A Mother Would Know (50)
“If that’s all you came here to say, you’ve wasted your time.”
“Come on, you know Hudson...or, rather, you knew him when he was younger. He was over here all the time. You loved him.” My throat itches. So does my nose. It’s got to be all these plants. I’m slightly allergic. That’s why I only plant succulents. That and I’d probably kill them, forgetting to water them.
Her face remains unchanged. “That was before.”
“I know how hard it was to lose Heather, but—”
“No, you don’t,” she snaps. “Don’t come in my house and tell me what it feels like to lose a child. You have no idea. You have both of yours.” Her hands tremble at her sides. Her lips waver.
I swallow hard, giving her a few seconds. “You’re right. I don’t fully understand your pain, Leslie. But I loved Heather, too. So did Hudson. It was hard for all of us when she died.”
“He didn’t love her. He killed her.”
“You know that isn’t true. He didn’t hurt Heather, and he didn’t hurt that woman—Molly. He could never hurt anyone,” I say, desperately needing her to hear me. “What happened to Heather was awful, but it was an accident. Even the police think she just got too close to the edge and fell.”
“He pushed her,” she says with so much force, a little spittle leaves her mouth and lands on her skin.
“There’s no way he pushed her, Leslie. I’ll never believe that,” I say. “And you need to stop punishing him for something he didn’t do. Leave him alone. Move on. Stop spreading rumors and talking to the police about this new case. He had nothing to do with it, and all you’re doing is messing with an investigation and stopping them from finding the real killer.”
“Who says that’s what I’ve been doing?”
“I know you have. The police came to my house to talk to Hudson right after talking to you. I doubt that’s a coincidence.”
“Why do you even care what I say? If he’s so innocent, why does it matter who I talk to?”
“Because I know that if enough people talk, the innocent can be made to look guilty. It happened to me with Mac. You remember that, right?” We’d been friends then. I’d confided in her.
She narrows her eyes, but slowly nods, giving me this one mercy. Behind her head, her favorite mugs hang from hooks under the cabinetry.
A deep sadness fills me for what Leslie and I lost. The years of friendship we could have had if not for what happened on that fateful October night.
Standing in her kitchen now, I wonder, as I have many times over the years, if there was ever anything I could have said back then that would have mended things between us.
But when she looks at me, her lips a tight line, angry tension drawn around her eyes, I know that there wasn’t. Losing Heather changed Leslie irrevocably. It destroyed her marriage, even. If her relationship with James couldn’t survive, why would I assume ours would have?
For years, I’ve wished I never would’ve let the kids go out that night. I wish it even more in this moment, staring at the face of my former friend. I see a flicker of something about to loosen and give, and I can’t help but aim for that crack in her armor. I wish I could draw my former friend out, the one who believed in me and my family.
For a brief moment, I see us the way we once were. Sitting in this very kitchen, laughing and talking over steaming cups of tea. Leslie was the only friend I trusted to talk to about Darren’s drinking, and my fear that I wasn’t a good mother. She’d listen without judgment, place a hand on my arm and tell me that everyone’s life was hard, and that we all were doing the best we could.
Was it really so outlandish that I’d expected some of that support and understanding after Heather’s death?
Shaking my head, I force myself back to the present. To the situation at hand. “I saw James over here. Why else would you be talking to him if not to share with him all of your theories about Hudson?”
Her softness turns hard again. “Pretty sure your three minutes are up.”
Nodding, I back away from her counter, desperate to be out of here, anyway.
I turn, fleeing from the house, the plants and the memories.
17
I’m hunched over Heather’s lifeless body. Blood pools from her head, rivulets of scarlet staining the floor. My shoes are splattered in the sticky liquid, and when I pull back, my palms are coated with it. Horrified, I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, I’m surrounded by plants, thick and green. They close in around me, the leaves tickling my skin. I shove them away, my nose itching, my throat scratchy. One of the leaves crumbles beneath my touch, and I look to see that the plant is yellow, brown at the edges; dying.
The toe of my shoe hits something hard and unmoving. The body at my feet is no longer Heather’s.
It’s Mac’s.
I’m startled awake by a loud thud. My eyelids flip open. Sweat coats my skin. I look down at my hands in the moonlight filtering through the curtains. They’re clean. White. Dry and in desperate need of lotion, but thankfully, not covered in blood. Mac’s lifeless eyes staring up at me linger in my mind, and I suck in a much-needed breath.
Another thud. I shoot up in bed. Grace?
I look around, truly expecting to see a child at the foot of my bed, that bubblegum-pink ball in her hand. Darren always thought my fascination with Grace was unhealthy. Kendra, too.