A Mother Would Know (41)
After sliding out of bed, I pad out of the room. The deflated pink ball lies flat in the corner. When Bowie dragged it into the kitchen earlier, I’d been so stunned by the phone call, I hadn’t seen which direction he’d come from. I had the vague sense that I’d heard him on the stairs, though. Had he found it upstairs? Or was it possible he’d had it the whole time, stashed away in some corner of the house?
More questions without solid answers. I seemed to be drowning in them lately.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, heavy breathing reaches my ears. It’s coming from the family room. I creep forward, moving toward it, picturing six-year-old Grace in her frilly red dress, the one she’s wearing in the photo most of the papers printed in the wake of her death. I half expect to see her ghost standing in the middle of the family room, her pink ball round in her hands.
Instead, I find Hudson, curled up on the couch, sound asleep. He has the comforter from his bed upstairs wrapped around his body. Aside from the bushy beard, he looks almost childlike with his body tightly coiled, his mouth parted, his eyes squeezed shut.
It’s puzzling. Why does he keep coming down here at night?
Did he sleepwalk again?
Or is there more to it than that?
There are clearly things going on with him. Things he isn’t sharing with me. And I won’t rest easy until I know what those things are.
14
After parking my car, I adjust the sunglasses on my nose and pull my hat further down my forehead. Glancing around, I open the car door and step out. The lot is pretty full, most of the spaces taken. But only a few people are outside, a family talking near an SUV, a homeless man standing in the corner of the lot, leaning against a grocery cart full of his belongings, and a young woman walking swiftly past me, purse tucked under her arm.
The front of the record store is all windows. It’s not very busy inside, only a few people scattered throughout. When I was younger, I’d spend hours in stores like this, listening to demos and perusing the aisles. But with the invention of streaming apps, times have changed. I still have my old record player, and I pull it out occasionally. There’s nothing quite like the sound of vinyl. Most of the time, though, I listen to music on my phone. All my CDs are boxed up in the garage. I never pull those out. No reason to.
I see Natalia through the window. She’s behind the register, helping a customer. I’ve never met her in person, but I recognize her instantly from her photos.
It hit me as I lay in bed last night, unable to fall asleep. The way to track Natalia down. To force her to talk with me. Hudson had given me the clue I needed in our first conversation about her. It was when he’d called me out of the blue to say that he was moving in with his new girlfriend and that he now had a reachable phone number. I hadn’t talked with him in months. He sounded happy. Grounded.
At the time, I felt relieved and hopeful.
“How did you two meet?” I’d asked him, adjusting the blanket over my legs. Bowie stirred on the couch by my feet.
“At Chill,” he’d replied.
“What’s that?”
“A record store here in Oakland.”
He’d been in Oakland for almost a year then. It was a long time for him to stay put. He’d never invited me for a visit, so I had no idea what kind of place he was living in. It was probably best that way, though. When he was living here in town, I had a terrible habit of showing up at his place unannounced to help out or clean up or just check on him. He didn’t like that. Maybe once he was settled in with his new girlfriend, they’d have me out.
“A record store, huh?”
“Yeah, she’s a manager there.”
“God, I haven’t been to a legit record store in forever,” I said, staring at the television I’d muted when the phone rang. Monica and Rachel from Friends mouthed words animatedly in the middle of their New York apartment. “Do people still buy records?”
“I do,” he said, sounding slightly offended. “Often. That’s how we got to talking. She said I was her favorite customer.”
I could hear the smile in his voice, and it made me smile, too.
My skin itches underneath my top as if I’ve broken out in hives. This happens sometimes when I’m nervous. The first couple of times Flight of Hearts performed in front of an audience, I thought I’d scratch my skin right off. I take a step backwards, almost falling off the curb and onto the hood of a parked car.
Last night, in the darkness, safe under the covers in my bed, this had seemed like a good idea. Necessary, even. The pictures of them on Facebook stirred up so many questions. And now that I know about the restraining order, it’s clear that Hudson’s been keeping things from me. I need honest answers, and I feel like she’s the only one who can give me them. But outside in the harsh light of day, I realize that this is a very bad idea.
I could really mess things up for Hudson. Maybe even be in violation of the restraining order. It was a thought that had crossed my mind during the hour and a half drive, too. I even turned around a couple of times, the rational part of myself screaming out what a big mistake this was.
Now I’m wishing I’d listened to that voice of reason.
I’m ready to now.
Smoothing down my hair, I turn, intending to head back to my car. But then Natalia steps outside, pack of cigarettes in hand. She can’t know what I look like, I think as she walks in my direction, taking a cigarette from the pack. Not unless she did get my message and saw my profile picture. Or if Hudson had ever shown her one, and that’s doubtful. But when she brings the cigarette up to her lips, her eyes meet mine. Her mouth hinges, her hand lowering.