Chapter 19
~§~
The Brooks home was large but far less ostentatious than the other houses on the block. She’d called herself the original spoiled rich-kid, and Clark realized when he saw her neighborhood that she hadn’t exaggerated. Gillian Brooks had grown up a far cry away from the tiny Colombian village where she’d died.
He’d wrestled with the dilemma of showing up on the Brooks’ doorstep in full Superman regalia, wondering if he shouldn’t change first. But after going back and forth in his mind, he finally decided that he needed the little bit of detachment the suit might afford him. Or perhaps he knew, deep inside, that they’d be more likely to show their grief to a man they knew – or knew through the media, anyway – than to a complete stranger who appeared bearing Gillian’s things.
He also suspected it was why he hadn’t called ahead, afraid that if the Brooks knew the reason for his visit, they might choose not to see him. Maybe they’d have requested that he just leave the box. But he needed to face her parents and own their grief. To tell them how sorry he was.
It was all part of his penance. Of his need to take in as much of the pain as he could since he’d failed miserably at avoiding the reason for it in the first place.
So, he’d left San Pablo immediately after Jeff had placed the box in his hands, promising to return that evening. Perhaps he was adding salt to his wound, but somehow, he hoped that seeing Gillian’s parents might cauterize it instead, a searing pain so intense that it had nothing to do but lessen.
A drab woman opened the door, and Clark tensed, preparing to speak to Gillian’s mother. The woman turned out to be the housekeeper, and without batting an eye, she settled the large man with the billowing cape in the sitting room before fetching Mr. Brooks.
Thomas Brooks was tall and had the same light eyes as his daughter, but they were not of the pure gray of Gillian’s, having a lot more blue in them. His silvered hair was thick on the sides but completely gone through the middle. Tan and athletic, Clark could easily imagine that this man chose to volunteer his services in third world countries rather than spend his vacations on the golf course. He looked far too young to have lost two children.
“Superman, it’s very nice to meet you.” Mr. Brooks extended a hand, and Clark shook it.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, not sure how to announce the reason for his visit.
“I have to admit this is a pretty big surprise. We’re not used to receiving celebrity guests.” He gestured for Clark to sit in one of the two leather chairs placed near the fireplace, then took the other. “So, what brings you to Grosse Pointe? Not a disaster I hope?”
“No, I’m sad to say that I’ve come on a personal matter. I was asked to deliver something to you.” He held out the box still tightly clutched in his hands.
Mr. Brooks leaned forward, reading the addresses on the large white label. He paled when he saw the return city listed as San Pablo, recoiling against the back of his chair as if he feared the box’s contents.
“It’s just a few of Gillian’s things,” Clark rushed to assure him that the box contained nothing harmful. “Her clothes were donated to some of the village women. I hope that’s all right?”
His explanation seemed to jolt Mr. Brooks from his shock. He nodded vigorously, his skin regaining some of its healthy color. “Of course. Of course. I’m glad someone will get use of them.”
The older man took the box almost hesitatingly, studying it for a long minute in silence. Clark wondered if he also noticed the absence of crosses.
Finally he stood and, moving across the small room, set the box on a credenza just inside the foyer. Clark guessed that Gillian’s father wanted some privacy when he went through his daughter’s things. He’d required a lot of his own when he’d accepted the tiny box Jeff had given to him, things he’d thought Clark might want to keep.
“So you knew Gillian?” Mr. Brooks said after he’d taken his seat again. He appeared composed, but Clark couldn’t help but notice the shine in his eyes.
He cleared his throat, determined to answer the questions that were asked, no matter how hard it became. “I met her in San Pablo when I assisted after the earthquake several months ago.”
“And you know what happened to her?” With that question, Mr. Brooks looked away, toward the fireplace where no fire burned.
“Yes, sir,” Clark said, feeling his resolve melt away like snow in the sun. Those questions, the ones that required him to recount what he knew in detail, would bring him to the brink of losing control. Perhaps send him over it. He’d go there if asked outright, but only then.
Jeff must have been thorough enough because, thankfully, Mr. Brooks didn’t seem to expect anything more than Clark had offered. He shook his head with a sad smile. “Colombia’s a pretty dangerous country. Can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent wishing I’d taken her to Malaysia or Nigeria. Or Paris.”
Instinctively, Clark slipped into platitudes. “Mr. Brooks, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. She was so generous...” he trailed off.
“It’s funny, but in her last letter, she mentioned coming back to the states. Said she thought maybe it was time to come home. We were so glad.” He looked at Clark with an almost pleading expression, as if he felt it imperative for this young man to know how much he had loved his daughter. “We’ve missed her over these past two years.”
“She missed you, too.” Clark said it with true conviction. There was no doubt in his mind how much she missed her family, despite her extended absence and reluctance to return home.
“I tried to talk her into coming back with me when my tour with DWB was over, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Gillian was always too...”
“Persistent,” Clark supplied, more to himself than to the man seated across from him.
Mr. Brooks chuckled. “Yes, persistent. Guess she gets that from me.”
It was no use. There was nothing Clark could say to ease Thomas Brooks’ obvious guilt. He understood it and wouldn’t deny the man his need to wrap himself in it. To use it to dull the pain and push aside the realization that Gillian was gone forever. It was an emotion that they both felt equally. Maybe deserved equally, for as much as blame could ever be rationed in such a situation. Both men had failed her. If not in making her leave Colombia, for something more fundamental. Offering her reason enough to return.
Clark leaned forward, feeling more helpless than he had in his whole life. “Listen, Mr. Brooks, if there’s anything at all I can do for you.”
“Oh, no, Superman. You’ve already been too kind to bring this to us. I thank you, and I know my wife would as well.” He spared a glance in the direction of the massive staircase, telling Clark volumes about Mrs. Brooks’ current condition. His tone was almost apologetic when he continued. “She’s taken this all very hard. We lost a son a few years back. Gillian’s twin, if you can believe that.”
Clark nodded, swallowing against the lump that was suddenly filling his throat. “Gillian mentioned it.”
“When Chris died, I think Gillian felt she had no purpose anymore. Like they were a matched set, and once he was gone, she was of no use. She viewed her brother as some sort of saint...” he trailed off.
As Mr. Brooks sat, lost in his own thoughts, Clark looked at his hands, tented in front of him as he rested his arms on his knees. He’d said the same thing to Gillian. That she thought of her brother as a saint. And he’d accused her of trying to become a martyr. What he wouldn’t give to take those words back now.
Startling suddenly, his attention snapped back to the man sitting before him, Mr. Brooks apologized. “I’m sorry, for going on like this. Can I offer you a drink?
“No sir, I should be going.” Clark stood, then hesitated. “Unless there’s something else – ”
“No. No.” Mr. Brooks stood as well, protesting. “You must have some place you’d rather be.”
They walked to the door in silence, but before Mr. Brooks could open it, Clark turned to face him. “Again, Mr. Brooks, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Superman, there is one thing. I don’t know if you can help, but since you knew her...”
“Anything,” Clark said, encouraging him to ask. He’d do anything he could.
“Well, there was a man. Gillian mentioned him in her last few letters home. His first name was Sam, but I don’t know his last name.”
Clark nodded, his throat too constricted to allow words to pass through. She’d written home about him...mentioned him...
“I didn’t know how to get a hold of him to let him know...” Mr. Brooks went on, faltering as he tried to explain what he needed.
“Mr. Brooks, I know...” Clark paused, both to let the tidal wave of pain subside so that he could speak clearly and to choose the right words to convey what he felt. “I knew Sam. He died in the guerilla camp. With Gillian.”
A look of horror swept over Mr. Brooks’ face. “Oh, I didn’t know. Jeff didn’t mention...That’s too bad. Gillian seemed rather fond of him.”
“Sam was very...fond of her,” he managed to choke out. He was having trouble breathing and needed to get away while he still had some small semblance of composure.
Mr. Brooks smiled weakly. “Well, I guess that’s some consolation then. That she was with a friend at the end.”
His knees nearly no longer able to support his weight, Clark extended his hand. But when the shake was over, he didn’t release his grip immediately. They shared much, he and Thomas Brooks. Grief. Guilt. Regrets. But mostly, love for Gillian.
“Good-bye Mr. Brooks.”
With an appreciative squeeze, Mr. Brooks smiled, a quick smile, almost like Gillian’s but so much sadder. “Thank you, Superman.”
The image he always retained of Gillian’s father was one of a man far too young to have lost two children.
~§~
He returned to San Pablo that evening, not ready to face anyone but those who understood and shared his grief. And his promise made to Lois gave him some time.
It was funny how once he’d learned what had happened, he could see signs everywhere that something terribly wrong had occurred.
A scrap of black cloth was attached to each house and building, sometimes hung like flags, other times tied into bows. The laughter and activity normally heard at all hours of the day seemed strangely muted, as if the volume in the entire village had been turned way down. The women who owned black clothes wore them and, as Jeff explained, would continue to wear them for another six months. All of San Pablo mourned and would do so long after Clark had returned home.
Three white crosses marked the graves of André and José and served as a memorial to Gillian. They were placed near the clinic, in the tiny cemetery at the top of the hill, and fresh flowers were brought to them every day. Clark knew that she would have been pleased to receive such an honor, given a permanent place in the village she’d called home.
He’d been gone only three weeks, but in that time, even the weather in San Pablo had changed. Although the days were still mild, a chill in the air contained bitterness instead of the refreshing quality of the summer breezes. Fall had finally come to the Andes, the very earth itself shutting down as if it, too, mourned Gillian.
Into the wee hours of the morning he and Jeff sat together under a star-filled sky, sharing stories and long silences. They reminisced about the things that she’d done to make them laugh, and Jeff told tale after tale of times before Clark. He felt an unquenchable need to know everything about her, things that he should have asked when he’d had the chance.
Finally, when the night had grown too cool and damp, Jeff stood and stretched, pleading exhaustion. Clark had wandered to his own shack, standing for long minutes in the doorway before entering it. Nothing had been moved since he’d left. His curiosity was satisfied. It looked exactly the same.
After staring at the tin ceiling for over an hour, he grabbed the pancake pillow from his pallet and walked barefoot through the sleeping village to Gillian’s shack. Pulling back the wool blanket, he crawled into her bed, inhaling deeply as her lingering scent wrapped around him.
When he let his mind touch on the memory of what had occurred the last time he’d lain there, a whimper fought its way up his throat. Any second thoughts he had ever had, any twinges of doubt about the rightness of what they had shared, left him completely. In giving her himself, he’d established a bond with her that would never be broken. She would always be his first. Always hold a place in his heart that no one else could touch.
And, too, he took small comfort in knowing that although he had never said it out loud, in that one night, he had shown her how much he cared for her. For the rest of his life, he would hold on to that hope. That at least for a few hours, she had known that he loved her.
With the fingers of his mind, he traced the curves of her face, stroked the length of her honey-colored hair. He breathed deeply of the smell that was uniquely hers, let his tongue remember the taste of her lips and skin. Gingerly, he allowed himself to look into her gray eyes, and in them he placed love instead of fear. And finally, with an ache that swallowed him whole, he heard her voice, a whispered word spoken into his heart where it would echo for as long as he lived. “Sam.”
Hugging the pillow tightly and drawing his knees to his chest, he let the tears come, first in a trickle and then a steady flow. And when the dawn came, he placed the pillow on the neatly remade bed next to its intended mate, closing the door softly behind him.
After paying his respects to Mrs. Martinez, who’d lost both son and husband in the form of André and José, he took Gillian’s motorbike and visited the valley she had taken him to on their day together. There weren’t any butterflies, but he created snapshots in his mind of the towering wax palms and the rolling hills and mists. Something inexplicable drove him, and he fed his memory as if it were a starving man unable to be sated.
A Colombian wake, of sorts, had been planned for late that afternoon, to take advantage of Clark’s unexpected visit. Shots of chicha were passed and toasts made in the fine name of señorita Gillian. Lacking the boisterousness of the Saint Mary’s Day festival, it was still a joyous occasion. In the true spirit of aquí y ahora, they were letting go of the hurt and celebrating the life of someone who’d come to mean so much to the villagers of San Pablo.
While he smiled and toasted along with everyone else, Clark couldn’t manage to feel the same sense of peace the others had apparently found. Only Jeff seemed to understand his need to let the sorrow linger, his wound far too fresh to expose it so wantonly.
Wanting to leave without a fuss, he slipped out of Rosita’s at dusk, while the merriment was in full swing. Before he left, he gave Jeff his new number at the Daily Planet.
“Just ask for Clark Kent. He always knows how to reach me,” he said as he pressed the scrap of paper with the phone number on it into Jeff’s hand. “I mean it. If you need anything at all, call. If you can make it to a phone.”
Jeff studied him for a long time, and Clark knew then that he hadn’t fooled the astute man for a second.
“I wouldn’t dream of bothering Mr. Kent,” Jeff said firmly. “I’m sure he’ll be busy with his own life.”
Clark swallowed hard, then nodded. Understanding. He’d come to say good-bye, and since he hadn’t been able to do it the right way with Gillian, Jeff was letting him do it now.
No one saw him as he made his way up the road and slipped into his shack.
He folded his clothes neatly and placed them atop his worn Tevas sandals already resting in the bottom of the trunk. Perhaps someday another stranger would arrive in San Pablo and have use for them.
<You said you came here to find something you lost. Have you found it, Sam?>
As if she stood next to him, he heard her ask the question.
“Yeah, Gillian, I found it,” he whispered back into the darkness.
He’d come to find himself, and she’d shown him the way.
With a final glance around the small room he’d considered his home for over half a year, he left, shutting the door behind him. He made one quick stop before shooting straight up into the cool Colombian evening.
~§~
He touched down on the wooden porch, setting his passenger gently on his feet. Luke stood patiently while Clark spun out of the suit and into his clothes, as unimpressed by the sight as ever. He was one of the few who knew all sides of Clark and accepted the entire man, not just the superhuman part.
“C’mon. There’s someone I want you to meet,” Clark said as he held the door open for his furry companion.
Luke trotted through the door and down the hallway toward the kitchen, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He stopped about half-way, turning to wait for Clark to join him.
The kitchen, brightly lit and filled with the heavy aroma of baking turkey and cooling pumpkin pie, filled him with a warm glow that started the long, slow thaw of his frozen heart. This farm was part of his past, a part that he would never let go. And sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a cup of coffee with his parents, was his future. No longer unknown.
But he wouldn’t wait for the future to start living the happiness it promised to hold. Aquí y ahora. Always he would live here and now. It was what she would have wanted. Demanded. It was Gillian’s legacy.
“Lois, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” he announced softly, drawing the attention of the three people he loved most in the world.
She turned, the love shining in her eyes causing his breath to catch.
“This is Luke,” he said. Then with a small smile of his own, he gave Luke a scratch between the ears. “Luke, meet Lois Lane.”
~§~
