Some Kind of Normal (8 page)

"Why did they change the sheets? Did she pee in
bed?"

"Mom!"

"No, Mrs. Babcock. The hypoglycemia caused Ashley to
break out in a sweat. We just thought she'd be more comfortable in
drier sheets."

"When did this all happen?" I glare at Travis.

"Just now. I just now came up and saw her. I rang the
bell and a doctor came and tested her and gave her a shot, and then
Betsy went to get you."

"I thought shots brought her sugar down."

"This is a glucagon shot," Betsy says. "It gets sugar
into her system fast."

"I thought we've spent the last 24 hours trying to
get it down."

"Apparently we did that. A little too well."

"Shouldn't you be able to control that?"

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" Betsy doesn't even react
to my anger. She laughs it off as though this is some kind of
joke.

"Yes, actually, I would."

"Look, honey. This is what you are going to be
dealing with the rest of her life. There's no magic solution here.
No magic calculation. And until we know how she reacts to the
insulin, we can only keep adjusting. Every diabetic is different.
With some, one unit of insulin will drop them 200 points. With
some, it only drops them 15. She dropped real fast. She must have a
good sensitivity to it, but not everyone does, and we just can't
know that until we try it out. It's the nature of the beast. If it
were all predictable, it wouldn't be much fun, would it?"

I feel like kicking her in her patootie as she leaves
the room. When I turn back to Travis, Ashley is leaning against him
in the chair, already asleep on his shoulder. He picks her up,
heaving a little even though she is so tiny, and lays her back in
bed. I cover her with the blankets and use a towel to dry the drops
of perspiration off her forehead.

"Can you believe the nerve of that nurse?" I ask.
Travis don't answer and I look over at him. "Travis?"

"I thought she was dying." He sinks into the chair
next to the bed and puts his head in his hands, the same way I'd
been doing just a few minutes before. I wonder if it came naturally
to us, or if one of us picked it up from the other. "I came in and
she was shaking all over, like she had a fever of a hundred and
eight, and she was talking, but it didn't make no sense, and it
seemed like it was hard to talk at all. She talked real slow, and
her words slurred together, and she looked at me like she was
begging me to understand. And she was sweating all over and
shaking, and I didn't know what to do."

"Well," I say. "It seems like you did the right
thing. She's okay now, right?"

"Lord Almighty, is this what every day is going to be
like?" He looks up at me. "I can't do this every day, Babs. How are
we supposed to go home and live normal lives? How can we put her to
bed every night knowing this could happen any minute? How in the
name of all that's holy are we going to send her off to school by
herself for eight hours a day?"

Since I saw Ashley go down on the driveway--it seems
like days ago--I've been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I've
been holding back waiting for the right time to go psycho. But now
Travis is freaking out, and if I've learned anything in marriage
it's that only one of us can have a meltdown at once.

"God will give you strength." We both turn towards
the door, and Pastor Joel, the preacher at First Baptist, is
standing in the doorframe. "God is our refuge and strength, an
ever-present help in trouble."

"Yeah?" says Travis. "I didn't see him here giving
Ashley her glucagon shot a few minutes ago. Where was he then?"

And Pastor Joel and I stare, adequately shut up, as
Travis storms past us and down the long hallway of the
hospital.

~~~~

Pastor Joel motions me to go after him, so I do,
though I'm madder than a hornet at him. I catch up at the
elevators, where he's pushing the down button so hard and fast I
think he's going to break it.

"Stop it, Travis," I say, yanking his hand away like
I might've if it was Logan doing that and he was three. "You want
to explain why you went off like that?" What I'm thinking is how
it's usually me thrashing out at God like that. It's Travis's job
to hold it together in the God department and hearing him yell like
that is like the floor dropping out from under me.

"No." He pushed the button again, just to show me he
could.

"What is going on with you?" I say, which is a poor
way of saying I need him to be strong. I know it's a poor way
'cause he don't even look at me. The elevator doors open and
Gloria, Brenda and Janise step out. Travis storms past them, but
I'm too taken back by all the sudden appearances. I hesitate just
long enough for the doors to close.

Janise leans over and hugs me--one of those long,
I'm-so-sorry-for-you hugs. She's the one person in the world that
would really mean it when she said, "If I could take your place, I
would."

She hands me a bag of cinnamon rolls. "I knew you'd
probably be stuck with hospital food, so I brought you breakfast."
The smell, which would normally make me drool, leaves my stomach a
little sick. In Texas, food is the cure for everything. Everything
except this.

"Thanks."

"Is Travis all right?"

"I don't know." I'm still staring at the elevator
doors, wondering what's just happened. I shake it off. "Sure, he's
fine. It's been a rough morning."

"With Ash?"

"All of it. Being here, not really understanding
what's going on. It happened so fast."

I lead them back to the room where Pastor Joel is
sitting in the chair that Travis already claimed as his territory.
Ashley is still asleep and Pastor Joel has his Bible out and is
reading to himself. I share the rolls with him, and we all talk as
if Ashley ain't lying right next to us. Gloria has brought plans
for the Memorial Day church barbeque, and they discuss that for a
few minutes. I listen, but not really. The Ricardos can rent a
party-size grill for the burgers and chicken, and the deaconate
will man it. We need at least four families to bring coolers to
store the ice and cokes. Gloria is making her famous lemonade, and
we need to find one or two other women to make sweet tea. The
church will provide the meat--Brenda is calling the order in to the
market, and someone on the deaconate will pick it up on Friday.
Families A-M will bring side dishes, and N-Z will bring deserts. I
half-heartedly suggest switching that around, because frankly who
enjoys making potato salad all the time more than brownies, but
Brenda waves me off and insists it works better when there is
consistency. She's a Williamson.

She drones on some more. I'd like to tune out
completely. I'd like to not be here. I'd like them to not be here,
talking like nothing is changed, like life's going on. To be
talking about picnics sitting next to my daughter who might as well
be in a coma at this moment is surreal. That's one of those SAT
words. It's a good one.

Brenda moves on to the Pro-Life rally that's
happening here in Austin next week, and which our church is
participating in. A million folks descending on the capital steps
to make sure people know it ain't okay to kill babies, or something
like that. This has never been my thing. I'm just not that much of
an activist, although Travis is pretty vocal, especially for a man.
His mama was a single mom and almost aborted him. I think that hits
a little close to home for him.

Ashley gets really into it, too. The youth group is
pretty active that way, and so she's been planning on walking in it
for the last two months. Now, of course, I'm not sure if I'll let
her.

Brenda's yapping on and on about things that don't
matter at all: details about the busses, and how many kids are
going, and what kind of poster board will stand up to the marching,
and how hot it's supposed to be. I realize she's talking and
talking 'cause she don't know what else to say to me. She's here to
help, but there's nothing to do to help. Nothing even Travis and me
can do. Some of us ain't that good at just being there for one
another. Brenda's one of those folks. Baking and cleaning and
making phone calls, sure. But not so much of the just being
there.

She's going over the agenda for the day and asks if
she can put me down as a chaperone for the youth group bus, if'n
we're out of the hospital by then and all. I guess she figures
she's got me cornered 'cause who's going to say no to life when
their daughter's hanging by a thread. I don't want to admit to her
that I've never been comfortable with the way the church is
involved in political issues. Seems to me a church should be about
God and not so much the government. But it always seemed important
to Ashley, so I say yes. I don't add the "if we're out of here"
part.

Now she fishes around in her trashy gold bag and
pulls out a stack of fundraising flyers and a box of envelopes and
hands them to me.

"You've got lots of time here, I figured this would
be the perfect job for you. You can stuff the envelopes and put the
labels on them while you're sitting here all day. Ashley can even
help if she's feeling better." She smiles sweetly, the kind of
smile the wolf in grandma's clothes smiled right before he gobbled
up Red Riding Hood.

She's talking about where to get the banner printed
that the kids will carry in the march downtown when I see Ashley's
eyes flutter open. I get up from this tiresome group and sit on the
bed beside her.

"Hi, Ash. It's me. How're you feeling?"

The women get quiet for the first time, and suddenly,
Pastor Joel senses Ashley's awkwardness and herds the small group
out into the hall.

"Why are they all here?"

"Because they care about you."

"I think they're afraid you might not show up for
church this week and ruin our family's perfect attendance."

"I'd say that's a certainty."

"What time is it?"

I look at the clock behind her bed. "Ten. You fell
asleep after the shot."

"I was so tired. I woke up all sweaty and jittery,
and I couldn't keep from shaking all over."

"I know. The nurse said you had a sugar low."

"I felt like all I wanted to do was sleep, but I was
shaking so much I couldn't. She gave me a shot." She rubbed her
arm. "It really hurt. Are all my shots going to hurt like
that?"

She still has the IV in, and the insulin is dripping
straight into her arms. She's supposed to get it out later today,
and we'll start the shots for every meal. We're both scared. "I
hope not, baby."

"I have to pee."

I help her out of bed. She's still shaky in the
knees, so I let her lean on me. She drags the IV behind her and
shuts me out when she can lean on the sink, instead. I do motherly
things, like fluffing her pillows and opening the blinds and
pouring the now-lukewarm water from the pitcher on the table into
the flowers. When she comes out she waves me off and makes a bold
but slow stride towards the bed.

"You want to play a game? Pastor Joel brought a few
board games, in case you're bored. Get it? Board games for the
bored."

"Ha ha!" She grins, though, so I pull the tray table
over as she raises the back of the bed so she's sitting upright.
Her eyes are more alert and her face looks newly scrubbed, and I
think how hard this must be for her at this age to not be taking
care of her looks. We've only recently allowed rouge, and the
teensiest bit of mascara and lip-gloss, but she already fits into
them like a glove.

I rub my hands together fiendishly, the way I do
every time we play a board game, and cackle like a witch. "Okay my
pretty, what is your poison today?"

"Apparently it's food." She says this with a broad
smile, as though finally she has found the perfect comeback at the
perfect time, but it wipes the grin straight off me.

"Don't say that, Ash."

"Why? Gosh, Mom, do I have to feel terminal all the
time? If I can't joke about it, I'm going to have a really
depressing life."

Because it's true,
I think.

She gives me a goofy face, mouth twisted and eyebrows
arched, her tongue lolling out.

I force a smile. "Okay, then, Miss Cheerful. What'll
it be?"

She looks through the games and picks Monopoly, which
promises a good, long diversion. She is the banker, because I can't
do math in my head fast enough, and I line the properties up by
rainbow color order rather than board order along the foot of the
bed.

She picks the shoe. She always picks the shoe. I sort
through the rest, less certain. I hate the water so the ship is
out. I'm allergic to dogs, and horses scare the bejeebers out of
me. The use of the thimble is beyond me. I choose the hat. I put it
on my head the way I did when Ashley was young. It still makes her
laugh. I'd give all the monopoly money in the world, and all the
change in my own account, to hear that every day.

She charges around the board buying up every property
she lands on until she's near broke. I only buy the bigger payoffs.
She never lands on them, but I'm forking over two's and five's like
nobody's business.

About six turns around the board Logan sticks his
head in the door. He looks unhappy, which ain't unusual, and nods
down the hall. "The church people want to know if everything's all
right." This is code for they want to know what's going on. Ashley
scrunches her face because she knows the code, too.

"Don't tell them all of it, Mom."

"All of what?"

"You know, the personal stuff." Suddenly she's the
self-conscious twelve year-old.

"I'll only tell them about the throwing up and the
dragging the IV to the bathroom with your gown flying open in the
back. How's that sound?"

She sticks out her tongue at me, and it means
something faraway different than when Logan does it.