I Took the Care Chart Straight to Dad

The truth settled into place with a cold, unpleasant certainty. “Luis knows he’s getting worse,” I said. “He asked you to keep it from Mom.”

Mateo shut his eyes for a second. Exhaustion passed over his face so plainly that it seemed to age him. “He didn’t ask me to lie,” he said. “He just begged me not to tell her yet.”

He looked down at the floor. “He thought he needed a little more time to get stronger. But he isn’t getting stronger, Sof. The nerve damage is spreading.”

“We have to tell her.”

“No.” Mateo caught my shoulders, gripping hard enough to make me feel the tension in his hands. “You tore the chart off the fridge. You wrecked the system. You wanted me to stop keeping track of everything? Fine. I stopped.”

His face tightened. “But you don’t get to make this worse, too. If Mom finds out, it’ll break Luis’s heart, and it’ll break her. Keep quiet.”

“Mateo, I can’t—”

A crash burst from the front of the house and cut me off.

It was followed by the bright, brittle sound of glass breaking. Something heavy had hit the hardwood, hard enough to make the noise carry down the hall.

Mateo released me. The blood seemed to leave his face all at once.

“Luis,” he breathed.

We bolted from the bedroom and raced along the narrow hallway. Our socks skidded on the smooth floor as we rushed into the living room.

The wheelchair stood empty. Its brakes were on, though the chair had shifted a little backward.

Luis lay crumpled on the floor beside it, near the coffee table. His legs were caught at a wrong angle beneath him. Shards from a broken water glass glittered across the boards, and water darkened the front of his shirt.

His right hand clamped onto the table’s edge. His knuckles had gone white as he tried, without success, to pull his body upright.

He turned his face toward us. It was pale and damp with pain. The last of his pride seemed to have drained away with the color.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. A violent spasm seized his left leg and jerked it stiff. “I thought…I thought I could reach the water myself.”

I stopped in the doorway. Fear held me there. I had insisted that I could take on some of the work, but I had no idea how to lift my father from the floor.

Mateo was already moving before I could breathe properly.

His wet sneakers squeaked as he hurried past me. He dropped beside Luis, not seeming to notice the glass scattered near the rug.

“Luis. Look at me. Did you hit your head?” Mateo’s voice was steady, almost unnervingly controlled.

Luis shook his head, his features pinched tight. “No. My hip. My leg’s locked.”

Mateo checked him quickly, then looked over at me. “Sofia, come here. I need you.”

I hadn’t realized tears were running down my face until I wiped them away on my hoodie sleeve. Then I stepped around the coffee table and knelt beside the wheelchair.

“Keep the chair steady,” Mateo said. “Don’t let it shift when we lift him.”

I nodded, though my hands trembled. I braced myself against the wheelchair, holding it in place while Mateo slid his arms beneath Luis’s armpits and took hold of him from behind.

“Ready?” Mateo asked. His eyes stayed fixed on Luis. I tightened my grip on the chair and said I was.

The weight of an adult body was nothing like a hug, or someone leaning against you. Luis couldn’t help by holding himself up. Mateo carried nearly all of him, his arms straining as he hauled Luis upward.

“One, two, three,” Mateo grunted. “Lift.”

We raised Luis together. A sharp cry escaped him, thin and breathless, and it seemed to tear through the room.

The transfer was awkward and frightening. Mateo bore most of Luis’s weight while I kept the wheelchair from rolling or tipping. For a moment, the front wheels lifted. I clung to the chair and held it steady as Mateo lowered Luis into the seat.

When Luis was safely in place, we all paused, breathing hard in the sudden quiet.

Luis sagged forward, eyes squeezed shut. Mateo leaned against the wheelchair’s back, water dripping from his hair, his chest rising and falling as he tried to recover.

“I’m sorry,” Luis whispered. His voice shook. “I just wanted the water. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Mateo closed his eyes briefly. “You didn’t bother me. Let’s get you to bed.”

I walked beside them while Mateo pushed the wheelchair down the hall. The next transfer was a little smoother, but Luis still winced when his left hip met the mattress.

Mateo pulled the covers over him. Then he turned to the bedside table and took the Baclofen bottle. He shook out a tablet and divided it carefully in two with his thumbnail. I watched him bring Luis a glass of water.

Mateo leaned close and spoke quietly. “Swallow this, Luis.”