Whispers in Silence -- 10
by BeckyS
10 Oct 2004

Tears running down his cheeks, Ben held his unconscious son in his arms as Hoss and Hop Sing cleaned up around them. He hadn't had to send anyone for the doctor; after one look at his brother, Joe had bolted from the room.

Adam knew. He should have told him, should have explained – but Adam had come to awareness more suddenly than any of them had imagined.

"You can set him back down," Hoss said at his shoulder.

Ben felt frozen.

"C'mon, Pa. Let me help you."

He looked up at his middle son as he clutched his eldest to his chest. "Hoss, he can't speak." His voice broke. "He tried, but he can't—he can't—"

Hoss pulled Adam from his father's arms and settled him back on the pillows. He took a washcloth from the shaving stand, dipped it into the water and gently washed his brother's face. "I know, Pa. I guess I've known for a while. I just hoped I was wrong."

"Paul said it might happen, but I didn't really believe him." What kind of future would his son have, reduced to writing notes every time he wanted to say anything? How could he negotiate contracts, boss the timber and the mines—Ben knew those weren't important in and of themselves, but they were things Adam was good at, that he loved doing.

And people were so cruel; oh, not the ones who already knew him, though their pity would be bad enough, but there would be those who would try to bully him, who'd badger him about no longer being the "smart-mouthed" Cartwright. He could see it coming.

"Pa." Hoss was pushing him away from Adam's bed. "Pa, c'mon out here a minute."

Ben looked up to discover he was in the hallway. He tried to jerk away, to get back to his son. "Hoss, let me—"

"Not yet, Pa. You gotta listen to me first."

He pulled again, determined to get back to Adam.

"Pa! Listen to me, dadburnit!"

Startled, Ben stopped and looked up at Hoss.

"Pa, he's alive."

"Of course he is."

"Stop an' think a minute, Pa. It was only two weeks ago that we was prayin' that he'd live. Remember, we was sayin' that we'd take him anyway we could, long as he'd live. An' he did. Then we wanted him to come back to us the Adam we know. Looks like we mighta got that, too."

Ben sank against the wall. "Are you saying I'm asking too much? That I should be grateful he's come this far? That I should forget what this means for him?"

Hoss scrubbed at his face, and Ben suddenly realized how tired he looked.

"Maybe I am. Whatever comes out of all this, however much he can get well, I'm gonna be grateful for the rest of my life that we didn't lose him."

"You're right," he said hoarsely. He put a hand on Hoss's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You're right; I need to remember how much we've gained, how far he's come." Determination gripped hold, though. "But I won't give up on him, Hoss. I won't assume he'll never get better."

"I ain't askin' that, Pa. Maybe Doc'll say this is just temporary, and I sure hope he does, but if it ain't, I'm still gonna be grateful I've got my brother back. We'll work a way around this. Adam's too smart and too stubborn not to figure something out."

A small bubble of a laugh rose from somewhere deep inside, and he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. "You're right, son, he is. And he'll have three other Cartwrights in his corner, fighting right along with him."

"It's called aphémie, if you want the French. Americans are calling it aphemia," Paul Martin said.

He and Ben were sitting in the living room, Ben in his favorite red chair, Paul on the end of the settee nearest to him. Hop Sing brought in the silver service, complete with sugar bowl and cream so the doctor could fix his coffee the way he liked it. A plate of small sandwiches was also on the tray, just the right size for nibbling. Paul picked one up, knowing the power of suggestion. As he bit into it, Ben reached over and took one as well. Satisfied, for he'd been worried about more Cartwrights than just his patient, he swallowed and continued.

"It was named by that doctor in France I was telling you about, Paul Broca. He's been studying the effects of injury to different parts of the brain. A man with a severe injury to the back of his head lost his vision. One who was hit in the same spot as Adam but on the right side of the head couldn't stop talking. Another lost the ability to move his left leg."

"And Adam's injury?"

"Right over what Broca believes is the location for speaking." He stared moodily down into his coffee and swirled it around a couple of times. "I'd say he's right."

Ben poured himself a cup of coffee. "These men . . . did they recover?"

"The leg never came back. The talking slowed down some, and the vision cleared completely. No one knows why."

Ben sipped at his coffee, and Paul could almost see him thinking, considering all the possibilities. "What about the future?"

Paul shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. How much he gets back depends on the degree of the damage. My reading indicates that the bleeding from his ear was actually a good thing, though I know it was alarming how long it went on. Kept the pressure inside his head down so it didn't kill him. The Egyptians used to drill holes in the head. With Adam, because of the way his skull fractured when it was hit, the bone was actually able to move outward a bit with the swelling. That, along with the bleeding, may have been enough to keep the brain from damaging itself any more than it already was."

Ben set his cup on the table and leaned back in the chair. "How bad is it?"

"Aside of the speech and all of the problems he'll have because of it, he's doing very well. He's been sitting up in bed, and from what you've said he understands most of what you're saying to him, at least until he gets tired. He's also trying to get across to you what he wants. Those are all to the good. As soon as his vision settles down, you can start moving him to a chair that has a back and arms, like a wingback. He's going to be very weak and he'll have sudden dizzy spells, so make sure someone is with him."

Ben looked up at the ceiling as if he could see through the wood beams to his son's room. His words were a strained whisper. "I couldn't help him, Paul. I could see in his eyes that he was crying out to me to help him, but I couldn't."

"No, Ben," Paul said gently. "You can't fix it. There's no magic wand, no miracle. There's only time and hard work on his part. I don't know what he'll be able to do; none of us do. But you know better than anyone what he's made of. He'll fight. He'll find a life." He reached for another sandwich and realized they were gone. He'd been hungrier than he realized. Well, it had been a long morning after a long night out at the Watsons' with a croupy child. He stood, and the room suddenly rose up in front of him.

Ben stood quickly and took his arm. "Paul," he scolded gently, "for all you badger us about taking care of ourselves, you don't seem to be doing a very good job on yourself. You sit right back down."

He sank gratefully down and dropped his head into his hand.

"Hop Sing!" Ben bellowed.

The cook scurried into the room, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Hop Sing, the doctor needs some good food and a rest. I'm going to take him to the guest room upstairs, if you'll get something together for him to eat."

Paul was about to protest when he realized Hop Sing was scrutinizing him carefully. "Honorable doctor must eat, must sleep. Must be rested to take care of Cartwrights. Hop Sing always sure to get plenty food and sleep; Cartwrights too much trouble if not rested."

Paul burst out laughing at the flabbergasted expression on Ben's face. "All right, I give in. I'd like to see Adam when he wakes up, so I may as well take a nap while I'm waiting."

Ben led the way up the stairs, still bemused. He finally just shook his head. He opened the door to a pleasant room on the shaded side of the house, and Paul sighed in pleasure. Bed had rarely looked so inviting. He slid out of his jacket to discover Hop Sing ready to take it from him. A tray already sat on the small table by the window with a red and white china bowl of rich, hot soup, a thick slice of bread slathered in butter, and a pot of exotic-smelling tea.

He glanced at Ben, who simply shrugged his shoulders and said, "I don't know how he does it. I'm just glad he does."

"I can see I'll be fine. Go on back to Adam, Ben. Call me when he begins to wake up, but go ahead and tell him what's happened, if you think he's aware enough. I think he'll take it better from you. I can fill in what details we know."

Ben nodded and left, and when Hop Sing was sure he was comfortable, he left as well. Paul savored the peaceful quiet as he ate the small meal. It was rare enough that he had a few minutes to himself.

As he settled himself on the bed, he mentally reviewed the articles he'd found on brain injuries. Godwin in San Francisco had been particularly helpful, sending along by stage some journals he'd recently received from New York. Paul thumped the mattress with his fist. There's so much we don't know! As a doctor and a scientist, he was fascinated by Adam Cartwright's condition. He'd been taking copious notes and would write a paper, hoping to contribute to medical knowledge. As a man, though, he was horrified at the thought of his friend trapped in his mind for the rest of his life. For one thing he hadn't mentioned to Ben was that speech wasn't the only thing reported to be affected by injuries to that particular part of the brain. What if Adam can't read or write, either?