A Mother Would Know (9)
I was doing him a favor, even if I told Kendra it was the other way around.
“I just worry about you living alone,” she said a few days after I’d flaked out on babysitting. Then her eyes widened as if having an epiphany. “Hey, maybe you should come stay with us.”
I shook my head vehemently before she even got the entire sentence out. “No way.”
She frowned.
“Sorry,” I muttered, realizing that came out harsher than I meant it to. “But I’m not some old, decrepit lady, Kendra. I’m in my fifties.”
Kendra sighed. “It’s not about your age, Mom, and you know it.”
“I’m not leaving my house, and besides, I don’t want to be an imposition.”
“You need someone looking out for you.”
“I’m fine,” I told her.
“I just wish someone could come stay with you. You know I would if I could.” Shaking her head, she added, “God forbid Hudson would ever step up and help out.”
“He might if I ask him,” I said.
“Yeah, right.” She snorted.
I’d never told Kendra about Hudson’s girlfriend kicking him out. As far as I know, Kendra and Hudson only talk a handful of times a year—birthdays and holidays. She couldn’t know that Hudson would have been homeless if I hadn’t asked him to come home.
After leaving his room, I head back to mine. Sunlight filters in through the open windows, the air around me already warming. Usually, I wake up before the sunrise. But last night I had a hard time sleeping. I’d tossed and turned, Leslie’s figure in the window rattling me. I had a series of fragmented dreams. Leslie crying, mascara raking down her cheeks. Pointing fingers. Hurling accusations. Hands caked in mud, leaves stuck to her palms, dirt under her nails.
I prefer going on walks early in the morning, when the sky is still dark and the air is cool. The neighborhood is peaceful at that hour. No watchful eyes. No whispered chatter. Just the scent of damp grass and crisp air, and the sounds of birds chirping, an occasional dog barking or car driving by in the distance, sprinklers ticking on.
By now the neighbors are most likely out in full force. But I urge myself to change into walking clothes and tennis shoes. I’ve been reading articles on the correlation between physical and mental health, and I’m convinced the morning walks are helping to keep my memory sharp. Besides, Bowie will go berserk if I don’t take him out.
He comes running the minute I grab the leash off the hook near the door. I laugh while securing it.
When I step outside, Bowie swiftly runs down the front stairs, tugging on my arm. I stop, pulling the leash taut, noticing Hudson’s car sitting at the curb. I glance back up at the house, wondering where he went without his car. But then Bowie moves forward, and I clamber after him.
I’m relieved to find Leslie’s front yard empty, no car in the driveway. Usually, by now, she’s sitting on her front porch drinking coffee. Sometimes alone, but often with a group of other neighborhood ladies—Beth, the neighbor to the left of Leslie, Shelly from a few doors down, and Tessa, whose house is next door to mine. I know all three of them from back when Leslie and I hung out. Once upon a time they were my friends, too, but clearly their loyalty had always been to Leslie. Lately, I’ve noticed a few women I’ve never met. One lady I recognize as the new owner of the Winterses’ former home. I’m not sure where the other women came from. Shelly and the new ladies all work, though, so often they can’t stay long. Beth is a retired teacher, so she has all the time in the world. Leslie never worked when she was married, but after she and James split up, she got some type of administrative job. I think at an insurance firm. I haven’t seen her leave for work for over a year, so maybe she’s retired, too. My shoulders relax as Bowie and I hurry past. A few houses down, a kid runs around outside, action figures stuffed in his chubby hands; a man waters his grass. But they are newer. People I haven’t taken the time to meet. Barely lifting my head, I wave, offering a curt smile. I’m not interested in making conversation.
I learned my lesson about becoming friends with neighbors years ago.
I think back to my first conversation with Leslie, fifteen years earlier when I’d brought her the iris. Grateful, she’d invited me in for tea.
I remember it was mint, fragrant and strong. No cream.
“Where’s the rest of your family?” I asked, glancing around. The furniture was sparse, walls still bare, boxes littering the floor.
“Oh, my husband, James, and my daughter, Heather, are at the store right now. They should be home soon.”
“You just have the one daughter, then?”
Leslie nodded. “You?”
“Two. A girl and a boy. Kendra is twelve, and Hudson’s ten.”
“Heather’s ten, too.”
“We should get the two of them together sometime, then,” I suggested, and in that moment it seemed perfect.
A friend for Hudson and a friend for me.
For a while, it had been.
Bowie stops walking, and I know what’s about to happen. I crinkle my nose. Definitely my least favorite part of these walks. After I clean up his mess, we continue on.
One of the things I’ve always loved about this street is that no two homes are alike. All of them were built in the early 1900s and have gone through many remodels since. Take, for instance, the house next door to Leslie’s. The one on the right that belongs to the Ramos family. That house had always been the smallest on the street, single-story, not much bigger than my first apartment with Darren, I’d guess. But five years ago, they’d added a modern second level to the home, complete with a balcony and large picture windows. Now Leslie’s is the smallest, and the one in most need of repair with its chipping ivory paint and hideous dark brown trim.