Page 49 of Make Mine Sweet
She sits in one of the chairs on her side of the porch and motions for me to join her. I do, enjoying the show as Dutch romps with August.
“How old is he anyway?” Tess asks.
“Just turned seven.” When I took him to the vet this year, she told me he’s considered a senior now. I fight down the twinge of sadness that concept brings up. I feed him well, and he clearly gets plenty of exercise. We’ve got a good long while together yet.
I think it again as if I can manifest that outcome.A good long while.
“You’d never know it. Have you had him since he was a puppy?”
I nod, my chest warming at the memory. “I’d spent the day rock climbing way out in a canyon. When I went back to my car at the end of the day, I found this tiny fluff ball curled up next to one of my tires. He was matted with mud and covered in fleas and ticks. I scooped him up, and that was it. He claimed me.”
With a sloppy kiss and the most adoring eyes I’d ever seen.
“That’s really sweet.” She watches me like I revealed more than I meant to. All I did was get completely suckered in by a puppy in need. And fall in love in the process, but that part’s obvious.
“I’ve never regretted it. Even when he used to dump my kitchen trash all over the floor when he was left alone for two-point-five seconds.”
She laughs. “Sounds like Dutch and August went through similar phases.”
Speaking of, August runs over and stops next to my chair. “Your hair is shorter.”
I don’t always appreciate bluntness on my appearance these days, but I don’t mind it from him. “It is. What do you think of it?”
He studies me for a minute, his little eyes narrowing. “It’s okay.”
“You’ll keep me humble, kid.”
He swivels at the hips to pet Dutch, who is of course glued to the kid’s side. I spot a sticker or something on his arm, like maybe he got a little carried away at daycare.
“Kid, you’ve got something right here?—”
I realize my mistake too late. He contorts his arm around so I can get a better look at the device my brain has just now recognized.
“That’s my super shield.” He beams at me like he’s pointing out an award. “This one is my monitor.” He twists to show me the back of his other arm. “And this one is my pump. I have diabetes.”
I’ve suspected it before, but my heart sinks with the confirmation—I am a colossal ass. How many times have I seen him playing with Dutch in the yard and never noticed the medical devices secured to his arms? They’re small, but they’re not invisible. Nope, I’ve been too busy thinking about myself to recognize this little boy has a serious condition.
To be fair, he was doing wind sprints with my dog the other day. The small monitors would have been the only signs of that condition.
“My body needs medicine sometimes, and my super shields give it to me like that.” August claps his hands together. “I don’t even feel it.”
“It doesn’t hurt, huh?” I’ve heard about these types of glucose monitors and insulin delivery systems, but I haven’t met anyone who uses them.
“It’s a little pinch. But sometimes Mama has to give me shots in the bottom.” He laughs because of course shots in the bottom are the funniest. “Those hurt, but she’s fast.”
“I bet your mama takes good care of you.” My gaze finds Tess, who’s looking on like she expects questions. But where I typically bristle at questions, she seems as if she’d welcome them.
I have plenty. Like, how long have they been dealing with this? Is this system keeping his diabetes under control? And when she’s doing everything she can to take care of her son, who’s taking care of her?
But the next question doesn’t come from me. It comes from August.
“Why do you have a super leg?”
I’ve been asked similar questions a hundred times before, but never once from someone so innocent. Never from someone who’s simply curious, without any judgment.
Actually, the kid might judge me. He seems pretty discerning.
I look from him to Tess, silently asking if I have permission to answer. She nods in gentle encouragement. I take a deep breath and prepare myself to tell him something I haven’t willingly spoken of since it happened.
