Back with the latest installment. This one made me kind of depressed as I was writing it, but I think it certainly fits especially in terms of where the story is going. Let me know what you guys think.

Thanks to Jo the Phoenix for feedback, support, etc.

Chapter Fifty-Two: Simple Pages

Maddy Drake flicked on the bathroom lights and closed the door quietly behind her. The genteel matriarch tightened the sash of her pink, silk robe with cherry blossoms printed all over. Her terry cloth slippers made shuffling sounds on the white, tiled floor as she made her way to the stainless steel-framed mirror that hung over the porcelain sink. Underneath the soft glow of the opaline glass shades of the wall sconces, she examined the reflection that met her gaze.

As someone who was often mistaken for being younger than her years, she was beginning to show her age. The creases around her eyes and mouth were more defined than she previously remembered. There was even more silver in her wavy, dark-blonde hair now. Her cornflower eyes seemed to have lost the sparkle, replaced by a dullness that was strange and disconcerting.

While most people might have inferred that time was catching up with her and thus responsible for these changes, she knew better. Her world had been turned upside down overnight. Life as she knew it was altered in such a way that rendered her in a position of helplessness. She felt like an observer, unable to do much to assuage the suffering that now permeated her everyday existence. The resulting drain upon her, physically and psychologically, was clearly evident in the woman who stared at her from the mirror.

It had been several weeks since Bill's stroke. The doctors had called it an ischemic stroke, to be exact. This kind was associated with oxygen deprivation, often caused by a blood clot. The clot itself was limited to one area of his brain, which affected the extent of the resulting damage.

Turning on the stainless steel, crook-necked faucet, Maddy leaned over the sink and splashed some cold water on her face. She inhaled sharply at the shocking sensation, widening her eyes as she turned off the water. Then she grabbed a towel from the nearby steel towel ring and dried her face. Burying her face in the mothering darkness, she made her way to the plantation teak bench situated against the wall.

Her mind began to replay those hellish hours in the hospital waiting room. Fortunately, she had not been alone for long. Shortly after she called Bobby, she contacted Bill's sister, Kathy, and her two children, Mary and Joel. Kathy and Mary soon arrived within thirty minutes while Joel and his wife, Grace, came about an hour and a half later after leaving Ellie with their nanny in Manhattan. The family members descended upon Maddy, offering comfort and strength in this dire time of need.

As it turned out, Mary was dating one of the attending physicians assigned to Bill, which made obtaining information somewhat easier. The young, cherubic-faced Dr. Aviva Steiner provided the family with updates on his condition on an intermittent basis. In her first update, she explained that they working to restore blood flow to his brain. She also informed them that his blood pressure and breathing ability were being monitored.

An hour later, she returned to the waiting room to give another update. She told them that Bill's vitals were now stable. Because the stroke was diagnosed within three hours of the start of symptoms, he was being given a tissue plasminogen activator which would act to dissolve the clot.

It was at this point, Dr. Steiner became grave. Maddy felt her skin grow cold as she braced herself for the worst. Her ears were only able to pick up on certain words the doctor was saying. It was as if her head was swimming in thick water, making the ability to hear and comprehend nearly impossible. In spite of this, the picture was quite clear. Since Bill was immediately unconscious after the stroke, his chances at a full recovery were decreased. However, the full extent of his impairment would not be known right away.

After this, Maddy heard nothing else. She was oblivious to Dr. Steiner's attempts to be optimistic. The Drake matriarch was deaf to the possible timeline of recovery for most people. She did not listen as the young doctor explained to her that the more ability he retained after the stroke, the more independent he was likely to be upon discharge from the hospital. None of this registered with her.

The only thing she could wrap her mind around was the possibility that her husband might not come back to her.

Upon realizing this, Maddy had reached her breaking point. A strangled cry escaped from her throat. She had been standing but soon felt her legs unable to hold her weight. Her hands were shaking violently and the churning in her stomach intensified, forcing her to double over. The genteel blonde felt she was about to collapse when she felt a pair of arms circle around her. Through the tears stinging her eyes, she struggled to see who was responsible for catching her.

Bobby.

She remembered her head coming to rest against his shoulder. Shutting her eyes and allowing her tears to flow freely, she sobbed his name. As his arms tightened around her, Maddy could feel his sorrow and his strength. There was something in his embrace as well.

Cold.

Maddy had pulled back, startled by her son's low body temperature. She thought he had better control of his abilities, but then surmised that he was too emotional. Instinctively, she reached out to him again. This time, he responded by guiding her to the chair, placing some distance between the two of them. At first, his rebuff wounded her. If there was ever a time she needed some comforting from her son, it was at that moment.

However, as she observed Bobby and the way he was reacting to the situation, she realized that her boy was more like his father than anyone knew. Like his father, Bobby wore a mask of calm restraint in the face of this dire situation. With his father ill, he became the rock. His gray eyes took on a steely quality as he listened to the young doctor talk about some of the disabilities resulting after the stroke, such as weakness, difficulties in eating, and problems walking or moving in general. The vulnerable little boy she knew was now taking on a new role.

When Bill was conscious, the complications became clear. Since the stroke was limited to the left hemisphere, his entire right side was affected. He was unable to move his right leg, limiting movement and causing swelling. Further testing revealed that his ability to judge distance, size, position, rate of movement, form, and the way individual parts related to a whole object were impaired. In order to get his attention, one had to stand to his left since he favored this unaffected side. The ability to produce words was now difficult, as he often struggled to come up with the intended word or simply ended up stuttering. His memory was also affected, as he was only able to hold onto small pieces of information for a brief period of time.

Maddy felt a part of herself wither away and die inside. Gone was the man who was her pillar of strength. He was replaced by someone who seemed so fragile she almost did not recognize him as her husband. She was immediately reminded of that time he was assaulted and seriously injured by those animals sent by that politician, Graydon Creed. As she gazed upon Bill, she realized that this was quite different. This time, there was no fight in his steely, gray eyes. This time, there was nothing.

Before she and Bobby brought Bill home, they implemented the recommendations from the doctors, nurses, and rehabilitation therapists. They cleared up the clutter around the house to prevent any falls. Night lights were placed in all rooms. Bobby marked off lines on the doors and full-length mirrors so that Bill would know what was vertical. Maddy bought sock spreaders and attached small metal rings or pieces of strings to zippers or button holes to make dressing a little easier. They set aside large-handled silverware for Bill since they were told to anticipate that the elder Drake would have problems grasping objects.

During this time, neither one talked much. It was as if they were still reeling from what fate had dealt them. In spite of their efforts, nothing about what was happening felt real. They simply pressed on with the necessary preparations for Bill's return. There was no other choice.

The caregiver role was not a new one to Maddy. Most of the basic suggestions as to how to assist her spouse in recovery were still ingrained in her mind. She was the one who looked after Bill's injuries after he was savagely beaten and left for dead. Though Bobby had come home to help, she was the primary person who dealt with his rehabilitation and adjustment.

Yet, she found herself enveloped in apprehension and doubt. There was something about a stroke that invoked anxieties that ate away at her at night when she was alone. What if Bill had another stroke? What if he was unable to accept or overcome new disabilities? Did she have the strength to do this?

Maddy sighed, lowering the towel from her face. She had tried to mask her fears, particularly when Bill first came home. As she helped to dress him, take him to the bathroom, and feed him, the Drake matriarch wore a mask of calm resolve. She went through her days, attempting some semblance of normality. Her afternoons were spent talking with him, watching TV, playing cards, and focusing on his rehab, such as teaching him new skills that were once so easy for him.

But underneath her graceful and strong veneer, brewed something else. She was grieving. The man who came home to her was not the William Drake she knew. He seemed like a ghost of his former self. The strong, determined hands that often cradled hers were now weak, unable to even lift a spoon at times. His gray eyes, the feature that first attracted her attention because of their fire that burned behind them, now stared off into space. That willful, often stubborn, spirit that fueled much of his previous recovery was nowhere to be seen. In short, this man was not her Bill.

Upon coming to terms with this, Maddy buried her face in the towel and cried.

Like his mother, Bobby was up early this morning. Sleep for the boyishly handsome young man was something that often eluded him these days. To compensate, he was developing a coffee habit that was poised to rival that of Scott Summers. Not that he was complaining really. The way he saw things, there was more important things to be mindful of these days.

He pulled on a pair of cargo pants over his blue, plaid boxers. Then he ambled to his closet to slip his feet into his favorite flip-flops before making his way out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He almost turned back to grab a T-shirt, but quickly stopped himself and remembered that he was wearing one at the moment.

He always wore one now.

His shoulders sank when he remembered why this reality filled him with a sense of dread. Bobby paused at the top of the stairs and closed his eyes. As someone who had a great deal on his plate, it was a never-ending struggle to rein in the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He had to keep it together. Now more than ever.

When he first arrived in Long Island, thoughts of his own condition were placed on the backburner. Instead, he was consumed with worry over his parents. In spite of the fact that he and his father were not close, Bobby found himself nearly inconsolable over the possibility that the elder Drake was gravely ill. However, he managed to hide his feelings in order to support his mother, who appeared as if she were falling apart with each passing second.

Unfortunately, Bobby was quickly reminded of his troubles when he tried to hold Maddy. Almost immediately coming into close contact with his chest, she recoiled. Even now, he could still see her eyes widen with surprise as she shivered.

He knew at that moment that from now on, it was safer to keep people at a distance.

So, as much as he wanted to hug his mother and return her attempts for some show of support through some physical contact, he refused. It hurt to see the confusion and bewilderment in her eyes. She needed him and he was fully aware of that. Yet, he was firm to his commitment. Bobby simply told himself that he would have to support her in another manner.

As a result, he found himself taking on his father's role as Maddy's tower of strength. At the hospital, Bobby was the one who talked with the doctor about Bill's prognosis and what would be entailed in his rehabilitation program. In addition to helping to get the house ready for his father's arrival, the younger Drake was caring for his mother, who was drained both physically and psychologically. He made sure she herself got plenty of rest, took over some of the housekeeping, and even picked up some cooking. Granted, most of his meals consisted of variations of English muffin pizzas, but it was still a contribution.

Since his father's return home, Bobby immersed himself in the elder Drake's care in order to distract himself from his own problems. Alongside his mother, the two of them continued the therapy Bill had started at the hospital. Together, they worked on increasing his strength and teaching him some of the skills he had lost—skills that had once been second nature to him. They worked on primarily on Bill's motor functioning for the first couple of weeks, ensuring that he was moving the arm and leg that had lost sensation as a result of the stroke. This would entail scheduled walks around the house at least twice a day. Other therapeutic interventions were soon introduced to focus on his memory, perception, and speech.

For the most part, Bobby noticed this rehabilitation was different from the one his father went through following his injuries from being assaulted. This man was rather passive in his recovery, allowing himself to be led by Bobby and Maddy. He did not provide any insight as to how he was feeling, preferring to lapse into silence. His appetite was lacking and he lost several pounds as a result. The elder Drake seemed to be in a constant state of lethargy, his movements sluggish.

This time, there was no fight, no determination to overcome what happened to him, no indication that the trademark Bill Drake grit was still present. All that remained was a sense of frustration that soon gave way to what appeared to be helplessness. In a word, Bill had given up. His body had betrayed him and there was not a damn thing he was going to do about it. He was resigned to his fate.

It was a hardly a secret that this devastated Maddy. In spite of her efforts to conceal her own pain, Bobby knew she was suffering. He was quite aware that, at this very moment, she was locked in the bathroom, sobbing. Her anguish over her husband's condition was palpable. One could see it in her eyes and discern it from the deeper lines in her face. Without asking her, Bobby could tell that she was mourning the loss of the man she loved and the life they had shared. Not only had things changed for his father, but the effects of the stroke touched her as well. She was sleeping in the guest room now, keeping a monitor to listen in on Bill. There were no more walks on her own, no more gardening, and no more book club meetings with her friends. Her daily activities now revolved around caring for him.

There were so many times Bobby wanted to reach out to his mother, to let her know that she was not alone and that he was there to help shoulder what seemed to be the insurmountable. She seemed so fragile these days. It was as if she might fall apart at any time. But then he remembered what happened at the hospital when he first hugged her. He thought about the ice on his chest and her response upon coming into contact with it.

So he continued to keep away.

Because he had to.

For some reason, he thought of his Jubilee, who was waiting back in Westchester for him. The worried look in her sapphire eyes continued to haunt him. Every time he closed his eyes at night, he would see her in the Med-Lab area. Her confused, apprehensive expression was etched so deeply in his mind that there were times he thought he would break down. He knew their last encounter left much to be desired.

Looking back, he had to admit that it was extremely out of character for him to avoid wrapping his arms around her. During his time in Genosha, he had missed her so desperately. His mind teased him with illusions of her by his side, replaying conversations they had before his departure. There were times when all he could think about was her hair, her skin, and the taste of her mouth.

Yet, he had denied himself.

Absently, he placed a hand over his chest. The iciness that met his touch greeted him like a bitter slap in the face. He grimaced.

Jubilee had called him the day after he left for Long Island in order to check on him as well as the rest of the Drake family. Her voice was filled with anxiety as she asked him if there was anything she could do. She had even offered to drive up for a visit so that she could help.

Bobby remembered feeling a lump form in his throat. Her sentiments touched him. He could not recall the last time any of his previous girlfriends had ever expressed such genuine concern for him. Granted, he had never experienced anything as serious as this while he was involved in these relationships, but there was something about what he had with Jubilee that implied a deeper connection that was more meaningful. It went beyond the carefree times they shared or the more intimate moments that transpired between them. She loved him that much.

There was a part of him that wanted to tell her yes. He was so lost and lonely in his own preoccupations these days. The only people he interacted with now were his mother and father, who were consumed by their own varying degrees of despondency. Seeing her lovely face would be like seeing the sun again. To feel her arms around him might make feel whole once more.

Or she might recoil from him the way his mother did.

No, he just wasn't ready to see her. At least, not right now. As much as it killed him inside to do it, he declined her offer.

He could still hear her inhale sharply over the phone, evidently quite surprised at this rebuff. It was painful to hear. The first thing he wanted to do was to recant and beg her to ignore what he said. But he remained committed to his position, and thus, did not act.

She had cleared her throat, as if summoning the courage to ask him a question. Though her voice was small, Jubilee's directness still shone through as she said, "Is there something else going on? I mean, are you okay? I'm asking because… After you got back, you were…different."

Bobby could still hear his heart thudding in his ears as soon as she confronted him. He had forgotten how perceptive Jubilee could be. She was no telepath, but the way she could read people was just as impressive. For a moment, he believed she knew.

Quickly, he dismissed his conclusion. Short of having X-ray vision, there was no possible way she could be aware of what happened to him. Still, he had to explain himself. He considered telling her the truth—that he was slowly turning into a living block of ice. He thought about discussing how this would impact them and their lives. It would be so much easier to be honest with her about the situation. She loved him, after all.

But he did not do any of those things.

Instead, he was evasive. He had said, "I don't know what you mean."

There was a hint of incredulity as she responded to his assertion. "At the Med-Lab, when I first saw you, you didn't seem happy to see me."

"Well, I just found out about my father being sick." Which was partially true, Bobby told himself.

She sighed, exasperated more with herself with her lack of grace in approaching him. "I know and I understand that," she had said to him. "It's just that when I tried to get close to you, you acted like you didn't want anything to do with me."

Bobby had winced. That was never his intention at all. Immediately, he hated himself for giving her that impression. "I'm sorry, Jubes," he murmured apologetically. "I never meant to hurt you like that."

"I'm not hurt. I'm just worried."

"Don't. I'm just going through some things right now. That's all. You have nothing to worry about."

As he lied to her, there was a bitter taste that emerged and stayed in his mouth ever since.

Needing to think about something else, Bobby was about to descend the stairs in order to brew a fresh pot of coffee when the bathroom door opened. A pale and drawn Maddy poked her head out. Nervously, she smoothed her hands over her unruly, dark-blond bob. Then she forced a smile, one that belied her puffy eyes.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she greeted, her throaty voice sounding huskier than usual. Leaning against the doorframe, she clasped her hands together. "You're up early."

"So are you."

"I couldn't sleep."

Bobby felt a pang of sympathy in his chest. He hated seeing her in such distress. The little boy in him wanted to take away his mother's pain. There was a part of him that yearned for the days when he could bring a smile to her face by simply placing his hands over her cheeks and resting his forehead against hers. Things were so much easier back then. There was no illness and his parents were invincible beings to him. Back then, there was no awareness of any other truth.

Again, he restrained himself from rushing to Maddy and to swallow her in a hug. But somehow, he summoned the strength to reach out to her, placing a hand on her arm. He decided that such a gesture could be afforded now. At this point, his need to empathize dominated over his fear of being found out.

"Mom, why don't you lie down and let me take care of breakfast?" he suggested gently. His gray eyes were alarmed to see the almost dazed quality in her facial expression despite her best effort to portray a more collected façade.

The genteel Drake matriarch shook her head, patting his hand. "No, that's alright," she protested, sniffing. A wave of guilt washed over when she saw the anxious expression on her son's face. The last thing in the world she wanted was for him to worry about her. He had already been through enough in her eyes.

"I know it's alright, so that's why I'll be making breakfast this morning," he told her dryly, taking her hand and beginning to lead her out of the bathroom and towards her temporary quarters in the guest room.

Maddy paused in her steps, resisting his efforts. "Oh, Bobby, I don't know how many more English muffin meals I can eat."

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. It was the first joke she made since the stroke. For a moment, he almost believed that she was fine and that she would return to her former self. But the despair that shadowed her face these days told him otherwise.

"No English muffins this time," he assured her, boyishly handsome face solemn. "I'll figure something out."

She shook her head again. "Bobby, you don't have to. Just let me go downstairs. I think I have some almond scones and tangerine curd in the kitchen."

"Great. I'll go down and get everything ready."

"Bobby—"

"Mom, relax. I can do this."

"So can I." Maddy's lower lip quivered. Then she said in a low, pleading voice, "Just let me do this. I need to do this."

Bobby studied his mother. This wasn't just about her being persnickety about his English muffin sandwiches. Though her words did not indicate this, the expression on her face and the tone in her voice said it all. She wanted to do something else to take her mind off from crying over her husband. The need to engage in a mundane activity would make her believe that for a brief moment, her existence was normal. If preparing breakfast was going to provide such a reprieve, then she was certainly going to after the task.

He relented, releasing his mother's arm. "Okay, Mom," he said, nodding.

She smiled, relishing her small victory. The unspoken communication that transpired between them left her feeling a bit overwhelmed. Seeing her sweet Bobby now, she was reminded of when he was still small, still eager to please, and still her whole world. Reaching to grasp his hand, she gave it a gentle squeeze.

Then she released it and took a deep breath to collect herself. "Well, let me go downstairs and get everything ready." Her cornflower-blue eyes glanced over her son's shoulder and towards the door to the room she had shared with Bill for so many years. "Could you look in on your father? If he's awake, you can bring in a tray for him."

Bobby followed her gaze. The way she was making her request delineated her wariness to face her ill husband this early. It would destroy her illusion that nothing had changed. "Sure, no problem," he reassured her.

Grateful, she gave him another smile, but it never reached her weary eyes.

While Maddy was walking down the stairs, Bobby made his way to the master bedroom. The door was kept slightly ajar now since Bill had problems gripping the doorknob. It also made checking in on him somewhat easier and less intrusive.

The younger Drake poked his head in, surveying the scene. Morning sunlight streamed in through the windows, which gave the mustard-colored walls an airy feel. On top of the stately, broad-shouldered chest of drawers with an ebony finish were all of the medications Bill was currently taking. There was dextroamphetamines for his memory, anticonvulsants for his pain, and methylphenidates to speed his recovery. In addition to these drugs, there was a bottle of antidepressants, which was a recent inclusion to Bill's daily cocktail.

Propped outside of the private bathroom was Bill's aluminum cane. Since the stroke, Maddy had it fashioned with a rubber tip to prevent him from slipping. Other precautionary measures included removing all of the loose rugs and installing beige carpeting in the room, having the electrical cords secured with clips against the wall, and clearing all of the clutter.

Bobby peered over in the direction of where his parents' king-sized bed was located. He was surprised to see his father sitting up, supported by pillows that were laid against the high-paneled headboard. The Drake patriarch looked rather small in his blue-and-white, striped pajamas. His silver hair was rumpled and his gray eyes seemed dazed, as if he had just awakened.

Gingerly, he turned his head to the left side, which was unaffected. When he saw his son in the doorway, he raised one of his brows inquisitively. However, he made no attempt to greet him. The stroke had impaired his ability to speak. While he could produce certain sounds or words, stringing together complete sentences was rather difficult for him now.

Bobby interpreted this as his cue to enter. He opened the door and walked inside. Though it still unnerved him to see his father looking so different than the imposing figure from his childhood, he forced himself to calm down. As soon as he reached his father's bedside, Bobby pushed away the cart Maddy had been using to serve his meals upon and pulled up one of the benches from the foot of the bed. Seating himself on the padded, linen top, he gave the elder Drake a small smile.

"Morning, Dad." Bobby took great care to initiate eye contact and to speak slowly but in a normal tone of voice just as the therapist instructed him to. He learned that people with certain forms of aphasia, like his father, only had problems speaking but were not deaf. "How are you feeling today?"

Bill blinked, parting his lips slightly. The right side of his face did not move much as he did so, the result of some residual paralysis. He moved his mouth forcefully. It appeared as if he was struggling to form words. There were soft, unintelligible noises that escaped from his throat. For several seconds, he tried and tried to express something coherent, something that would respond to his son's questions. Much to his frustration, his tongue was failing to cooperate. At a loss, he closed his mouth and waved his left hand listless, as if to say, "I'm alright, I suppose."

The younger Drake nodded in understanding. He watched his father, lie back in his defeat. Bobby could detect a flash of anger in the other man's gray eyes as he was confronted again with the fact that his body had betrayed him. Then it disappeared, replaced with a dull resignation that seemed to characterize him these days.

For Bobby, this was so unlike the father he had grown up with. Bill Drake was strong-willed and independent. He was from the generation, where fathers were supposed to provide and protect the family. This made him somewhat unapproachable at times, and as Bobby grew into adulthood, difficult to talk to rationally. However, this was not to say that Bill disliked being a family man. Though he had some erroneous perceptions of the world and how things should be, he was steadfastly dedicated to his family. Seeing the Drake patriarch like this now, Bobby found himself overwhelmed. In addition to feelings of sympathy, he could feel his father's pain and rage just by simply looking at him. Both were that palpable.

Bill studied his son. The carefree, jovial energy he seemed to emanate was gone now. Instead, the young man sitting at his bedside was quite solemn and serious. His boyish face appeared weary with dark circles under his normally twinkling eyes, indicating that he had not slept very much lately. Yes, Bill concluded, this was a different person from the Bobby he knew.

Pressing his hands into the sateen border of the blue-and-white duvet that was draped across his body, the elder Drake was furious. Bill hated the way his son was aging so quickly before his eyes. It seemed as if Bobby went from his mid-twenties to his thirties within the weeks he had been here. His sense of humor and playfulness, aspects of Bobby's personality that sometimes got under Bill's skin, were nowhere to be seen. Now, his son carried himself with a quiet reserve in everything he did.

Related to what he was observing in Bobby were the changes in Maddy. Bill hated the way his wife was relegated to being his caregiver. His beautiful wife, who was so full of happiness and light was now a shell of her former self. Her everyday existence now seemed to be draining her of her spirit. Even though she had been acting in a similar capacity when he was beaten up several years ago by those animals, this time was different. As a result of the stroke, the extent of his disabilities were a little more severe. He could no longer move around on his own without some occasional help from her. For the first couple of weeks, he had needed her assistance in dressing and going to the bathroom. It was humiliating for them both. However, what truly killed him inside was the fact that he could not talk to her. He could not take away the worried expression that was etched in her face through any kind of reassurance, or that he loved her.

But most of all, Bill hated himself—for failing his family.

Though he was tired and feeling a bit stiff this morning, Bill made an effort to shift his body slightly. He stretched his left arm over the nearby ebony, one-drawer nightstand and attempted to grab the notepad and pen. Because he was unable to talk much, he sometimes wrote to communicate. Given that he was left-handed to begin with, it was not too difficult for him to do—at least compared to other tasks. After several tries, he finally retrieved both.

Bobby watched as his father placed the pad of paper in his lap. The elder Drake's hand shake slightly as he began writing slowly and with great care. When he finished, Bill pushed the notepad towards Bobby. Leaning forward in his seat, Bobby read what his father had written.

REWARD.

A puzzled frown creased Bobby's forehead. Reward? What does that mean? he wondered. "Dad?"

Sensing his son's confusion, Bill used his pen to tap over the word he had just written.

"I still don't get you." The younger Drake was still perplexed by this apparent riddle his father had posed. Quickly, he racked his brain in an attempt to decipher what Bill could possibly be referring to.

Then Bobby remembered the therapist Maddy had hired said that people with certain forms of aphasia sometimes scramble words or letters in words, either orally or in writing. Mentally, he tried to manipulate the position of letters. After several seconds of trying combinations of letters to form other words, he finally narrowed down the possibilities to a logical one.

"Drawer?" he asked his father quietly.

Bill nodded before jerking his head in the direction of the nightstand.

Bobby pulled the drawer open to find a black, leather-bound journal with a dark brown spine. His father's initials, WFD, were debossed in silver foil on the front cover. Carefully, he lifted it from the cedar drawer and placed it on the bed by his father's side.

Bill moved his lips vigorously, desperately trying to speak. "O-Op… Op…En…" He balled his hand into a fist, rapping it next to the journal with each attempt.

Bobby watched him grimace, his father's face set in a mask of frustration. Listening to each effort, he tried to wrap his mind around what the elder Drake was trying to convey. Finally, he was able to decipher the meaning. "Open?"

Relieved that he did not have to produce any more atrocious sounds, Bill nodded emphatically.

Bobby complied with his father's wishes, turning the journal to the first page. He looked over at him for approval to read, which he received in the form of another nod. Inside, he saw the following written in black ink:

The journal of William Frederick Drake, 2002-2003.

2002-2003. The year his father spent recovering from his injuries following that brutal assault. Quizzically, the younger Drake glanced at Bill, who was breathing rather loudly but in an even fashion. The situation was rather strange. From where things were going, he was being handed the opportunity to look into his father's most private thoughts. Clearing his throat, Bobby asked, "Dad, you want me to read this to you? Are you sure?"

Again, Bill nodded. Then he reached out and tugged on the red grosgrain ribbon tucked inside the journal. His gray eyes then stared into his son's, as if to say, "Start here."

Bobby followed the implicit directions provided and opened the journal to the marked page.

June 18, 2002

This is my first day back from the hospital. As much as I disliked being there with all those overly cheery nurses, I find that being at home is worse. Bobby has returned and it is more than clear to me that he blames himself for what happened. But I don't. He's the one who gave me the strength to do what I did. Although I want to tell him that, I can't. It's my own damn insecurities that prevent me from doing so.

I still can't move around on my own. Either Maddy or Bobby have to help me out. They and the doctors are telling me that I'm doing much better, but I certainly don't feel like it. In short, I hate being a drain. I hate seeing my wife like this, waiting on me hand and foot like I'm some kind of damn baby. It's times like these when I think about ending it all just to save her.

Bobby stopped reading, a lump forming in his throat. It would be too hard to read on. He raised his head to see his father's response. To his complete and utter astonishment, Bill was crying.

Suddenly, Bobby found himself doing the same.