A Mother Would Know (43)
“Did he ever hurt you?” I ask before she can walk away. “Physically, I mean.” The image of her bruised face fills my mind.
“I gotta go,” she says impatiently without slowing down. “Don’t come back here.” Then she disappears inside, leaving me standing alone in front of the store, still as confused as ever.
After a few seconds of standing in bewilderment, I blink. Turning, I stare through the window of the store. At first, I don’t see Natalia. She’s not at the register like before. But then I find her, in the middle of one of the aisles, talking to a customer. She’s pointing to something, an album maybe. When she smiles and pushes a strand of hair back, I can sort of see what Hudson must have seen. I try to picture him in place of the customer, but end up frowning.
My conversation with her has tainted my view of my own son. The way she described him is in direct conflict with my own memories—the boy who needed an extra hug before I would leave him, the one who would tuck his hand into mine when he was afraid. Her words are also a stark contrast to the man living with me now who buys my groceries and takes me out to the bar to help cheer me up. I hate that she’s changed things for me. I hate that I’m seeing him in this new, jarring light.
“There are worse things than being cheated on.”
The recollection of the words she spoke, sparks a long-forgotten memory of a few days before Heather’s death.
It all started when I stubbed my toe. Cursing under my breath, I located the culprit. Hudson’s Nikes.
We were having Leslie and James over, and I’d cleaned the entire house earlier. Lord knows, Leslie’s house was always pristine. I’d told the kids to keep it that way. Was that really too big of an ask?
With a frustrated grunt, I snatched up the pair of shoes and marched up the stairs. His door was closed, but I was so annoyed I didn’t bother knocking. If he wanted me to follow his rules, he needed to follow mine.
Shoving open his door, I dropped the shoes on the ground. They fell at an interval, each thudding loudly. I looked up wearing a triumphant smile, which quickly died when I noticed Hudson wasn’t alone. A girl was draped over him like a blanket. Her hair was messy, and lipstick trailed up her face. The shade blooming on Hudson’s mouth like a Popsicle stain perfectly matched it.
“Oh, my god. I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, backing out of the room and firmly closing the door.
It’s not like I’d never walked in on Hudson in a compromising position. Darren had been threatening lately to take his door off the hinges, but Hudson always talked him down, saying we knew Heather—we could trust them together.
But that girl in there was not Heather.
Natalia spots me through the glass and I wonder how long I’ve been standing here, lost in my memories. She purses her lips in a look of annoyance. I’ve long overstayed my welcome. Head down, I scurry to my car. Once inside, I secure my sunglasses on my nose and take a deep breath. I never should’ve come here.
If Hudson ever finds out, he’ll be livid. And if I messed things up with the restraining order, I’ll never forgive myself.
A restraining order. How absurd is that? It still boggles my mind. Before this week, I thought only scary guys had those taken out against them. Drug dealers, mobsters, violent men. Not someone like Hudson. As I pull out of the parking lot, I wonder if I know my son at all. Is he really the possessive control freak Natalia described? Or is he the sweet young man who looks after me? Is it possible to be both? My head swirls.
I flick on my blinker, preparing to merge onto the freeway. My heart stops when I peek into my rearview mirror. Hudson is behind me.
Not directly behind me, a few cars back.
A second ago, I caught a view of the side of the vehicle when it changed lanes from the middle over to mine.
I squint. Is that really him? It looked exactly like his car, but I couldn’t make out the person in the driver’s seat. It was definitely a man, though. I could tell by the build. But now I can’t see the car at all.
What if he saw me leaving the record store? He’ll know why I came here. What other reason would I have for hitting up a record store? Chill, no less.
No, there’s no way that’s him. It’s the middle of a workday. He’s at the mine in Vista Falls. That’s the opposite direction from Oakland. There’s no way he’s out here.
Once I’ve safely made it onto the freeway, I glance once again in my rearview mirror. There’s no trace of Hudson’s car in any of the three lanes behind me. I heave a sigh of relief, even though anxiety still clings to my chest. I’m not sure if it’s the possibility of that car having been Hudson’s or simply the vestiges of guilt over what I did today. What I did was irresponsible. Stupid. So unlike me.
Is this part of the disease?
Mom did a lot of things that were out of character for her after her diagnosis.
Yes, that has to be it. A symptom of my disease, nothing more.
I’m not acting rationally. I never would’ve done this if I was. Still, I can’t ever let Hudson know about it.
I stop for gas on my way home, and the scent of it paints my fingertips long after I leave the station. It’s an errand I hate, and I often wait until I’m about to run out before stopping. Today was no exception. I’m fairly certain I was minutes away from ending up on the side of the road. For most of our marriage, Darren filled my tank for me. The first time I had to go on my own after he got sick, I burst into tears at the pump. The attendant came over to see if I needed help, but I shooed her away. Customers gaped at me from their respective cars. I ended up only filling a quarter of my tank before jumping in my car, too embarrassed to continue. In my haste, I forgot to unhook the nozzle, and it broke off, hanging from my car as I started to leave. Obviously, I noticed immediately, and pulled over. After paying the gas station for the damages and our mechanic to get rid of the dents in the side of my car, it ended up being an expensive trip to get gas.