In the following days, Ben came to believe it was not the chair that had disturbed Adam.
Of course, he never really believed his son's distress had been because of the inanimate object. He just hadn't known what exactly had caused it, what could have been so frightening, overwhelming, and daunting to prompt or demand such a violent reaction.
The chair was removed, a decision swiftly made by Hop Sing. He had been waiting, quietly watching Adam and Ben's interaction from the small hallway connecting the dining room and the kitchen. When Adam's tears had finally calmed to a sporadic sniffle and he had not yet been willing to emancipate himself from his father's arms, Hop Sing had quietly entered the dining room. He took the chair, removing it without explanation, permission, or apology. Ben neither asked why he was doing such a thing, nor did he ever glean where the dreaded item was to be taken. At the time, he was too focused on Adam to be concerned about anything else.
But Hop Sing came to him later when Adam was in the company of his brothers.
Standing in front of the fireplace, a drink in his hand, Ben stared absently at the flames. He wasn't thinking of anything, rather he was trying not to think of anything at all. Taking solace in the absence of thought was a difficult thing to do; there were always so many things to think about, countless moments to recall, and endless worry.
Hop Sing was quiet, light on his feet; Ben hadn't realized the man had approached until he turned around, his back facing the flames. He discovered Hop Sing standing paces away. They assessed each other for a few silent moments, each seemingly waiting for the other to speak.
It was Hop Sing who spoke first, his face contorting, pinching with concern. "What frightens Mista Adam not chair," he said. The statement was matter of fact; his voice was quiet, but his tone was firm; there was a conviction behind his words and in his dark eyes.
The statement was not something Ben needed confirmation of. Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, he took a series of small sips, allowing a few more moments to pass and the right words to come to him before he finally replied.
"He's confused," Ben said, repeating the obvious. "His mind is sick."
"No," Hop Sing disagreed firmly, shaking his head. "No. He no sick. He no confused."
Ben frowned. It had been such a taxing day; he was not in the mood to navigate Hop Sing's denial.
"Hop Sing—"
"Mista Adam leave. He go with younger brother to deliver cattle. He become lost." Hop Sing pointed at Ben. "Father and brothers leave too. They gone for long time. They find him; they bring him home, but Mista Adam no come back alone."
"I know. He returned with us."
"No," Hop Sing said. "Father take time, see through Adam eyes, he understand Adam only one who see clearly."
"He sees what clearly?"
"Móguǐ," Hop Sing said grimly. It was a word and reference Ben couldn't begin to understand as he watched Hop Sing raise his hands and waive them purposely through the air, firmly punctuating his next words. "No sick, no confused. He no come back alone."
Ben dismissed the concerned warning. He accounted for the odd, determined statement to cultural differences and definitions of words lost in translation. Surely, he and Hop Sing equally understood the sad truth of what was happening to Adam; if they could speak further on the topic, both utilizing and comprehending the same language, then they would come to find they were saying the same thing. After all, Adam had not come home alone; he had been in the company of his family. He hadn't been sick then or confused—at least not at first. Those things had come later. And as for the chair, both Ben and Hop Sing knew it was nothing to be frightened of. It was only Adam whose opinion differed.
In the days which followed, the chair remained absent from the table and Hop Sing lingered closer to Adam than he ever had before. Using a fine-tipped brush began to paint Chinese symbols on the tops of Adam's hands, whispering what sounded to Ben like prayers or incantations in his native language while the ink dried. Ben didn't know if he approved of such a thing but something about the symbols seemed to be comforting to Adam; they calmed him in a way nothing had before.
When Hop Sing's drawings expanded from the back of Adam's hand to the back of his bedroom door, however, Ben was furious. Adam's confusion didn't justify defacing the woodgrain of a perfectly good door. He immediately demanded it be replaced, then something incredible happened. No longer rising in the middle of the night, Adam remained in his own bed, in his own room. And that was when Ben decided to leave well enough alone. Hop Sing could write all over the house if it left Adam confident enough to spend the night on his own.
Adam's newfound nighttime routine wasn't so easily accepted by everyone. With his older brother in his own bed, it was Hoss's slumber which became disturbed. He woke multiple times during the night, overcome by worry and anxious to verify Adam's safety.
"Sometimes I dream we never found him," Hoss admitted to Ben one morning. "It was easier to ignore my nightmares when I woke up and he was on the other side of my bed. Now, with him gone, I open my eyes still believing the dreams are real and I have no choice but to look in on him, and every time I do, I find myself wishin' he was still too afraid to spend the night alone."
Shaking his head, Hoss's conflict over stating such a thing was clear.
"I hate I'm sayin' it, Pa," he continued. "I really do. But just because Adam suddenly decided he ain't afraid to be in his room alone, that don't mean he should be allowed to be."
"Why?" Ben pressed softly.
"He don't sleep. Every time I look in on him, he's awake. He's never in bed; he's always by the window, standing or sitting as he stares out into the darkness like there's something out there to be seen. It's like he's standing watch. It's like he's waiting for something to come. I know that don't that don't make sense but swear that's what it seems like."
It was Hoss who had first discovered Adam's odd behavior during the night, and it was Ben who was the first to identify and note his eldest son's strange reactions to things during the day. The occasion with the chair was the first and most of the ones which followed were subtle in comparison to that morning; they were so minute they could have almost gone unnoticed. Ben began to wonder if he had been missing them all along.
Adam would be peaceful, unbothered one moment, his attention set on whatever lay before him, and then it was as though he perceived something about his surroundings as suddenly changed, then he would change.
Brows knitting painfully, fists clenched, he would set his focus on something neither Ben nor his other sons could see. His breathing would change, each inhale becoming more labored than the one before; his eyes would change, widening with dread and fear. He would move then; seemingly turning his back on whatever it was he saw; he would find a new place to sit or stand and then it would be over. The situation would be calmed as quickly as it became troublesome.
They were such quick, small reactions, easily missed or overlooked by a casual observer, and Ben was convinced he had been missing them. Determined not to see what was before him, afraid of seeing Adam as who had become, of bracing himself to react rather than prevent a bad day, he was convinced he had missed the strange behavior as it happened before. But now, keeping careful watch, viewing his oldest son under almost a microscopic lens, he missed next to nothing.
He came to be grateful for the moment Adam was bothered by the empty chair, for the emotional breakdown which followed, and his own reaction to his son's behavior, his determination to keep Adam mentally present, not allowing him to disassociate with the here and now. It was a moment that changed nothing and everything at the same time. It didn't change how Adam was; it didn't make everything suddenly better; it didn't magically transform Adam from the person he had become back into who he once was, but things did improve, because Ben's understanding shifted. His interpretation of his son's behavior changed.
Adam was seeing things, of this Ben was certain. And it was because of this certainty, of the new lens he used to interpret and understand his son's behavior, he was able to assist him more effectively. When Adam became truly bothered, frightened, and tormented by something unseen, when moving away from the assumed source of distress did nothing to calm him, Ben no longer allowed his son to run away or give himself into another state of unresponsiveness. He remained by Adam's side, holding, and speaking to him, grounding him in the moment in a way only a father could.
On particularly bad occasions, times when nothing seemed to calm his anxiety or fear, Adam would reach for his arm, unbuttoning his shirt sleeve to scratch. Ben would reach for his son's hand then, directing it away from the harm he intended to inflict and towards something else. He began employing an age-old tactic he had once depended upon when his sons were much younger than they currently were. He would distract him, stealing his attention away from whatever was causing him so much distress. It didn't often work, but sometimes it did.
Distraction was a tactic Hoss quickly picked up on and utilized, coaxing his quiet older brother into countless games of checkers around the fireplace when Adam seemed particularly tense. Adam's enthusiasm over such a thing was lackluster; still, he played, besting his brother more often than he lost.
Little Joe still seemed to struggle with accepting how things were, the changes he perceived as Hoss and Ben giving up on Adam. But he did what he was asked of him; he watched over Adam when his brother ventured into the yard and then barn, assisting him with morning chores. Ben had been conflicted about stripping away what was left of Adam's sparse duties. He neither liked the thought of his oldest son having no responsibilities nor did he think it was prudent to allow him to complete such rigorous chores given the state of his emaciated body. What was currently good for his body, Ben was certain wasn't good for Adam's mind, and he struggled with making the appropriate choice for his son.
Unbeknownst to him, it was Joe who solved his father's conundrum. Advising Adam to dress warmly, he had asked him to accompany him outside to do what he did best, supervise him and Hoss as they completed the chores. Ben was grateful for the magnificence of the idea, the discretion and kindness displayed by his youngest son toward his eldest one. Later, he was grateful for another thoughtful gesture Joe made. Traveling to Virginia City for supplies, Joe returned with a couple of items not on either Hop Sing's or his father's lists, two new books which he promptly gave to Adam.
"I don't think you've read these before," he said. "I thought maybe you'd want to."
And much to the surprise and delight of his family, Adam did want to read them. They became the first books he opened since returning home.
Ben began to regard the quiet peaceful moments with Adam as gifts. He was grateful for each and every one. It was so easy to forget anything had changed when they were taking place; with Joe and Hoss bickering about this or that and with Adam, sitting cross legged in front of the fireplace, his head buried in a book, it was so easy to pretend nothing had ever changed.
Of course, things had changed.
Adam was still anxiety-ridden and agonizingly quiet. If one didn't know to look for him, to note his presence and watch him carefully, he could spend hours in a room without anyone realizing he was there. His eyes were still glazed, dull and absent; most of the time it appeared he was looking through rather than at the things which surrounded him. He was still thin; disinterested in and adverse to eating, he ate sparingly—some days not at all and others the minimum his father required for him to leave the table. He still had good days and bad—there were occasions when the presence of his father was enough to calm him and others when it wasn't.
Overall, however, things felt different. Adam seemed different and his brothers were different too. Calmness had enveloped them, a kind of curious peace. No longer waking each morning anticipating a good day or bad, for Adam to improve or decline, they were able to negotiate each day, each moment as it came without feeling hastened by what it could or should have been. His younger sons had relaxed, accepted things as they were. Ben only wished he could do the same.
The knowledge of Adam's odd reactions to things which couldn't be seen lingered, as did Hop Sing's actions, his validation of whatever it was Adam feared. To Ben, it all seemed so strange, Adam's tense reactions to seemingly nothing and his acceptance of Hop Sing's support; he couldn't help likening the behavior of the Adam of the present to the one of the past.
Adam had always been indefatigable, unrelenting in his beliefs. He wasn't afraid to stand alone; he had never needed anyone to be on his side. It bothered Ben that Hop Sing's actions soothed Adam. It began to make him think—as ludicrous of a notion as it was—that something about what his son saw and feared was real. If someone other than Adam believed in whatever it was, then who was to say it wasn't?
It was a preposterous idea—Ben knew that. Adam's mind was sick, therefore susceptible to suggestion— Ben knew this too— but something about how Hop Sing was able to soothe Adam so efficiently with his painted symbols and prayers. Adam had always been so stanch, obstinate in his beliefs. If sickness had truly grabbed a hold of his mind, embedding itself and rendering him incapable of practical thought, then would anything Hop Sing did help? Would anything any of them do ever actually help?
It was the quiet moments which forced Ben to consider this question. It led to other others, unearthing haunting memories of the things he had heard.
Father take time, see through Adam eyes, then understand Adam only one who see clearly, Hop Sing had said, advice he had given freely in the hopes Ben could understand what was apparently so clear.
Was I a man? Was I a demon? Or was I a devil in disguise? Kane had asked in Ben's dreams, a question which had never made sense when it had been asked. It was only as of late that Ben began to truly wonder who or what the man actually was. Was he a demon? Sent by the devil to torture and break Adam and then the rest of the family. Adam had once said that if a man believed in God, then he had no choice but to believe in the devil too. Like Kane had reminded Ben in his dream, Adam had once admitted he thought the devil had taken over Ross Marquette.
They were close like brothers, Doctor Martin had said, speaking about Ross and Adam. I recall a time when people used to call them twins. As adolescents they followed each other like shadows. If one was in trouble the other wasn't far behind.
How do you save your son from the devil, Mister Cartwright? Kane had asked over and over again. Oh, the things I could tell you if only you'd listen. Adam was lost and then he was found and now you're not taking time to consider what actually happened. You found your son and you're allowing your relief over locating him distract you from the questions you should be asking.
Were these the questions he should be asking? Should he be less worried about what happened in the desert and more concerned about what had prompted the changes in his son after?
When they found Adam, he had been upset but still talking—though the things he had said hadn't made a lot of sense. He didn't want to play anymore games, and he wanted to be let go. Those were the most prominent things he had said, repeating them over and over again. And then, seemingly finally becoming aware of his words, Adam stopped saying them. He stopped saying anything at all.
What did any of those things have to do with right now?
It was the past which haunted Ben now. Eternally eager to rise from the depth of his memory to torture him with their shifting contexts and inexplicit possibilities. He could recall the words which had been said, however, he never seemed able to define the explicit reasons they had been said. Intention was fickle and fleeting. He no longer assumed he had ever understood the true reasons anything had been said.
If you need somebody to blame, then blame me, Adam had said that night about the campfire. It was one of just a few things Ben could readily recall his son saying after being found. Because what happened was my fault. It… it was all my fault.
Had Adam really been talking about the events which had led him to be lost in the desert, or was he referring to something else?
I thought I'd never see you again, Adam had said. It was a relieved statement he had directed toward his beloved horse. He hadn't said anything of the sort to his family. Once he became aware of himself in the Eastgate boarding house, he had never directly expressed relief over being found. In the days which followed, he had never acted as though he was happy or grateful to be alive.
Dragging Peter Kane's body around the desert, had he wanted things to turn out different than they had? Had he wanted to die too? Was this the reason for his actions now? Starving himself and disappearing, giving up on life and quietly wasting away before his family's very eyes.
Guilt can make a man do asinine things, the Eastgate sheriff had said.
I'm sorry, Adam had said almost immediately upon waking. It was an apology meant for losing the money for the cattle when he was robbed but nothing else. He never spoke about why he had gone against his father's direct orders, deciding to extend his trip and enter the desert alone. He never spoke of what he had been looking for or what he had found.
But later he spoke of other things.
That's going to be me out there, Adam had whispered breathlessly as he watched Obadiah Johnson's lifeless body sway back and forth.
I wonder what kind of story he's going to tell? Kane's memory was always so quick to ask. Is he willing to take responsibility for what he's done or is he going to try to hide it?
Time had forced Ben to believe it was the latter. Adam had chosen muteness over explanations, confusion over acceptance, prolonged sickness over deliverance. He had abandoned his old life—his old self—in exchange for what he had become.
You don't know what happened, Adam's words often echoed in Ben's mind. You don't know… You don't know... You don't know... You don't know!
He still didn't. It was a fact Ben was ashamed to admit he had given up on refuting or hoping would change.
Xx
Frank Marshal came calling on Adam one particularly cold afternoon; Ben didn't know what to think of the man, the things he had heard about him, the things Frank had said himself, or his determined interest in eldest son. He didn't know what to think, but he knew what to do. Adam wasn't up to seeing anyone; he told Frank as much, which seemed to sadden him.
"Winter is on the immediate horizon," Frank said. Brows furrowing, he squinted through the sparse snowflakes falling from the sky.
"It is." Ben wondered why such an obvious thing needed to be addressed.
"If he ain't up to it now, do you think Adam might be up for a visit come Spring? I really need to talk to him."
"Hard telling," Ben said.
"I take it he's never been the predictable sort."
Looking at Frank warily, Ben didn't reply.
"Well," Frank said, expelling the word with a hearty exhale. "If he ain't up for a visit today then can you remind him of something?"
"Maybe. Depends on what it is you want to say."
"You tell him that summer goes awfully fast. Spring and Fall pass by a man before he even knows they've truly arrived. It's winter and now there won't be going much of anywhere at all, except for maybe the barn, some of the closer pasture."
The statement was invasive, odd coming from a man whom Ben considered a stranger. What did Frank care about where Adam went? How was it his business? Why would it concern him at all?
"Why do you want him reminded of that?" Ben asked.
Frank shook his head. "You just tell him. Trust me, he'll understand."
Nodding curtly, Ben bid farewell to Frank, half-hoping the man would see fit to never visit his home again. It wasn't until much later, when he was lying awake in bed, that he recalled Frank's statement, recognizing it as something he had heard before.
Adam had said those words. Sitting on his father's desk, he had said what Frank had repeated nearly verbatim when making his argument to drive the cattle to Eastgate. It was an unsettling revelation. One which led Ben to believe more had taken place between Frank Mitchel and Adam than previously believed.
Even so, Ben didn't relay Frank's message to Adam. He did share it with Doc Martin and Hoss who both reinforced the decision he had already made. Adam had enough to deal with without adding Frank to his load. There was no sense in sharing a message from an assumed adversary that could disrupt what little progress he had made.
"I think Adam sees things," Ben said one frigid morning.
Sitting across from Doctor Martin in the doctor's small office, he looked forlornly out the window at the large snowflakes falling from the sky. Large piles of the frozen flakes were beginning to accumulate, composing cold piles, and leaving any roads and trails to be traveled rimy and taxing, slightly dangerous for those who didn't see fit to taper their horse's speed.
"You are aware of the event with the chair," Ben added. "There have been others since; though not quite so dramatic, they have occurred, nonetheless. He sees things, things that the rest of us can't."
"That does not surprise me," Martin said evenly. "Given his level of psychosis, I would say seeing imaginary things is a predictable development."
"It surprised me," Ben grunted. "Adam has always had such a logical, literal mind. Never once in that boy's life did I believe him capable of seeing things which were not real."
"Pain and suffering are very transformative things. Sometimes they can make the most logical of men disconnected and confused."
"Hop Sing believes the things Adam sees are real."
"He told you that?"
"In so many words." Ben shrugged. "As you know, we really only share a few that can be mutually understood. But it is his actions which declare his belief."
"Painting on Adam's hands and door," Martin provided.
It was information that was not eagerly disclosed; Martin had noted the drawings on Adam's hands during a visit subsequent to his distress over the chair as he treated the wounds marking Adam's arm. The deep, long scratches had since healed, leaving red, puckered scars behind. Though they would fade with time, a hint of them would always remain, proving as a reminder of what Adam had done. They served as a permanent warning of what he could always do again given the chance.
"Hop Sing prays over him too, scatters collections of herbs and things," Ben said. "He carved an amulet, hung it on a strip of leather and around Adam's neck. He won't allow it to be removed. Adam won't even take it off when he bathes."
Martin was nonplused. "Eastern medicine is capable of amazing things." Tilting his head, his lips curled into a small smile. "I won't pretend to understand it but that doesn't lessen its effectiveness."
"Is that what it is? Drawing on hands and doorways, whispering prayers, and carving periapts? None of that sounds like medicine to me."
"Easterners have their own way of doing things. The power of suggestion is a very efficacious thing. Sometimes all that is needed is for the tiniest seed of an idea to be planted for a concept to grow. Adam feels better because Hop Sing acts as though what he's doing should make him that way. It isn't the acts themselves that are allowing Adam to improve; it's his belief in them."
"He isn't gullible," Ben disagreed. "He's careful about the people and actions in which he places faith. He may have decided to become mute but he's not simpleminded. He's thoughtful, calculated, logical and literal. He isn't an easy man to convince."
"Yes." Martin cast Ben a sad look. "He was. I'm sorry, Ben; I do feel a duty to remind you, the things you're saying about your son, you're describing the Adam of before, not now."
Exhaling heartily, Ben hung his head. He hadn't intended on embarking on a conversation that would betray the hope he held on to, or the doubt he harbored about what Adam felt or why.
"Statements like that do nothing to answer the question as to why Hop Sing's methods work," Ben said. "Adam is nothing if not determined, even now. His current behavior is testament to that. He's stubborn, steadfast in what he knows and believes. He's never needed anyone to validate his opinions or the things he was certain of. He is unfaltering in his truth, even when no one else holds the same opinion as his own."
"It bothers you that Hop Sing's efforts help," Martin said matter-of-factly.
"Of course, it bothers me."
"Jealousy and resentment are natural emotions given the situation. As Adam's father, you are accustomed to being the person who he comes to during troubling times. You've always been the one who could advise and comfort him best, and now you aren't."
"I am not jealous or resentful of Hop Sing," Ben said firmly. "I'm grateful for his efforts and how they have helped my son. It's because of Hop Sing that Adam has made the improvement he has."
"Then why are you bothered?"
"Because I saw how he looked at that empty chair," Ben said. "I saw how afraid he was. He wanted so badly to leave that moment and I forced him to stay in it. Things like that don't happen over nothing. People don't break without ample reason to. I know my son. I know how he thinks and what he would do. If Adam was afraid of something which existed merely in his head, then nothing anyone else did or said would help. He doesn't need validation. He's never been afraid of standing alone."
"Until the day he finally was," Martin said seriously. "It is a sad fact that those of us who seem the strongest are the hardest ones to watch break. Adam is not who he once was; I thought you had given up on the Adam of the past."
"You say that like it's easy," Ben snapped. "Like it's something one can just decide upon and do." He didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. He knew his son had changed; he didn't need to be reminded. He was no longer concerned with the changes themselves rather what prompted them. The indefinable, elusive thing that transformed Adam right before his eyes. "For thirty-four years that boy has been by my side. I know him. Sick or not, that hasn't changed. I'm telling you, there's more to this. There must be more. It's almost as if..." He paused, his brows furrowing in thought.
It was almost as if what? What was it, really?
He couldn't help thinking of how Adam had been as a child. Late to talk, he was always so purposeful with his words, thoughtful and articulate; even as a youngster it was as though he took the time to think of exactly the right words to communicate what he wanted to say. There had been times when he had stopped speaking back then too, regretful occasions Ben tried hard not to unearth. There was no avoiding thinking of them now. There was no ignoring the rough moments they had experienced during their travels West; the things Ben had done to protect his son and how Adam had reacted after. He had been afraid, so terribly afraid; it had led to periods of prolonged silence. Days and sometimes weeks would pass without Adam daring to utter even a word.
Adam was a grown man now and with all the ways he had changed there was one which he had remained the same. True terror, pure and overwhelming, had always rendered him speechless. It was his defense mechanism when he didn't know how to employ anything else. When he didn't know how to articulate how he felt or the things weighing on his soul. But never in his life had Adam taken this long to come around and speak about things; previously, Ben had always been able to process what was haunting his son and discern what he needed to do or say to help.
What about this situation was different than anything that had happened before? What was important? The unknown things that happened to Adam in the desert or what had come after?
"I think Adam is afraid," Ben added, soft words he hadn't intended to say aloud. "More than that even, I think he's terrified. I am certain he sees things the rest of us can't. Either he is frightened because he knows the things he sees are not real and he can feel reality slipping away from him, or he's terrified because he knows the things he sees are real and he doesn't know how to make them go away."
"Do you really think that's a distinction he could make? Do you think him capable of identifying and declaring his own behavior and delusions irrational?"
"Yes. I do, because if that is the case then his actions would make sense."
"How so?"
"His silence wouldn't be so confusing. He's always been quiet when his mind is troubled. He doesn't talk about things the way my other sons do. He doesn't seek advice or help until he's certain he's up against something he can't handle on his own. He broods, something which I don't think has changed. It's like..."
Ben's face contorted with thought. Had Adam always seen things? From the moment he had woken up in Eastgate, had he always been haunted by something the rest of them remained unaware of? He was so different upon waking. Quiet and strange when he was amongst his family; skeptical, spiteful, and palpably fearful of anyone he didn't recognize.
Let me go, Adam had cried when Hoss held on to him after being found. I just want to get away from you.
It's not right, Adam had once protested weakly. Pulling anxiously on his shirtsleeves, his troubled gaze had shifted nomadically around the boarding house bedroom. I don't like it.
Get away from me, Adam had said to the Eastgate doctor as he assessed him with an astounding level of hatred. I-I just want to get away.
"Something has a hold on him," Ben said. "Something has wormed its way inside of his head; it's impacting his judgement and actions; it's making him change. I'm not sure what it is exactly. I don't know if it's guilt or pain or the memories of the things that happened to him."
"Or the invisible things he sees," Martin provided. His skepticism was clear. "Which you believe might be real."
Ben cast Martin a wary glance.
"You're a good father, Ben," Martin said, his voice softening. "You have weathered the difficulty of this storm admirably, but wanting something to be true does not make it so. You say you think Adam sees things, something which Hop Sing has decided to support him in. I'm telling you hallucinations aren't real. Wanting to believe the things Adam sees are real is never going to change the fact that they are not. They aren't real. If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real."
"It's real to him. I'm his father, shouldn't that be enough to make it real to me?"
"No. You allow him to glean whatever comfort he can from the indulgences of others, but you are his father, Ben, and as such, you must always serve as a beacon of truth. Take solace and joy in the quiet moments, the ways in which Adam has improved. You give thanks for the good days, and you love and support him through the bad. Don't you dare start feeding his sickness by affirming his irrational beliefs. You have always been a pillar of strength to your sons, it isn't becoming for you to grow weak now. Sometimes slight improvement in conditions can become more like hindrances rather than gifts. Adam has gotten slightly better than he was; I don't think anyone can fault you for wanting more, or for a reason to attribute his condition to that would allow it to be suddenly fixed. There is no fault in hope but do not allow it to conceal the truth in front of your eyes. Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way."
Nodding, Ben conceded the conversation but not the nagging thought. What kind of father was he if didn't support his sons in their beliefs? What kind of man abandoned their child, especially when they seemed the most lost?
Though he knew it had been offered with the best of intentions, he was longer certain if he would continue to follow Martin's advice.
