In the following days, more snow came.
Falling eagerly from the sky, it collected in gargantuan piles in the landscape surrounding the ranch house as the temperature continued to drop and once again Adam began to favor his time alone.
It should have been a promising sign, and, in a way, it was. With Hop Sing's symbols painted prominently on the doorframe, Adam was no longer averse to remaining in his bedroom. He spent hours there; it was time he spent mostly alone though never with the door closed. Ben never allowed the door to be closed. It was something that had become somewhat of a silent cause of disagreement between him and his eldest son.
Curiously, Adam wanted the door to remain shut; each time he entered he would close it only to have it immediately reopened by his father or one of his brothers. He looked so disgruntled each time it pushed open, his brows furrowing with disdain, defiance glistening in his eyes. He looked so reminiscent of the Adam of before that Ben was always left anticipating the terse words his son could say. Fierce statements about being a grown man in need of space and privacy and the freedom to close his own bedroom door. These declarations remained imaginary, however, as Adam remained palpably angry but silent, and the door remained open, untouched after each time its closure was corrected—something Ben verified repeatedly, traveling up the staircase and down the hallway to check in on him.
Adam always looked the same when his father looked in on him. Sitting in a chair next to the window, his legs curled up beneath him, an open book lay ignored in his lap. Ben wasn't certain when he discovered it wasn't being read, rather just held on to; he wasn't sure when he had noted what the book was or that the page on which it was turned to was always the same.
It was the Bible that Adam had begun to cling to; it was the story of Cain and his brother, Abel, that the open book eternally displayed. This was a coincidental detail that bothered Ben when he really thought about it. It reminded him of Peter Kane, a supposed evil man who had been exiled to the desert outside of Eastgate. It made him wonder if Adam had heard the stories about Kane prior to meeting him or what kind of stories he could tell about him if he ever spoke.
Absently toying with the pendant Hop Sing had made, Adam's gaze was set on the frigid landscape outside of the windowpane, his attention focused on whatever he believed lay beyond.
There was something about Adam's eyes that worried Ben. Sparkling with resignation and sadness, ever-so-often a hint of longing could be distinguished, rising above the dull, glassy pools the family had become accustomed to seeing. It was a longing Ben recognized; a solid hint of the old Adam being displayed by the new. His son always had a difficult time enduring winter; cold and short, the days seemed to pass at a sluggish pace; each seeming longer than the one before as the intensity of the weather grounded him in place for too long. It was this same longing in his son's eyes that took Ben by surprise. It frightened him in a way he couldn't explain.
If this Adam chose to leave; if he ran away, became lost in the elements, and was never found, he would most certainly die. He was not capable of surviving the way he once had been.
"You know you can tell me anything, right?" Ben asked gently. Gripping his son's boney shoulder, he held tight. It was an assurance he asserted frequently these days; words he hoped Adam would hear, internalize, and believe. "There is nothing you could do or say that would change the way I feel about you. There is no fight you could ever find yourself engaged in which I would not stand by your side."
Adam's gaze didn't falter from the window as he seemingly ignored the words.
"I'm here, Adam," Ben added softly. "I'm not going anywhere." He shook his head sadly. "And, I suppose, neither are you. You know there was a time, not so long ago, when I used to dread what your future held, the kind of difficulties and gifts it would bring you. Now I find myself dreading the very same things only for completely different reasons. You will always have a home here, you know that. I will always do my best to keep you safe and take care of you, and when I'm gone, I have faith that your brothers will do the same. The only question that truly remains is what will you do? Is this the kind of life you want to lead? Is a future where you become someone to be taken care of permanently, something you aspire to?"
It wasn't an easy thing to say or ask. But the words had to be spoken; they had to be heard—even if they weren't ever properly acknowledged. Just because Adam had chosen not to speak it didn't excuse him from conversations about the truth. It didn't render him exempt from listening to his father's advice or point-of-view. If anything, it made such conversations more needed and valuable when making decisions about the future.
What you allow will most likely continue, Doctor Martin's aged words rang in Ben's memory. It was advice given so long ago now but that didn't make it any less true.
Don't pretend you don't understand the importance of considering the past when trying to navigate the future, Kane's words sprung readily to mind.
Mista Adam leave, Hop Sing's statement quickly followed.
I wanted to be alone, the memory of Adam's explanation around the campfire chimed in, composing a heart-wrenching conversation that existed somewhere between reality and imagination. The statements had all been said by each respective party though neither in response to one another nor in the same conversation.
He become lost, Hop Sing said.
It was my decision to go, Adam said sadly. It was my mistake.
What could have happened to make him feel as though he would rather die than live? Kane taunted.
I'm the one who's responsible for carrying the burden of what happened, Adam said.
He doesn't want to fail you, Kane said. He doesn't want you to know the truth.
It was my fault, Adam said.
He is a very sick boy, Doc Martin's words echoed.
No sick, Hop Sing protested.
Wanting something to be true does not make it so, Doc Martin said.
No confused, Hop Sing said.
Adam is sick and he's likely to stay that way, Doc Martin said.
He no come back alone, Hop Sing said firmly.
Hallucinations aren't real, Doc Martin disagreed. If the rest of us can't see them, then they can't possibly be real.
I wonder what your son knows about me that you don't? Kane asked. Dead men don't talk, at least not in normal ways.
Ben's heart skipped in his chest; Kane's words suddenly frightened him in a way they hadn't before. Were the things Adam saw real? Such a thing didn't seem possible. But what if it was?
"I know you see things, son," he said bluntly.
It was an impetuous admission; one which had only escaped him to prevent any more haunting statements from emerging from his memory. The words had spilled so freely from his mouth, filling him with a feeling of overwhelming rightness. Hop Sing's belief in unseen things had helped Adam improve. What kind of improvements could he experience knowing his father believed?
"I know they frighten you," he continued. "And I know Hop Sing's belief in them comforts you. I don't know why he believes you. If he knows more about what you're experiencing than me or even if he sees them too. I want you to know I believe in your belief. Whatever you're experiencing, you're not alone. If a day should ever come when you want to explain to me what it is you see, I want you to know that I will listen. I will listen and believe anything you have to say."
Eyes widening, Adam seemed surprised, taken aback by his father's words. Mouth falling open, he didn't say anything, but for the first time in a long time, Ben was certain he wanted to.
He stood there for countless moments; hopelessly waiting, woefully anticipating all the things he wished his son would say. If Adam would just talk then things would be okay. If they could just have one conversation, he was certain it would lead to another and then another after that. It would lead to something, wouldn't it? Further understanding and explanation, allotting him proper knowledge to know what to do.
He wanted to know what to do. He wanted Adam to speak, tell him what he saw and what he needed him to do. The ways in which he was able to help seemed inadequate in comparison to all the things he felt he should have been able to.
Pressing his lips firmly together, Adam returned his attention to the windowpane.
Squeezing his son's shoulder, Ben tried to dismiss his painful disappointment. "I think it's time for you to rejoin us downstairs," he instructed gently as he forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've been sitting up here far too long. You know how we feel about you being alone for prolonged periods of time."
Pulling his hand away, he turned slightly in place, looked at the empty doorway and resigned himself to waiting for his son to adhere to his direction and make a move. A few silent moments passed, neither father nor son's gaze faltering from their respective places.
"Adam," Ben whispered. "It's time to move."
"I heard you."
The words were so quiet, so unexpected that Ben almost believed they had been imagined. Looking at his son with wide eyes, he found Adam staring vacantly at the empty hallway beyond his bedroom door.
"You were calling out for me," Adam added, his words no more than a haunted whisper. "I tried to get to you, but he wouldn't let me go. He told me he'd never let me go. I don't think I really understood what he was saying at the time, but I understand it now."
They were the first words he had said in months. So shocked by their existence, Ben didn't know how to reply. Adam sounded so different than he once had. His voice was soft and resistant, so hesitant yet so sure.
"Do you dream of him, Papa?" Adam asked.
"Who?" Ben asked breathlessly.
"He told me you did."
"Adam, who?"
"Mister Kane."
"Son," Ben said uneasily. "Kane is dead. He couldn't have told you anything."
"Oh, but he does. He talks to me all the time."
"Adam—"
"He said he talks to you too, in your dreams. You shouldn't talk to him. You shouldn't listen to anything he has to say." Face contorting painfully, Adam pulled his gaze away from the doorway and looked nervously at the floor. "He doesn't want me talking to you. He's angry now. I've upset him and now he's going to upset me."
Kneeling, Ben took the Bible from Adam's lap, closed it, and placed it gently on the floor. He reached for his son's hands and holding them tightly in his own, he squeezed, willing for some of his steady strength to transfer into Adam. His hands were ice-cold, limp against his hold. Adam wouldn't look at him; body trembling with fear, he wouldn't lift his tearful gaze from where it had settled and then froze on the floorboards.
There were so many things Ben wanted to ask; so many things he wanted to say and only one which felt vital to confirm. "Peter Kane is who you think you see," he said.
It wasn't a question; it was an answer, one Ben was sure he should have suspected all along.
"I don't think I see anyone," Adam said. "Next time you dream of him you ask him, Papa. Trust me, he'll tell you what you already know. Don't you see?" He was shaking now, his voice becoming increasingly panicked with each word. "You have to see; you have to know by now that's what he does. He looks inside of your heart and soul, he sees so clearly what you want to hide, and he uses it against you. He knows everything, and he uses it to tear you apart and hold you together at the same time."
"Adam, son, I don't understand. Can you tell me what happened? What is happening to make you believe such a thing?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," Adam hissed. Attention frozen on the doorway, his eyes widened with fear and glistened with unshed tears. "H-he doesn't like it when I talk."
Cupping Adam's jaw, Ben gently moved his head, forcing his attention away from the doorway and back to him. "Why?" he asked softly. "How does a dead man have any say over what you do?"
Bottom lip quivering, Adam cringed painfully. Shifting uncomfortably, he struggled to pull his remaining hand from his father's grasp, and when he couldn't free it, he began to shake his head. With the movement came the labored breaths, shallow and desperate, as the tears spilled from his eyes and trailed down his cheeks.
Ben was unwilling to allow the question to remain unanswered; he would not allow his son to fall silent again, not after he had lost his voice for so long. Not after having him suddenly speak again. Adam could talk or he could be mute; Ben wouldn't tolerate intermittent mixture of the two, the picking and choosing of moments to speak or torture them with silence.
"Adam, I am your father and as such I am telling you—I am ordering you—to speak to me."
"I-I can't," Adam whimpered.
"You can."
Shaking his head, Adam's gaze froze on the doorway once more and he flinched. Body quaking with fear, he began to cry. His breaths came in convulsive gasps, each inhale a thick hiccup, each exhale a wail, a low almost melodic hum of a dreadful scream too inhibited to be properly projected. Pressing his feet against the floorboards, his knees bobbed wildly up and down, shaking his hands in his lap as his father struggled to hold them still. Ever so slowly, he began to shift on his seat, rocking his torso back and forth.
It was a self-soothing motion, something which was more suitable for a young child than a grown man. It was the rocking that prompted Ben to finally let go of his son. Looking between Adam and the empty doorway, he frowned, feeling a fury begin to build in his chest. Fierce and refractory, it prompted him to do the only thing he could think of. He stood, stalked to the doorway, and slammed the door shut with such force that it seemed to shake the room around them, rattling the picture frames which hung on the walls.
Who was Peter Kane? Real or imaginary, dead, or alive, what right did he have to torture his son? What was the hold he had on Adam? And why was Adam allowing such a thing? How could he possibly listen to Kane over his father? How could he follow a dead man's direction and why would he want to?
He returned to his son's side swiftly, grasping the armrests of the chair in which Adam sat, he pulled it away from the window, reorienting it so the back was facing the closed door and the front of the wall. Kneeling in front of his son once more, Adam had nothing else to focus his attention on other than his father.
Grasping Adam's hands, Ben squeezed tightly, forcing himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. Adam's sobs seemed to fill the room, echoing in the silence around them. Never once in his son's life had Ben ever told him not to cry; he didn't intend to start now. He wouldn't dare shame him like that, not after and on top of everything else.
They remained like that for a while before Adam's cries eventually calmed, before Ben let go of his son's hands, finally trusting himself to utilize a reasonable tone of voice.
"It's just you and me, Adam," he said. "Right here, right now. So, tell me what's happening here. You tell me what's going on."
Sniffling, Adam pulled the edges of his shirtsleeves over hands, swiping them over his wet cheeks as he shook his head and shrugged.
"No," Ben said. "That's not good enough. Not anymore. You use your words; you use your words now and then you don't stop using them. Don't you dare stop talking now that you've finally begun."
"He doesn't want me to talk," Adam whispered. His voice was dry, left broken and gruff from sobs. "He doesn't like it when I talk."
"I want you to talk."
"He doesn't care about what you want."
"What do you care about?"
"Nothing," Adam whispered, his brows knitting with sadness. "Not anymore."
"I don't believe that."
"He doesn't care about what you believe."
"He meaning Kane?" Ben asked. "Or he meaning you?"
Adam shrugged.
"Ahh," Ben scolded. "Words."
"Him... Me..." Adam shrugged again. "We're so intertwined at this point. Does it really matter anymore?"
"Yes."
Watching Adam's lip quiver once more, Ben wasn't sure if it was his determination or something else which had prompted the resurgence of tears. It didn't matter either way because his response was the same regardless.
"Talk to me, Adam; I'm right here. Tell me how we got here. What is making you act the way you are?"
"I don't want to be like this," Adam whispered, his tone slightly crazed, cracking with strain. "Do you honestly think this is how I want to be? I-I'm not doing this. Why would I do this? I want to be different. I want to... to be the same... you don't know how much I want to go back to before. But there is no before, not now, not anymore. There's just after, the horrible dreading of what comes next. I know what this looks like. I-I know what you think, what everyone must think, but I am not crazy, Papa. I'm not. You don't see him but he... he's there."
Papa. The repetitive use of the aged byname was not lost on Ben. He suspected the determined emotions and willful corollaries which had led his son to utilize the weaponized word before, but he wondered what its purpose was now. If it even had one. Or if its consistent presence was a testament of his son's terror.
"I'm not crazy," Adam repeated, his face pinching with agony. "I'm not."
"I never said you were," Ben said, his voice deep and soothing. "Nobody in this house has ever said you were."
"I don't want to be like this. I-I want to go back, but he won't let me. He won't let me get better; he won't let me change. He won't let me eat; he won't let me sleep. He won't leave me alone. He just keeps lingering and following and then he gets inside of my head and I-I can't get him out. I c-can't shake him loose no matter what I do. He won't let me go. He's never going to let me go!"
Gaze abruptly snapping to the closed door, Adam's eyes widened with fear. It looked as though he was listening to something only he could hear. It was as though there was someone—something—on the other side of the door that only he could perceive.
"He doesn't want me talking to you," Adam repeated, his voice a low, trembling hiss. He had said the words before, but it was as though this was the first time he realized the outcome of what he was doing was something to be truly feared. "He's behind that door right now. He's listening and he's going to remember every word I'm saying. When you finally open the door again, he's going to be there, watching, waiting for me to leave, and when I do, he's going to hurt me. He's going to make me do something I don't want to do."
"I won't let him do that," Ben said. They were words which were quickly thought of and impetuously said but left him immediately wondering how the promise would be achieved. How could he fight something he didn't see? How could he possibly protect Adam from something which potentially only existed in his mind?
"You can't stop him!" Adam said.
"Son—"
"You don't understand! There's nothing you can do. What is done is done; you can't stop him. You can't save me. You can't!"
Ben reached for Adam's arms, but he pulled them away, waiving them through the air, punctuating his hysterical statements.
"He's not going to let me go!"
"Let me help you."
"You can't!"
"Adam, please."
"You can't...! You can't...!"
"Son."
"You can't...! You can't...! You can't...!"
"Shhh," Ben was forced to soothe, after struggling and failing to pull his son into a calming embrace.
Breath coming in haggard, tearful gasps, Adam refused to be comforted or placated. All his father's efforts to establish a physical connection were violently shrugged off. He stood abruptly, lifting his hands, and placing them on the sides of his head, fingers burrowing into his disheveled hair. He turned in place in an overwhelmed manner, his eyes wide, wild, and full of tears, before hesitating and staring at the closed door, horror etched on his face.
"You can't help me," he whispered. The words were almost too soft to be heard, his shaking voice nearly too thick with tears to be understood. "He's not going to let you; he's never going to let me go."
He stood for the briefest of moments, tears dripping from his eyes, streaming down his cheeks only to be absorbed into his beard. Then, slowly he began to walk backwards, his attention not wavering from the door. He took step after step until his back hit the wall; jumping, he flinched, then emitted a hollow, wet gasp as his legs gave out beneath him and he began to slide to a seated position on the floor.
"Tell me what I can do," Ben pleaded. "If I can't help you then tell me what I can do instead."
It was a helpless statement to which he received no reply. Arms wrapped around his legs, head resting on his knees, Adam's tears had once again rendered him incapable of speech.
Xx
"He can't stay in that room forever."
It was Little Joe who stated the obvious as he stood between Ben and Hoss on the opposite end of the hallway as Adam's closed bedroom door.
"I didn't say he would remain there forever," Ben said. "I said he and I agreed he could remain there for the rest of the day and maybe tomorrow depending on how the night goes."
"With the door closed," Hoss added worriedly. "I don't like it, Pa."
"Neither do I," Joe said.
"Oh, and I suppose you both think I do," Ben said.
"You're the one who agreed to it," Joe said.
"I don't like it any more than you do," Ben said.
"Then why agree to it?" Joe asked.
"Because Adam asked him to," Hoss said. He looked at the closed door longingly. "He really spoke to ya, Pa?"
"He did," Ben said.
"How did he sound?" Hoss pressed.
"He sounded..." Ben hesitated, wanting so badly to say Adam had sounded normal, as poised, and valorous as he ever did. He couldn't lie. "Lucid," he said finally. "He sounded... aware, certain about what he was saying but afraid."
"You can't blame him for that," Joe said. "I know how I would feel if I were seeing things, I can't imagine that's the kind of thing older brother would handle well." He cringed. "Well, obviously he hasn't been handling it too well. That's something we all already knew, I guess."
"At least now we know why," Hoss said. He looked at Ben. "He really said it was that dead man that he sees?"
"In so many words," Ben sighed. The seriousness of the conversation was beginning to set in, weighing on his heart and leaving him feeling exhausted and old.
Adam did see things. It was a damning notion that seemed easier to accept when it was still a suspicion. How were any of them supposed to help him with that? How could they begin to contend with something unseen?
"The good news is Adam's talking," Hoss said. "No matter what you think about the things he's said, you have to admit that's a mite better than him stayin' silent. At least this way we know what he's been thinkin' and that's the only thing that's gonna help us help him. Maybe we can talk him out of believing in the stuff he sees. There's gotta be a way to talk him out of it."
Looking between his father, brother, and the closed door, Joe didn't appear quite so convinced. "What do we do now, Pa?" he asked, his eyes pleading for his father to lead them in a positive direction. "How are we going to convince Adam to give up on anything he believes?"
Shaking his head, Ben didn't know, but he was determined to think of something.