Chapter 3 - The Thing Mateo Wanted
Mateo did not want to walk again.
At least not first.
That surprised everyone.
When Dr. Pennington asked during a rehabilitation meeting what his biggest goal was, Vincent expected the obvious answer.
Walking.
Standing.
Moving his legs.
Instead Mateo said, “I want to go to school.”
Vincent’s stomach dropped.
Dr. Pennington nodded.
“That’s a good goal.”
“No.”
Everyone looked at Vincent.
He immediately regretted speaking.
Mateo’s face hardened.
Clara sat beside him, silent.
Vincent continued.
“Security is complicated.”
Mateo looked away.
Dr. Pennington cleared his throat.
“Social reintegration is important.”
“He has tutors.”
“That is education,” Clara said. “Not childhood.”
Vincent looked at her.
“This is not your decision.”
“No. It’s his.”
Mateo stared at the table.
Vincent felt trapped.
Not by them.
By his own fear.
“What if something happens?”
Mateo’s voice was quiet.
“Something already happened.”
Nobody spoke.
The words landed differently because an eight-year-old had said them.
Vincent looked at his son.
Mateo continued.
“I was in your armored car.”
Vincent flinched.
“There were guards.”
“Mateo—”
“Mom was there.”
“Stop.”
His voice came out harder than he intended.
Mateo immediately withdrew.
Clara looked at Vincent.
Not angry.
Worse.
Disappointed.
Vincent stood and left.
He walked all the way to the garage before Dominic found him.
“You planning to drive through a wall?”
Vincent lit a cigarette.
He had quit six years earlier.
Dominic looked at it.
“That bad?”
Vincent stared at the concrete.
“He wants school.”
“That seems normal.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“Everything is dangerous.”
“He’s in a wheelchair.”
Dominic’s face changed.
Vincent heard himself.
He swore.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Dominic leaned against the car.
“You think the chair makes him easier to hurt.”
“Yes.”
“And keeping him home forever makes him what?”
Vincent said nothing.
Dominic had known him since they were sixteen.
He could say things other men could not.
“You buried Elena,” Dominic said. “Don’t bury the kid in the same year.”
Vincent turned.
“Careful.”
“I am being careful.”
Vincent looked at the cigarette.
Then crushed it beneath his shoe.
That afternoon he found Mateo in the conservatory.
Clara had placed a laptop on his tray.
They were looking at schools.
“Public?” Vincent asked.
Mateo looked up cautiously.
“Yes.”
Vincent almost said absolutely not.
Instead, “Show me.”
Mateo turned the screen.
A neighborhood elementary school.
Accessible entrance.
Elevator.
School nurse.
Adaptive sports program.
Vincent read every word.
“How many entrances?”
Clara sighed.
“Vincent.”
“What? That matters.”
Mateo said, “Three.”
“Cameras?”
“Dad.”
“Fine.”
He sat.
“What do you like about it?”
Mateo looked suspicious.
“The science lab.”
“Anything else?”
“They have wheelchair basketball.”
Vincent blinked.
“You want to play basketball?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s different from no.”
Mateo smiled slightly.
Three weeks later, Mateo attended school for the first time since the bombing.
Vincent parked two blocks away.
Not outside.
That was Clara’s rule.
“You cannot turn first day of school into a presidential motorcade.”
He had compromised.
Two plainclothes guards.
One vehicle.
No visible weapons.
He hated every second.
Mateo wore a navy jacket.
Clara walked beside him.
Vincent remained in the SUV.
“You can go,” Dominic said.
“No.”
“You’ve been staring at the door for fourteen minutes.”
“I’m monitoring.”
“You had the camera removed but somehow became the camera.”
Vincent ignored him.
At 3:02, children came out.
Mateo appeared.
Vincent leaned forward.
A boy beside him said something.
Mateo laughed.
Then another child pushed the back of Mateo’s chair without asking.
Mateo spun around sharply.
Vincent reached for the door handle.
Dominic grabbed his wrist.
“Wait.”
The child stepped back.
Mateo said something.
The other boy nodded.
Then they moved on.
Vincent relaxed.
Dominic released him.
“What happened?”
When Mateo got into the car, Vincent asked.
“That kid pushed you.”
Mateo rolled his eyes.
“You saw?”
“Yes.”
“He forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“To ask.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him the chair is part of me, so don’t grab it.”
Vincent stared at him.
“And?”
“He said sorry.”
“That’s all?”
Mateo looked confused.
“What else?”
Vincent almost laughed.
In his world, touching a man’s property without permission could start a war.
Children apparently handled disputes better.
“How was school?”
Mateo tried to look bored.
“Okay.”
Clara got into the front seat.
“He made two friends.”
Mateo groaned.
“Clara.”
“And corrected the science teacher.”
“She was wrong.”
“And got invited to sit with three kids at lunch.”
“Stop.”
Vincent smiled.
Mateo saw it.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that face.”
“What face?”
“The weird proud one.”
Vincent looked away.
Dominic started laughing.
That night, Mateo asked to eat dinner in the dining room.
Not upstairs.
The staff nearly dropped three plates.
Vincent sat across from him.
Mateo talked about school.
Not continuously.
Not like before.
But enough.
A teacher.
A boy named Jamal.
A girl named Harper who knew every dinosaur.
A wheelchair basketball practice on Friday.
Then Mateo became quiet.
Vincent waited.
“What?”
Mateo pushed peas around his plate.
“Jamal asked about Mom.”
Vincent’s chest tightened.
“What did you say?”
“That she died.”
“And?”
“He said his dad died.”
Vincent looked at him.
Mateo continued.
“Then we talked about Pokémon.”
Vincent blinked.
“That was it?”
“Yeah.”
Something about the simplicity hurt.
Adults treated grief like a room they needed permission to enter.
Children could walk through it and then talk about cartoons.
Mateo looked up.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Do you miss her every day?”
Vincent stopped.
He could have said yes.
Instead, the truth was more complicated.
“Not every minute.”
Mateo listened.
“But every day.”
Mateo nodded.
“Me too.”
Vincent’s throat tightened.
The boy looked down.
“Sometimes I don’t want to because then I feel bad.”
“For not missing her?”
“For being happy.”
Vincent put down his fork.
“Mateo.”
The boy looked up.
“Your mother loved hearing you laugh.”
Mateo’s eyes filled.
Vincent continued.
“She would be furious if you stopped because of her.”
Mateo gave a wet laugh.
“She got mad a lot.”
“At me.”
“At everybody.”
“That’s true.”
For the first time in fourteen months, father and son laughed about Elena.
Not around her death.
About her.
It hurt.
But it was a different kind of hurt.
One with warmth inside it.
Across the room, Clara watched from the doorway.
Then quietly walked away.
May you like
She understood something Vincent was only beginning to learn.
Some moments did not need a witness.
