Page 7 of Property of Max
“That good, huh?” I tease, shaking my head. “Guess applesauce is giving chocolate pudding some competition.”
Micah’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Never,”his eyes tell me.
Most people don’t understand how Micah communicates. How much he still has left. Locked-In Syndrome stole every muscle in his body, but it didn’t take his eyes. Not completely.
He can blink. He can look up. He can look down. He can even move a few fingers a small amount. For the most part, that’s it. The side-to-side movement of his eyes is faint, almost nonexistent, so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But I notice. I always notice.
That’s why his communication device is set the way it is…rows of glowing squares that scroll up and down instead of side to side. His eyes can follow that motion, can choose, can tell me what he’s thinking when nothing else will.
Some people say it must be maddening, being trapped in a body that won’t obey. But when I see the spark in his gaze, the way he rolls his eyes at Bree’s jokes, I know he’s still in there. Still my brother. Still Micah.
Like now. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a face. Not a single sound. But I can still read his eyes as clearly as if he shouted.
“Nothing will ever beat chocolate pudding, huh?” I ask softly.
He blinks twice. Our code forno.
“Uncle Micah, watch this!” Bree announces. She plants herself right in front of his chair, gives a dramatic flourish, and then launches into a cartwheel.
“Want to see it again?” she asks breathlessly.
“Yes,”his device replies after a careful pause.
So, she does it again. And again. And again, until she’s giggling, and even Micah’s eyes seem to sparkle brighter with every tumble.
When she finally collapses onto the grass, she grins at him. “Let’s play bumble bee, bumble bee.”
It takes longer with Micah’s device, every phrase a process, every answer a choice he has to fight to make. But Bree waitspatiently, never rushing, her laughter filling the air each time the computer voice buzzes out his turn.
And me? I just sit back and watch them. My body aches, exhaustion tugging at me like a weight I can’t shake. But I don’t let them see. I can’t. Because for these few minutes, the world feels light for both of them. And I won’t be the one to steal that.
Micah’s pump lets out a sharp beep, the kind that makes my chest clench until I realize what it is. It’s just empty. I kneel beside his chair, sliding the bag out of his backpack, and add two more containers of Ensure. A quick flush of the lines, a few practiced motions, and the pump hums back to life.
That’ll be the last batch for today. The machine runs almost sixteen hours straight, feeding him slow and steady, drip by drip, giving his body the nutrients it can’t get any other way.
I brush my hand over the backpack that holds the pump, the steady rhythm of it oddly comforting. Luckily, his insurance covers the formula and the equipment. I don’t let myself think too long about what I’d do if it didn’t…because the truth is, I have no idea.
Several minutes later, while Bree tosses bread crumbs near the pond, two sharp beeps cut through the quiet. My stomach sinks instantly.
At home, Micah uses a standard wheelchair. Light, simple, just enough to move him from point A to point B. He doesn’t stay in it for long. But out here, for traveling, we use his power chair. It keeps his body supported in a safe position, locks into the van floor, and powers his communication device so he can “talk” wherever we go.
The power that has just died.
“Oh no,” I whisper, eyes going wide as Micah shifts his gaze toward me. “I am so sorry. I must have forgotten to charge it after the last time we used it.”
Panic prickles beneath my skin. I scramble to pack up what’s left of our picnic, shoving food back into bags with shaking hands.
“Bree!” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “Come on, honey. Help me carry this stuff to the van.”
She doesn’t question, just gathers what she can and runs ahead. The van’s only ten feet away, but with Micah’s chair sitting dead and useless, it might as well be ten miles.
“When we get home,” I say, trying to force lightness into my voice, “I won’t even complain if you give me the silent treatment for this.”
Micah rolls his eyes, and despite everything, a laugh bubbles out of me. “Brat,” I mutter fondly.
Ignoring the ache already burning in my back, I crouch beside him. “Okay, easy part first.”
