________________________________

           

            A.J. wished they'd leave him alone so he could sleep.  When he was dreaming, he couldn't feel the pain.  Couldn't feel the violent throbbing in his skull, as though his brain had been replaced by a rapidly beating heart that was trying to burst through his head.

 

            His left arm ached, too, and his side.  His side felt raw and tender, like a piece of mangled meat that had been beaten by a spiked mallet.  If he shifted even the slightest degree so that the mattress came in contact with that portion of his body, the pain was so incredible it made him cry out.  Or he thought he cried out.  At least in his mind, he did.

 

            The dreams beckoned him to return to them.  Some were nice, odd surreal replays of events that had occurred when he was a boy growing up with Rick.  But some of them he didn't understand.  And some were downright terrifying, though he didn't know why.

 

            First there was the hockey puck.  It came sailing across the ice toward him, but he didn't have a stick with which to hit it. Instead, he scooped it up with his bare hands.  It was funny, the ice wasn't cold, but yet he was gliding on skates.  And that was funny, too, because he didn't know how to ice skate.  Had never played hockey.  A boy growing up in San Diego, California didn't have the opportunity for such a sport unless his parents paid for a membership at the local ice rink. Since neither he nor Rick had ever expressed interest in skating as kids, the Simon family had never belonged to a rink. 

 

            A blond headed man played hockey with A.J. in his dreams.  His hair wasn't really blond, though. It was actually so light it was white.  And white - that made him think of another word.  Wyatt.  Like the gunfighter at the OK Corral.  But it was rather stupid for A.J. to dream he was playing hockey with a white headed man he didn't know, and a sheriff from the old West.

 

            And then came the frightening part of his dream that seemed to go on and on and have no real end.  There were the bees first - thousands of them swarming him, chasing him, buzzing in his ears, and getting tangled in his hair.  They made him run straight for the hulking black shark with big shiny teeth that he knew was going to devour him in one mouthful.  He tried to turn away from it, but before he could, it snared him around the middle.  Its razor sharp incisors tore into his flesh until he screamed in agony.  When it had gotten all the enjoyment it could out of him it carelessly flipped him in the air like a trained seal flips a ball.  He landed so hard on the ground fireworks exploded in his skull.  Which is why A.J. thought his head hurt so much now.  It had something to do with playing hockey, and bees, and a shark, but when he tried to focus on all of those things he couldn't.  They were one huge jumbled kaleidoscope swirling around in his brain until the glaring images made him sick to his stomach.

 

            And now all he wanted to do was go back to sleep, but someone kept pinching the skin on his right forearm.  He knew it was a woman, he could tell by her voice.  But he didn't recognize who she was, and couldn't imagine what it was this stranger thought was so important that she needed to hurt him in order to tell him.  Didn't she know he was hurting enough right at the moment?  He tried to raise his right arm.  He wanted to pull it away from her.  Better yet, he wanted to pinch her back, but he couldn't.  He told his brain to move his arm, but nothing happened.

 

            Then another voice joined the first.  This one was a woman, too.  A woman A.J. recognized.  He could recall her face so vividly.  She was gentle, loving, and had always been there for him whenever he needed her.  But she was tough, too.  Somehow he knew that all his life he'd obeyed her - that he respected her too much not to.  A.J. remembered a blond man who looked very much like he did now.  The man used to laugh while calling the familiar woman, ‘The Little General.’  A.J. knew she had another name he himself called her.  He thought Rick called her that same name also.  But, he couldn't think of what it was.   It should be so easy, he kept telling himself.  He'd been calling her that since he'd first learned to talk.  It was a little word with only a few letters.  He could even see it in his head, but why couldn't he say it?  Why couldn't he remember it?

            She was crying again.  He could hear her sobs.  Could feel one of her tears gently splash on his face like soft rain.  It tore at A.J. to realize he was the source of her sorrow.  Even though he didn't know what to call her, he somehow knew he never wanted to hurt her.  Never wanted to cause her pain.  He loved her too much to do that to her.  He wanted to beg her to stop crying, even thought he opened his mouth to do so, but if he did, no words came out.  No words came out because he couldn't recall which ones to use. 

 

            So, overall, it was just easier to ignore these women and go back to sleep.

 

________________________________

 

            Rick walked Brendan to his front door that night.   The boy peered through the foyer before stepping into the living room, giving Rick the impression he was scouting for someone he didn't want to see. 

 

            "Where's Mark?"  Brendan asked his mother as she came to greet her son and cousin.

 

            "He went to wait for Cory." 

 

            Linda looked up at Rick, offering an explanation.  "Mark's ex-wife harbors a lot of animosity toward him.  She refuses to pull in my driveway to drop the boy off.  Isn't that ridiculous?  It's not as if I had anything to do with their marital breakup. She and Mark were divorced long before I knew him.  So, Mark has to rendezvous with her somewhere in the neighborhood, as though the poor little boy is a parcel she's dropping off, and not a child."

 

            Rick nodded sympathetically, though didn't miss the relief on Brendan's face.  As though he was glad he didn't have to deal with his stepfather any more this evening.

 

            "Go get ready for bed, sport."  Linda ran a light hand through her son's hair.  "It's late, and it's been a long day.  But keep the noise down.  Heather's asleep."

 

            "Okay, Mom."

 

            Brendan took three steps away from his mother before turning back to wrap his arms around her waist.  "I'm sorry, Mom.  For everything.  I'll try harder now.  I really will."

            Linda kissed the top of his head.  "You can't imagine how happy I am to hear that.  Now you go on.  We'll talk in the morning.  I'll be up to say good night in a few minutes."

 

            Brendan moved from his mother's waist to Rick's.  Rick patted the boy on the back while receiving a final, "Thanks, Rick."

 

            After the twelve-year-old was out of earshot, Linda turned to her cousin with astonishment.  "How much do you charge for the miracle work you perform, Richard?"

 

            "Don't give me any of the credit.  Brendan's doing this all on his own."

 

            "I just hope it lasts."

 

            "I think it will.  He got a hard look at reality yesterday, and a hard look at some of those consequences you've been tellin' him about.  I don't think he liked what he saw."

 

            "I can imagine not.  I just wish it hadn't come to this for A.J.'s sake."

 

            Rick's words were quiet and subdued.  "Don't we all." 

 

            The lanky man quickly chased away worried thoughts of A.J.  He took a few brief minutes to fill his cousin in on his discussion with Brendan.  He didn't go into too many details surrounding what the twelve-year-old had seen happen the previous day, though he did mention the dead man so Linda was aware of that fact in the event the boy suffered nightmares.

 

            "But Brendan didn't actually see the man get shot?  Or who shot him, for that matter?"

            "No.  We believe A.J.'s the only one who has that information."

Although Linda didn't say "Thank, God," she thought it.  She didn't want her twelve-year-old to be end up being a star witness in a murder investigation.

 

            Rick easily read her unvoiced thoughts.  "Don't worry, Lindy.  As much as I hate to say it, I highly doubt anything will come of all this."

 

            "You mean a man's going to simply get away with killing another man, and no one will ever know why?"

 

            "Someone knows why," Rick said quietly, thinking of A.J.,  "but whether or not he'll be able to tell us is another matter."

 

            Linda had no magic words of comfort to offer her cousin.  Instead, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.  "Take care of yourself.  Get some sleep."

 

            "I will.  I'll call you tomorrow to see how Brendan's doing.  I promised him I'd keep in close touch."

 

            "Thank you, Rick.  He needs a man like you in his life right now."

 

             Rick's smile was guilt-ridden and sad.  "I'm not sure anyone needs a man like me, but I'll do my best to help him."

 

            Before Linda could say anymore, Rick turned and disappeared into the darkness.  She saw him get in Lieutenant Marsh's car, then watched as it backed out of her driveway, its headlights sweeping over the side of the house next door.

 

            Linda brushed at her tears as she reentered her home.

 

Poor Rick.  He blames himself for what's happened to A.J.  Please, God, be with both of them tonight.  Stay close.  They both need you so much.

 

            Across the street and two blocks down, Lucas Bentz sat on the front passenger side of the Chevy Cavalier.  Cory was occupied in the back with his plastic Ninja Turtles, seemingly oblivious to the adults' conversation.

 

            The man watched as the Diplomat drove by, then, turned at the next intersection. 

 

            "Whatta ya' suppose the kid told them?"  Natalie asked.

 

            "I don't know," Luke opened the door, resting one leg on the sidewalk,  "but I intend to find out.  The last thing we need is for that nosy little sonuvabitch to be spyin'

on me for the cops."

 

            The man half turned to look behind him.  "Come on, Cory, get your things together.  We have to get going or Linda will wonder where we are."

            "Okay, Uncle Luke."

            "Hey, hey, hey," the man gently admonished.  "Who am I?"

            Cory grinned.  He loved to play pretend just as much as his Uncle Luke and his Mom did.  "I mean, Daddy.  Okay, Daddy."

 

            Lucas Bentz, alias Mark Ecklund, reached around to tousle the child's baby soft curls.  "That's my boy."

 

            Luke and Cory climbed out of the car as one, Cory shouldering the backpack with his clothes and toys.  And even some of Brendan's toys he'd stolen last weekend that he intended to put back on the sly, so that when Brendan finked on him to Linda, it would make the older boy look like a liar.  Just like Uncle Lucky had taught him to do.

 

            The man took the little boy's hand in his, steering them down the sidewalk toward Linda's home.  He smiled at the child as though he could read Cory's thoughts and intentions by simply looking in his innocent blue eyes.

 

            "When you learn from your Uncle Lucky, kid, you're learnin' from the best.  Don't you forget that now, ya' hear?"

 

________________________________

 

            Rick had no more than pushed open the doors that led to Intensive Care late that night, when he saw his mother running toward him.  He swore his heart stopped at that moment. He was certain she was coming to tell him A.J. had taken a turn for the worse while he was absent.

 

            But then he focused on her face.  She appeared agitated, yet excited all at the same time.  Mindful of where she was, Cecilia's cries came out in a hushed, "Rick!  Rick!" 

 

            Rick caught his mother by the arms.  "Mom, slow down.  What is it?  What's goin' on?  Is A.J. all right?"

 

            "Honey, he heard me.  He heard me when I spoke to him."

            "He heard you?"

 

            "Yes.  Right after you left.  I was speaking to him, telling him how he had to work hard to get better for you, then he squeezed my hand."

 

            Rick's face dropped.  "Mom...Mom, don't you remember Joel tellin' us that A.J.'s body might make involuntary movements like that?"

 

            "Rick, it wasn't involuntary," Cecilia insisted.  "He understood what I said.  I talked to him again, asked him to squeeze my hand again, and he did.  Even Gina saw him do it.  She called Doctor Cho.  He came up to examine A.J.  He's fairly certain your

brother is coming out of his coma, honey."

 

            The detective pulled his mother to him, bending to rest his head on her shoulder.  "Thank God," he whispered with closed eyes, "thank God."

 

            Cecilia took her son by the hand when he released her.  "He hasn't responded to me since then, but the doctor said that isn't unusual.  He's hopeful A.J. will emerge from this gradually over the next few days."

 

            Rick allowed his mother to lead him to A.J.'s room.  He certainly couldn't tell anything profound had happened here this evening.  A.J. looked exactly like he had when Rick left five hours earlier.  But, for his mother, the detective was willing to try.

 

            Rick bent over his brother, picking up A.J.'s right hand.  He rubbed his thumb over the top of it, making sure to keep his grip loose and unrestrictive.

 

            "A.J., I'm back now.  I came back to tell you good night.   Do you remember me tellin' you I'd come back?"

 

            Rick waited a long time, but A.J. didn't squeeze his hand.  Didn't so much as move his fingers. 

 

            "A.J., it's Rick.  I'm here now.  It's gettin' late, so Mom and I will be leavin' soon.  I need to drive her home.  You wouldn't want her drivin' home by herself, would you?"

 

            It was then that Rick saw it - the tiny, negative shake of A.J.'s head that was immediately followed by a shallow gasp of pain.

 

            "Did you see that, Rick?"  Cecilia questioned.  "He tried to shake his head!"

            Rick glanced over his shoulder.  "Yeah, Mom, I saw it."  The detective returned his attention to his brother.  "A.J., don't try to move your head.  I know it hurts, so don't try to move it.  Squeeze my hand instead."

 

            Rick gave his brother's hand a light squeeze, demonstrating what he wanted A.J. to do.  "I've got your hand in mine, A.J., so you can squeeze for all you're worth.  You won't hurt me.  Can you do that for me?  Can you squeeze my hand?"

 

            Though it felt more like feathers tickling his palm than a squeeze, Rick knew what the weak movement of A.J.'s fingers signified.  He lavished his brother with well-deserved praise.  "That's great, A.J.  That's great.  You did exactly what I wanted you to."

 

            Cecilia ran down the hall in search of Gina.  She'd been told by Doctor Cho to let one of the nurses know whenever she or Rick perceived themselves to be getting some type of response from A.J.

 

            Rick was still praising his brother while running a light hand through A.J.'s hair, when the women returned.

 

            Gina crossed to A.J.'s left side.  She lifted his closed eyelids one by one with her thumb, shining a penlight into each of them.   Rick was certain he saw A.J.'s eyes react to her ministrations.  The lids fought her as though her thumb forcing them open annoyed him, while at the same time A.J.'s eyes tried to trace the tiny beam that moved from left to right then up and down. 

 

            The woman  allowed A.J.'s lids to fall.    "See if you can get him to open his eyes, Rick."

 

            "A.J., can you open your eyes for me?"

            Rick saw Gina nod at him to try again when A.J. didn't respond to the request.

 

            "A.J., come on, open your eyes for me.  I know this one's a little harder, but try for me and Mom, okay?"

 

            It was almost painful to watch A.J.'s eyelashes flutter like tiny, crippled butterfly wings.  Rick could tell his brother was valiantly attempting to do as he asked.  Seconds ticked off the clock before the eyelids themselves finally began to move.  Like rusty hinges that hadn't been used in years, they'd open a fraction, then fall closed again.  Open a little wider, then close.  Open a bit more, then shut.

 

            Rick wasn't sure how long they watched, but knew several minutes passed.  Several minutes in which he never stopped offering A.J. encouragement and praise. 

 

            When A.J.'s eyes opened all the way it wasn't like Rick thought it would be.  His brother didn't immediately follow the sound of his voice, or that of their mother's voice, either.  Instead, A.J.’s eyes were as watery and unfocused as a newborn infant's.  They lazily drifted from one object to another, from one person to another, without sign of recognition.

 

            Rick reached out, lightly touching the end of A.J.'s nose with the tips of two fingers to gain his attention.  "A.J., look at me.  A.J.?"

 

            A.J. lethargically tracked the familiar voice.  Although the man's features were blurred, he could see the gentle smile underneath the trademark moustache.

 

            "A.J.?"

            A.J.'s mouth moved.  Cecilia could tell he was trying to say something, but it was like watching the Tin Man attempting to force his jaw to work after years spent out in the rain.

 

            Rick beckoned again.  "A.J.?" 

 

            A.J.'s head lifted from the pillow a fraction of an inch, his face scrunched in effort.  When what he was working so hard for finally came out, it was stumbled over in one raspy syllable.

 

            "Ka-----Ka----Ka------Ka------Kee."

 

            Rick looked to his mother.  She gave a small shake of her head, indicating she didn't know what A.J. was trying to say any more than Rick did..

 

            Gina moved closer.  She placed a hand on her patient's shoulder, gently urging him back.  "A.J., you need to relax.  Don't work so hard.  There'll be plenty of time for that later."

 

            A.J.'s head rested back against his pillows, but his eyes never left Rick.  He became more insistent with each attempt to communicate.

 

            "Ka-----Ka-----Ka-----Kee.  Kee."

 

            Rick offered the only thing he could think of.  "Yeah, A.J., I've got your keys.  To your house and car both.  Don't worry about them."

 

            The next word came out loud and clear.

 

            "No!"

 

            Figures, Rick couldn't help but think with affectionate amusement.  He caught his mother's smile as well.  That would be the first word he uses.

 

            Rick had nothing but gentle patience for his brother.  "Okay, I understand.  You're not trying to tell me about your keys."

 

            "No.  Ka----Ka-----Kee."  A.J.'s eyes focused on Rick.  He awkwardly loosened his hand from his brother's grip, bringing it to rest on Rick's forearm.  He had to think hard in order to make his right index finger tap a weak rhythm against the cloth of Rick's field jacket.

 

            "Kee.  Kee."

 

            Rick's eyebrows met in concentration.  A.J. was desperately trying to communicate something to him, but what the hell was it?  He felt the finger tap on his arm again.  At that moment, Rick realized that what A.J. was doing was pointing.  Pointing at him.

 

            "Kee.  Kee."

 

            Rick took A.J.'s hand.  He laid it against the middle of his own chest, right atop his beating heart.  "You mean me, A.J.?  Rick?  You're saying Rick?"

 

            A.J.'s eyes closed in exhausted triumph.  "Esss.  Kee.  Kee."

 

            Yes.  Rick.  Rick.

 

            It was then that Rick knew with heartbreaking certainty everything Doctor Cho had predicted was about to come true.  It was then that he knew the likelihood of A.J. being able to give Abby any useful information regarding what he had witnessed the previous day was nonexistent.  By the tears streaming down Cecilia's face, Rick was aware his mother knew these things, too.  But because they were a family who had always loved and supported one another, Rick hid his distress from A.J., as he would do many times in the months to come.  Instead, he squeezed his brother's hand in quiet confirmation.

 

            "Yes, A.J.  It's Rick.  It's Rick."
           

 

Chapter 10

 

 

            Three and a half weeks passed in which A.J.'s injuries slowly but steadily healed, allowing him to be moved off Intensive Care eight days after the accident.  Not that he didn't have major hurdles to leap, he did.  Many of them.        

 

            Two days after he responded to his family, the nurses had A.J. out of bed along with Rick's help.  As anyone could have easily guessed based on the massive amount of bruising he suffered, the trips A.J. was forced to make up and down the hall were horribly torturous for him.  Torturous to the point he'd turn away to hide his tears from his brother, though Rick was fully aware they were there.  Internally, he cried along with A.J. at those times, adding to the layers of sorrow and guilt weighing heavier on his heart with each passing day.

 

            It was during those early days after the accident that the doctors realized the brain damage A.J. suffered extended to the use of his right arm and leg.  He had a difficult time controlling that side of his body.  Like a stroke victim, he had weakness in the major muscle groups.  He walked with an awkward limp, as though at any moment his knee might give out from under him.  It was difficult for him to hold anything with his right hand, be it a cup of water, a fork or his toothbrush.  Since his left arm was in a cast, A.J. was often dependent on his family, or the nursing staff, for his daily needs.  It was obvious to Rick his brother hated that dependency.  More than once he'd had to duck when A.J.'s toothbrush or razor was sent flying across the bathroom with frustration, because the blond man couldn't make his right hand perform what once had been simple tasks. 

 

            Because of his right leg, they started A.J. out using a walker.  Maneuvering it was no easy feat because of the weakness in his right arm and his useless left one, but Joel insisted it was for his own safety.  A.J. hated that, too, and as Cecilia had predicted might happen, Rick was forced to bawl his sibling out when A.J. tried to make a trip without the hated walker and ended up falling.

 

            But the thing Rick knew his brother abhorred most was his inability to communicate.  A.J.'s verbal skills were extremely slow in improving.  Now, nearly a month after the accident, he couldn't say more than two dozen words, few of them clearly.  Rick was still 'Kee' and Cecilia - well Cecilia he didn't refer to by name at all. 

 

            A.J.'s first frustrating try at 'Mom' had ended with both him and Cecilia in tears.  Cecilia couldn't understand why he was so upset when he finally managed to get out the M A sounds that formed the word Ma.  She praised him, telling him he'd done wonderful.

 

            "No!  No!  Ma-----Ma------Ma------"

 

            It was as Cecilia watched A.J.'s mouth that day she realized he was trying to form the vowel O, though it kept coming out as an A.  That what he really wanted to do was call her Mom, as opposed to Ma. 

 

            She reached out a hand, running it over his cheek.  "Honey, you've got it.  Ma.  Ma or Mom, they mean the same thing.  It doesn't make any difference to me."

 

            "No!  No!  Na--------Na------No--------Ma."

 

            It was then that the woman finally understood.  When her sons were young, Rick used to tease her by calling her Ma.  For whatever reason, Cecilia didn't like to be referred to in that manner, and would refuse to answer him.  "I'm Mom," she would tell Rick firmly while eight-year-old A.J. laughed at his brother's joke.  "Mom or Mother.  But not Ma.  I don't like that, Rick.  It makes me sound like an old mountain woman with no teeth."

 

            And now A.J. was telling her he remembered she was not Ma, but rather Mom - as he had called her all his life.

 

            "Sweetheart, it's okay.  You can call me Ma for now.  I'll answer you, I promise.  Later, in a few weeks, we'll work on Mom again."

 

            A.J. slammed his fist against the bed railing that morning, letting his mother know how frustrated he was with himself.  Tears welled up in his eyes as he repeated in the halting speech pattern that his family was slowly growing accustomed to,  "Na----Na-----No-----Ma!  No----Ma!"

 

            That was the last day A.J. had attempted to verbally identify his mother.

 

            Friends and relatives were another challenge.  A.J.'s doctors encouraged visitors once he was out of Intensive Care.  Joel told Cecilia and Rick it would be too easy for A.J. to shut himself down socially, if he wasn't made to at least attempt to communicate with the people he'd been close to before the accident. 

 

            "Besides," Joel pointed out,  "you can't allow A.J. to become dependent on just the two of you for his every need.  You'll only hurt him further if you do that, and hurt yourselves in the process.  I know this is going to be hard for him; facing his friends and family members, but he has to."

 

            Rick wasn't sure how successful that project was proving to be.  A.J. was a sly son of gun; there was no doubt about that.  It wasn't lost on Rick that his brother feigned sleep, or even amnesia, when someone visited with whom he wasn't comfortable.  The circle of people with whom A.J. was comfortable was few and far between, but Rick quickly picked up on why.  Those that came and carried on a normal conversation with A.J., treated him as an equal, allowed him time to try to voice what he was thinking, even though nine instances out of ten they couldn't understand him, were not a threat, but were welcomed with the old familiar A.J. Simon grin.  On the other hand, those visitors who were obviously uncomfortable with A.J.'s disabilities, who shouted at him as though he was deaf like Uncle Bud tended to do, or who never shut their mouths in an effort to cover up his awkward words and pauses like Aunt Edie did, were not welcome.  A.J. made that perfectly clear. 

 

            So along with a small handful of A.J.'s friends, and a select few relatives such as Linda, his list of favored visitors was limited to Abby, Carlos, Jerry Reiner, and Downtown Brown, who'd traveled twice since the accident from his home in L.A. in order to offer his support to both Simon brothers.

 

            Almost everyone else A.J. refused to see in one fashion or another, be it by pretending to be asleep, or by disappearing with his favorite nurse, Ellen, who was always willing to spirit him away to the employee's lounge if nothing else.  Or stow A.J. in a closet, as Rick once found him.  The black nurse was in the closet beside her patient, both laughing themselves silly, though these days A.J.'s laugh sounded more like the cough of a machine gun.  Rick could only shake his head while smiling and pretending to scold them for hiding A.J. from Aunt Marion, who had driven all the way down from San Francisco to see him.  Truthfully, neither Rick nor Cecilia could be angry with him for any of the little tricks he pulled.  Though they supposed they should have been, quite the contrary, they silently applauded A.J. for his ingenuity.  And for his fun.  God knew he was getting very little of that.

 

            For along with physical therapy on his weak right side, and the therapy he would soon engage in once his cast was removed, came therapy of another sort.  The therapy required to help A.J. regain his lost mental skills.  Unfortunately, Rick found what County General had to offer to be lacking in structure and goals.  So did A.J.  According to Joel, this was because a patient who had sustained the type of injury A.J. had wasn't meant to receive long term care at County General, but rather would need to be transferred to San Diego Rehabilitation Hospital, more commonly referred to as San Diego Rehab, for further assistance.  Which was exactly where A.J. was going as soon as his doctors felt he was physically able.

 

            In the meantime, they'd made do with what County General had to offer.  Which was how Rick found himself sitting on his brother's bed just three days before A.J. was scheduled to be admitted to the rehab center. The evening supper dishes had been cleared away, and had been replaced with children's wooden blocks.  Rick scattered them over the small rolling tray/table that served as a stand for A.J. to eat on, among other things.

 

            Colors, A.J. was good at.  He had no trouble pointing out which block was blue, which one was red, which one was yellow, and so forth.  They'd abandoned that game within a few minutes the first night they'd tried it.  Numbers and letters were another story, however. Another bridge A.J. had to cross that seemed to wobble every time he stepped on it.

 

            Rick shuffled the blocks around on the tray until they were in random order.  The brothers were alone, A.J.'s most recent roommate having been released the previous day.

 

            "Okay, A.J., pick up the number two and give it to me," Rick said from his position on the opposite side of the short table. 

 

            What was difficult about this for Rick to watch; was the fact A.J. never hesitated.  He appeared to know exactly what he was doing, appeared to have great confidence in his abilities, when he handed Rick the number five. 

 

            "No, that's a five.  See."  Rick turned the block so A.J. could view the red number.  "Five."  Rick traced it with his fingers.  "See, it's shaped like this.  Almost like an S."

            Rick returned the block to the tray.  He surreptitiously studied his brother, already seeing A.J.'s jaw clenching.  They'd been doing this for two weeks now, and making little headway.  Rick wondered how much longer his brother's temper would hold.

 

            "Let's try a different one.  How about an eight?  Hand me the eight."

 

            A.J. plucked the blue number six from the pile. 

 

            "No, that's a six.  It kinda looks like a raindrop, doesn't it?  Here, we'll try again.  Find me the four."

 

            A.J. grabbed the green nine, violently shoving it in his brother's sternum. 

 

            Rick took a deep breath.  "You're not trying very hard tonight, A.J.  Now come on, focus.  Find the seven for me."

            Rick was rewarded with a hastily chosen two flying by his head.  He had to swerve to his left in order to avoid being clipped by a sharp corner.

 

            "A.J., knock it off!   Mom and I have told you before that throwing things doesn't do any good.  It only makes things harder on all of us." 

 

            Rick allowed himself a few seconds to calm down.  A.J. sat back against his pillows, eyes averted, a permanent scowl etched on his features. The look of displeasure on the blond man's face made Rick feel like a coldhearted headmaster who belonged in the pages of a Dickens' novel.

 

            Rick hid the smile that threatened to burst forth.  A.J.'s lower lip was jutting forward in a pout, and despite his cast, his arms were crossed over his chest.

 

            "Okay," Rick said, calm and in control once more,  "let's skip the numbers and go to the letters.  Let's spell your name.  Hand me an A."

 

            The detective knew his brother recognized the letter A.  That's why he started with it, to give A.J. a chance to succeed. 

 

            The blond man studied the blocks.  His brows knit together in deep concentration as he searched.  He finally retrieved what he was looking for, handing it across the tray.

 

            Rick kept the sigh out of his voice.  "No.  That's an L."

 

            "L."

 

            "Yes, an L, you're right.  It's an L.  But I asked you for an A.  As in Andrew.  Find me the A."

 

            Again, A.J. scrutinized the letters in front of him. Rick briefly closed his eyes when his brother's hand came to rest on the B.

 

            "No, A.J., that's a B."

 

            "Ba----Ba-----Bee."

 

            "Yeah, that's how the sound is made, but I thought we we're gonna start with an A."

            A.J. shook his head.  He pointed to the block Rick still held in his hand.

            "No, this isn't an A.  It's an L."

 

            "L."

 

            "Yes, an L.  Not an A."

 

            A.J. began to bang the block he held under his fingers.

 

            "No, that's not an A either, it's the second letter of the alphabet.  It's B."

 

            "B."

            "Yes, B.  But what did I ask you to get for me?  I asked for an A, remember?"

 

            "B!  B!"

              Rick was starting to feel like they were participating in the old Abbott and Costello comedy routine, 'Who's On First.  Though someone had definitely forgotten to add the laugh track, because Rick was hard pressed to find the humor in any of this.

            "El-----bee."

 

            "A.J., damn it, quit foolin' around!  It's been a long day, and I'm tired.  You know perfectly well what I asked you for."

            A.J. viciously pounded, his teeth clenched with frustration. 

 

            "El----bee!   El-----bee!  El-----bee!"

 

            Rick reached over, placing his hands firmly atop his brother's.  "Stop it!  It's not doing either one of us any good for you to have a temper tantrum like a spoiled three-year-old!  Now knock it off!"

 

            With more strength than Rick thought his brother currently possessed, A.J. grappled his hands free and wiped the tray clean.  Blocks sailed in every direction like small square missiles.  The last thing to go down was the tray itself.  It banged the floor twice with a repetitive clatter.

 

            Rick flew to his feet.  "Now look what you've done!  If you think I'm gonna pick this mess up by myself you've got another think...A.J.? A.J., what's wrong?"

 

            It was the look of shock on A.J.'s face that first caused Rick to cease his short-tempered tirade.  His brother's eyes were wide, first with surprise, then with shame.  Rick didn't know how long it would have taken him to figure it out if he hadn't caught the whiff of urine.  He looked down to see the wet stain on the sheet that was covering A.J.

 

            The lanky man quickly took the situation in hand, his tone and demeanor instantly changing.  "It's okay," he soothed quietly.  "It's okay.  I'll help you."  Rick reached for his sibling's shoulder.  "Come on, let's get you outta that bed and--"

 

            "No!-------No!" 

 

            The closer Rick tried to get, the more A.J. pushed him away.

 

            Rick kept his voice low pitched and calm.  "A.J., it's all right.  We'll take care of it together.  Now just let me help--"

 

            "No!  No!  Go!--------Go!"