A Mother Would Know (69)

If I didn’t write it, who did?

Hudson lives here—he could access my calendar whenever he wants. But this was written before he came back.

Bowie runs into the room, shoots past me out the dog door. My limbs quiver as thoughts swirl through my mind, scary possibilities. But it’s a ridiculous theory, right? I mean, who would write on my calendar, hide my keys, put things back in the wrong place? It’s insane. Far-fetched. Like something from a movie. To calm my nerves, I pour water into the teakettle and set it on the stove.

I used to always drink tea before a gig. Everyone thought it was to open up my vocal cords, coat my throat. Mac was the only person who knew the truth—that I drank it to settle my anxiety. Chamomile always calms me.

As the tea steeps, I step out onto the back patio and watch Bowie run around the yard. I smile at his antics, barking and leaping at birds, and water the plants on the back porch. Some of them are looking a little droopy. Bowie and my succulents. Two things that calm me. Ground me.

When I head back inside, I toss the tea bag in the trash. As I pick up my mug, a noise upstairs catches my attention, almost like furniture being moved, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor. Hello, Grace, I think reflexively—then, remembering there were two women killed in my neighborhood, stand still and listen. This time I hear a creak like a gentle footfall. Someone trying not to be heard.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I move slowly toward the stairs.

It’s quiet now.

A car rumbles down the street. The breeze outside causes leaves to pounce on the glass, swift and tender like a kitten’s paws.

I sigh.

My nerves are on edge. A little tea and a hot shower will clear my head, help me figure out what’s happening. I do my best thinking in the shower. Always have. I used to take one when I struggled while writing a song. Under the hot spray of water, the lyrics would flow easily even after the worst writer’s block. I need some of that clarity today.

In my room, I sip my tea and wait for the water to warm—a long wait in a house as old as mine. Once I see steam circling in the bathroom, I abandon my mug on the dresser and head into the shower. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, allowing the pressure of the warm water to beat down on my achy muscles. I shudder as the heat takes over, drawing the chill from my bones.

I stay in the shower until my fingers are pruney, my skin red.

Then I step out, wrapping myself in a plush towel.

Before getting dressed, I sip the last few dregs of my tea. I pick out my favorite pair of sweats and a fuzzy sweater. As I step into one pants leg, I feel momentarily dizzy and have to grip the edge of the dresser to remain upright. I breathe in and out. Blink a few times. When I feel more steady, I try again, successfully getting both legs in my pants. But when I reach for my shirt, the room spins. Again, I hold on to the dresser. Squeezing my eyes shut to ward off the spinning, I gulp in the air.

It’s a struggle to get the shirt over my head, my arms in the sleeves, as the dizziness threatens to take over. The walls bend and sway like a kite in the wind. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the dresser, pale and blurred. I clutch the dresser so hard my knuckles whiten.

What’s wrong with me?

I was fine before the shower. My right hand bumps my teacup. The tea. Narrowing my eyes, I stare into the bottom of the cup.

When I glance back up at the mirror, I see someone standing over my shoulder.

Turning, I stare into eyes as familiar as my own.

“It was you,” I breathe before I slump over, the darkness pulling me into its grasp.





23





I can’t move.

I can’t breathe.

My hands are stuck to my sides as if tethered, my eyelids so heavy I can’t lift them. I fight to fill my lungs with air, panic seizing me with each shallow intake. Squirming like a rat in a trap, I use all the strength I can muster to pry my eyelids open. The room is out of focus as if I’m wearing the wrong lenses. I blink, and try unsuccessfully to sit up. My arms and legs are dead weight.

A shadow casts over me. I squirm more violently.

Someone’s here.

“Mom, it’s okay.” A firm hand rests on my shoulder.

I open my eyes wide, focusing as best I can.

Hudson stands over me, his large hand pressing me back down into the bed. “Calm down. It’s going to be okay.”

I try to shake my head, but it won’t move.

No, it’s not okay. Let me out of this bed. I open my mouth, attempting to formulate the words, but they won’t come. My lips feel weird—tingly and swollen—kind of like that time I tried that lip plumper, but way more intense. And my throat is raw.

“Trust me, you’re gonna be all right.”

He backs away from the bed, his hand leaving my shoulder.

I want to reach out and grab him, yank him back, but my limbs won’t obey. I’m helpless, trapped in my own body.

My own home.

Help, I scream inside my head as Hudson reaches my bedroom door.

He hesitates a moment, his hand on the knob.

I wait with anticipation. Yes, come back. Don’t leave. I need to warn him. The terrified voice in my own head hollers, the words rattling inside of my mind like the clanging of a cymbal. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He stares at me, weighty thoughts evident in his eyes. His lips press together, then pucker. Without another word, his hand turns the knob.