A Mother Would Know (75)

I’d seen a side of her no one else had.

Until now.

The last time Heather had ever come over to our house, we were in the kitchen minding our own business and eating a snack when my sister waltzed in, a devious smile on her face. It was clear to me that she had an agenda. That it wasn’t a casual trip to the kitchen to grab a water. She had that funny sparkle in her eyes. The one she had the day she poured scalding water on my hand or threw that vase at my head.

She was fully in the kitchen now, standing almost directly next to where we sat on the bar stools against the counter. It was too late to escape, so instead I ignored her, chomping down on a tortilla chip.

“Whatcha guys doin’?” she asked in a weird singsong way that was too friendly to be real.

“Eating chips and dip,” Heather said, pushing the bag in my sister’s direction. “Want some?” I knew Kendra made her uncomfortable. She’d told me for years times that she thought my sister didn’t like her. But still, she always tried so hard. She was one of those people that wanted to be liked by everyone.

Often to her own detriment.

Kendra wrinkled up her nose and shook her head as if Heather had offered her a bag of cow shit. It annoyed me, and I wished we’d left the kitchen when we had the chance. Mom didn’t like when we hung out in my room, but she wasn’t home right now.

“No, thanks. I’m watching my girlish figure,” my sister said in a baby-like voice, running her hands down her sides.

I cringed.

What the hell was she up to?

She grabbed an apple out of the glass bowl on the counter. Palming it, she tossed it up and then caught it. Then she grabbed a knife from the knife block.

“Wanna see a cool trick?” she asked, setting the apple on the counter.

“Sure,” Heather said at the same time I said, “Not really.”

She ignored me.

“Spread your fingers out like this,” she said to Heather, pressing her palm into the counter and stretching her fingers out so her hand looked webbed.

My stomach knotted, knowing what she planned to do.

“No. She doesn’t want to do this,” I said, but it was too late.

Heather was spreading out her fingers while saying, “It’s fine.”

But I knew it wouldn’t be.

My sister brought the knife down, slamming the tip into the counter between my girlfriend’s index and middle finger. Then she did it again between her ring and pinky finger. I held my breath as she started to speed up, striking between her fingers faster and faster.

“Ouch!” Heather suddenly cried, and my sister drew the knife back.

Blood dribbled from Heather’s thumb.

“Goddammit,” I snapped, reaching for a rag.

Heather’s eyes were wide as she held her hand tight to her body. I wrapped the rag around it, pressing it to the cut. My sister watched on as if fascinated.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” I said to her.

“No, I’m not.” She stuck out her lower lip in a pout like a petulant child.

“Then what the hell do you call this?” I asked.

Thankfully, the cut wasn’t too bad. I put a Band-Aid on it, and Heather was as good as new. How was I to know a week later she’d suffer a fate that would leave her too broken to ever be put back together again?





26





I’m woken by the sound of metal raking against metal.

My pulse jumpstarts. The hook and latch.

A second later, the door pops open, Hudson bursting through it. His eyes are wild, repeatedly darting over his shoulder as he sprints to my bedside. Leaning down, he grabs my hand, his fingers like ice.

“Mom,” he says urgently, shaking my hand.

For the first time in what I’m assuming has been hours, I’m able to lift my arm slightly. I squeeze his hand, grateful my muscles are responding now. Working my jaw, my lips feel more normal. They tingle like a limb after it’s been asleep, tiny pinpricks on the skin.

“Hudson,” the word finally comes, albeit scratchy and hoarse, but at least it’s audible. “Kendra’s lying. There’s...nothing...wrong with me...no Alzheimer’s.”

“I know,” he says, lowering slowly to his knees beside the bed while still gripping my hand. Leaning in closer, he glances fleetingly at the door and then whispers, “I think she poisoned you. I called the police. They’re on their way. We just have to hang tight for a few minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Kendra storms into the room, immediately fixing Hudson with a glare.

“Mom isn’t sick.” Hudson releases his grip on my hand and stands up, creating a barricade between me and Kendra. I’m grateful for his protection.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“I do. I saw the test results on Mom’s computer.”

“You can barely read, Hudson,” she says acidly, “let alone read complex medical diagnoses. Why don’t you leave that to me?” Smiling, Kendra moves toward the side of the bed Hudson isn’t guarding.

I scoot back into the pillows, closer to Hudson.

“It’s true, Kendra.” I swallow hard in an attempt to lubricate my itchy, dry throat. “And you know it. I told you.” My voice is getting incrementally stronger, but my body still feels limp, my bones like jelly. I’m certain I couldn’t walk right now. Hell, I probably couldn’t even get out of this bed.