Some Kind of Normal (14 page)

I run through the list of suspects in my head.
Laundry detergent: the same. Bath soap: the same. Her shirt:
cotton, and old. She hasn't used any lotions or perfumes that I
know of. I ask. She denies.

"When did it start?"

"I don't know." She pulls away and cleans up her
testing supplies and needles, unconcerned.

"Think."

She does. "Right before we left the hospital."

Well, that makes sense. Maybe it's the hospital
sheets, or gowns, or the disinfectant that they use. I give her
calamine lotion and she dabs it across the welts before going to
bed.

Her blood sugar at midnight is 103. A good number. I
test again at three in the morning and it is 174. I blink at the
number on the glowing green screen. Ashley is asleep immediately
although she never fully awoke. I am seeing double with exhaustion.
In a fog of awareness, I decide I've done something wrong and go
back to bed without checking her again.

In the morning the meter reads 260.

"But I didn't eat anything bad, " she protests,
scratching the palms of her hands something fierce.

I grab them and see they are covered in a rash.

"When did this happen?"

"I don't know. Since last night. This morning I
guess."

"Do I call the pediatrician, the allergist or the
endocrinologist?" I ask Travis, who is in the garage looking for a
new package of drill bits for his toolbox.

"Dr. Benton."

It's my thought too, not because I think it's got to
do with diabetes-- who's heard of a rash with diabetes?--but
because I like Dr. Benton best.

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't know, Babs, but you have to take care of
this. I can't take any more time away from work. Just call and make
an appointment this morning. I'm sure it's nothing."

I know it's not nothing because by the time we arrive
at Dr. Benton's office the hives are on her arms and neck.

We've never been to Dr. Benton's office, and it's
much smaller than the pediatrician's. There's less than half a
dozen chairs, and the only people in the waiting room are two old
people. The receptionist takes one look at Ashley and tells us to
come on back.

The room is small, two chairs and one of those
examination tables crammed together, and the walls are white and
the window has white aluminum blinds that are open to the oak tree
behind the building.

It takes only a minute or two before Dr. Benton comes
in. He shakes our hands and makes small talk before asking Ashley
to get up on the table. He looks at her neck and arms first, then
her hands and stomach, which by now are raw and scabbed.

"When did this start?"

"Right before we left the hospital."

"Can you remember the day?"

Ashley thinks before answering. "Maybe the night
before we left, but maybe even the day before that. I don't
remember exactly." I want to ask her why she never told me.

"That's okay. Do you remember if it was before or
after you started taking the shots?"

"After. I'm pretty sure."

He sits and looks at a folder, which I am guessing is
her file from the hospital. "Where on your body did they
start?"

"My stomach." He nods as if this means something.

"And then where?"

"Then my hands, then my arms, then my neck. But those
all just started today."

"We didn't know what doctor to call," I add. "She's
had hives before, but since her blood sugar was so high, we figured
you would be our first stop." This is not entirely true, but true
enough.

He looked up with his eyebrows arched high. "What's
going on with the blood sugar?"

"It's high," I repeat, not knowing what else I should
say.

"But I didn't eat anything," Ashley adds. "It just
went up. I took my shots and everything."

"Do you have the records of your food, insulin
amounts, and meter readings?"

I have forgotten to bring anything, and I'm about to
apologize for this when Ashley pulls it out of her purse, the
pocketsize book she got at the hospital to record everything she
eats and how it affects her. Dr. Benton looks through it, eyebrows
scrunching at the last page.

"Is it an allergy?"

"Maybe." He stands and pats Ashley on the knee. "I'm
going to copy this off and then you can have it back. I'm going to
send you to the hospital for a few tests."

"Children's Hospital?"

"No, just the one here. I want to run a few allergy
tests. I'll be right back."

He disappears and I watch Ashley fidget with her
purse. "I'm sure it's nothing," I say to calm her, even though I'm
lying as I say it. That feeling I had in Austin last week--the
feeling that things were going to get worse before getting
better--is getting stronger.

Dr. Benton returns with the logbook and a dose of
Benadryl. "Take this and see if it helps the itching some. I called
the hospital and they're expecting you. They're just going to take
some blood and run a few tests on it for me to rule out some
things."

"What do you think it is?"

"We won't know until the tests come back." I can tell
he's hedging, and this is very unlike the doctor who was so
straight forward with us last week. He holds Ashley's hands as she
hops down from the table. "It's probably something simple, like a
reaction to the insulin we put you on. We may just have to switch
brands, and that's no big deal. You won't even notice a difference.
Except the new one won't make you look like you've got the pox." He
smiles and punches Ash lightly on the arm as he leads us out and
tells us he'll call us with the results as soon as he gets
them.

~~~~

"Four hours," I say, yanking open the drawer with the
pots and pans, and then slamming it again. "They shot her up with a
bunch of stuff, and then we have to sit around and wait to see if
she goes into ana . . . ana-something."

"Anaphylactic shock," Logan says, not looking up from
his homework. I'm starting to regret telling him he has to do
schoolwork in the kitchen instead of locked away in his room with
his music blaring.

"What's that?" Travis asks.

"It's when she has an allergic reaction that kills
her," I open the refrigerator, then switch to the freezer, which I
also slam. "Can you believe that? We can replace someone's heart
with someone else's but the best way we can tell if someone has an
allergy is to inject them with it and see what happens. Is there
nothing in this house we can eat but chicken? If I have to eat one
more broiled chicken, I might choke to death."

"What about spaghetti," Travis suggests.

"You trying to kill her?" I pull out the box from the
pantry and slide it roughly across the counter at him. "Look at the
carbs in that."

"So did they find anything?" He slides the spaghetti
back to me.

"No. Now we have to wait two days and see what
happens. Meanwhile she's scratching herself raw. I guess we'll have
chicken."

"We can't eat broiled chicken every night, Babs."

"What about tacos?" Logan unfolds his lanky body from
the stool and goes to the pantry, pulling out the box of shells and
handing it to me without looking at it. "21 carbs for three shells.
Minimum for the meat and cheese, maybe four for tomatoes."

"What about the beans?" I'm not trying to be
troublesome, but I'm pretty sure beans are out.

Logan shrugs and takes his place behind his books
again. "Make a salad."

I look at Travis who also shrugs. "Anything but
chicken sounds good to me."

"I'm done." Logan shuts his textbook and notebook and
shoves them in his backpack. "I'm going to Jim's to practice. His
band has a gig Saturday, and they asked me to stand in."

I open my mouth to say no way. I don't like the band.
I don't like his drumming. It's a school night. But I think of the
tacos, and the cake, and the monopoly game, and I just nod.

"Back by six-thirty," I say.

"No prob," he says, and he's gone.

"Is this serious?" Travis asks when we're alone.

"I don't think so." I take a seat at the high stool
next to Travis. "Dr. Benton seems to think if it's an allergy to
the insulin, we just switch. In fact, he already gave us a vial of
a different brand."

"The long acting one or the meal one?"

"The meal one."

Laying the paperwork from the hospital on the
counter, I go through the tests with Travis. I don't know how to
pronounce most of the words, and even though the allergist
explained what tests he was going to run, I couldn't remember well
enough to explain them.

"What's a serological test?" Travis asks.

"I think it just means blood test. They did a scratch
test, where they kinda pricked the skin on her back with different
things that might cause allergies, and then they took blood to
test, too. I think."

"This says they are testing for carrier proteins and
additives. I thought they were testing for insulin. Could it be
something else?"

"The allergist said there are things in the insulin,
you know, additives and stuff, and that maybe she's allergic to
that and not to the insulin itself."

"Can you take that stuff out?"

"I think so. He said something about trying purified
insulin."

"What do they do, run the stuff through a Brita
filter?"

I can't tell if that's a joke or he's serious.
Actually, I'm not sure that's not how you get purified insulin. I
gather the papers and put them in the file of Ashley's medical
history that is growing. "So we just have to switch insulin?" he
asks.

"He said that may be all it takes." I go back to
cooking so he can't see my eyes. After twenty years together, he'd
see that I don't believe this. And if he asks enough, he'd find out
Dr. Benton didn't seem to believe it either.

The light in the kitchen is fading as the sun moves
to the other side of the house. We don't talk, but I know he's
thinking the same thing I am, that two weeks ago we were chowing
down on enchiladas and jalapeno cornbread without the slightest
idea what insulin was, or that there were different kinds, or that
one small, common virus could change our lives so drastically.

~~~~

I forget about the baseball paper until after Ashley
is in bed and Travis is dozing in front of ESPN. I go out to the
garage where Logan is banging away at the drums and lay the paper
in front of him. He stops banging and looks at it, and then at
me.

"It's no big deal. I don't even like baseball that
much anymore."

"It
is
a big deal, Logan. What in the Sam Hill are you
fighting about?"

"Nothing. It wasn't even a real fight." He moves the
paper and starts to pound again, but I grab the sticks.

"Stop it."

He stops, but he won't look me in the eye. I don't
remember Lo ever not looking me in the eye, even if it is some
I dare you
kinda look.

"You're not the fighting kind. What happened?"

"Troy said something, and I shut him up. That's
all."

"You shut him up?"

"Yeah. Or shoved him up, more like it. Up against the
lockers. But it shut him up, too."

I try to visualize my skinny beanpole boy shoving
anyone against a locker, but I don't see it. I find a five-gallon
paint can and pull it up to sit on. "Why?"

He sighs, like he knows he ain't getting out of this
one. "He said some things. They weren't right, so I had to
straighten him out."

"Straighten him out?"

"It's really annoying how you repeat everything I say
when you're mad."

"I'd say I'm allowed to be a little upset that my son
got in a fight, got kicked off the sports team we was relying on
for college scholarships, and then conveniently forgot to tell
us."

"You know, Mom, you'd like everything to be my fault,
wouldn't you? Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm not as bad as
you and everyone else would like to think?"

I look at his spiked hair and ripped t-shirt, and I
can't see the good kid under there at all, but I know he's there.
"I don't think you're bad," I say, getting off my makeshift chair.
"I think you work really hard trying to make people see you that
way, and for the life of me I can't figure out why."

I start to go but Logan fires back. "Well I guess
that apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, does it?"

I turn slowly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you do a lot of trying to make people
believe something about you that isn't true, too."

Red creeps up my neck, hot as a branding iron. "You
watch your mouth, Logan T. Babcock. You may be taller than me, but
I'm still your Mama."

"What're you gonna do, punish me? I'm already off the
team. What more do you want?"

"I want you to stop embarrassing this family by
acting like some kinda rebel and start taking some grown-up
responsibilities around here. You can start by putting up that drum
set and taking out the trash before bed."

I'm almost in the house when he says back, real
quiet, "Don't you want to know what the fight was about?"

"It don't matter," I say, not turning back to him.
"Fighting's fighting, and it's wrong." Even through the shut door I
can hear him banging even harder on those stupid drums, and I
wonder where I went so wrong with him.

~~~~

We don't have to wait two days to find out the
results of the allergy tests because by morning Ashley's shoulder
where they tested her is beyond swollen, the hives on her arm and
neck hidden under the puffy redness that's overtaken the right side
of her.

On the way to the hospital I call Travis, who was
gone when we woke, but I only get his voicemail. I call Dr.
Benton's office, which isn't open yet, and get an operator who
promises to get him the message. I don't call the school. I don't
know if they think the expulsion is proceeding, but I got other
bullhorns in the rodeo right now.