Superman
I’m in the kitchen at three o’clock, flipping burgers with Rome on my hip, feeling the quiet rhythm of an ordinary day, when I get a text from Andrew-
911 come down.
My stomach drops so fast I stop breathing. I don’t think — I just move. I grab Andrew’s slippers since they’re the nearest shoes I find and fly down the stairs in my sweats with Rome still clinging to my hip. I burst outside and the world shifts into something sharp and loud: an ambulance angled in the street, police cars, neighbors gathered in a loose, anxious circle.
Then I see him.
Andrew is holding Trey, and Trey’s face is bruised and bleeding in ways that break my heart. Something inside me tears open. But my body moves toward him anyway, steadying myself with Rome’s weight on one side and Irie’s little hand gripping my other. I try to keep my voice calm for her even though my chest is burning.
The paramedics are unbelievably kind. Strangers are, too. Someone from the ice cream shop gives Irie a scoop for free. When she drops it on the sidewalk they hand her another one without a word. For a moment I’m held together by the gentleness of people we don’t even know.
Get Dani Dugan’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
I call my dad, crying into the phone while Rome shifts restlessly on my hip. “Trey was hit by a car and they drove off!” I try to breathe slowly, deeply, but I keep talking, keep moving, keep holding my children like that alone might keep us upright.
When Petti arrives, she takes Rome, and Irie and I follow Andrew and Trey to the ER. Irie skips beside me, bright and peppy, unaware — or maybe refusing to see — the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
Inside, after triage, scans, tears and baited breath, they place Trey in a room with a little boy named Kai whose chin is freshly stitched after a dog attack. The kind of room where two parallel nightmares sit ten feet apart. Trey’s bed slowly fills with toy dinosaurs until it looks like a nest built to protect him. He looks so small, but heroic.
We wait.
And wait.
Vitals, questions, tests, vomit, Tylenol, more waiting.
Andrew goes home to see the other babies. We switch and I try to sleep at home too even though I’m scared and working hard to regulate my nervous system. Back at the hospital I curl next to Trey in the narrow bed, wires surrounding us, his forehead pressed to my collarbone, his breath warm against me.
By the time they finally discharge him, I’m hollowed out and full at the same time. Andrew and I are excited to reunite him with his siblings after the heaviness of the last 24 hours. “Can we play the demon hunter K-pop songs?” he asks from the back seat.
The normalcy nearly breaks me.
We play Takedown and Soda Pop by Huntrix and Saja Boys.
We drive past the Seattle skyline glowing through the window, the city looking gentler than it ever has, or maybe I’m just slower now, more aware of the miracle of an ordinary ride home.
And only then — only when we step through the door — do I feel my body exhale. Not all the way. But enough. Enough to know we made it. Enough to trust the ground. Enough to believe the world is settling under my feet again.
