the mouse stuck inside the small space, unable to get out. I wondered if the scratching was for my benefit. Could the mouse hear me? Was it hoping I’d try to rescue it? Mom would kill me if I tried to cut a hole in the wall. How would I go about doing that, anyway? I remembered that few panicked seconds when I thought I was stuck under the bed, and then I felt sick thinking of how many days the poor mouse had been in there. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d cover my ears with my hands.

“It’s the mouse’s fault for going in there.”

My sister’s words floated through my mind. Was that what she really thought? That the mouse was getting what it deserved.

Should one wrong move seal our fate?





8





Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound is soft at first, barely audible, fusing with the show I’m watching. Then it increases. I grab the remote, click the volume down. The television goes blank. Darkness envelops me. I blink. Must have pushed the wrong button. I’m always confusing them lately. As my eyes adjust, objects come into view. The shape of my feet under the throw blanket, tenting it at the edges. Beyond that, a dark figure. My skin prickles. A young girl stands by the couch, holding a large ball in the crook of her arm.

“Grace,” I whisper, running my fingers along the blanket to steady myself. In the corner, Bowie sleeps peacefully. I wish he was over here with me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Wait. That’s not right. She’s not bouncing the ball. She’s standing stock-still.

I twist around in the dark. The tapping is coming from upstairs. When I look back to where Grace had been standing, my shoulders sag. There is no girl. Only the recliner, my jacket draped over the side.

The tapping continues.

My bare feet are ice against the hardwood floors. While the cool air and breeze felt great this morning at breakfast, it had gotten colder as the day progressed. By ten o’clock the temps had dropped down into the sixties, as if we’d bypassed the rest of summer and were heading into fall. My wardrobe hasn’t gotten the memo yet. I still have on my summertime pajamas, pants and a T-shirt, but lightweight, unlike my winter flannel ones.

I hurry up the stairs. Hudson’s door is open, but I know he’s not home. He went out with friends tonight. Just like he has the last few nights. I’d been right. The bug he got from me only lasted twenty-four hours. He was good as new by Thursday. It’s Saturday now, and he’s hardly been home in the last several days.

I step forward, peek inside. As expected, the room is empty.

The tapping has stopped.

What had it been?

I stand still in the middle of the hallway, holding my breath, straining to hear. The only sounds are Bowie’s deep breathing from downstairs, the wind outside, the house settling. No tapping.

Turning, I take a step toward my room, and hear it again. This time it’s more like knocking.

Palms moistening, I hurry back down the stairs. Bowie’s head lifts from his bed in the corner when I enter the family room. Snapping my fingers, I urge him to my side. The noise is coming from somewhere past the kitchen. I inch my way across the floor, squinting. The back porch is dimly lit, casting an eerie blue glow.

A loud slamming noise comes from the backyard. I flinch.

Bowie barks, darting out the dog door.

My pulse quickens as I unlock the back door and turn the knob. A gust of cool air sprays me in the face, stealing my breath momentarily. It’s even cooler now, the wind fierce—a summer storm. My hair whips around my face as if I’m holding a hairdryer to it. I sputter, calling out for Bowie. His barking rings out from the far side of the yard.

Batting my hair out of my eyes, I follow his voice.

The side gate swings back and forth, whacking the fence repeatedly.

Ah, the knocking.

I force the gate closed and lock it, wondering why it was open in the first place. The wind couldn’t have knocked the lock loose. I rack my brain. Had I left it unlocked at any point?

I can’t remember.

Her eyes are wide. Blank. Her jaw slackens, a little drool clinging to her lips. “Who are you? What do you want?” She speaks in a jarring, angry tone.

“It’s me, Mom. Valerie.” I reach out to touch her bony fingers, but she swats them away.

It was Hudson who had taken out the trash last. Maybe he’d left it unlocked and I only just now noticed because of the wind. Yes, that has to be it.