A Mother Would Know (8)

Now it gives me comfort. A familiar symphony of sorts. A soundtrack to my life.

Though the soundtrack has had its darker notes. I’d noticed a peculiar hook and eye latch on the outside of Hudson’s door the day we’d walked through with Jan but hadn’t wanted to mention it to Darren then. I took it down the day we moved in. But I never got it out of my head. Why was it there?

Who had been locked inside?

And, more importantly, why?

In the early days of living here, I often dreamed of a child trapped, knocking and screaming from inside her bedroom. Sometimes I even believed I heard her, hollering in my nightmares.

But it wasn’t until after the kids moved out and Darren was gone—when I had become determined to redecorate the way I wanted—that I noticed the other oddities. The words carved in the walls of the attic, childlike scribble that I could barely make out, but I swore one said HELP and another, EVIL. There were also scratches inside the door of one of the children’s closets as if someone had been locked inside and tried to claw their way out.

That’s when my obsession with finding out the history of this house had truly taken shape.

I carry my wineglass into the kitchen, rinse it in the sink. Then I clear the table, putting the lasagna in a container, but tossing the remainder of the salad and hardened bread. I leave the dishes soaking in the sink to get to tomorrow. After drying my hands, I check the lock on the side door, bolting it. As I head over to the light switch, I catch movement in the window across the street.

A dark figure stands on the other side of the glass, staring up toward my window.

Leslie.

Surely, she sees me, but she makes no attempt to move or conceal herself. She remains stock-still, her body facing me, backlit by a glowing lamp. I stare back. A challenge.

She stands even taller. A warning.

Shivering, I swiftly close the blinds, blocking her view. Even after the slats click into place, I can still see her, the image burning in my mind—the outline of her shoulder-length hair and trim frame. I clutch the counter and take a deep breath.

I wait a few seconds, and then, with my heart pounding, I peek through the blinds. She’s gone. Curtains cover the window where she stood.

Below it, luscious flowers bloom, lining the entire porch and front yard. Leslie has always had a green thumb. When she first moved in fifteen years ago, I’d watched her as she revived the front yard, planting and pruning. After about a week of Darren pestering me to welcome her to the neighborhood, I strolled across the street with the purple iris I’d bought her—a welcome gift.

Little did I know that five years later, I’d stand in this very spot, watching her tear apart that same iris, scattering the bright petals all over her grass in a rage.





If he hollers let him go...

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe...

I looked down at my burned hand—the angry red welt and swollen skin—and winced. The pain was intense, despite all the ointment Mom had slathered on it. It throbbed like a steady heartbeat. I’d been lying in bed for hours. It hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep.

I knew it wasn’t an accident.

There was no way to prove it, though.

It all happened earlier this evening when my sister and I were helping with dinner. We were having tuna casserole. When the egg noodles were done, Andie asked me to hold the colander in the sink while she poured the pasta in. I didn’t want to hold it, and I told her so, but she insisted.

“If it falls over, the noodles will go down the drain. Is that what you want? Don’t be such a baby,” she snapped.

I shook my head and reluctantly walked toward her, staring down at the checkered linoleum under my feet. When I reached the sink, I tucked my fingers around the edge of the colander.

When the scalding water hit my skin, I squealed and leaped back.

“Whoopsie,” Andie said with a little shrug of her shoulders.

I stared back at her, cradling my hand as it turned an angry red.

Dad came rushing in.

“It was an accident,” Andie was saying. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Dad replied, inspecting my hand as tears filled my eyes. “Let’s run this under some cold water, okay?”

As Dad flicked on the faucet in the opposite sink, I couldn’t help but notice the smirk on my sister’s face.





4





In the morning, Hudson is gone.

The bedroom door is open, the room empty. My heart catches. I step inside. It’s decorated much differently than when Hudson was younger. The walls used to be covered in baseball posters and shelves bearing all of his trophies. He had an A’s comforter, bold green, bright yellow. Now the comforter is gray, charcoal pillows on top. The paintings on the walls are ones I’ve collected over the years from antique fairs and thrifting. They’re abstract, colorful. I wonder what Hudson thinks of it.

My mind jolts back to our argument the night before.

“You’d understand if you’d ever had one.”

Why had I made it personal? Said something so vile and untrue? If only I’d kept my big mouth shut.

Behind the bed, I catch the edge of a strap. I follow it to the duffel bag it’s attached to. My insides uncoil. Thank god, he didn’t leave.

I feel silly for even entertaining the thought. Where would he go?