The Weekend My Brother Kept Daddy

I wrote down what he liked for breakfast and what he wouldn’t touch. I wrote down that he’d ask about the cows at night and what to say.

I wrote Dr. Olson’s number, the pharmacy, the after-hours nurse line, our neighbor Pam’s number, and Mitch’s cell and mine at the top in big letters.

At the bottom I wrote: If he falls, don’t pull on his arms. Check him first. Get a kitchen chair.

Let him roll to his knees and use the chair to get up. If anything hurts or he can’t move his leg, call 911, then call me.

Then I copied it all neatly onto one big sheet of poster paper, ruled into boxes, and stuck it to the refrigerator with four magnets, right at eye level.

I stood back and read the whole thing through, and it was the first time I’d ever seen fourteen months of my life written down.

On Thursday I texted Kirk. I kept it short, because anything longer would have turned into the fight I didn’t want.

I wrote: Need you at Dad’s Friday at 3. Bring clothes for two nights. I’ll explain when you get here.

He wrote back an hour later: What’s going on? Is he okay?

I wrote: He’s fine. Just come at 3.

Friday came up hot and sunny, a real August afternoon, with the kitchen windows open and the curtains hanging limp.

I gave Daddy his lunch and got him into a clean plaid flannel shirt, because he would wear flannel in a heat wave and there was no use fighting it.

I set him at the kitchen table with his walker right beside his chair and his two weekly pill boxes in front of him, the lids all closed, Friday night’s dose ready to go.

I packed a small overnight bag with two changes of clothes, a toothbrush, sunscreen, and my reading glasses.

I put on my denim shirt and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. Then I sat down across from Daddy and waited, and he looked at me and said, “Are we going somewhere?”

“I am,” I said. “Kirk’s coming to stay with you.”

“Kirk?” Daddy’s whole face changed. He smiled like a boy. “Well, good. He can help with the cows.”

At five minutes to three Kirk’s car came up the lane. He walked in through the back door in his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, straight from the office, his graying hair cut short the way he’d worn it since high school. He looked tired, and he looked ready for a fight.

“Hi, Dad,” he said, and he squeezed Daddy’s shoulder. Then he looked at me. “Shel. What’s this about? If it’s about Paul, I can explain.”

I stood up with my bag in my hand and held out the house key, the old brass one on a ring with a little plastic tag from the Farm Bureau.

He looked at it in my hand like he wasn’t sure what it was.

“What’s this?” he said.

“The house key,” I said. “The schedule is on the fridge. His pills are in the pill boxes. The walker stays within his reach every minute, even when he’s sitting. Mitch and I will be at the fair until Sunday night.”

Kirk took the key. I watched him do it, slowly, and then his eyes went past me to the refrigerator, to the big sheet held up with magnets, and I watched him start to read.