'Tis The Season

Early last December, I took my stepson to the mall to do some holiday shopping.  Henry was nearly six at the time, so really, I was shopping, and he was there because my wife thought it would be a good idea.  I was a little bit nervous about it, as he had only been my stepson for a few months, and it was our first real outing on our own.  Having no other children, I worried I would do something wrong or someone might question if Henry belonged with me in the first place.  We do not look alike, and Henry is rather precocious and occasionally mischievous.  It was a legitimate concern that he might spontaneously run from me while yelling for help.  My wife, April, assured me everything would be fine.  The one thing, as she frequently reminded me, was that Henry had significant food allergies.  Avoiding nuts of any kind was particularly important.

Despite my paranoia, we headed to the mall in the late morning and I held his hand too tightly as we navigated the holiday crowds.  Around lunch time, I had begun to relax and enjoyed watching Henry test out the remote-control dinosaurs at a kiosk near the food court.  We admired the giant Christmas tree in the center of the indoor ice rink and laughed when the skaters fell or crashed into each other. 

A woman outside The Great American Cookie Company was handing out samples.  Henry asked if he could have one, though he had already finished most of a bag of candy.  I reluctantly agreed and got us both a miniature chocolate chip cookie before getting on the crowded elevator back towards the parking garage.  As the doors closed, I took a bite and immediately swatted the cookie from Henry’s grasp and began to panic.  What I thought were chocolate chips were actually tiny peanut butter cups.  I felt horrified as I frantically looked for anything I could use to clean the delicious poison off Henry’s hands.  I turned around to ask others for help and imagined the worst of what might happen at the passing of each second. 

I wondered what April would say and felt certain she would never trust me with Henry again.  I began to feel angry that the store wouldn’t have provided a warning or disclaimer.  Mainly, I was mad at myself for being so careless and unprepared.  When someone finally produced a mostly clean napkin for me, I poured some of my water on it and turned to clean Henry off, but I looked down and he wasn’t there.

I didn’t have the first clue what to do and was beginning to feel like I might pass out.  Panic, confusion, and dread washed over me in an instant, but I decided to return to each floor and hope to find him waiting for me.  I looked out at the sea of people each time the doors opened and my skin crawled.  I had no idea where he was, if he could breathe, or if he was swelling up in a stairwell somewhere.  I did what anyone in my desperate state would do and I called my wife for help.

Thirty minutes later, I ran up to the third-floor security desk to find Henry watching cartoons and finishing a Snickers bar.  I don’t know if he was no longer allergic or never allergic to begin with, but except for having eaten his weight in sugar that day, he was perfectly healthy.  He even told the security guard he was only kidding after claiming to have never seen me before.  After finishing the mountain of required paperwork and swearing never to return to The Great American Cookie Company, we went home to face the music.

-          Written for “No Longer Allergic or Fake Allergy”