A Mother Would Know (51)

“Don’t you think it’s creepy? Believing that you live with a child’s ghost?” they’d both asked me over the years.

But I don’t. I find comfort in knowing she’s here with me. That I can count on her, almost like my own guardian angel.

When the noise repeats, I realize it’s more like a slam than a thud. Bowie’s ears perk, his head lifting. I toss my covers off and slide out of the bed. Bowie leaps down and follows. When I go into the hallway, it’s cold. Colder than it should be in here. And I smell damp outside air. Is a window open?

Hudson’s door is ajar. It creaks and sways like a child’s playing with it.

I peek in, squinting across his dark room. No Hudson.

I thunder down the stairs. The breeze hits me at the bottom. A startling whisk of cold. My hands skate up my arms as if to erase the goose bumps. I find the culprit. The front door is wide open, the wind slamming it repeatedly into the wall of the entryway. My chest tightens. I touch Bowie’s mane.

“Hudson?” I call out, my voice wavering.

My heart hammers in my ears as I inch forward, my eyes and ears open.

“Hudson,” I say again, this time more firmly. Still no response.

The porch is empty, wind rattling the chains of the bench swing. My hands are cold and clammy, my nerves shot. Did someone break in? Are they inside? I turn, thoroughly expecting someone to be there, a large figure camouflaged in all black, thick gloves ready to grab me. But thankfully, no one’s there.

I step onto the porch, the boards rasping beneath my bare feet. The darkened street is quiet. I scan the front lawn, and then my gaze shoots across the street.

That’s when I spot Hudson. He stands rigid, shirtless, his back to me. And he’s in the middle of Leslie’s lawn.

Oh, my god.

What is he doing out there?

Springing into action, I sprint down the front steps. Bowie runs beside me, the metal on his collar rattling. The wind whistles through the trees, leaves skittering on the asphalt like tiny insects. I run as fast as I can over my front lawn, ignoring the dampness soaking into my feet. Then I hurry across the street and leap onto Leslie’s front lawn.

Hudson stares blankly at Leslie’s front window, his eyes hollow, his pupils still.

He’s sleepwalking.

I know better than to startle him in this condition, but I do need to get him back inside.

“Hudson, come on.” I gently tug on his arm while scouring the neighborhood, praying no one sees us. I can’t imagine what kind of rumors would start swirling tomorrow if anyone did. “We need to go.” Wrapping my arm around his waist, I maneuver him to face the opposite direction. He allows me to lead him, and we take a few steps forward.

“Mom?” Hudson blinks, coming out of his trance. Confused, he looks at me. “What’s going on?”

“You were sleepwalking.”

“But why here?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. I hear car tires buzzing, an engine rumbling. I reach for Hudson’s hand, more desperate now. “But we need to get off Leslie’s lawn...before someone sees us.”

“I think about her all the time, you know.” It’s like he doesn’t hear me.

“Leslie?” I frown.

“Heather.”

“Oh. Right.” The screech of a tire in the distance makes me flinch. “Well, of course. I get that.”

“I haven’t told you everything...” he blinks “...about that night. About what happened.”

My stomach bottoms out. Hudson’s teeth chatter. “Listen, we can talk about this later. We need to get inside.” Sensing his hesitation, I grip his arm tighter. “Now. Come on.”

The moonlight across his face resembles a cut. A clean slice. His eyes darken, but he nods, and follows mutely. I whistle to Bowie as we cross our yard, and he crashes out from beneath the porch where he’d been sniffing around. When we make it back inside, I slam the door closed and lock it. I dare one more glance out the window at the quiet, empty street, and then blow out a long, deep breath, expelling everything from my lungs. The soles of my feet sting from the cold. I press them into the entryway rug, grateful for the warmth of it.

“Mom?” Hudson’s voice cuts into the silence.

I shake my head. “It’s late. We should get back to bed.”

Bowing my head, I make my way to the stairs, keeping my eyes trained on my bare feet and red lacquered toenails. The words I refuse to let him speak follow me all the way up the stairs.

Hudson was waiting for me when I drove up. He stood in the gravel lot alone, far from his friends. In the distance, I saw a bonfire blazing. I hadn’t been up to the bluffs overlooking the American River since my own high school days. Clearly the local teenage choice for a parent-free hangout spot hadn’t changed in decades. Getting out of the car, I heard loud chatter and music, smelled wood smoke.

He was trembling, his teeth chattering, his shoulders shaking.

I took them in my hands, looked into his eyes. “What happened?”

“It’s Heather. She—she fell.”

“Where is she?” I glanced around. “Is she okay?”

He stared at me a moment without speaking. My chest tightened. Then his head slowly swiveled back and forth, his eyes filling with tears.

He craned his neck to look over his shoulder, a shaky arm lifting to point toward the cliffs. “We were talking by the river, you know, up high. She was drunk. And yelling. One second she was there, and the next—I tried to help...” His voice cracked; his words trailed off. I felt a rush of sick fear, questions burbling up: What was she yelling about? Where is Heather now? Then he looked into my eyes, desperate for me to believe him. “It was an accident.”