A Mother Would Know (45)

After a few hours, we gave up. We left some piles of food out to tempt him into emerging, but the outlook seemed bleak. Darren was convinced he’d died in the walls chewing some wire, and tasked me with telling Hudson the bad news in the morning.

“He’ll take it better coming from you,” he said, although I wasn’t sure that was true. I agreed only because I’d felt bad about how much time I’d been spending away from home lately.

Darren went to bed earlier than me that night—per usual. I stayed up late, watching TV. Around eleven, I’d gotten hungry for something salty and junky, so I snagged a bag of the kids’ chips we bought to pack in their lunches, stood in the kitchen crunching away, watching a light come on upstairs in Leslie’s house and then go out a minute later. Someone getting themselves some water, maybe. I smiled. It was so nice to be friends with our neighbors.

When the baggie was empty, I slid open the kitchen trash can. It’s not like Kendra or Darren would’ve cared about my late-night snacking. But this was the last bag of nacho cheese Doritos, which were Hudson’s favorite. I wasn’t about to give myself away as the thief. I shoved the crumpled chip bag a layer or two down in the garbage, gingerly placing another piece of trash over it, when I saw something brown. And fuzzy.

I shoved a few wrappers and an empty milk carton out of the way until it came into full view.

Chompers.

His body was stiff, head cocked at a wrong angle.

I swallowed a shriek, not wanting to wake the house; wrapped him in a paper towel while trying not to gag; and said a few words—“Sorry, little guy”—before burying him properly in the big garbage can outside.

When I asked Hudson about it the next morning, he said he had no idea how Chompers got there. But I knew that wasn’t possible. A hamster doesn’t get into the trash and die all by itself. I didn’t have the heart to tell Darren I’d found the runaway. He would’ve flipped out.

The only person I did tell was Mac, who assured me I didn’t need to worry. Said that Hudson had probably just squeezed the hamster a little too hard in exuberance or let him out and accidentally stepped on him. Most likely it was an innocent mistake, and at this point, Hudson was too afraid to come clean. What kind of kid kills his own hamster, right?

I’d believed Mac back then. But what if he’d been wrong? What if Hudson had hurt Chompers on purpose? What if this was a sign I should have taken seriously?

I’m doing it again. Going down this rabbit hole. What is wrong with me? Maybe paranoia is all part of the Alzheimer’s. I should probably bring it up at my doctor’s appointment.

I unlatch the door, and Bowie rushes through it, relief evident in his aggressive tail wags. Without a word to Hudson, I head upstairs, my trusty dog at my heels.





15





I’m out of lunch meat. Frowning, I stare down at my half-made sandwich. Cheese, lettuce, mayo, bread, but no meat. I’ve ransacked the fridge. It’s gone. Hudson must have eaten the entire package.

“That boy is gonna eat us out of house and home,” Darren used to say when Hudson was a teenager.

I guess not much has changed.

Closing the sandwich, I resign myself to eating it as is. Taking a bite, I wonder where Hudson went. He was gone by the time I returned from my walk this morning. It’s Saturday, so I doubt he’s working.

I take another bite, the flavors instantly catapulting me back to childhood. Growing up, my family didn’t have a lot of money, and often my mom would make me cheese sandwiches. I picture her in our old, tiny kitchen, standing over the counter, taking slices of white bread out of the crackling cellophane wrapper. My children had no idea what it was like to grow up that way. For all their complaining about how they were raised, they hadn’t wanted for anything.

I know I’m not like Leslie or Beth. I didn’t take to motherhood naturally.

I wasn’t one of those girls who grew up fantasizing about getting married and having kids. I dreamed about being famous. Performing on Broadway. Being the lead singer in a popular band. These were the things I strived for.

Bright lights, creativity and excitement. I had no desire for a family. Large or small. It was Darren’s dream. He’s the reason we have our two.

I’m the reason we don’t have more.



* * *



My mom stayed at home. Took care of me and my dad. Watching her made my skin itch, my chest tight. All of her days revolved around maintaining our home, keeping Dad and me happy. Weeknights were spent in the kitchen, cooking and cleaning. Saturdays she ironed all of Dad’s shirts and work pants. Sundays she prepped meals for the week. She didn’t seem to hate it, though. I thought I would shrivel up and die if I had her life.

Then I met Darren. We were both seventeen. I sang at the wedding of a family friend. “All I Ask of You” from Phantom of the Opera, accompanied by a string quartet. I still remember what I was wearing. A navy dress, matching pumps. I felt so grown-up.

At the reception, Darren approached me. He was cute, dark hair curling over his collar, giant chocolate eyes. Not hot like some of the guys at my school—he did have this funny crook to his nose—but he had a genuineness they didn’t. A calming presence. Nice smile. He stood before me in black pants, a collared shirt, one hand tucked in his pocket.

“You have an amazing voice,” he said.