Matty skips over to his Dad, clearly having heard the entire conversation and gives him a squeeze around the neck and another kiss on the cheek. The kid waves goodbye with his whole arm, and grabs my hand. I tug him out of Monitored Care, and head outside to Hunter’s car.
Crisis averted. Now I just have to figure out how to keep Matty entertained for the next forty-eight hours.
Just as I pull into the parking lot, my phone buzzes with a text. It’s from Katie, asking if it’s okay if she can bring her guacamole tonight. Tonight? Tonight! Bloody hell.
I’m an idiot. A supreme idiot. What did I just do to myself? What about my weekend plans? What about the books I planned to read, and the get-together I was going to host tonight (hence all the groceries)? The groceries!And the baking I wanted to do for my mini housewarming.
I guess can google a diabetic dessert recipe that way Matty can eat some too. I’m not an asshole.
“Matty, you’re going to meet some of my friends tonight. Is that okay?” I ask, on the ride up from the basement. Or should I just cancel the whole thing? Yeah, maybe I should cancel. The kid doesn’t need this. His Dad’s in the hospital. Or maybe it will take his worry off of it?
I decide to wait until Hunter calls, and ask him for his opinion. I don’t want to be the cause of childhood trauma and white hair and expensive therapy bills in twenty years. When we get upstairs, I see that somebody’s filched my groceries. Nice. The gang’s supposed to come over in three and a half hours. For the love of Ron Weasley! I turn back around to the elevator, towing Matty behind me.
“Didn’t we just come from there?” he asks, tugging on my fingers.
“New plan. We have to go to the store and get a few things. I need to buy food and some other things real quick. You’re going to help me fix them. That way, when my friends come over, we can say you helped make their food. You’ll be like my sous-chef.”
“I don’t know what that means, Sera.”
It takes half an hour to buy everything I need. Wondering if Matty’s sugar’s high or low feels like racing a ticking time bomb, watching the seconds slip by. My hands shake as I throw groceries into the trunk of Hunter’s car, and give the Flash a run for his costume when I secure Matty in his car-seat, and head us over back home.
I make the twenty-minute drive in ten, thanking God over and over that all the city cops are either too lazy to bother with me, or you know, they’re actually crime-fighting. Matty hums a tune the whole way home, which sounds a lot like Kiss’ “Detroit Rock City”.
I give him the lighter bags to carry, and watch as he puffs out his chest and asks for more bags to carry upstairs. After dropping off the groceries at my place, we both go to Hunter’s. I get Matty to get his things that he needs to check his sugar. He goes to the fridge and pulls out his insulin, holding it tightly in his little hand. My heart hurts when I think about it, that little vial there, keeps him alive. No superpowers here, no enhanced abilities, just a syringe and a vial. A shot of pain.
I settle us back on my couch in my apartment, start scrolling through some movies that I think might be kid friendly. I settle on Transformers and laugh when Sam Whitwicky claims he’s being stalked by Satan’s Camaro. Matty’s head swings to me, smiling a little.
“How are you feeling? Hungry? Thirsty? Are you tired?” Please say no, please say no.
Matty shakes his head, and I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Are we going to make food now, Sera?”
“You bet. Come on. Let’s go wash-up and get started.”
I wonder if this is how it is, being a mom. Trying to distract your kid from doing anything crazy that’ll cause permanent damage to the walls, but trying not to laugh at the same time. God, I can’t imagine being his mom. It would hurt too much, knowing that I’m the one that carried him in me for nine months and he came out less than perfect.
“Matty, how often do you check your sugar?” I ask, pushing his hair back from his forehead. He’s sitting on my kitchen counter, staring up at me, all confused by the way his nose has crinkled and his mouth twists.
“I don’t have sugar on me, Sera. You’re funny,” he giggles, covering his mouth with his hands again. My heart squeezes down again, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
“That’s not what I meant, little buddy. You know that machine that checks your blood?”
“Oh. You mean Tony. I don’t know, Sera. Sometimes I do it five times in one whole day.” His arms spread out wide, to encompass how long that one day is. I stare down at his little fingers when both his hands settle in his lap again. I can’t even count how many tiny little scars from checking his blood are on the pads of his fingers.