Whispers in Silence -- 6
by BeckyS
10 Oct 2004

Doc Martin sighed and placed his coffee cup back in its saucer. He leaned onto his elbows as if only the dining room table was holding him up, and rubbed at his eyes. "Ben, I don't know what to tell you. It's good that he's responding to you, even if you had to explain to him what to do, but I can't say why he isn't speaking. It obviously has something to do with the head injury, but whether this is temporary or permanent is beyond me."

"He is getting better, though."

"Yes, he's better than he was, and that's heartening. Just how much improvement we can expect is also beyond me, as is how we're going to measure it. As I've told you before, we just don't know enough about how the brain works."

"Were you able to find a specialist?"

"There is a man, a Frenchman, but I don't know where he is. He's been on a lecture tour in Europe, and I'm still trying to catch up with him. From what I understand, if he knew of Adam's condition, he'd do whatever he could to help. I'd just need to send him the details."

"Whatever it takes, Paul. If you need money to track him down, to send him telegrams, no matter how long they are—"

Paul smiled. "I know. I just have to find him." Uncharacteristically, he started to play with his cup, turning it one direction, then the other. "Ben, there's one other thing."

Ben felt a quiver of trepidation. "What's that, Paul?"

"You need to be prepared for Adam's moods."

Ben sat back into his chair. "What do you mean?"

The doctor sighed. "Adam has always been somewhat temperamental. He says it's logic, but you and I know that a lot of the time when he gets mad, it's really because he's frustrated. A good part of the rest of the world doesn't think the way he does, just plain isn't as smart and doesn't catch on as quickly. He's always been very good about making accommodations, but I'm afraid that's not likely to be true any more."

Ben took a sip of coffee, hiding a grin behind his cup. "Paul, right now I'd welcome his worst tantrum."

Paul laughed humorlessly. "Well, I'm glad to hear you say that, because it's just exactly what you're likely to get. Head injuries are complicated, and people who've been as ill as Adam lose a lot of the ability to control their emotions. Add to that the problems with communicating, and as he gets better, becomes more aware, he's going to get extremely frustrated. Remember Little Joe when he was three? He was always wanting to follow his brothers around, do the things they did, but he wasn't strong enough or big enough or didn't have the skills he would need. He didn't know many words, couldn't express what he wanted or how he felt, so, like any three year old, he let you know about it."

Ben let his memories range back over the years. Yes, the battles with his youngest had been legendary, worse than anything he'd seen with his other two boys. "But Adam's not a child—"

"No, he's not," Paul interrupted. "You said he's already struck out once, at that bowl of soup. If he's lost the ability to speak, and if he comes back with his memories basically intact – as we all hope – he's soon going to figure out just exactly what he can and cannot do."

"Adam . . . without his words . . ." Ben set the cup down, horrified. "He's always talked as a way to defuse his anger, his frustrations."

"If this were Hoss, someone with a calmer, more accepting personality . . ." Paul shook his head. "This is going to be hell for him."

Paul could see by the expressions flitting across his face what Ben's thoughts were as he worked it through. He wasn't surprised, though, to see his friend, finally, stiffen his backbone and look him straight in the eye. "As long as he comes back, Paul. We'll deal with his temper if it comes to that, just as long as he comes back to us."

Paul's words proved prophetic. Adam's temper, always before kept under rigid control, was now given free rein, and Ben soon began to wonder if they would all survive. Anything that upset his son would trigger a near knock-down, drag-out fight. Only his overall debility and the pain of his not-yet-healed injuries allowed them to control him. He still had a good left hook, though, as the shiner Joe now sported proved.

"I think we need to hire some help," Joe said from behind the steak that was draped over his eye. He was sprawled on the settee, feet on the coffee table, head tilted back.

Hoss dropped into the red leather chair by the fire, one arm cradling his ribs. "A week ago I woulda said no, but now . . ." He shook his head. "Pa ain't gonna go for it, though."

"Go for what?" their father asked as he descended the stairs, rubbing one arm.

"He go to sleep?" came the somewhat muffled voice of his youngest.

"Finally. I think he wore himself out. Go for what?" he repeated.

"Help," Hoss said. "We gotta get some help, Pa."

Ben drew himself up and narrowed his eyes. "We're doing just fine, all by ourselves."

Joe lifted a corner of the steak, and Ben winced at the red and purple bruising. "Yeah, Pa, that's why my eye's twice its size, Hoss is trying to figure out if his ribs are cracked, and you're hanging on to your arm like you're afraid it's gonna fall off."

"The one thing we don't need right now, young man, is your sarcasm."

Joe's gaze held steady – with his one good eye, anyway. Then, without a word, he settled the steak more comfortably and let his head drop back onto the settee.

Ben sighed. "Let me take a look at that." He peeled the now-warm meat off Joe's face and grimaced. "Hop Sing!" he called.

Their cook arrived immediately, carrying another steak on a platter. "This one cool, Hop Sing take that one back to kitchen."

Hoss looked up hopefully. "Any chance of one of 'em landing in a pan anytime soon?"

Hop Sing made a sound suspiciously like a snort and waved the platter in the air. "Clean. Garden. Take care of chickens. Go Virginia City for special herbs. Make special food for Mr. Adam. Cook good meals no one eat. Now Mr. Hoss want special meals. No time."

Ben finally grabbed the platter and swapped the two steaks. "I know you're busy, Hop Sing, but we all appreciate the extra work you're putting in, especially for Adam."

"Not know this. How Hop Sing know this?" He scowled at Hoss, who shrank back into his chair. "This one alla time want food." He turned on Joe, who hid under the new piece of meat. "This one never eat." He poked an angry finger at Ben's chest. "This one eat, but never taste." He then turned to the stairway. "That one . . ." but he finally ran down. He turned pleading eyes on his boss. "Nothing help."

Ben relaxed as he realized that Hop Sing was as upset and frustrated as the rest of them. "No, everything you do helps him. It's slow, but he really is getting better." He sank down into Adam's favorite chair and looked at his family. He was trying to think of something to say to them, some way to encourage them, when he heard a crash from above.

He took the stairs three at a time, followed by Hoss and Joe, and he burst into Adam's room to find his son lying on the floor, curled around his stomach as he convulsed in dry heaving. Ben knelt next to him and gathered him into his arms; tucked his head against his chest as if he were a small boy again. "There," he murmured, rocking slightly. "It'll be all right, son; it'll be all right."

"What the heck happened?" Joe asked, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

Hoss pulled at the covers that Adam had dragged to the floor. "Lemme help you get him up in bed, Pa. Get on over here, Joe, and give me a hand."

Hop Sing scurried in with rags and a bowl of water. "You move Mistah Adam; Hop Sing clean."

Ben ignored them all, concentrating only on his eldest whose body shook as if he'd never get warm. He could feel the keening breaths, though no sound came from Adam's throat.

A new voice, whispered but furious, entered the fray. "What in God's name is going on here?" said Paul Martin. Quiet it may have been, but it cut through the noise into instant silence. "You and you," he pointed to Hoss and Joe, "out of here now! Hop Sing, set that on the washstand – you can clean up later. Ben, as soon as we get Adam back in bed, you go keep those two boys quiet. Don't any of you have a lick of sense?"

The room cleared, but Ben didn't move. Adam had a grip on his arm that telegraphed his agony more clearly than any words. Ben looked up at the doctor, who was still furious. As calmly as he could he said, "I'm not going to let go of him until he's ready."

Paul knelt beside them, his voice soft, but the anger gone as suddenly as it had come. "Let's see if we can get him up on the bed. Looks like he banged his leg up good and proper."

Ben looked over at the bandaging around Adam's thigh, now tinged with red at the edges. He sighed and nodded. He pulled Adam's shoulders back just a bit, trying to see his face. "Son?" he asked. Adam just burrowed closer. Ben gently took his face in his hand and turned it up. His heart turned over at the distress reflected on his son's face. He was still breathing heavily, and he closed his eyes.

"He's feeling pretty sick about now," murmured Paul. "Move him easy, or we'll have another mess to clean up."

"I don't think there's anything left," Ben commented with a wry twist to his mouth. He rose slowly, and with Paul's help, managed to lever Adam back into bed.

Paul took Ben by the shoulder. "Now, you go downstairs, too, and keep everyone quiet."

"I'm not leaving Adam."

"Ben, keep your voice down. I'll take care of him, but you can help more by making sure that no one starts another ruckus. Adam needs quiet, and I do mean quiet."

Ben stood still in the silence, aware suddenly of all the noises of the ranch that he had heard for so long that they now melded into the background. Men down at the corral cheering on a bronc rider, pots banging in the kitchen, someone chopping wood – and with each ring of the ax, Adam flinched.

He raised his eyes to the doctor's, saw the compassion. He nodded. "I'll be back when I've taken care of it."

"Let me take care of that leg and then I'll be down to talk with you. You can decide how to handle things after we talk."

Ben nodded and walked as quietly as he could to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he turned back for a moment as if to say something more, but then left and silently closed the door behind him.

Paul turned his attention back to his patient. "Adam?" he asked very softly. He felt for fever, relieved not to find any heat, but the cold, clammy white skin told its own story. "Open your eyes for a minute, Adam." He waited patiently, repeating quietly, "Open your eyes."