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I suck in a gasp—long and loud—covering my horrified mouth.
Because the little boy’s lips are twice their size and his eyes look like he went a few rounds with Rocky Balboa in his Clubber Lang prime.
I shove in beside Connor, dropping to my knees.
“Are you having any trouble breathing, Spencer?”
Connor takes Spencer’s pulse. “Usually his tongue and lips swell up but not his throat.”
“Just because he hasn’t developed anaphylaxis before doesn’t mean he won’t.”
“I’m aware,” Connor replies, his voice confoundingly steady.
Does he not see his kid’s face?
“Nah, I cath breath othay. My thungs jus a lithel puthy.”
Jesus. Connor entrusted me with his children and I broke one.
For the first time in my life, I understand the concept of self-flagellation. Because the depth of my guilt is so instant and bottomless, I want someone to punish me harshly, hurt me deeply—if only to relieve my crushing self-blame.
“My bag’s in the closet by the front door, Vi. Can you grab it for me?” Connor asks, checking Spencer’s arms and chest for hives or a rash, but his skin is clear.
“Yeah.” And I’m sprinting for the steps.
When I round the corner back toward the bedroom with Connor’s black physician’s bag in my hands, I hear Spencer and Connor talking.
“Are you gontha gith me Benthadil?”
“I’m going to give you a shot of Benadryl this time, buddy.” Connor says.
“A thot? Thots thuck.”
“I know, but a shot will work faster and you’re swelling up like the blueberry girl in Willie Wonka.”
I hand Connor his bag and he takes Spencer’s blood pressure—which is normal.
My voice is pleading and repentant as I crouch down on my knees.
“God, Spencer, I am sorry.”
“Ith o-thay, Thi—you didnth know.”
Connor opens the sterile packaging of a syringe and inserts it through the cap of the brown glass vial of diphenhydramine.
“Spence, why didn’t you tell Violet you’re allergic to shrimp when you ate the empanada?”
He shrugs, toddling his swollen little head.
“I didnth wanth Thi to theel badth. And I thoughth maythee I outhgrew ith.”
Connor shakes his head. “It’s not the kind of allergy you outgrow—we talked about this.”
“Though it theems.”
Suddenly Aaron’s standing in the bedroom doorway, swallowing a gulp of water from a bottle and assessing the situation.
“Shrimp?” he asks his dad.
“Shrimp,” his father confirms.
“Nice face, dweeble.”
Spencer sticks his tongue out at his brother. At least I think he does—his engorged lips and inflated tongue make it difficult to tell.
After Connor gives Spencer the shot, I leave the bedroom so Spence can get into his pajamas. When Connor comes downstairs, I’m in the living room, in a tight ball of remorse on the couch, gnawing at my fingernails. Rosie lies beside me, her golden eyes brimming with human-like sympathy I don’t deserve.
“How is he?” I ask, prepared to whisk Spencer away to the hospital in my own two arms if needed—faster than the Flash ever could.
He sits next to me, his firm thigh pressing against mine. “He’s fine. The swelling’s gone down and he’s asleep.”
My throat tightens anyway and my eyes ache with hot, unspent tears.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Vi, he’s fine. It’s not your fault.”
He says it in that final, definitive way like it’s true—like he believes it.
“How can you be so calm about this?”
Connor shrugs.
“I have three kids. After the first one, you learn pretty fast that certain things are just not in your control. They fall down, they get sick, they have allergic reactions. The good news is, they also bounce, heal, and recover pretty quickly.”
He puts his arm around me and I press my face into the soft cotton of his T-shirt, letting his warmth and scent surround me.
“Besides,” Connor says, “I’m the one who didn’t tell you about Spencer’s allergy. If you’re going to be upset with anyone, it should be me.”
I wipe my eyes. “I want a complete medical history on each of them.”
He chuckles.
“I’m serious. Blood types, broken bones, allergies, surgeries, serious illnesses—the full monty.”
“You got it.” Connor presses a kiss to my forehead.
Then he slides his arm off my shoulders and rests his hand on my knee. With his other hand he picks up his phone, pulls up his contacts, and I see STACEY across the screen before he brings it to his ear.
“Hey, it’s me. I wanted to let you know Spencer might not be up to going out with you tomorrow.”
He pauses and I hear the sound of her voice on the other end—too muffled to make out her words or tone.
I haven’t given much thought to her in these last few months—the woman that Connor was married to for fourteen years—mostly because she’s barely a presence in his life.
It reminds me of how it was for us when my dad would come and go. We’d gotten so used to living without him that nothing really changed for us whether he was around or not. It wasn’t traumatic or upending, we just kept on keeping on.
