Stonecrop Magazine

Alberto hits his brother on the back of the head, a gentle, prompting clip of contact. He picked that up from his father, that knee-jerk instinct toward deflecting his affection or concern with a puppy-delicate version of roughhousing—but he is concerned, because Joaquín hasn’t moved since he came to a standstill at the top of the stairs, staring glassily down at the landing and clutching his vase of red carnations.

Their grandmother had asked them to bring the flowers down. Some ladies from church had sent them yesterday immediately after the news broke, and they were coming by today to express their condolences in person. Grandma, Alberto thought, just wanted to show them that she’d put the flowers in water. Wanted to prove she could keep something alive.

“Go,” Alberto says. “Joaquín, go.”

Joaquín flinches, but he’s recoiling toward Alberto instead of away from him, putting more distance between himself and the staircase. He catches himself though, jerking to a stop with a heartbeat stutter of movement that Alberto recognizes from watching his mother jolt awake from nightmares.

Joaquín looks at him. His eyes are big and brown, disconcerted now in a way that Alberto’s have never been—not even yesterday, when he found Mom on the landing. Alberto still hasn’t registered what he’d been feeling then, but maybe he isn’t supposed to; Joaquín had come into the world already wide-eyed, but (and this was something his father always said) even when Alberto shakes, he’s steady.

“I don’t want to,” Joaquín says quietly. He adjusts his hold on the vase, shifting so he’s hugging it to his chest, and the rich, delicate red that grazes his chin makes his eyes look even darker.

“You afraid you’re gonna fall?” Alberto asks.

He meant the question genuinely, but immediately regrets it. Joaquín is everything like your mother, Grandma whispered to him last night, like it was a secret, and Alberto knew that meant she was scared he’d gotten all of her sadness, too.

It had made Alberto feel impossibly small. Even younger than fifteen.

Joaquín’s expression cracks. “I’m not scared of anything,” he spits, but the declaration wobbles. His legs do, too, when he staggers closer to the top stair, and Alberto reaches for him instinctively, trying to snag him by the collar but catching the vase’s glass lip instead. Joaquín yanks it back. A bundle of carnations dislodge, two spilling out between Alberto’s fingers.

Joaquín makes it four steps down the staircase before some of the flowers they’d knocked loose topple out. He falters, stooping down to try to pick them up, but he straightens when the vase’s water skews toward the rim.

Alberto only moves toward him when Joaquín makes that sound—that soft, involuntary sound that Alberto made yesterday, like a groan. Mom’s eyes had been wide open. Glassy.

“It’s okay,” Alberto says. He says, “I got it,” and, with all his mother’s measure, he bends down to pick up the carnations. Tries to straighten their crooked necks.