Child of Silence Read Online Free PDF

play of light on surfaces—these Bo recognized for what they were. The first groundswells of mania.

    But the intensity of the boy's odd eyes cut through the illusion and gleamed at Bo. Reached out. Touched her. A light, a presence. She could no more walk away from it than she could stop breathing. It was her talisman, that gleam.
     
    Her own source of strength and endurance. It was intelligence! She was sure. She'd know it anywhere.

    “Didn't you say you suspect severe retardation?” she asked without breaking eye contact with the child. Everything in the room had a halo and the hum continued, but she ignored it.

    Sailboat stroked the boy's incredibly thick, wiry hair and crooned, “Johnny doesn't talk, doesn't understand anything. Do you, Johnny?”

    The child continued to stare at Bo. His pale golden eyes with their sorrel irises spoke volumes. But volumes of what?

    Sailboat went on. “All he can do is flap his hands. We'll know more when the neurological workup comes back.”

    Flaps his hands. Bo steadied herself and watched the boy's right hand. It was “flapping” for sure, but the flap wasn't random. He'd curled the three middle fingers inward toward his palm, extending his thumb and pinky. At first Bo thought he was finger-spelling the letter Y. But the hand jerked sideways, thumb pointing down toward his mouth. It was a gesture common to college students, and beer drinkers in general.
     
    “I think he wants a beer,” Bo gasped.

    The humming subsided. The shimmers faded to haze.
     
    What the hell is going on ?

    A sense of mystery, and of mission, flooded Bo's awareness. The manicky delusion that she had been brought to this place by magical forces was at once ludicrous and impossible to shake.
     
    “Don't be silly,” Sailboat said professionally.

    Bo pulled her mask off. The boy's condition seemed obvious, but she had to be sure.
     
    “Bo,” she pronounced soundlessly, pointing to herself.

    “I'm afraid you'll have to keep the mask on. You said you had the flu—”

    “No, no. He has to see my face.”

    Moving to the bedside table, Bo poured water into a plastic cup from a pitcher. Making the beer-drinking gesture with one hand, she handed the cup to the boy. He took a sip and then threw the cup on the floor, his eyes never leaving hers.
     
    She was sure!

    “See, he's not thirsty,” the nurse sighed. “Now I'll have to call housekeeping to clean this up. Be careful you don't breathe on him.”

    Bo knew the boy wasn't thirsty. He couldn't be thirsty with a half gallon of nutrient-enriched sugar-water dripping into a vein in his left arm. Thirst had not been the point of the gesture. Communication had been the point of the gesture.

    “Bo,” she mouthed again, pointing to herself. Her heart was racing.
     
    Slowly the child curled a stubby index finger toward his own chest. A sound came from the small mouth, hoarse, hard to distinguish. Like the call from a distant hawk.

    “I scream because I am a bird.” The words of the Paiute chant echoed in Bo's ears. She shook her head.
     
    The boy tried again.

    “Ww-eh-po,” he whispered, watching Bo avidly. Somebody had tried to teach him to pronounce his name. Somebody, Bo knew, had labored for months, face close to his, hands on Adam's apples, to teach him there was a sound he could make that identified him. A grin swept her face as she hugged the little boy impulsively. He was warm, soap-smelling, trembly.

    “Weppo! Your name's Weppo!”

    The boy smiled weakly, his gaze still fastened to her face. And then his eyes closed. The effort had been exhausting.
     
    “This kid's not retarded, he's deaf !” Bo yelled. She felt a flush tingle through her cheeks as the earlier dizziness subsided but didn't quite vanish beneath her elation.

    Crazy or not, she was right.
     
    “Shh, he needs to rest.” Nurse Sailboat pushed Bo toward the door.

    “He can't hear me; he's deaf !” Bo yelled again.

    “Well, all the children up here