Mary Alice Monroe - Skyward

Only he didn’t have time for guilt. Living with diabetes was all-consuming. Nothing was easy. He couldn’t even make Marion a snack without worrying about what calories she was taking in and watching for reactions. For the first time since becoming a father, Harris was afraid to take care of his own child.

He looked again at his daughter curled up on the couch watching TV. How sweet and innocent she appeared. And how deceiving it was. He shook his head, took a deep breath and braced himself for what was coming.

“Marion? It’s time to do the test.”

Instantly, all sweetness fled from her face as she jackknifed her knees to her chest, locking her arms tight around them. “No!” she shouted.

“Come on, honey. You know we’ve got to do this.”

“No!”

Harris released a ragged sigh. So, it was going to be another fight. As he walked toward her, she backed up against the armrest and cowered in the corner of the sofa, her hands up, nails out, to ward him off. She looked just like one of the wild, terrified birds when he reached to grab them—all glaring eyes and talons ready to attack.

As with his birds, he moved toward her in slow strides, murmuring assurances in low tones. Then, swiftly, he grabbed hold. Marion reacted instantly, shrieking and kicking at him as viciously as any wild bird.

“No! I don’t wanna. No, no, no!”

Her screams ricocheted from the walls to reverberate in his head. She was an amazingly strong child for such a skinny thing—and wily. When he tried to pick her up, her legs sprang straight out and she began kicking and pummeling with bunched fists even as she began sliding from the sofa.

“What in heaven’s name is going on in here?”

Harris recognized Maggie’s voice over the shrieks. So did Marion. She paused for just a second, then renewed her fight with even more vigor. He tightened his grip as she tried to wriggle away.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he said to his daughter as he hoisted her back up onto the sofa.

“It sounds like you’re committing bloody murder in here,” said Maggie, entering the house.

“That’d be easier than this,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got to prick her finger for a blood sample. Ouch! Marion, stop kicking me.”

Maggie chuckled and came forward. “It might help if you took off her shoes.”

“Be my guest.”

Maggie reached out and, with the same skill she employed with birds, quickly took hold of Marion’s feet and in seconds had both shoes removed. She kept her grip on Marion’s legs. This seemed to make Marion even madder and she tried all the harder to kick and wiggle her way free, her face turning beet red.

“Lord, she’s stronger than a great horned owl.”

“She bites like one, too. Quick, grab hold of her left hand.”

Once Maggie took hold of her hand, Marion’s screams heightened in pitch to near hysteria.

“She’s holding her breath. Quick!”

Harris wiped the sweat from his brow with his elbow, took aim, quickly pricked the finger, then with split-second timing, dabbed the test strip against the bright red drop of blood on her fingertip.

“Got it,” he said with triumph.

The fight seemed to flee from Marion’s little body as she exhaled a defiant cry, then slumped, defeated and sobbing, against the pillows.

“There’s got to be an easier way,” Maggie said, checking her arm for bruises.

“If there is, I’d like to know what it is.” He reached over to pat his daughter’s head but she slapped his hand away.

“I hate you!” she cried, scrambling from the sofa and running off to her bedroom like someone escaping an inquisition.

Harris ran his hand through his hair when the bedroom door slammed shut between them.

Maggie raised her eyes to heaven. “How often do you have to do this?”

“I have to check the blood sugar six times a day, then I get to give her a shot of insulin three times a day. At least. That’s six to nine pokes with a needle each day.”

“Lord have mercy.”

“Yeah. Mercy on me. She tried being brave at first, now it’s just total war.”

“I hate to say it, but it looks like you’re losing.”

His face fell. “That’s the problem. I can’t lose. Her life depends on it.” He reached for the container, checked the test strip against the model, then set it down on the table, satisfied with the result.

“The first week home I screwed up and didn’t check her blood. She was carrying on like this, so I thought I could skip just one. Next thing I knew she was weak and sweaty and her hands started shaking. Thank God for glucose tablets. But I can tell you, it scared the hell out of me.”

“But she’s all right now. That’s what matters.”

“You’re right. And I’m going to keep her all right.” He glanced up at her, the better to gauge her reaction to his news. “I’ve hired someone to live in and take care of Marion full-time.”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Live in? Here? But, Harris, this house is so small. Where will she sleep?”

“She can have my room. I’ll bunk in my office.”

“You’ll find that awfully cramped. And I’m not talking about just the layout of furniture.”

“Maybe. But it’ll have to do. At least for now.” When Maggie opened her mouth to voice another objection, Harris held up his palm. “It’s all arranged, Maggie. I placed an ad in the paper and she’s agreed to come. Please. I don’t need a lecture. Right now, I need support. Marion and I both do.”

Maggie’s mouth clamped tight against the torrent of words. She nodded her head, then leaned forward to wrap her ample arms around him in a hug of support. In the five years that they’d worked side by side, they’d shared a need for peace and quiet on the job. When they spoke, it was in spurts, mostly about the patient birds and what tasks needed doing. Though Maggie was the mother hen of the organization and gave opinions often and loudly, rarely did she probe into his personal life. Important bits of information they announced plainly, more like bulletins. Bob’s been laid off. Marion’s got the flu. The kids are home from school today. The washing machine’s on the fritz again. Their loyalty and friendship was deep, and though not discussed, it was never questioned.

“You just call if you need me,” she said.

“I always do.”

Harris knocked lightly on Marion’s bedroom door. There was no reply. He put his ear to the door, relieved to hear silence instead of the hiccupping sobs and mutterings of how mean her daddy was. He opened the door slowly, lest she be asleep. He stuck his head in to see her lying on her bed playing with Gaudy Lulu. Her head darted up when she heard him, her blue eyes widening with surprise, then quickly changing to a scowl.

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m coming in, anyway.” He walked to her side, picking up dirty clothes from the floor en route, and sat on the bed beside her. “So, do you still hate me?”

She pouted, stroking the doll’s hair. “I hate the shots.”

“I know you do. But you need the shots for your diabetes.”

“I hate ‘betes.”

His smile was bittersweet. Harris leaned over to kiss the soft hair on the top of her head. “Ah, my favorite perfume,” he said, inhaling the scent of her.

“I’m not wearing perfume, Daddy,” she replied as she always did when he said this to her. It was a little game they played and her response told him the storm was over.

“I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

She kept her eyes on the doll while she maneuvered the tight bodice of the pearly gown over the doll’s impressive breasts. He waited patiently for her to finish the snap at the tiny waist and set the doll aside. When she raised her eyes to him, he began in a calm voice.