“Frankie?”
My eyes shoot up from the road and into the rearview mirror, watching a bundle of blankets with a mop of red hair squirm around in the backseat. I’ve barely made it a mile away from the hospital parking lot and already he’s complaining. He had spent the weekend in the hospital, running a crazy fever and coughing up this awful colored gunk, and I am beyond exhausted from dealing with that. Luckily I haven’t been feeling too sick myself but I can feel a migraine growing in my neck and it’s starting to rain outside. I always get sick when it rains.
Gerard coughs and whines my name again, struggling to sit up under his mound of warmth. I’m turning around to talk to him when this shitty blue Supra flies in from the left lane and I nearly rear-end it. I have to slam on the brakes and it kinda sends Gee chest first into the center console, making him wail in pain and begin coughing rather violently.
“Fucking shit,” I curse, rubbing my palms into my eyeballs to try and get a moment of clarity, “Are you okay?”
His coughs die out into hiccups and he shimmies back up onto the seat, hiding his face in the upholstery, “Uh huh.”
That’s when I spot the huge LED display for a Walmart. Okay, not exactly my saving grace but he’s got a bunch of prescriptions that need filled and we need some food in the house that isn’t frozen or from a can. I’m just hoping he can make it through a shopping session without: a)breaking something; b)stealing something; or c)dying.
I pull into the parking lot, half-tempted to take up a handicap space and just argue my way out of it. But I don’t, because of course, it is Walmart so they’re all taken. Gerard chokes pathetically as I pull into a space, tugging down a quilt so he can speak, “What are you doing?”
I sigh and try to give him an apologetic look, “We need food and you need medicine.”
He moans in protest and tries to roll over, cursing as he falls down into the foot well. “I hate Walmart,” he cries, voice muffled by all the blankets.
I put the car in park and click off my seatbelt, turning around so I can face him. He’s still flopping around on the floor like an idiot, his legs kicking out at the window. Thank god he isn’t wearing shoes. I grab onto his shoulder, tugging the quilt aside so I can help him back onto the seat. “It won’t take long,” I try to argue, but also sounding as affectionate as possible, “And you can ride in one of those electric carts.”
He gives me an incredulous look, but then chokes out a giggle. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he whispers, as if it’s against the law or something.
I roll my eyes and crawl into the back, landing on top of Gerard and making him squawk and flail all his limbs at once. I give him a (gentle) noogie and kiss his forehead, wrapping my arms around his torso. “It won’t take long,” I repeat, kissing him again.
He nods and cuddles into me, coughing into my neck, “I just wanna ride the carts.”
I pop open the back door and shimmy outside, tugging Gerard out along with me. Gerard huffs when I take away his blankets, huddling against the cart corral as he bitches. Finally I grab him by the waist and we shuffle towards the entrance, trying to avoid mini vans and him slipping on any ice. It had begun snowing this morning, only to warm up and turn to a cold bleary rain. But of course Gerard would find the one patch of ice in a parking lot and fall down on it. He’s just good at that kind of thing.
When we walk inside, instantly we’re blind-sided by a rush of color and sounds. There’s also this overwhelming smell of fried chicken coming from the deli and I can feel Gerard gag against my throat. It’s then I spot the rows and rows of carts, along with a line of motorized ones charging against the wall. I smile and push Gerard towards them, “Your chariot awaits, highness.”
