A Mother Would Know (21)
Satisfied, I beckon Bowie. My teeth are chattering by the time I reach the back door. A few days ago, I’d been lamenting the heat. Now I’m shivering and hugging myself, fantasizing about a warm bath.
When we reach the top of the stairs, Bowie growls, throwing his back end up like he’s preparing to attack. Heat snakes up my spine. Sitting directly in front of my bedroom door is a bouncy ball. I step forward, reach out and scoop it up. It’s bubblegum pink and smells like cheap plastic. But it’s real. Not a figment of my imagination.
I look up and down the hallway. It’s eerily quiet.
Where did it come from?
* * *
Before I finally fell asleep last night, I left the ball next to my bed. This morning, it’s not there. I search for it but find nothing. Had I dreamed it? Or am I officially losing my mind? The sky is overcast, gray clouds lining it, but the wind has died down. It looks like it might rain later, so I hurriedly put on a pair of joggers, a long-sleeved shirt and tennis shoes. I love early morning walks before a storm when the air feels crisp and fresh.
Bowie trails after me as I leave my room. When I get to Hudson’s, his door is slightly ajar. I’d heard him get in around 3:00 a.m. Had he taken the ball? It seems unlikely, but I can’t stop myself. I have to check. At this point, I can’t be certain it was even real, but I’m desperate to prove to myself it was.
The door creaks as I press it open with my palm. Behind me, Bowie races down the stairs, clearly ready for his walk. Inside, Hudson is asleep, faceup, arm bent under his head.
There’s no ball in sight. Standing on my tiptoes, I try to see the other side of his bed, but I’m not tall enough, so I walk quietly, making sure to check every inch of his floor. Hudson is shirtless, and with the way he’s holding his arm, I finally get a good look at his tattoo. There’s a word circling his bicep, but it’s in a different language, so I can’t decipher it.
My breath catches in my throat. Underneath the tattoo is a pear-sized, deep purple bruise. Squinting, I move closer to him, noticing a fresh scratch on his face, the skin around it raised and pink, the line disappearing into his beard. Was he in a fight?
He stirs, rolling in my direction, his arm sliding off the pillow and falling to his side.
I hold my breath. Not wishing to get caught standing over my grown son’s bed, I back slowly away. I don’t make it far before his hand clamps around my wrist. I suppress a shocked squeal.
“No,” he says, his voice muffled, sleepy. “Don’t go.”
I look back at him. His hold tightens, but his eyes are still closed, his breathing deep.
“It’s okay,” I say, prying his fingers from my arm. Once free, I tiptoe away from the bed.
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers when I reach the doorway.
I freeze.
“I’m sorry,” he says so quietly, I wonder if he’s said the words at all or if I imagined them.
As I reach for the handle of his door to tug it closed, his cell phone lights up. I can’t help but lean over and peek. It’s a Facebook notification. Someone commenting on a post. It irks me. Hudson has never accepted a friend request from me. The only reason I joined Facebook was to stalk my children, mostly Hudson, since Kendra only posts medical articles. I’ve asked Hudson why many times, and his response is always that he rarely uses his Facebook account. I believe him because I know he doesn’t often have use of a computer or phone. It appears that maybe he’s active now.
However, that’s not what catches my attention.
It’s the text above it.
The one that says: Bro, stop hitting me up or I’m gonna block you.
The name of the texter is listed only as Blondie.
Another bark rings out.
Hudson’s body reacts, twitching as if startled. I click his door closed and hurry down the stairs. Bowie is right where I suspected, a ball of nervous energy in front of the door. His tail whacks me in the leg as I hook his leash onto his collar. The minute I open the front door, he tears down the steps. It takes all my strength not to topple down them.
The neighborhood is quiet this morning. No cars driving down the street. No people outside. I find myself wishing for a simpler time when I didn’t have to worry about Hudson being out all hours of the night, coming home with bruising and scratches or getting cryptic messages from girls named Blondie. Where could that scratch have come from? Was he so drunk that he fell? And what kind of fall would result in a scratch on the face? Maybe it happened during a run—he scraped it on a tree branch or something—although, if that were the case, I probably would’ve noticed it yesterday. And it did seem awfully fresh.
Up ahead, commotion catches my attention. Police cars. Officers roaming about. Yellow crime tape running the perimeter of a yard to my right.
My stomach drops. I know that house. It’s the one with the patriotic sticker on the mailbox, one of Bowie’s favorite sniffs, now an anchor for fluttering police tape. It’s the same house Theo’s coworker had said she lived in.
A couple stands nearby in their pajamas, eyes wide as they take in the scene from the yard of the house next door. I yank on Bowie’s leash, slowing him down.
“What’s going on?” I ask the couple.
“They found a body,” the woman says, her gray bob swinging as she shakes her head.
My mouth dries out. “Whose body?”