A Mother Would Know (5)
I mussed his hair with my palm. “Ashley will be here any minute.”
“Then why don’t you wait?”
“I would, but I’m running behind.”
Hudson wrapped his arms around my waist as if trying to lock me in place. I pried his fingers off. “Alright, that’s enough. I love you, but I really have to go.”
“Wait,” he called before I reached the stairs.
“What?” The word came out forcibly, much harsher than I’d meant.
He looked down, his fingers playing with the bottom of his shirt. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
I sighed, feeling bad about my outburst, but this was my big night. My party. Was it so bad that I wanted to get to it? Hudson wasn’t as independent as his sister. Sometimes he was scared of the dark, and I knew he didn’t like it when Darren and I were gone at nighttime. It was a phase we’d all gone through as children. He’d be fine.
“I’ll see you later. Okay, buddy?” Without waiting for a response, I hurried down the stairs and out the front door.
When I got to the Full Moon Tavern, Suzanne had our album playing loudly through the speakers. And Jerry, Suzanne’s husband and bartender, had an appletini—my favorite drink at the time—waiting for me. I was on my second one when Darren finally showed up.
Enjoying the celebration, I never even thought to check the flip phone buried at the bottom of my purse. If I had, I would’ve gotten the message from Ashley, explaining that she’d been in a car accident on the way to my house and wasn’t going to make it. And, even more importantly, the frantic call from Hudson saying he was scared and begging me to come home.
When Darren’s mobile phone rang, he did answer, but it wasn’t the kids. It was the police. There’d been a breakin at our house. While I’d been drinking and partying, not giving one thought to my children, they’d been at home, terrified and without supervision, hiding from an intruder.
When we got home, Kendra was in the front room, answering the police’s questions, adultlike and stoic. But Hudson was upstairs, hiding under his bed, shaking like a leaf caught in a windstorm. Not much had been stolen—some of my jewelry and a few electronics. The police could only lift partial prints, and none matched with any in the system. Insurance covered the damage, and everything eventually got fixed and replaced.
But Hudson became much more anxious. Worried and nervous. Afraid to ever be alone. Jumping at every little sound. He was never the same after that night.
Neither was our relationship.
“I made lasagna,” I say now as we walk together down the hallway. The walls are lined with family portraits. Darren’s and my wedding photos. Hudson and Kendra as babies all the way up to young adults. Pictures with the four of us wearing matching sweaters or similar colors.
In my favorite one, we are standing in the middle of a beautiful field in white shirts and dark denim jeans. I remember Kendra having a bad attitude that day because she wasn’t happy with how her hair turned out, and Hudson was teasing her about it. I had snapped at them right before the picture was taken. You’d never know it, though, by our large smiles, and the way we were all leaning in close to one another.
The perfect family.
3
“Lasagna used to be your favorite,” I ramble as we clomp down the stairs. “I hope you still like it.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, not an ounce of emotion on his face. “Lasagna’s good.”
At the bottom of the stairs, I hear the sound of Bowie’s dog tag rattling and his sharp paws clicking on the hardwood floors. I turn. He’s trotting in our direction, ears flopping.
“Hey, sweet boy.” I reach down to pet his head. His fur is coarse and smells faintly like grass. “You remember Bowie. Right, Hudson?”
“Yeah,” Hudson says, making no attempt to interact.
Bowie heads over to him, wagging his tail, but Hudson moves back, fisting his hands at his sides, almost as if he’s scared.
It all comes back to me then. The barbecue at the neighbors’ when the kids were young, the summer after we’d moved in. Peter and Karen Grainger, two doors down, had a pool the kids had spent all day in. In the evening they’d finally dried off and were having Popsicles, the edges of their mouths painted in red-and-blue stickiness. I was sipping a beer, laughing with my neighbor and former best friend Leslie, grazing on chips and dip, when I heard it. The deep growl. The loud bark. By the time I looked over, the Graingers’ dog had a little boy’s face in between his teeth. Hudson was only feet away, watching in horror.
“C’mon, boy.” I usher Bowie away.
When Bowie saunters off, I glance back up at my son. “Um...” I clear my throat. It’s weird how nervous I am. I have no idea what to say or how to behave. It has nothing to do with my memory issues. I recall everything about Hudson. It’s the normal discomfort of having an adult son. One I hardly know anymore. In the past five years, we’ve rarely spoken. Maybe once a quarter, and only when Hudson needed something. I have his cell number, but often when I call it, it’s turned off—I assume from lack of payment. When he called a month ago to tell me that his girlfriend had broken up with him and kicked him out, he mentioned that it might be a while before he could contact me again. Desperate, I’d offered to pay his phone bill for the next several months. With my mental state diminishing, I didn’t want to risk not being able to reach him. I’m so glad I did that, or he might not be here tonight.