A Mother Would Know (40)

Discouraged, I log out and push away from the table.

Leslie stands in the middle of her lawn, chatting animatedly with Beth. A couple of times her head bobs in the direction of my home. I frown and turn away from the window. The gold watch lies on the table, a reminder of what I stole from Molly’s. And for what?

In all my searches today, I’ve come up empty. The answers aren’t in this house. Not on the computer or in Hudson’s room.

As much as I hate to admit it, my son is a stranger to me. There are so many years I wasn’t a part of his life. His ex-girlfriend could fill in some of those gaps.

With determination, I walk across the kitchen to the junk drawer. I pull out a steno notebook and flip through the first few pages until I find the one I’m looking for. For the past few years, I’ve kept track of all the phone numbers I’ve had for Hudson. All the ones that had shown up on the caller ID when he’d phone. Many of them have been disconnected or belong to someone else. But I could never bring myself to cross them out or get rid of the sheet. They were a connection to my son, and deep down, I thought I might need them one day. If something bad were to happen to him and his cell was turned off again, I thought they might come in handy.

This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.

The first number is his current one, but the three below that are from when he was with Natalia. With slick, shaky fingers, I dial the first one. Almost immediately, the little song comes on betraying that I’ve reached a number that has been disconnected.

Heart sinking, I try the next one.

This time it rings and rings. I’m about to hang up when a woman’s voice comes on the line.

“Hi, you’ve reached Natalia. Leave me a message.” It’s so quick I’m caught off guard by the beep. It takes a second to get my bearings. Think of what to say.

When I finally do speak, it comes out hurried, a burst of words, gelling together like melted candy on a sidewalk.

“Hi, Natalia. It’s Valerie, Hudson’s mom. I really need to talk with you. Can you give me a call?” I rattle off my number and hang up, kicking myself for not giving more of an explanation.

I glance at the time. It’s already late afternoon, and my stomach growls. I scour the contents of the fridge. Hudson will probably be home shortly. I haven’t even thought about dinner. After closing the fridge door, I scan the takeout menus stuck to the front, trying to think of what I feel like eating.

The ringing of my phone startles me.

My heart picks up speed when I see that it’s the number I just dialed.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice shaky with anticipation.

“Did Hudson put you up to this?” a woman’s voice snaps, her words hard. Natalia.

“Um...no, he—”

“Because that’s a clear violation of the restraining order,” she continues.

My spine straightens. “Restraining order?” I repeat as if the words can’t be right. “You have a restraining order against Hudson?”

“He didn’t tell you?” She laughs bitterly. “Why am I not surprised?”

“W-why do you have one? What did he do?”

“I shouldn’t even be talking to you,” she says. “I only called back to tell you to leave me alone or I’m calling my lawyer.”

“Wait,” I say louder than I meant to. “Natalia, please. Hudson has no idea I’m calling. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.” The phone clicks in my ear.

I stare at it in shock.

Behind me, Bowie breathes hard as he enters the kitchen. Probably ready for his dinner. In a daze, I walk slowly to the cabinet and scoop out a cup of dry food. But when I turn toward his bowl, a gasp leaps from my throat, and the plastic cup slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor, dry food littering the hardwood.

In Bowie’s mouth, punctured between his teeth, hangs a deflated pink ball.



* * *



I can’t sleep. Natalia’s words keep playing through my mind.

Restraining order.

Restraining order.

Every time I do catch a few moments of slumber, I dream of Natalia’s black eye, Hudson looming over her, hands wrapped around her neck.

Lying in the dark, clutching the edge of my comforter, I tell myself it could be nothing. A big misunderstanding. Or perhaps Natalia is being overdramatic. I don’t even know her. But even as I think it, I know it’s silly. Restraining orders are a huge deal. People don’t get them for no reason.

I wanted to ask Hudson about it over dinner tonight. We got Chinese takeout, and I stared intently at my chopsticks, attempting to formulate a question that was subtle and organic. One that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I couldn’t come up with anything.

The point of calling Natalia was to get answers. Instead, I’m left with more questions.

They spin in my brain like a clothes dryer, leaving me nauseous and disoriented. Blowing out an exasperated breath, I sit up. In the weeks after Darren’s death, I suffered from insomnia. Suzanne had bought me a bottle of melatonin and some sleep-aid tea. It did help a little. Maybe it will tonight, too.

Tossing and turning is getting me nowhere. I’ve even tried counting, but the numbers morph into disturbing images of Heather’s lifeless eyes or Mac’s bloodied head. I need to quiet all the thoughts in order to fall asleep.