4
The sun is down just below the horizon now. I hover in the sky over the Daily Planet, hesitating as I scan the building. Deadline is rapidly approaching, and reporters scramble to finish their stories as Mr. Olsen pops his head out from his office.
“Anyone seen Kent?” he yells with annoyance, his voice carrying across the room.
I flinch at his tone. A few reporters risk a glance over to my empty desk, but no one responds, and Mr. Olsen shakes his head and sulks back into his office, the door slamming behind him. He is missing my write up of the tsunami incident, I know, and I silently curse Wells’s timing. He couldn’t have waited until after I’d finished work for the day to show up out of the blue and ask me to go on an interdimensional adventure. Nope, that would have made my life easier. And nothing ever happens to make my life easier. In fact, things are about to get even more complicated.
I sigh and scan the newsroom one more time. Mr. Olsen is on the phone now. My cell buzzes in the pocket of my suit, and I realize he’s calling me. I hit a button to silence the call and groan inwardly. No more delays from the safety of five hundred feet in the air.
I dive down decisively, spin out of the suit as I wind through the stairwell, and exit on the third floor, a gust of hot air following behind me. Not the subtle entrance I usually try to make, but I’m in a hurry. I ignore the pointed whispers and uneasy looks from my colleagues and jog over to my desk, adjusting my glasses as I go. I keep my head down as I switch my monitor on and sit, my fingers already flying across the keyboard. I’m not typing at a normal speed right now. In fact, I can barely keep myself from going too fast and frying the computer. I pause a moment as I hear Mr. Olsen’s voice, and I look up.
“Kent, am I going to have that story on the tsunami in the next two minutes or do I need to fill the page with something else?” he asks. Direct and to the point, as always. The question hangs in the air for a millisecond as I freeze, my fingers stilled on my keyboard. The whole newsroom has turned and is looking at me. I scan the room without moving my head, and movement and sounds return abruptly as everyone suddenly pretends that they have things to do. Watch out, the alien has laser eyes. I swallow.
“In your inbox in thirty seconds, sir,” I reply respectfully, lowering my eyes back to my computer monitor and resuming my rapid typing.
I wish I had more time to do this story justice. But it will go to print without additional details exploring infrastructure upgrades that may prevent future devastation from similar natural disasters or a more in-depth commentary on the Japanese government’s lack of prompt response to the disaster. I finish and send the story to Mr. Olsen with a minute to spare before deadline. I stare at the headline on my screen. Superman Assists With Rescue Efforts After Tsunami Hits Southern Japanese Coast, by Clark Kent. Possibly my last headline here, at this Daily Planet, in this universe.
The thought is sobering. I reach forward and turn off my computer and monitor. I need to speak with Mr. Olsen to let him know I will be gone for…a while. But I’d prefer to have more privacy. Mr. Olsen can get enthusiastic…and loud. I don’t really have any personal belongings at my desk, but I tidy up a bit and prepare a couple handwritten notes as I wait for the newsroom to clear out. When I am finished, I glance at the clock on the wall over the elevators. 6:57 p.m. Wells will be back at my apartment to get me at 8 p.m., assuming his rendezvous with
her goes as planned. That is not much time to organize my life for an indefinite absence.
In our discussion earlier, Wells told me that my world has become stable; my presence as Superman has given hope and courage to the people of my Earth. He promised that even if I leave tonight, as we are planning, my world will survive and thrive without me. There is no Utopia on my Earth, because there is no Lois Lane to help me build it, but there is general peace and prosperity. And that will not change at this point. However, for whatever reason, in her world, the world of this new Lois Lane, with her long dark hair and beautiful deep brown eyes and dazzling smile, Superman’s presence is still needed; peace is tenuous. Wells explained that her Clark, her Superman was more than just a colorfully clad superhero who flew around and saved lives. He’d both shaped the goodness of her world and held it together. And his absence was immediately met by increased crime, skirmishes breaking out at borders between countries worldwide, and threats of violence and nuclear bombings from Russia, Iran, and North Korea. Wells says my presence—yes, just my presence as Superman—will help heal her world and set it back on the right path.
“But what does Lois think?” I had asked. Certainly, I could not just show up on her Earth the day after she’d been told her Clark was dead. He had twiddled his thumbs almost nervously before admitting that she had first screamed at him, threatened to call the police, told him he was crazy, and nearly killed him by throwing a flower vase at his head. She’d then collapsed crying on her couch and begged him to explain it all to her again—time travel, interdimensional voyages, Utopia—all of it. She’d reluctantly agreed to allow Wells to come and talk to me. And right about now, he should be meeting with her and telling her how I’d not-so-reluctantly agreed to leave my home and step in as her world’s Superman. Perhaps permanently.
I swallow hard and close my eyes for a moment, focusing my hearing outside the building. I want to remember this city, which has been my home for several years now. Its sounds fill my ears. People walking, driving, talking, eating. Cars idling in evening traffic. Horns honking. Pigeons settling into their nests under an overpass near Centennial Park. Leaves falling from a tree and landing on the damp grass. I hear the man who slept on the bench this morning, his wet orange quilt pulled over him; he hums quietly as he tosses bits of bread to the ducks in the pond. The ducks flap their wings indignantly as they quarrel over the last morsel.
A police siren cuts in, drowning out the other sounds.
“Bank robbery in progress. Metropolis Credit Union at 10th and Simons. All units respond.” I decide the police can handle it. I will stay and wait for Mr. Olsen to be available.
I open my eyes and scan the room. Most of my colleagues have finished up their work for the day, and the newsroom is now quiet. Mr. Olsen sits at his desk, scowling as he talks animatedly on his phone. I don’t listen in on his conversation, but I stand, take a deep breath, and then slowly walk across the newsroom. Mr. Olsen hangs up the phone just before I reach his office. He settles back in his plush chair and waves me in as he notices me.
“Kent, did you need something?”
My jaw tightens as I hear the nuance in his question. I see him shift a bit uncomfortably. I lower my eyes for a moment as I remember how he used to treat me—how they all used to treat me—before Tempus had exposed my secret and tried to convince the world that I was part of an alien invasion and intent on ruling the world. Yes, the same Tempus who banished the other Clark into a time window. Before all that, before Tempus and Wells and time travel and universe hopping, they used to see me just as another person. No different from them. They would actually look at me, hold eye contact, smile, converse. Now, my presence is met with uneasiness, discomfort, apprehension. Mr. Olsen is not scared of me, I know. But he is not at ease when I’m around. None of them are. Although Tempus didn’t succeed in turning the world against me, he planted just enough doubt in their minds. I breathe out and step into Mr. Olsen’s office.
“Yessir, actually, I needed to speak with you for a moment, if you have time,” I say, my tone formal. He nods and motions to a chair opposite him on my side of the desk. I don’t move to sit. “This won’t take long. I just have to tell you that I’m going to need to take an extended leave of absence.”
He looks up at me sharply, confusion plastered over his otherwise boyish features. “I don’t understand, Kent. An extended leave of absence? Aren’t you already absent enough?”
The question stings, and I look away as I stuff my hands into my pockets. It’s true that I haven’t been the best employee. I miss meetings, like this morning, and my writing has suffered as I focus more on my superhero duties and less on the investigative part of investigative journalism. But I know I am a decent writer. And I used to have more time and dedication to show that. I also used to have the support of my boss and colleagues. I look back up at him with resolve.
“That is not a fair comment, sir. You know that I am here when I can be, and I’m out making the news that sells your papers when I’m not here.” In a rare moment of assertiveness, I allow myself to sound more like Superman than Clark, and I see Mr. Olsen’s eyes widen in response. I continue, choosing my words carefully. “I have an emergency I must attend to that is not on this Earth, and I am not sure how long I will be gone. I have to leave immediately. I hope you can give this letter to Perry White for me and perhaps publish this short statement on my behalf.”
I reach into the pocket of my coat and pull out two plain white envelopes—one addressed to Perry White, the former Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet, and the other inscribed with the words “Statement on Leave of Absence”.
Mr. Olsen tentatively takes the envelopes from me, his eyes lowering briefly. He nods, staring at my writing on the outside of the second envelope.
“Um, yes, of course, Kent, I can…” His voice trails off, and he looks back up at me. I see he is nervous to pry, but also intensely curious and somewhat worried. “Did you say ‘not on this Earth’? Where are you going?”
I shake my head. “I can’t say, sir. But my presence is urgently needed there.”
I pause but do not break eye contact. Does he deserve any more of an explanation? I honestly am not sure. He’s given me so much flak in the last two years, but at least he didn’t let them fire me. I know he fought to keep me on payroll, even when everyone on the board of directors argued against it. But no, I decide, he is too much of a pragmatist; telling him I’m heading to a different universe in which my doppelganger was killed fighting an evil warlord on a distant planet might just be too much for him to comprehend. Instead, I reach out and offer my hand to him, a final handshake goodbye. He stands, but doesn’t reciprocate the gesture. I’m disappointed, but not surprised, and I frown slightly, nod, and then turn toward the door. My back to him, I add, “Thank you for all the opportunities you’ve given me, sir. I truly appreciate it. Goodnight.”
I don’t wait for him to respond. I shove my hands back in my pockets and head out of his office and to the stairwell. Not bothering to change into the suit, I fly up and out of the building. Hovering a hundred feet above the city, I close my eyes. Wells said Clark Kent’s identity is a secret on this new Earth. And Martha and Jonathan Kent are still alive. And Perry White is still Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet. And her—she’s there. Even if her feelings for her Clark will never allow us to have a relationship, I will get to see her and talk to her and spend time with her.
And maybe people will treat me like less of an outsider.
Maybe I will have a chance at being happy. I certainly don’t have that here.
I’m almost scared to hope.
I swallow nervously and open my eyes. The bright lights of the city flicker below me. I stare at it one final time before hurrying home to pack.
5
“Ready, my boy?”
We stand together in the middle of my living room, and Wells gives me a sideways smile as I shoulder my duffle bag. It is filled with clothes, spare Superman suits, toiletries, and the few possessions I can’t stand to leave behind—some books, photographs, and my journal. But it feels woefully inadequate for the journey ahead. I nod tightly, and Wells mutters a quick “Quite, yes, well, here we go,” and pushes a button on the gadget in his hand.
Instantly everything goes black—the darkest pitch black imaginable. I almost feel the molecules of my body dissolving into the empty void. Then, sudden light fills the empty space, shifting across the color spectrum as though we are passing through a rainbow. Everything is bathed first in red, then yellow, green, blue, and violet. With a final white flash, which probably should blind me but miraculously does not, the living room rematerializes around us.
It is the same room. But also distinctly different. The walls are a brighter color, and the couch sits at a slightly different angle. An abstract art piece with geometric patterns in vivid purple, green, and blue adorns one wall, and the bookcase holds many unfamiliar titles, with a clear slant toward nonfiction travel books written in various languages. Several journalism awards—Kerths and even a Pulitzer—sit on a shelf in the bookcase. And framed photographs are placed on the side table next to the couch and on a brick mantle—photographs of a man who looks exactly like me, but whose smile reaches his eyes.
I hear a small noise, almost like a squeak, from the kitchen, and I sense her presence for the first time.
“Take care of her for me.” The statement is only an echo in my mind now, but I can almost feel his raw emotion. He never wanted to leave her, and he regretted the decision every day. I force a neutral expression on my face as I turn toward the sound.
My breath catches in my throat. Lois. She is just as I pictured her—or rather, just as he let me see her. Beautiful does not begin to describe her. Her long brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and her eyes, which shift anxiously from me to Wells and back again, are deep and intelligent. Her gaze meets mine for a brief moment, and she shakes her head as fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She covers her face with her hands and sits down heavily in a chair at the table. An overwhelming need to comfort her tugs at me, and I open my mouth to speak. However, Wells clears his throat softly, and I understand his unspoken words.
Give her a minute. Quietly, I set my duffle bag down next to the coffee table and pick up a framed photograph of them. Clark Kent and Lois Lane. I’ve seen a similar photo before, I realize, in the other Lois’s wallet when she first visited my world. She is hanging on his arm, one hand resting on his chest, and she looks up at him with pure adoration and a bright smile; he is laughing, his smile matching hers. The moment captured in the photo is beautiful—so full of love—I feel almost like an intruder just looking at it. I carefully place the photo back onto the side table and turn toward the kitchen again.
She watches me with bleary eyes full of sadness. For a moment, as our eyes meet, I see all of her emotions. I realize she is no longer the woman in the photograph—no longer the woman he showed me. That woman is gone, lost to grief the moment he died. I swallow hard and lower my eyes briefly. The intensity is too much.
Wells clears his throat, more loudly this time, and steps toward her. I glance up at him and then back to her. She is still studying me. Her troubled, penetrating eyes don’t leave mine as Wells speaks.
“Ms. Lane, I do understand this is a difficult situation, but please, let me introduce you to Mr. Clark Kent.”
Her eyes close, and I can tell she is fighting not to start crying again. My throat feels dry, and I stuff my hands in my pockets to hide their shaking.
“I’m glad to meet you, Lois,” I say quietly.
I hear her heart rate increase, and she looks up at me again. She reaches up and wipes the tears from her cheeks, then stands, wrapping her arms around herself almost protectively. Without losing eye contact, she deliberately closes the distance between us, stopping about two feet in front of me, and I hold my breath and my shoulders tense as she studies me. She smells of strawberries and chocolate; I file this information away in the back of my mind.
When she speaks, her voice is calm and clear. “You look so much like him. But you’re not him, are you?”
It is a rhetorical question, I know, so I say nothing. She looks like she wants to reach out and touch me, to see if I’m real, but instead, she lowers her eyes and turns back to the kitchen.
“Yes, quite. Well, I’m sure you two have a lot to talk about now, so I should probably be going back to my own travels,” Wells states. He straightens his glasses and shifts uncomfortably. “As I proposed, I will stop back in one week from now, and we shall see if this arrangement will work out. Is that quite all right, Clark, my boy?”
“Yessir,” I agree.
From the kitchen, Lois sniffles and turns to face Wells. He tips his hat to her, and she nods slightly.
“Thank you, Mr. Wells,” she says softly.
“You’re quite welcome, Ms. Lane. I know he’s not your Clark, but he’s a good man. I think you will see what I mean.”
I feel my cheeks heat up, and I look away, pretending to study the books in the bookcase again.
“Right, well, off I go then.”
I hear him push the button on his interdimensional transport device, and the sound is followed a millisecond later by a small pop.
And Lois Lane and I are alone.
I swallow hard and turn back to the kitchen. She is standing over the sink, her hands gripping the granite countertop. I notice for the first time several items piled on the kitchen table, and I cautiously move closer to take a look. Three notebooks, closed and wrapped tightly together with a black cord, sit next to a set of keys, a black leather wallet, and a modest cell phone. A laptop bag hangs on the chair closest to me. His stuff, I realize.
Lois hears me approach, and she spins around sharply, her eyes meeting mine.
“Is this…?” My voice trails off. I’m not sure of the right words.
“Are these things his, but since he’s dead and I’m here to pretend to be him, are you giving them to me?” just sounds a bit callous. She seems to understand my hesitation, though, and she nods and clears her throat.
“Yes, um,” she answers. She steps over to the table and motions for me to sit. I oblige. “I’m sorry, this is a lot to take in, I’m sure you know.”
“I understand,” I respond quietly. “And I want you to know that—that I’m only here to help. I—”
“I know,” she cuts in. She spreads her palms out on the table and takes a deep breath. “And I really appreciate you dropping everything to come here for me—for my Earth. I only hope Mr. Wells is right and that you can help set things right again here.”
She looks up at me, and I see a fire in her eyes.
“I will do my best, Lois,” I promise.
She nods and lowers her eyes again. Her fingers absently reach out and caress the soft leather of his wallet. Her hands are shaking, I notice. Again, the overwhelming urge to comfort her hits me.
“Tea—maybe, can I make you some tea?” I ask abruptly. “Assuming there is some here, and you like tea, of course,” I add.
“I do like tea. Tea would be great,” she answers, her fingers stilling on the wallet. She gives me a half-hearted smile, a tiny morsel. I want more. But I know it will take time.
“Great.”
I stand up and make my way around the edge of the table to the cupboards. A wide selection of different teas, many apparently imported from various Asian countries, is stashed in one cupboard, and I pick out an appropriate calming blend of Oolong and chamomile. I easily find the coffee mugs, and, as I had earlier that day, I fill both mugs with water and use my heat vision to bring the water to a boil. I add the tea bags to steep, and when they are done, I set one of the mugs in front of her.
“Milk or sugar or honey, maybe?”
She shakes her head. “No, I drink mine plain.”
“Me too,” I admit.
She looks a bit surprised, but I don’t pry. He probably had a different preference, I suppose. I sit back down across from her at the table and take a sip from my mug. The flavor is stronger than I’m used to, and I savor it as I take a second sip. She takes a cautious sip as well. Her eyes close for a moment, and I see she is holding back tears again. When she opens her eyes, she manages another small smile. My heart skips a beat.
Careful, Kent, she is not yours.“He made this same tea for me the night before he left for New Krypton,” she explains. A wistful sigh escapes her lips, and I wait for her to continue. “He said that both teas help with relaxation and that combining them made the effects stronger.”
I nod in agreement and take another sip. “Can you…tell me about him?” I venture softly.
Her brow furrows. Maybe it is too soon. But she surprises me by nodding weakly. Her eyes meet mine, and she hesitates for a second.
“He was the strongest man I’ve ever known,” she starts, her voice wavering. “And I don’t mean how much he could bench press.”
Another hint of a smile. I’ll take it.
“He was kind and honest, and he loved everything about life. He loved reading and traveling and writing.” She lets out a sad laugh and wipes a tear off her cheek. “I never told him this, because I’d never admit it, but he was a better writer than me. By far.”
I smile at her admission and take another sip of my tea. Her eyes are still sad, but I see a brilliant light in them when she talks about him. She laughs again.
“When he was nominated for the Pulitzer,” she motions vaguely toward the living room, where I’d seen his awards on the bookshelf, “I almost lost it. I couldn’t believe he had been nominated—he’d only been at the Planet for six months.”
“What was the story about? The one that got him nominated, that is,” I ask.
“It was, um—” She takes a shaky breath and closes her eyes a moment. “It was a series of articles he wrote exposing the unfair treatment of sexual assault victims at major universities around the country.”
Oh wow. Heavy stuff. I suck in a sharp breath. I haven’t written stories like that in years now, not since Superman arrived.
“Yeah, he later told me that those articles were the toughest he’d ever written. They were…heartbreaking. He has a portfolio somewhere, if you’re interested.”
She stands up stiffly and hurries into the living room, where she rifles through a few drawers before returning with a thick white folder stuffed with newspaper clippings. She hands me the folder.
“I think the Pulitzer stories are marked with the yellow tabs there.” She points to a yellow label sticking out the top of the folder.
I set the folder on the table and nod.
“I’ll read it all. Later tonight, or maybe tomorrow, I think.”
Lois moves back to her side of the table and settles back down. Her movements are still stiff, but she seems slightly less tense. She takes a long sip of her tea and then eyes all of the other items sitting on the table.
“I think, um, we should talk about—”
My superhearing kicks in as a bank alarm blares several miles away.
“Bank robbery in progress. Metropolis Credit Union at 10th and Simons. All units respond.” Odd. The same robbery happened in my world several hours prior. I notice she has stopped talking and is watching me expectantly. I frown and adjust my glasses.
“Sorry, w-what—we should talk about what?” I stammer.
“It’s not bad, is it?” Her voice is tinged with concern.
“What, the uh—no, it’s j-just a bank alarm. It’s nothing. The police can handle it, I’m sure.”
She nods, almost with relief. “Oh, good.” My confusion must be evident because she adds, “Earlier today, there was a plane crash. Everyone on board died. He could have—you could have…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. I swallow hard and feel slightly nauseous.
“Flight 315 from Los Angeles? One hundred seventy-eight passengers and flight crew, including twelve children?”
She exhales and nods again. “Did you…?” Again, she doesn’t finish her sentence. But I understand.
“Yes, in my world. It happened this morning, at about 11 a.m. I landed the plane safely and no one was injured.”
“Good,” she says simply. Her hands close around her coffee cup. “And that’s why we should talk about how to, um, bring Clark and Superman home, so to speak.”
“Right,” I agree. Her heart rate increases noticeably, and I barely suppress the urge to reach out and take her hand. Her expression saddens even more.
“Did Mr. Wells tell you our cover story?” When I shake my head, she continues. “It was Clark’s idea—he thought it would make life easier for me. Um, we told everyone that Clark—that he would be going with Superman and the Kryptonians to New Krypton and then report on the journey when he—when he returned.” Her voice breaks, and she reaches up to cover her mouth as she fights back a sob. “S-sorry, I just—”
“Please, Lois, you don’t have to apologize.”
She takes a shaky breath.
“I, um, I convinced Perry—Perry White, do you know him?”
“Yes, he is the Mayor of Metropolis on my world, but he used to be the Editor-in-Chief at the Planet.”
“He is still the Editor-in-Chief here.”
Her voice is steadier now, and she meets my eyes. I am lost for a moment in their depths, and I have to again remind myself that she is not mine. She is his. Even in death.
“Take care of her for me.”“So, I convinced Perry to keep Clark on the Planet’s payroll, with the promise that he’d give the Planet the exclusive story when h-he returned,” she explains, her fingers now tapping anxiously on the table.
“That was a good idea,” I say with a quiet smile.
“Yeah, I thought so. Anyway, I, uh, figured that you could, um…” Her voice trails off, and she pushes aside her coffee cup and picks up the three bound journals. With a deep sigh, as though letting go of him again, she slides the journals across the table toward me.
Tentatively, I reach out and accept her offering. Each journal is a thick black leather-bound book, well used. I carefully untie the cord holding them together and glance up at her before opening the cover of the journal on the top of the pile. Neat handwriting, though quite distinct from my own, fills the page. I skim the words, but don’t start reading. My fingers trace down the page, and I am suddenly somewhere else—a small, sterile room, all white, with a small white desk and no windows. A quiet, steady hum reverberates throughout the room. I sit at the desk and lift a pen in my shaky hand. I open the journal in front of me. The blank page stares back at me, and I start writing.
“Day 1. We are already light-years away from Earth. They say we will arrive on New Krypton in the equivalent of about three more Earth days…” I blink, and I am back at the table in his kitchen, sitting across from Lois. My hand still rests on the first page of the journal. I look up at her sharply. She is watching me with a curious look.
“He was left-handed,” I blurt out, surprising myself as much as her.
“Well, yes… You aren’t?”
I shake my head, and my eyes move back to the journal page. The first sentence jumps out at me.
“Day 1. We are already light-years away from Earth.” Just like in my vision. I shake my head in disbelief. The visions are real.
“Oh, well, that’s kinda…”
“Weird?” I finish for her. I glance up at her with a tight smile, and she nods. “So, uh, he kept these journals while he was gone? And the other Kryptonians—Zara and Ching—returned them to you yesterday?”
“Yeah, yes, that’s—yeah. I thought…”
She is so tired. Her eyes flutter closed for a moment and then open again. I lower my eyes back to the journal and flip through the pages. Every page is filled with text and drawings and strange characters—maybe the Kryptonian language.
“You thought I could use these journals to write the ‘Superman Returns’ exclusive for the Planet, which will announce his return and allow me to take up Superman’s duties,” I deduce.
I close the first journal and pick up the next one cautiously. I hope this one won’t give me another vision. At least not right now. It is disconcerting, and I’d rather she not be watching me as I am given odd bits of insight into the final months of her fiancé’s life. Thankfully, I stay present in the moment. The first entry in this journal is dated
“Day 28” and starts with several lines of carefully written Kryptonian characters. I squint at the page for a moment as a deep memory tugs at me, and I suddenly understand the writing. My fingers follow along with the strange characters on the page, and I read out loud slowly.
“Kal-El visited the front lines for the first time today. The war is brutal, and Lord Nor continues to push us back toward the capital city of El-Vandar…” I stop reading, and I realize I am shaking.
“Y-you can read that language?” she asks reluctantly. I raise my eyes to meet hers.
“I guess so,” I answer uneasily. I close the journal. “I’ve never seen it before though…”
Silence fills the room for several minutes. Finally, she stands and moves to place her now empty mug into the dishwasher. She turns back to me.
“So, um, do you think you can write the story?”
I raise my chin slightly to try to look confident, and I nod. “Yes, I can. I will get it done tonight. Or, by tomorrow morning, I mean.”
She looks surprised again, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she steps closer to me and lifts the laptop bag from where it hangs on my chair. I watch her work as she removes the computer from its case, sets it gently on the table, and pushes the power button. The battery is drained, so she pulls out the power cord and plugs it into an outlet on the wall nearby. Within a moment, the computer has powered up, and she types in his password—a series of seemingly random numbers and letters. I commit the password to memory as she pushes the laptop toward me.
“I’ll, uh, just write down his password for you, although you can change it, of course, if you want,” she mumbles, turning to look for a notepad and pen.
“Oh, you don’t have to write it down, I got it,” I explain. I reach toward the computer and open up a blank document.
“You—you remember that password that I just entered?” The disbelief in her voice makes me smile.
“Well, yeah. Is that—did he—”
“He had a terrible memory for things like that—numbers and dates,” she confirms with a feeble laugh. “He keeps—I mean, there is a file on his—on the laptop that lists all of his passwords and pin numbers. I think he would have forgotten his own birthday if his parents had let him.”
The slight smile on her lips fades abruptly, and all the color drains from her face.
“Oh, God, his parents. I haven’t—I—they don’t know.” Her voice cracks, and she buries her head in her hands as fresh tears wet her cheeks. “I should call them. Oh, God, poor Martha—”
I stand and move toward her as she sobs again. I know it’s not my place, but I can’t help myself. I wrap my arms around her gently and pull her into an unassuming hug. Just a hug. A friendly, comforting hug. To my relief, she doesn’t yell and scream and push me away. Instead, she melts into my arms and cries, her hands gripping my T-shirt as she shakes. I rest my head on top of hers and murmur “Shh,” and I try, unsuccessfully, to ignore the wonderful feeling of holding her in my arms while she clings to me—the warmth, the sense of belonging. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this. But now is not the time or place…
Her sobs gradually subside, and I loosen my arms from around her. She sniffles as she steps away and wipes the tears off her cheeks again.
“Thank you,” she whispers quietly. Her cheeks are red with embarrassment, and I lower my eyes and move back toward my side of the table.
“You’re welcome.”
I hesitate and glance at the clock on the wall. It is after 10 p.m. Normally, I would be out doing my last scan of the city about now, and all would be quiet this late at night. However, here, in this new world, it is noisy out there—if I allow my hearing to focus outside the apartment, I hear police sirens, gunshots, scuffles, yelling, and screeching tires. It is difficult to ignore. Hopefully I won’t have to for much longer. I swallow hard and sit back in my chair.
“I, um, don’t know his parents of course, but it’s pretty late. And when I was young, my parents went to bed early… Maybe you can call them first thing tomorrow?”
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder if I made a faux pas with the suggestion. I shift my gaze from my hands to look up at her. Her face has softened, and her eyes hold a kindness and sympathy that I haven’t seen maybe since the first time I met the other Lois. She knows, I realize—she knows that I lost my parents when I was a child. Wells must have told her. Well, at least that is one less thing I have to explain.
“Tomorrow, that’s—yeah, I’ll call them tomorrow,” she agrees.
She dips her head as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. My stomach flutters, and I lower my eyes as well.
Beautiful. She is beautiful. “Well, um, I guess you have a lot of work to do if you’re going to get that story written, and, uh, I-I should p-probably get home,” she says quietly as she gathers her coat from off the back of her chair. “And I am really tired, so I guess the tea is doing its job.”
There’s that small smile again, which warms me. She struggles slightly with her coat, her hands shaking, and I quickly jump up and move around the table.
“Here, let me help you,” I offer. Her body tenses momentarily, but she allows me to hold the coat for her, and she slips her arms into the sleeves.
“Thank you,” she manages, turning around and crossing her arms protectively over her chest. I step back and nod slightly. Her eyelids flicker closed for a second.
“Lois, please, let me take you home. I don’t think you should be driving right now.” I realize my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth—who am I to tell her what she should or shouldn’t be doing?—and I instantly backtrack. “I mean, you seem very tired, and I—”
“It’s okay, Clark. Yes, I would appreciate a ride home. You’re right that I’m too tired to drive.”
I feel one of the protective walls around her start to crumble as she hands me the keys to her car. Does she trust me because she senses I am a good person or because I look and sound like him? Either way, I vow to myself that I will not betray that trust. I will be the person she needs—a friend and a superhero. I will not expect anything more. Although I already know that I am falling in love with her.
She grabs her purse off the counter, and I stuff his wallet into my pocket and follow her out the door.
