Chapter Six
Lila
I sit back and watch as Micah’s body is pushed beyond its limits during physical therapy. Every stretch, every movement looks exhausting, but he endures it with that same quiet strength he always has. Today, on top of his regular therapist, there’s a student shadowing. Wide-eyed, eager, soaking in every detail.
I don’t mind. Locked-in Syndrome is rare, and Micah and I agreed long ago that if his struggle could teach others…help even one future patient…then it was worth the extra set of eyes. Still, part of me clenches at every adjustment, every instruction. He’s my brother, not a case study.
But Micah wanted this. And when I catch the faint flicker of determination in his eyes as they guide his limbs, I know why. He’s not just surviving. He’s showing them what strength really looks like.
“Wait,”
the student gasps.
“His fingers just moved. And… how is he breathing on his own?”
I take a long sip of sweet tea to hide my smile.
Because my brother is a freaking beast, that’s why.
“Micah’s brain injury happened when he was only twelve,”
the therapist explains, calm and steady.
“At that age, his brain was still developing at a rapid rate. It took over a year, but eventually his lungs kicked back in and started working on their own. He can swallow small amounts, move his fingers a little, even his toes if you tickle the right spots.”
The student’s eyes light up.
“So… is it possible for him to regain control over his whole body?”
My chest tightens already knowing the answer.
“Unfortunately, no,”
the therapist says gently.
“It’s been four years, and his brain has healed as much as it’s going to. But don’t let that fool you. Micah here is as sharp as they come. And with the way eye-tracking software improves every year, his ability to communicate has far exceeded what we’d expected at this stage.”
He isn’t wrong. Every year they come and update Micah’s device, and every year I’m floored by what new doors it opens.
“I read he can live a full life,”
the student says, hopeful.
“Locked-in syndrome doesn’t affect life expectancy?”
“No more than being in a wheelchair would,”
the therapist replies.
“As long as he’s properly cared for, Micah could live to be an old man. The biggest risk is respiratory…pneumonia, infections. Things his body can’t clear on its own.”
“Because he wouldn’t be able to cough out his lungs,”
the student says quietly.
Micah’s eyes flick, sharp and knowing, and my stomach knots.
I hate this part. I hate how clinical it sounds, like my brother is a condition instead of a person. But I also know his therapist is a good man. He’s always treated Micah with respect. Today, he’s teaching, showing this student what a future patient might need.
But… still. Watching my brother studied like he’s a textbook, while he listens with those wide, intelligent eyes...it burns in a way I’ll never get used to.
“Alright, Micah,”
the therapist says as he lifts my brother from the mat back into his chair.
“We’re done torturing you for today. But I’ll be back tomorrow around lunchtime.”
Micah’s gaze shifts immediately to his screen. The therapist pauses, waiting. He knows my brother has something to say.
“Bring pizza.”
The therapist bursts out laughing, shaking his head.
“I know your sister blends food smooth enough to fit through your tube. Has she been depriving you of pizza?”
I roll my eyes and step closer, watching as Micah’s eyes dart over the grid. Squares blink in rapid succession, words forming almost faster than I can follow.
“Not enough. I need that cheesy goodness every day.”
The therapist chuckles, but I’m somewhere else…back in the beginning, when Micah first got his eye-tracking machine. Back when it took him minutes to peck out a single word, frustration tightening his face until I thought he’d shatter.
But now… now he flies through sentences, whole conversations spilling out in a voice that is his again. He’s even saved paragraphs, jokes, and stories he can pull up with a blink.
I love that. I love that I can talk to my brother again. Really talk to him.
Because of this screen, this technology, he has his voice back.
And now?
Now, he’s unstoppable.
“Sissy.”
I glance down at my brother, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Yeah?”
…
“Bree’s game?”
“Right,”
I laugh, though the sound comes out more like a sigh.
“We’ve got to get moving. She’s already at the field practicing. You’d never forgive me if I made you late.”
His eyes flick upward…his version of you know it…and my chest aches with love.
We say our goodbyes to the therapist and the eager student, then I move quickly through the routine I could do half-asleep by now. Hook up the feeding pump. Check the lines. Administer the meds. Make sure nothing’s tangled.
By the time I’ve wrestled his chair into the van and climbed behind the wheel, my arms feel like lead. My head throbs. All I want is a long nap, ten hours of dreamless dark.
But in the rearview mirror, I catch Micah’s eyes shining with anticipation. Bree’s game. That’s what matters to him right now. That’s what has his eyes so alive.
So, I turn the key, swallow my weariness, and drive.
***
“Mama, we totally kicked butt.”
Bree barrels into my arms, dusty and flushed, her ponytail coming loose as I scoop her up. She smells like sunshine, grass, and sweat, and I press my face into her hair anyway, breathing her in.
“Yes, you totally did,”
I laugh, squeezing her tight.
“You were amazing out there. How about we celebrate? What do you want to do?”
“Go to the movies!”
she cheers as I set her back on her feet. She spins toward Micah, eyes sparkling.
“Uncle Micah, want to see that new shark movie?”
His screen lights up with deliberate blinks.
“Yes.”
“Of course you do,”
I murmur, smiling as I help Bree into her seat and buckle her in. She’s still talking a mile a minute, reliving every play, every cheer, every laugh with her teammates. I secure Micah and his chair, the movements biting into my already aching shoulders as I lean and tug the straps tight.
For the next ten minutes, the two of them chatter about how awesome her team was, their words and voices bubbling with joy and excitement, filling the van with warmth.
I grip the wheel, my eyelids heavy, my bones begging for rest. The thought of a dark, quiet theater almost feels like a blessing.
Please, God, I think as I pull onto the road, don’t let me fall asleep.
“Mama, can we go back to the park in the morning?”
Bree asks as I pull into the theater parking lot, her voice hopeful from the back seat.
“I have to work in the morning, baby,”
I remind her gently.
“And you both have school.”
“Dang it. I forgot summer was over and school was back. I wish I could have school at home like you, Bubby,”
she sighs, leaning against her seatbelt.
Tears sting my eyes at the nickname. It’s what I call him sometimes. Hearing it from her mouth feels like a gift, like she’s carrying that piece of me forward.
Micah’s eyes flick down to his device, and a handful of seconds later it speaks for him:
“No, you don’t. Boring.”
Bree bursts into laughter.
I shake my head, smiling even as my chest aches.
“We’re here. Who wants to watch some sharks eat people?”
“Me!”
Bree bounces in her seat, practically vibrating with excitement. Her enthusiasm for bloodthirsty monsters should worry me, but it just makes me laugh.
I pull into the handicap spot for vehicles with ramps, throw the van into park, and let out a long breath, stretching my aching shoulders. For a moment, I close my eyes, savoring the stillness, before forcing myself to get moving.
When I slide the side door open, Bree is already halfway unbuckled, grinning like she’s about to burst. Micah waits patiently, his dark eyes calm, his pump humming softly behind him.
“Alright,”
I say, plastering on a smile as I kneel beside the chair.
“Let’s go watch a movie.”
Hiding my exhaustion, I lean down and start the process of removing Micah from the van.