A Mother Would Know (53)

When I pull into my driveway, I notice a group of neighbors congregating across the street. Irritation instantly strikes. But then it wanes when I realize Leslie isn’t in the circle, and no one turns in my direction. So this gossip session clearly isn’t about me or my family. A couple of ladies I don’t know talk with Beth. Their chatter travels across the street, a jumble of words punctuated with laughter. I briefly wonder who their poor victim is this time.

It’s odd that Leslie isn’t a part of the gab session. She usually has FOMO about stuff like this. When I reach my front door, I peer over my shoulder, expecting to find Leslie’s face peeking out of the front window or her door popping open as she steps outside, hurrying to Beth’s to join in. But her blinds are all closed, her front porch empty. She wasn’t outside this morning when I left either.

Strange.

Maybe she’s out of town or something. But as I unlock my front door, I notice her car sitting in the driveway. It’s her lawn that calls out to me, though, the image of Hudson standing in the middle of it, blanketed by darkness.

After discarding my purse and shoes near the door, I head into the kitchen. Sure enough, I find the grocery list on the kitchen table. So I had taken it off the fridge. It just didn’t make it into my purse. I scan it briefly.

Milk.

1 yellow onion.

Mild Italian sausage.

Oh, right. I had planned to make pasta tonight. The onion and sausage are what I needed to grab at the store. If only I could have remembered while I was there. Dropping the list, I head toward the cabinets. Finding a few cans of Campbell’s and some bread, I decide I can always do a soup and sandwich night. I don’t feel like heading to the store again.

Sinking down into a kitchen chair, I log onto the computer.

I can’t get the image of Hudson in Leslie’s lawn out of my mind. It’s been plaguing my thoughts all day and night. Why would he sleepwalk over there? In my search bar, I type, “Causes of sleepwalking.”

I click on the top article and skim through it.

Genetics is listed as the top cause. I don’t know of anyone in my family who sleepwalked. But maybe in Darren’s. He never mentioned it, but that doesn’t mean anything. Darren’s parents were pretty private. They always acted like they were so close, but no one ever talked about anything important.

Sleep deprivation is one that surprises me. It would stand to reason that if someone had been sleep-deprived, they’d be out like a light, not walking around. But what do I know? Hudson has been going out a lot at night, and getting up early to go to work, but I don’t think I’d categorize him as sleep-deprived.

Alcohol is listed. Hudson has been drinking a lot. But nowhere near what his dad used to drink, and as far as I know, Darren never sleepwalked.

Stress is one I always knew about. When Hudson first started sleepwalking, his pediatrician had asked me if he’d been stressed. Since he was only a child then, I’d scoffed at the question, but looking back, I realize he had plenty of reasons to be stressed. We’d recently moved into this house, and I’d been gone more with the band. All of that might have been stressful for him, and I simply hadn’t appreciated that at the time.

But is he stressed now?

Maybe.

I blow out a breath and minimize the article. Within minutes, I find myself back on Hudson’s Facebook page, scrolling through pictures of him and Natalia. The pictures hit me differently now that I’ve met her. No longer do they seem as happy and in love as I’d led myself to believe when I perused them the first time. There are hints of Natalia’s discomfort in her expressions and body language. It’s subtle—a downcast tilt of her mouth, a shifting of her eyes, a dipping of one shoulder to keep it from touching his.

In one picture he appears to be holding her arm tightly, as if to keep it in place. But that isn’t what stops me in my tracks, causing my breath to hitch in my throat. It’s what’s wrapped around his wrist.

A gold watch.

Heart pounding, I hurry up the stairs and into my bedroom. After flinging open my nightstand drawer, I fumble around for the watch I found at Molly’s. Palming it, I race back to the computer. I zoom in to Hudson’s hand and hold up the watch. The larger I make the photo, the grainier it becomes, making it hard to tell if it’s the same. But it could be.

I haven’t noticed him wearing a watch, but then again, he’s often in long-sleeved shirts. Flannels, mostly. So maybe the watch has been tucked underneath it. The more I compare the two, the more I’m sure it’s his. I scroll through more photos, but Hudson’s wrist is never in the frame.

I turn the watch over in my hand, my fingertip tracing the “777” engraved on the back.

Hudson isn’t the kind of guy to believe in angels, and I don’t think he’s into numerology. I freeze, remembering the tattoo on the lower part of Natalia’s arm. The one I saw when she lifted the cigarette to her lips.

Angel wings.

Maybe she got him the watch.

Stomach knotting, I stare at Natalia’s bruised face, then look to the watch on Hudson’s wrist. The one that matches the one I hold.

“There are worse things than being cheated on.”

The watch is heavy in my hand. I shove it in my pocket, and shut the laptop with more force than I mean to.

My knees crack as I stand up. My throat is parched. I need some water. Walking to the fridge, I pass the front window. Leslie’s porch is still empty. Blinds closed. Car in the driveway. An involuntary shiver works its way up my spine.