A Mother Would Know (38)
He seems stunned for a second, as if unable to keep up with the subject change. “Huh?”
I sigh, my shoulders dipping. “I...um...you got a text the other day and your phone was out...in view... I didn’t mean to look.” Who’s the liar now? “But I saw a name. Blondie. So, I was just kinda curious who that was. An ex or something?”
“Oh.” He shakes his head, the fog clearing, and a smile emerges on his face reminiscent of the way the sun peeks out of the gray mist. “No. That’s my buddy Steve. He’s blond, and years ago I started calling him Blondie as a joke. We like to give each other shit. You know, mess with each other.”
I nod. So maybe that text was nothing more than his buddy razzing him. A response to some teasing text thread. An inside joke I wasn’t privy to.
Groaning, I run a hand over my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. Just freaked-out by this whole thing, I guess.”
Hudson’s face softens. “I get that, but you have nothing to worry about. You’re safe. I’m here.”
I force a nod and a smile before dropping the subject, never admitting to him that it isn’t me I’m worried about.
* * *
I can’t get my conversation with Hudson out of my head. How could he know Molly was strangled? I still haven’t been able to find the information anywhere.
And I’m not sure I buy his explanation about the text.
I stop in front of Hudson’s room. Hesitate. Glance around. The AC kicks on, and I flinch, even though I know Hudson is at work. I hear Bowie walking around downstairs. In the distance, there’s the sound of drilling. Someone must be getting work done on their home. But other than that, it’s quiet. Swallowing hard, I step forward, turn the knob and swing the door open.
Hudson’s bed is unmade, discarded clothes lie on the floor and empty water bottles line the dresser. I stand at the edge of the room, a conflict raging inside of me. I’ve never liked snooping in my kids’ things. My mom was a big snooper. In my teenage years, it wasn’t uncommon to come home from school and find the items in my room moved around, sometimes even reorganized.
“Well, it’s my room,” she said as justification when I called her on it. “I pay for it. Therefore, I can go in it whenever I like.”
Technically, Dad paid for it, but I knew better than to say that. Instead, I started hiding the things I didn’t want her to see. My journals. Pictures. And as I got older, cigarettes, fake ID, letters from boyfriends.
I told myself I’d never be that kind of mom. The kind that enters her children’s rooms uninvited and goes through their things.
But this is different. Hudson is no longer a child. He’s a grown man living in my home. He’s clearly keeping things from me, and I have every right to know what they are.
I step further in. The bottoms of his pants are coated in white clay. His shirts are splattered with it. God, he gets that stuff everywhere. Sometimes after he showers, I still see it clinging to strands of his hair. Next to his clothes are a few gum wrappers and a bag of Doritos. Something tugs at the back of my mind, instant and jarring like that time Darren and I went parasailing and the guys on the boat thought it was funny to yank on the rope. I blink, willing the fog of dementia to lift. What am I looking for? What am I expecting—fearing—to find?
“Have you seen Theo’s scrawny arms? There’s no way he could strangle someone to death with those.”
On the dresser, I find a stack of receipts. Gas. Food. When I come across one from Midtown Saloon, I scan it. It’s dated the night of Molly’s murder. Hudson had bought several IPAs, and one cocktail. Was the cocktail for Molly?
I picture them together. Laughing, talking and drinking. Her asking if he’d like a nightcap and him following her back to her place.
“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
But I don’t think he ever would’ve told me he saw her that night at all if not for Jared’s slipup. What if he’s lying to me about this, too?
The closet door is slightly ajar. I open it all the way, revealing the scratches on the interior. I imagine someone’s fingernails raking over the wood, splinters embedding in their skin, under their nails. Reaching out, I trace them with the pads of my fingers. As my fingers dip into them, I realize they’re deeper than I’d originally thought. I’d always imagined with morbid curiosity that Grace had made them, but it’s hard to believe that her tiny hands could’ve dug this far into the wood. I picture her inside here, crouched down, crying and clawing at the door.
My body involuntarily shivers. Hugging myself, I avert my gaze from the scratches, forcing my thoughts to the present.
A jacket is hung next to a couple of flannels. A pair of tennis shoes sits on the floor. A guitar is propped against the wall. I didn’t notice it the last time I was in here. I pick it up, perch on the edge of the bed and strum it lightly, wondering if Hudson still plays. As a child, he’d shown a brief interest in it.
One afternoon when Hudson was around nine, Mac and I were writing a song together at my piano. We were in the zone. In the middle of making magic. It was one of my favorite things in the world, watching a song take shape. Words on a page that sprout wings, take flight.
As a new idea hit, I leaned down to press my fingers to the keys when Hudson broke out in song from the hallway. Something silly about snails and rat tails, his voice slightly off-key, his exuberance stealing away my train of thought. Mac laughed. I frowned.