Friday, December 11
Fairvale, California
Martin Zephyr was irritated when he opened his eyes to find his son, Jack’s, tattered teddy bear on his chest. He frowned and sat up to look at the clock. 2:43 AM. He could see snow falling in the moonlight outside his window. He looked back at the teddy bear. He snapped on the lamp on the bedside table. Where was Jack? He looked to his right and saw his wife, Marion, sleeping soundly. He lifted the covers. Jack really had to stop crawling in bed with them. He was 8 years old, for Chrissake. He’s way too old for… Jack wasn’t under the covers.
Martin shook Marion gently. She grumbled something incoherent, and rocked his hand off her.
“Marion, did Jack come get in bed with us again?”
“I’m sleeping!”
“So was I until Teddy wound up on my chest.”
“What? That’s nonsense. Go back to sleep.”
Martin smacked her head with the teddy bear, and she rolled over.
“Ow! What the hell, Martin?”
“Oh, cut it out. That didn’t hurt. It’s a goddamn stuffed animal.”
“It’s awfully hard. Cuddly it’s not.” She took the teddy bear. “Where did this come from?”
“He woke me up. He was bouncing on and off my chest.”
“That’s crazy. You were dreaming.”
“Okay. I was dreaming. Whatever. I don’t care. How did Teddy get in here if Jack didn’t bring him?”
“I don’t know. Jack must have come in and dropped him on your chest. Maybe he knows you hate when he gets in bed with us. He woke up after a nightmare or something, and he wants you to…”
“What? Go check on… What is that sound?”
They both heard it now.
“That’s Jack’s CGM!” Marion sprang out of bed, grabbed her robe off the back of the door, and started down the hall. Martin was right behind her, wearing only his underwear and T-shirt. They burst into Jack’s room to hear his Continuous Glucose Monitor squealing. Martin flipped the light on, and Marion ran to her son. Martin picked up the CGM from the floor next to the bed, and set it, still beeping, on the bedside table. He knocked over a plastic cup, spilling dirt all over the floor, a tiny bean sprout still buried within it.
Marion began shaking the little boy – hard -- but he wouldn’t wake up. “Get the Glucagon pen!” Her voice was quivering.
Martin ran down the hall to the bathroom.
“Jack, it’s Mama. Wake up, honey. Wake up now!!” She pulled his eyelids open, and she saw fear sparkling blue.
“Here!” Martin shouted at her, running back into the room. He bumped the little desk, and the computer screen lit up. “Password, please,” it asked mechanically.
Marion pulled up Jack’s shirt and injected him with the Glucagon. She waited a moment. Nothing happened. “Call 911! Get the paramedics.”
The sound of numbers dialing came from the speaker above her. “911. What is your emergency?”
“My son is in a diabetic coma,” said Martin as calmly as he could manage. He kneeled on the bed. “Come on, buddy, wake up!”
“Paramedics are on the way, sir. You can’t wake him?”
“If we could wake him, we wouldn’t have called you!” shouted Marion.
“Do you have Glucagon?”
“My wife just injected him, but he’s still unconscious.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yes,” said Marion. She was already giving Jack chest compressions. She felt the bed getting wet beneath her. She looked down and saw urine flooding it. “He just peed himself!”
“How old is your son, sir?”
“He’s 8. How long until the paramedics arrive?”
“They’re enroute sir. Two minutes.”
They heard sirens in the distance. The room went dark, and there was a quiet rustling of the covers.
“What the fuck?” shouted Martin. “Bedroom lights on!”
The speaker in the ceiling came back with a computer-generated voice. “For which bedroom do you want to turn on the lights?”
“Jack’s!”
“There are several lights Jack’s room refers to. Do you want them all on?”
“Yes!”
The lights came back on, and Jack opened his eyes.
“Good morning, Mother.”
Marion grabbed Jack and hugged him tightly. “Are you all right honey?”
“Uh huh. I was dreaming about Christmas. Oh my…” He sat up, his mother still clinging to him. “I seem to have had an accident, Mother. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, baby.” She rubbed his back and rocked gently back and forth with him in her arms.
“We won’t tell Santa, pal.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Santa is a logical impossibility, Father. To do what he is reputed to do would require his reindeer to move at just less than 3 million miles an hour. At that speed, he and his reindeer would certainly be vaporized.”
The paramedics pounded on the door downstairs.
“Go let them in, Martin.”
Martin nodded, kissed his son’s forehead, and left the room.
“Father is quite slow, isn’t he?”
Marion let go of Jack and looked into his eyes. “He’ll be right back. Don’t worry.”
“No, Mother. I meant he’s not very bright. He honestly thinks I still believe in Santa Claus?”
“What were you dreaming about Christmas, then, if not Santa Claus?”
“I dreamt of children all over the world opening their presents and getting a living teddy bear.”
“You don’t think that’s as silly as Santa?”
“No, Mother.” He picked up Teddy, who was lying next to him on the pillow. “I already invented one.”
She stared at the bear. “How did he…”
Martin came back into the room with the paramedics.
“How you doing, buddy?” asked the young man in a black t-shirt.
“I wet the bed. I don’t think that requires paramedics, though.”
The other paramedic, a woman in her 30s, bent over and took the CGM from the nightstand. She silenced the alarm. The room became oddly quiet.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re just going to check you out to make sure you’re okay, all right?”
Jack extended his arm. She put a blood pressure cuff on it.
“What’s his name, sir?”
“Jack.”
“Jack,” asked the man, “can I take a little of your blood? You’ve done the finger pricking a lot, haven’t you?”
“More often than I wish.” He extended his left forefinger.
“Can you tell me what day it is, Jack?” The man pricked Jack’s finger with the lancet.
“It was Thursday when I went to bed. I don’t know what time it is, but if it’s after midnight, it’s Friday.”
“You said he’s 8?” The woman looked at Martin.
“Yeah. He’s a little… you know.”
“He’s a prodigy, Martin. Just live with it.” Marion glared at her husband.
“Can you look at me, Jack?” asked the man.
“I’d rather not.”
“Why’s that?”
“He doesn’t know you,” said Marion. “He’s not going to look you in the eye. He can’t deal with that.”
“He’s autistic?” asked the man.
“There’s nothing wrong with my son.” Martin was getting defensive.
“He’s diabetic, you said?” asked the woman.
“Except for diabetes, there’s nothing wrong with my son. He’s not a prodigy. He’s not autistic. He just likes his computer, and he reads really well.”
“My name is Howard. This is my friend, Connie. We’re glad to meet you, Jack.” Howard turned to Connie. “Blood sugar is 72.”
“Blood pressure is 124/82.” Connie looked at the CGM. She pressed a few buttons, and then showed it to Howard. “His blood sugar was 38 fifteen minutes ago.”
“That’s the most recent reading?” he asked her.
“Yeah. It must have dropped pretty quickly. It’s set to go off at 60.”
“Jack, could I see your eyes just for a minute now that we know each other?” Jack looked reluctantly in his direction, and Howard shined a light in them. He watched Jack’s eyes get smaller. “Pupils are responsive,” he told Connie.
“How are you feeling, Jack?” Marion pushed his dark hair back from his face.
“Embarrassed.” He said nothing more.
“Can we talk to you two in the other room, please?” Connie asked quietly.
Martin nodded to Connie, and he and Marion followed the paramedics out of the room. The door closed quietly.
“All lights out in Jack’s room, please.” The room went dark. He cuddled his teddy bear. “I love you, Teddy,” he whispered.
The snow fell silently as Jack closed his eyes. The moonlight crept through the window and shone on Teddy and Jack. A toddler-like, but mechanical, voice, noticeably like Jack’s, seeped from the covers. “I love you, too, Jack.”
