The Groceries Hit the Floor

“I’ll bring the cereal to the church pantry on Sunday,” Dad said. “I bought it on sale without stopping to think.”

“It’s okay,” I told him, although it wasn’t.

“No, it isn’t.” He dropped the damp paper towels into the garbage and rested against the counter. His gaze wandered toward the opening to the living room, where the western played at full volume. Shots cracked; horses thundered across the screen.

“Dad!” Grandpa called from the other room, apparently unaware my father was in the kitchen. “Tyler, are we having dinner, or do I need to start chewing on the furniture?”

“We’re coming,” Dad answered. Then he turned to me, his shoulders drooping. “He can’t stand it when we argue about him.”

“I’m not trying to argue,” I said, sliding the last vegetables into the refrigerator. “I just want him to stay alive.”

“I know.”

We took our plates to the television and ate there. Over the past few months, that had become our arrangement. Sitting across from each other at the dining table would have meant noticing how much space my mother had left behind when she died, five years earlier. There were only the three of us now, each trying to avoid touching the others’ sorrow.

I’d cooked chicken on the grill and steamed broccoli. While we ate, I kept my attention on Walter.

He took his time and pretended not to notice me watching. Every piece of chicken got cut into a neat little square. He chewed slowly, with a show of calm that felt almost deliberate.

“Tastes good, Tyler,” Walter said, eyes fixed on the television. “Very... green.”

“Broccoli has fiber,” I mumbled, nudging the food on my plate. My appetite had vanished. The knot in my stomach from earlier still hadn’t loosened.

“Fiber,” he repeated with a sigh. “What a glamorous adventure for a man in his golden years.”

Dad gave a brief, weary chuckle as he swallowed a bite.

I stayed quiet, watching Walter clear his plate. I expected him to reach for another serving, or some snack he wasn’t supposed to have. Instead, he put down his fork and dabbed his mouth with his napkin.

“You need to check your blood sugar in twenty minutes,” I said.

Walter shut his eyes for a moment. “All right, warden.”

“I’m not a warden,” I shot back, feeling my defenses spring up again. “I’m reminding you, that’s all.”

“I know, kid. I know.” He felt around his pockets for his reading glasses. “I’ll check it. Give me a chance to see how this shootout ends.”

The house had settled into silence by the time night came. Walter was in bed, and his reading had been acceptable, so I could finally loosen my jaw. I sat at my desk with a history book open in front of me, though I hadn’t taken in a word. Next to it lay the little spiral notebook where I recorded his glucose readings.

My finger moved along the entries. 110. 145. 98.

Numbers. If I worked them out correctly, nothing terrible would happen.

A quiet creak came from my bedroom door. Dad stood there, freshly showered, his wet hair combed away from his forehead. He wore sweatpants and an old T-shirt. In the bright light, he looked tired in a way I hadn’t noticed before.

“Are you in the middle of something?” he asked.

“Homework,” I said. The lie was obvious.

He came in and perched on the edge of my bed. His eyes traveled around the room: the band posters I hadn’t paid attention to for months, the video games untouched beneath the television, the strict neatness I insisted on keeping.

“I’m going to call the clinic tomorrow morning,” Dad said, speaking softly.

I spun around in my chair. “Why? Is something wrong with him? Did you check?” I began to rise.

“Stay there. He’s okay. He’s asleep and snoring.” Dad raised a hand to stop me. “I want to book an appointment with the diabetes educator they mentioned at the hospital.”

I lowered myself into the chair again, frowning. “We don’t need that. I know how to work everything out. I read all the information. I know his ratios.”

“I know you do.” Dad leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and met my eyes. His attention felt so direct that I wanted to look away. “But this isn’t about teaching me insulin.”

“Then what’s it about?”

“You’re fourteen, Tyler,” he said, gently. “And today you threw eggs onto the floor because you were scared.”

“I was angry about the juice.”

“That wasn’t it,” Dad said. His voice held no anger, but there was no room to dodge the truth. “You studied every pamphlet and memorized all the figures. Somewhere in there, you stopped getting to be a kid. You took on the job of his nurse. I allowed it because I felt overwhelmed, and that’s my responsibility.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“You’re my kid,” he replied. “All three of us are going to that appointment. What we’re doing right now is making you unhappy, and it’s making Walter unhappy too.”

“If I stop keeping an eye on him, who’s going to?” I asked. My voice had dropped to a whisper as the fear climbed back, hot and hard to breathe through. “He doesn’t care. He’ll eat anything.”

Dad rose and crossed to my desk. Gently, he folded the wire-bound notebook shut, hiding the rows of numbers from view.

“We’ll work it out,” he said. “We’ll deal with it tomorrow.” He squeezed my shoulder and told me to get some sleep. Then he left, drawing the door nearly closed behind him.