Being Wrong | ✓

Part 8

Charlie frowned at the tray of roast food as his grandma lifted the chicken out onto a plate. "I can't eat that."

"And why is that?" his grandma asked, voice tired.

Charlie pointed to the carrots in amongst the potatoes and pumpkin. "I'm allergic to carrots."

His grandma gave him a critical look. "Well I'm not sure I believe that, but I suppose I'll let you off just in case if you have a double serve of pumpkin."

Charlie fidgeted. "But they were cooked in the same tray. They have carrot juice on them."

His grandma sighed and swatted him out of the way. "Honestly, I am so sick and tired of you trying to get out of eating my food. You will eat it and you will be fine. Go and set the table."

Charlie shifted anxiously back and forth on his feet before nodding and going to get plates from the cupboard. Maybe if it was just a little carrot juice, if he didn't eat the carrot itself, it wouldn't hurt him. He didn't want another fight. He was so tired of fighting.

Even so, when he sat down to eat with his grandma and grandpa he did his best to cut off the parts of the food that had touched the juices. He remembered what had happened last time, how he'd felt like he was dying, and he definitely never wanted to experience that again. It was difficult to force his food down when he was upset, but he didn't want to get in trouble so he made himself.

Charlie was halfway through his food and just starting to think he might have managed to avoid setting off his allergies when he noticed the tingly, itchy feeling in his mouth. He stopped eating immediately and dropped his forked as he leant away from the table, eyeing his food as though it might attack him at any moment.

"Keep eating," his grandma told him, a warning tone in her voice. "That's not nearly enough. I thought you were so skinny because your father hadn't been feeding you right, but I'm starting to see the real reason for that."

Normally mention of his dad would have upset Charlie, but just then he was more focussed on the growing tightness in his throat. He rubbed at his neck with his fingers, as though that could do anything.

"Charlie," Charlie's grandma scolded when he ignored her.

"Listen to your grandmother, Charlie," Charlie's grandpa said. He sounded tired. He always sounded tired.

"I need a doctor," Charlie said, his voice coming out hoarse.

"What?" his grandpa asked.

Tears prickled at Charlie's eyes. What if they didn't believe him, if they just let him die because they thought he was faking it? His dad may have set his allergies off on purpose that one time, but at least he'd helped Charlie afterwards. At least he'd never accused Charlie of lying about it.

Charlie slumped forward and gripped his throat as he began coughing impulsively, his body trying to dislodge an obstruction that wasn't there as his airways constricted.

"Charlie?" his grandpa asked, concern in his voice.

"He's allergic to carrots," his grandma said.

"Then why the hell did you give him carrots, woman?" Charlie's grandpa demanded.

Charlie felt hands on him but wasn't sure whose until his head was lifted and he saw his grandpa. He studied Charlie for a moment before shaking his head. "Call an ambulance."

It was both relieving and terrifying to hear those words. They believed him, they would get him help, but he'd need to go to the hospital to receive it. He remembered last time, after the police raid, all the touching and confusion and tests. He wasn't sure if the painful pounding of his heart was a result of anxiety or the anaphylaxis.