A Mother Would Know (39)

“Hudson, that’s not funny,” I scolded when he appeared in the doorway. He pressed his lips together, but still they shook. I stood and shooed him out, anyway. “Go outside. I’m working right now.”

Eyes downcast, he scampered from the room.

“Sorry about that,” I said to Mac before sitting back down.

But Mac shook his head. “You know, I think he just wants to be included.”

“Well, his father can include him in whatever he’s doing.” I tried to hum what we’d come up with, grasp the words that had been on the tip of my tongue moments earlier, but it was gone. “Damn it!”

“I’m sure it’ll come back to you.” Mac smiled. “And I bet if you spent some time teaching your son music, he might leave you alone when you’re working. He just wants you to pay attention to him.”

Darren and I had had similar conversations, but for some reason, when Mac said it, I actually heeded the advice. That evening, when I tucked Hudson in, I brought my guitar and let him stay up late strumming A and G. And that Christmas, I bought him his own guitar. I rarely saw him play it, though, his interest in music waning as his love of baseball grew.

Looking away from the guitar, my eyes skate over the remainder of his floor.

In response to my strumming, Bowie has run in, tail wagging. I don’t want him tracking hair in here or knocking anything over. Then Hudson will surely know I’ve been snooping. I get up, gently placing the guitar right where I found it. I leave the closet door ajar just like it was moments ago. Then I carefully back out of the room, closing the door behind me.

Back in my room, I pick up my hamper and head downstairs to the laundry room. I sift through my clothes, checking all the pockets before throwing the items in the washer. In the pocket of my jeans, my fingertips sweep over something hard and smooth.

The watch from Molly’s.

In all the chaos of having to race out to watch Mason, I’d forgotten about it. I hadn’t even really meant to take it, but now that same feeling of familiarity hits me again.

I throw my jeans into the washer and slam the lid shut. Then I hurry to my computer and google “777.”

The search brings up a zillion hits on some model of airplane. For a brief second, I wonder if Molly was seeing a pilot, but that seems like a ludicrous mental leap, so I adjust my search: “777 meaning.” Google repopulates with article after article about angels, 777 being the number of reassurance that your angel is guiding you on the right path.

I frown, perusing further.

The only other thing I can find regarding the number is that it means “luck.”

Neither of these explanations is particularly helpful either. I stare down at the face of the stolen watch, my blurred reflection looking back at me. Why is it so familiar? And what does it mean that I found it in Molly’s house?





I wish I may, I wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight.

“Let me out!” I screamed and screamed until my throat was shredded and raw, until the words came out soft and feathery, the beating of a butterfly’s wings. I pounded my fists against the door in tandem, but it was no use.

All I’d succeeded in doing was bruising my small fists.

I could hear Andie’s breathing. The steady rhythm of her footsteps outside the closet door as if she was that tiger at the zoo, pacing back and forth in the cage. Restless. Angry. Standing guard.

In frustration, I dragged my fingertips across the wood, splinters embedding themselves underneath my nails, and piercing the flesh. I did it over and over, until the grooves were so deep I could fit a finger inside.

I was the one who started this. She’d kept telling me what to do, and I didn’t want to listen to her. I was tired of it, but I should have known better than to challenge her.

“You’re not the boss of me!” I’d screamed.

“Oh, yeah?” she’d countered before grabbing me.

I’d done my best to fight her off, but she was bigger than me. I’d managed to land a single punch right in the center of her chest, momentarily knocking the wind out of her. I felt stunned but proud. For a second, I thought I’d finally done it. Gotten the best of her.

But that’s when she shoved me in here.

“I am the boss of you!” she’d shouted through the door.

It was dark and smelled like mothballs and dust. Old clothes. Stinky shoes.

It had been hours now. I wanted out. But I was exhausted.

I sat back, resting my head on the wall. I had no choice but to give in, to let her win.

But it was the last time.

I was done being the prey.





13





I stare at the profile picture of Natalia. Almost an hour ago, I’d sent her a private message through Facebook. I’d kept the message light, explaining who I was and that I just wanted to talk about her relationship with Hudson. So far there’d been no response. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m her ex’s mom. What did I expect? But I can’t get that picture of her with a black eye out of my head. I need to know how she got it.

I need to know my son didn’t give it to her.

And it’s not like I can ask Hudson.

I get that she doesn’t owe me an explanation, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting one.