As soon as Michael and I walked into the supermarket I could feel myself needing a drink. There were certain things I needed and there were certain things Michael needed.I needed milk and toilet paper and ground beef, Midol for the pains and red wine for the other pains. Onions and garlic and tomato sauce. Perhaps some fancy shaped pasta just in case Henry ever decides to come for dinner again. Michael needed diapers, Play-Doh, applesauce, and crayons. He pulls me hard with one of his large, fleshy, sticky hands towards the cake display.
“Mom, can I? Can I? Can I?”
“Michael! Stop shouting!” I explode.
He presses his innocent, sticky face on the glass window of the case and eyes the colorful graduation, birthday, and congratulation cakes with lust. I remember for his birthday last year I got him a store bought cake with a clown on it holding a bunch of colored balloons on which were written, “Happy 17th Birthday, Michael.” He cried when I scolded him for eating it with his hands.
I take him by the arm and we move onward. There are more things I need. I need makeup and pantyhose for the job interviews, a fresh pack of ballpoint pens, envelopes, and whiteout. Michael needs handiwipes and Kool-Aid mix and Band-aids with dinosaurs on them. As I watch him systematically fondle himself, pick his nose, and suspiciously eye the lobster tank all at once, I realize there are things we both need that are not on my list. I need hope and support and sanity. I need comfort and strength. Michael needs friends who are like him, acceptance, and a complete brain.
“Michael!” I bark, as I swat his hands, “18-year-old boys do not do that in public.” And I take his arm and we go to get more red wine.
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