Matty sprints to do what I’ve said, nearly tripping in his haste to get to the bathroom, like it’s been moved from its usual place. I smirk, and pull on my boots, cracking my neck. I go to the closet, and get the ratty school bag I use to carry my shit in for shift. I toss the still-damp t-shirts from them, making sure I pack my wallet, making another mental note to go to my car and get my pouch and since Matty’s with me. I put in three juice boxes of apple juice, and some candies.
Ah, the life of a diabetic – completely dependent on the thing that can kill both of us. This is my penance, being sick.
Some days I’m okay with that; others, I’m so fucking tired I could swallow a bottle of Aspirin and chase it with Jack.
Chapter 5
I can tell by the knock on the door who it is. Three feather-light taps on the simulated-wood door and you have to be ultra quiet, making sure you heard what your brain already knows is there. Three more feather-light taps, and my stomach bottoms out.
I’ve been good this week. If I were normal, I’d treat myself to a beer and some greasy food that’ll make me want to die come morning. Since I’m not, I settle for a can of Diet Pepsi for not calling Aly, for ignoring her calls and messages, and Christ, the videos. I maybe looked at them twice. Each. All right, three times.
Matty’s been good all week, too. His sugars have been somewhat stable for a kid, which means that he’s not spiking and dropping and hanging out at either end of the blood sugar spectrum. I’ve been careful with my sugars, too, working out and eating properly. I feel good.
I glance back at the kitchen table where Matty sits, legs swinging back and forth off the chair so quick, he’s making himself move. He says he’s going to draw me a picture, the first one he’s ever done for me. Matty keeps his eyes trained to the paper while he colours the (it might be) sky orange, making sure to cover the green sun.
I move to the door, unlock and open it. Mom’s got those giant sunglasses on, holding the key to the lobby in her hand, letting it dangle off her Tiffany&Co keychain that’s worth a whole week of groceries.
I move back, a silent invitation, and ignore the itch at the back of my neck. Unexpected visits never end well. Even when I was living back home, Mom just showing up at school, or work always meant trouble.
Usually, it was to drunkenly rant about Dad and his need to fuck around, or about Jules and me, disappointing her yet again. It only got worse after I got sick. The look in her eyes became even more frosty, more detached like I really wasn’t her son anymore. Maybe in her eyes, that’s exactly what happened. Whatever genetic defect I have to make my own body attack its own pancreas did not come from her.
“Hi Mom,” I say, leaving the door unlocked after I close it. Quicker for her to leave when she inevitably pisses me off.
“Hunter,” she says with the warmth reserved for the mailman as he hands her a dirty envelope. Her floral scent wafts up my nose, making me sneeze. Hilary MacLaine does nothing half-assed. Mom doesn’t lightly smell of perfume, no, it’s like she’s bathed in it. And the whole fucking apartment is going to stink in the next five minutes.
“Just checking in?” I ask. Nah, she’s here for a reason. I know it; she knows it. We’re just playing games, circling each other to see who’ll draw first blood in admitting the real reason she’s here. Mom caves first.
“Of course not. You’re not a little boy anymore.” I want to tell her that I never was a little boy, but I keep my trap shut.
“You want to see your grandson?” I ask. Mom’s mouth opens and closes, only to do it again like she’s trying to find something wrong with my question. Matty is her grandson, he’s just not my son.
“Later. I want to talk about you and Alysha right now,” she says, laying it all out there like a fucking battle strategy. I’m the helpless soldier that has to follow orders.
“Fine. Want something to eat or drink?”
Mom has been at my place exactly five times before today. I hate the way she looks at the bare walls, left that awful beige that always makes me think my place is dirty when it isn’t. I watch her taking in the scarred leather couch, and the absence of trinkets she hoards back home. I can’t afford shit like that, only the necessities. With that one look around my living room, dining room and kitchen, she cuts me down to the bone and I’m that stupid little boy with a spilled glass of milk.
Even now, I can’t stand how disappointed she is in me.
“No, thank you.”
“Fine, sit wherever you want. I’m going to finish making Matty some lunch.” I busy myself with the frying pan, watching the slice of butter I put in there from before I checked out Matty’s drawing slowly melting. Grilled cheeses are my specialty, or so Matty says, and I want to give him what he wants. I want to make him smile.