13
Morning brings weak rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. I wake up slowly, stiffly, my muscles complaining about the effort I forced upon them last night. Next to me, Lois shifts slightly, and her kind voice whispers, “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Although we are still lying on the floor in the corner of the room, at some point during the night, Lois had retrieved a lightweight blanket and pillows from the bed; we are curled up together underneath the warm covers, and my head rests on a fluffy white pillow. Her hand lies flat on my abdomen, and her head is settled in the crook of my shoulder.
I swallow hard as I remember the events of the previous night. My whole body tenses as I move my hand to cover hers on my stomach. I lift her hand slightly so I can see her wrist, and my breath catches nauseatingly in my throat as I see the red discoloration. Evidence of the pain I inflicted upon her. Evidence that I’m dangerous to her. I close my eyes.
“Clark,” she says, her tone gentle. “Sweetie, it doesn’t hurt. I’m fine.” Her lips brush against my cheek.
How can she be so calm? I fight down nausea and shake my head. I want to say something. I want to apologize again. To tell her I’ll fix everything and that it will never happen again. But no words will come.
“While it’s been fun camping out on the floor with you, I hear your mom poking around in the kitchen, and I’m afraid she won’t find much to cook with,” she teases. The reassuring pressure of her body pressed up against mine disappears as she sits up, adding, “I should get up and go help her.”
I don’t want to be alone—even just the thought makes my heart start to race. So I follow her, pushing myself into a sitting position despite the complaints from my sore muscles. She is already standing and beginning to move toward the bathroom, but my movement stops her, and she turns back toward me as I gather my legs underneath me to stand. She hesitates for only a moment before stepping back over to me to help me up. The room spins around me as I get my bearings, and I grimace as I straighten up next to her. Her hand lingers on my arm.
“You don’t want to be by yourself, do you?” she asks quietly. She shifts to stand in front of me and wraps her arms around my waist.
I don’t move. I want to return the embrace. I need her so much. But a vision of my hand catching her wrist flashes in my mind, the pained expression on her face haunting me. And so I stand stiffly as she leans into me.
“No, I don’t,” I say hoarsely. My throat feels dry. I can’t fully explain the extreme anxiety I’ve started to feel when she leaves and I’m alone. It feels like the worst part of death. Like I’m slipping into that terrifying cold, dark nothingness. Like everything is closing in around me. And I can’t breathe.
She nods into my chest and holds me for a moment. Then, she pulls away and studies my eyes. Both of her hands move to cup my cheeks, and she stretches up and kisses me—a light kiss, comforting, but not demanding. I still cannot bring myself to touch her.
“I’ll just get dressed and go out to the kitchen for only a minute to see if your mom needs anything,” she explains, her voice low. She slides her arms back around my waist and hugs me again. “I’ll be back before you know it. Okay?”
I nod, but don’t say anything. She steps away from me and smiles at me weakly before moving to the dresser, pulling out several items of clothing, and disappearing into the bathroom. My heart starts to race. I force myself to take a deep breath. I’m fine. She’s just in the bathroom. I’m not alone. I’m fine. I bend over carefully, pick up the two pillows and blanket from the floor, and stumble to the bed, where I set the bedding down.
Lois emerges from the bathroom, now clad in a clean set of yoga pants and a long-sleeved light blue shirt with the words ‘Women in Journalism Conference 1995’ across the front. She smiles at me.
“I’ll be right back,” she promises, and she heads out of the bedroom.
Suddenly dizzy, I grab onto the edge of the bed next to me and close my eyes. I’m fine. She’ll be right back. She told me. I hear voices and some rustling sounds from the other room. Then her footsteps re-enter the room, and the door closes behind her. See. Less than a minute.
“Your mom is making waffles,” she says. I open my eyes as her hands once again move to embrace me. She kisses my cheek and then settles her head on my chest.
“Blueberry?”
“Yes. And eggs and sausage.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I breathe, resting my head on top of hers and cautiously allowing my arms to wrap around her.
“Your dad just got back from the store,” she adds. “Your mom says everything will be ready in maybe fifteen minutes.”
I nod into her, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of her shampoo. God, how I missed her.
She shifts slightly in my embrace, and I feel tension grow in her shoulders. She clears her throat and says tentatively, “So, we have a little time to talk…about last night.”
My arms drop from around her, and I shake my head as I back away. “Lois, I’m so sorry.” The words roll right off my tongue, as they had countless times last night. Only this time, I feel like I might be in control of my actions. Last night, I wasn’t. Not entirely. I turn away from her as my stomach twists itself into knots. “It won’t happen again. I won’t hurt you again. I’m so sorry.”
“No, Clark,” she says gently, reaching out to me. Her hands rest on my back, and she presses herself up against me from behind. “That’s not what I meant, sweetheart.” Her voice is so kind, so sympathetic, as though she understands why I’m upset. But I know she can’t understand.
I shake my head again and step away from her, turning to face her as I do. My back is against the wall now. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, not like Superman does—no, the opposite actually. And my eyes lower to the ground as my shoulders hunch.
Lois, my lovely, strong, resilient Lois. She doesn’t even hesitate. She steps up to me and places her hands lightly on my arms.
“Clark, sweetheart, we don’t need to talk about what happened. We need to talk about why it happened,” she explains.
My throat constricts; I can’t speak, and I feel myself shivering. Why had it happened? Why had I hurt her? Why had I panicked and paced and attempted to scrub imaginary blood from my hands? Why had we ended up sleeping on the floor? God, I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to remember. But I can’t stop it. I close my eyes as images from the terrifying, violent nightmare, filled with death, destruction, and pain, flicker in my vision.
“No, no, no,” I mumble. Suddenly feeling trapped against the wall, I push my way around her and move to the bed. I sit heavily and run a trembling hand through my hair. “No, I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t.”
She doesn’t immediately follow me, and I hear her let out a shaky breath. This isn’t fair to her. But telling her everything that I went through, everything that I did, everything that I now am—that wouldn’t be fair to her either. No, I can’t.
“I came back into the bedroom late, after getting your parents settled into the guest room,” she starts, her voice now clear and confident. I lower my head into my hands as she continues. “You’d been sleeping for several hours already, and I was really glad you were finally getting rest.” The bed compresses next to me, but she doesn’t touch me this time. “I showered and got changed, and when I went to get into bed, you started to talk in your sleep and move around restlessly. You seemed to be getting progressively agitated, so I reached out and touched your shoulder to try to settle you. And that’s when you woke up.” Now she shifts closer to me, and I feel her hand on my thigh. “So I assume you had a pretty intense dream. I’m sorry to have startled you out of it.”
I shake my head, finally able to react to her words. “No, please don’t apologize,” I reply hastily. Her hand squeezes my leg gently, but she doesn’t move. Her breath seems to catch in her throat.
“Clark, I-I know that it may be difficult to talk about, but…” Her voice trails off, and she finally scoots up against me and wraps one arm around my hunched shoulders. She brushes a gentle kiss on my cheek. “But I think last night—after you woke up, you had a major panic attack, sweetheart, and I think that’s not something we can just ignore and assume it will get better.”
Of course, she is right. I know this. Intellectually, I know this. But my brain is also screaming at me that I cannot talk about it. That if I do talk about it—if I do tell her what I’ve done, who I’ve become—she will not be able to love me anymore.
I am not worthy of her love.
I killed hundreds of men in the name of pursuing peace. Purposefully, boldly, and without hesitation.
Something Superman is never supposed to do. Never. No compromises.
And yet, I compromised.
I don’t deserve her.
But I can’t fathom losing her. And that’s why I can’t tell her. I’m a coward. Of the worst sort.
“No, I can’t,” I repeat, mumbling into my hands. She tugs gently on me until I’m leaning on her, and I feel another kiss plant on the top of my head this time. “I’m sorry, Lois.”
“I love you, Clark,” she murmurs into my hair. She tightens her arms around me. God, I don’t deserve this.
“I love you, too.”
“I know you think that whatever you have to tell me will change my feelings about you,” she acknowledges. One hand strokes my back as she again kisses the top of my head. “And you’re wrong. I love you. Always. Nothing will change that. Nothing could change that.”
“You can’t know that, Lois,” I argue. I shake my head and stand up abruptly, pulling out of her embrace. My hands and arms feel numb now, though there is a slight tingling in my fingers, and I find myself balling up my hands into fists to try to get rid of the disconcerting sensation. It doesn’t work. I move across the room, back toward the window, where light from the Sun shines through the curtains. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I can’t talk about it. Not yet.”
Behind me, I hear her stand and shuffle around briefly. Her breathing seems labored, and she sniffles several times. God, I’ve made her cry again. I’m terrible. A monster. I’m so sorry, Lois.
“Okay. I-I hope you are ready soon,” she falters. She is standing just a few feet from me now, but she doesn’t move any closer. She sucks in a deep breath. “I’ll wait for you. For as long as it takes, I’ll wait for you.”
God. I bite my lip hard, tasting blood, and I have to force myself to not turn around, throw myself into her arms, and cry. Instead, I just nod weakly.
“I’m going to go help your mom finish up breakfast.”
“I-I’ll come with you,” I stammer.
I turn around; she stands with her arms folded in front of her protectively, tears wetting her cheeks. She reaches up and wipes them away as she clenches her jaw and nods at me. Then, she offers me her hand. My eyes wander to the abrasion on her wrist, and I hesitate. However, Lois doesn’t falter. She grasps my hand in hers and turns, pulling me along with her toward the door. I follow obediently. And I absently wonder how she is so strong and poised, so sure of herself, despite everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours.
I also wonder what happened to Lord Kal-El, confident and self-assured leader of New Krypton. I used to be him—the one giving commands to thousands of soldiers; the one striding confidently through masses of followers to lead a group of officers with so much more experience than I; the one who did not second-guess himself, even when standing in front of the Council of Elders and arguing about outdated traditions and customs and the merits of self-determination, gender equality, and democracy. I used to be so certain about who I was. I used to know myself—to know what I stood for and where my hard limits were. But now…I don’t even recognize myself.
And so, I guess I’ll have to pretend. I don’t know who I am anymore, but I can pretend to be who they want me to be. At least until I can figure myself out again.
I follow her out of the bedroom and down the hallway. The smell of my mom’s blueberry waffles is strong, and a sense of nostalgia hits me as we walk hand in hand into the living room.
I take a deep breath and force a smile on my face as my mom looks up at me from the kitchen.
“Good morning, Mom!”
I can do this. I can pretend.
14
And pretending is much easier than I expected. At least with my parents.
We spend the morning talking over breakfast. My appetite has come back, and I manage to eat the entire plate of waffles, eggs, and sausage that my mom prepares for me. Mom and Dad tell me about the most recent corn harvest as well as some repairs they’ve made around the farm. The conversation is easy; they don’t press me to tell them anything about New Krypton. In fact, they don’t mention it at all. They tell me about the color they chose to paint the exterior of the farmhouse, which they’d been planning before I left, and the new tractor their neighbor Wayne Irig had given them. Mom also describes a new painting she’s working on, and Dad tells me about some work he did a couple months ago to help rebuild a friend’s barn after a tornado struck. They are generally cheerful and happy, and the morning feels almost normal, almost like how we’d have spent a morning with them before I left.
However, Lois sits next to me silently, picking absently at her own breakfast. She occasionally inserts a few words into the conversation, but is mostly quiet. Mom glances at her and then back to me every so often, hiding her concern behind a kind smile.
After breakfast, I try to help with the dishes, but Lois stops me with a kiss on the cheek.
“I’ll take care of it, sweetheart. You spend time with your parents,” she says, stepping up to the sink. She begins scrubbing a pan as my mom loops her arm through mine and ushers me to the couch. My eyes linger on my beautiful fiancée for an extra moment after I sit, and I swallow tightly as I notice the tension in her shoulders. My lovely Lois. I’m so sorry I hurt you.
My mom squeezes my hand next to me, and I tilt my head toward her and smile again.
“You look much better than yesterday,” Mom observes, her voice a bit low.
I smile weakly. “I feel much better. I finally got some solid sleep, and that really helped,” I explain. And it’s true. Although there is still a dull ache in my chest, I feel stronger and more stable than I had yesterday. At least physically.
From his seat next to me, my dad lifts the remote control and turns on the television. He flips to the news channel and mutes the sound, a frown growing on his face as the video footage shows Superman assisting with putting out a chemical fire at a manufacturing plant in Nevada. I grimace as I watch, but only because I remember the challenge of washing off the acrid smell of smoke after helping with a chemical fire. Definitely not my favorite type of emergency to help with. Mom follows my gaze.
“He’s really been a huge help, you know,” she says, moving her hand to my knee. She pats me gently as I nod in assent. “He’s done a good job. Been a good Superman.”
My dad scoffs, but doesn’t argue with her, and Mom meets my eyes and then shakes her head almost imperceptibly, imploring me to ignore my father’s behavior right now. I turn back to the television, my eyes drawn to my doppelganger on the screen. Chemical fires can be tricky to extinguish, but he’s got an easy handle on it; his cooling breath seems to be working, although spot fires continue to pop back up, and he is now consulting with the chief firefighter on the scene. I assume they will have him help apply a chemical retardant to smother the most stubborn of the flames. I shift on the couch, settling back into the cushions.
“I saw him working on the nuclear power plant repair in Japan. That was complicated, but he had no trouble. He’s got a good handle on his abilities,” I remark, watching my dad’s reaction carefully. His facial muscles tighten, but again, he says nothing.
Lois speaks up from the kitchen. “He told me he had to deal with the same emergency on his world last year.”
“Last year?” Mom questions, twisting a bit so she is facing Lois.
Lois nods as she moves a plate into the dishwasher. “It’s odd, really. Some events on his world seemed to have happened about a year prior to when they happen here, and others, like that airplane crash last month, happen at the same time.”
I feel nauseous, but I hide it as best I can. “Airplane crash?”
Mom shifts next to me, and Lois inhales sharply. “Yeah,” she falters, putting another plate into the dishwasher. She hesitates for a brief moment before continuing. “A flight from Los Angeles. The engines failed. It crashed about forty miles west of Metropolis.”
She doesn’t say any more, but I hear the unspoken words clearly enough. Everyone onboard died. More deaths notched on my belt. I should never have left. I drop my chin and close my eyes a moment.
“That happened right before he came,” Mom adds. She stands and moves into the kitchen briefly, then brings us each a fresh cup of mint tea.
I murmur a quick “thank you” to my mom, and Lois turns around, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She walks across the room to her desk, opens the top right drawer, and pulls out a thick folder stuffed with newspaper clippings. She raises her eyes to me and gives me a weak smile.
“And since he’s been here,” she says, holding up the folder. “All of this.” Lois again crosses the room, this time stopping in front of me. She hands me the folder. “He’s been very busy.”
I lower my eyes to the folder and tentatively open the front cover. The first article, titled “SUPERMAN RETURNS: Exclusive Interview And Look At Life On New Krypton,” spans several pages of a Special Edition print of the Daily Planet. I begin reading, intending only to skim the first few lines, but I quickly find myself immersed in the prose. He’s an incredible writer, and he somehow managed to present the account of my journey—minus the final moments—accurately and thoroughly, in a captivating text that is also easy to read. I continue reading until I reach the end of the article, and I recognize my own words and ideas represented throughout the article. I look up at Lois, who is back in the kitchen finishing the dishes. Her eyes meet mine.
“He, uh, must have…used my journals for this?” I ask in a low voice.
She nods. “Yeah,” she confirms. Her eyes dart to my dad and then back to me. “He wrote that the first night he was here, using your journals. He tried his best to copy your writing style as well.”
“He did a great job with it,” I state as I drop my eyes back to the stack of newspapers in my lap. I flip through to the next clippings, which are not articles written by Clark Kent, but instead are articles detailing Superman’s activities since he ‘returned’ from New Krypton. Lois is right—he has been busy. A little boy rescued from an apartment fire. A mass shooting thwarted at a protest rally in Centennial Park. A wildfire extinguished in Colorado. Bank robberies. Traffic accidents. A huge dam repaired before it could burst in Russia. Hikers rescued from an avalanche in Switzerland. A cruise ship saved from sinking during the middle of a powerful storm. A tenuous cease fire negotiated in an intense conflict in Syria. The International Space Station repaired after taking severe damage due to space debris. All this within the first few days of his move to this world.
My slow flipping through the articles stops abruptly as I scan the next headline, “Five Children and Two Faculty Dead in School Shooting at Briarwood Elementary.” Underneath the main headline, a second line in smaller font reads, “Superman Stops Shooter, Saves Dozens.” I scan the first few lines, and I have to force myself to remember to breathe. God, I’m glad I wasn’t here for this one. The victims were elementary children. Kindergarteners and first graders mostly.
I feel my mom’s hand cover mine, and I realize I’m shaking pretty badly. I close the folder and set it on the coffee table. I suddenly feel sick.
“I think I need to go lie down,” I say quietly. “Sorry, Mom, Dad.”
“Oh, honey, it’s no problem,” Mom assures me, rubbing my back gently. “I think your father and I will take a walk to the park. Get some fresh air. You rest.”
As I push myself to my feet, I remember one of the visions I’d had while I thought I was dead. Everything had been so confusing—bits and pieces of visions, memories, and events. Many of them his experiences. And I hadn’t taken the time to reflect on it all. But now, I remember the gunshots, the screaming, the crying. The children huddled in a corner, their teacher valiantly trying to protect them. Bullets hurdling out of an assault rifle. Blood on my hands—no, his hands—and on the suit, staining the red and yellow ‘S’ shield. I remember his pain and grief as he transported victims to the hospital. His echoing thoughts that he is not fast enough.
I stumble as I move around the coffee table toward the bedroom, but Lois is right there by my side to steady me. Just as she was with him after he returned from Briarwood. How much had he needed her then? I cannot imagine. I feel her kindness and warmth, and I lean into her as she helps me down the hallway.
“That school shooting,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper. “That—that must have been…” I can’t even finish my sentence. Lois leads me into the dimly lit bedroom and over to the bed.
She sits next to me and pulls me into an embrace. “I think that nearly broke him,” she admits. “It was the most distraught I’ve seen him. He’s usually quite confident when he’s Superman. But that—that was too much for him.”
“But you were there for him. You helped him,” I add. I feel her nod into me.
I want to say more, but a sudden weariness overtakes me, and I close my eyes and lie back on to the bed, pulling out of her arms. Cold. I’m so cold now. Tired and cold. I feel myself start to drift off. A blanket covers me, and then a warm body presses next to me on the bed, an arm draping lightly over my stomach. Lips brush against my cheek, and three words are whispered into my ear.
“I love you.”
I love you, too, Lois.
15
I suppose dying can really take a toll on a person. At least that’s what I tell myself when I wake up several hours later, my chest aching and my head pounding. I’m alone in the bedroom, but the lights are on, the curtains let in plenty of sunlight, the door is open, and voices can be heard from down the hall. The light and voices are probably what keep my anxiety at bay. The clock on the nightstand next to me indicates that it’s around 12:30 p.m., which explains the tantalizing smell of my mom’s homemade chicken soup. I push back the blankets covering me and clench my jaw against the pain in my chest as I sit up and swing my legs off the bed.
My breath seems to rattle as I inhale deeply, and I then exhale with a dry, burning cough. The sound reverberates through the otherwise quiet bedroom, and the voices from the other room go silent. Footsteps approach from down the hallway.
“Hey, you’re up.”
Her soft voice carries a hint of concern, and I raise my eyes to meet hers. She stands in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is tied back in a low ponytail now, and her lips curl into a smile as she moves toward me.
So beautiful, my lovely Lois. Why haven’t I told her how beautiful she is?
I start to return her smile, but a flash of a memory from the previous night flickers in my mind. Her wide, scared eyes and pained expression. And instead of smiling, I recoil as she approaches, my hands clasping together in my lap and my shoulders hunching. Swallowing reflexively, I lower my eyes. She either doesn’t notice my reaction or chooses to ignore it, and she sits next to me, wraps an arm around my shoulder, and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“Lois, I—” Another coughing fit interrupts my speech, and I groan as my lungs seem to burn with the effort of breathing. I stop trying to talk and close my eyes. Next to me, Lois shifts uneasily.
“Lunch is ready, if you’re up to eating,” she says quietly.
There is something guarded about her demeanor now, and I shudder as a terrifying thought forces its way into my consciousness.
Is she scared of me? God, what have I done to her?
I nod stiffly and mumble, “’K, I’ll—I’ll be out—” But I start coughing again, searing pain stinging my throat and chest. I cover my mouth with my elbow and feel myself start to list sideways into her a bit. Her arm tightens around my shoulders. “S-sorry.”
“No rush, sweetheart.” Her voice soothes my worries. Another light kiss on my cheek brings my pain down a notch. “Can I head back out and help your mom set the table? Will you be okay on you own?”
I nod again. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I assure her, in a voice that is more confident than I feel.
“Okay, great!” Her positivity feels forced, but I don’t question it. Her hand lingers on my back for a moment, and then she pulls away and stands. My heart stutters a bit in my chest.
“Lois…” I want to tell her so many things. That I’ll never hurt her again. That she is beautiful and strong. And that I love her and appreciate everything she’s done for me. That I love her so much. But my voice doesn’t work, and I barely suppress another coughing fit. I screw my eyes shut again as I notice the slight discoloration on her wrist from my outburst the previous night.
Her footsteps have paused a couple feet away, but she stays silent. When I don’t elaborate, she clears her throat and quietly says, “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. I love you, Clark.”
And then she leaves the room, drawing all of the warmth with her. It is cold again. So cold. I start to shiver. I have to follow her. I push myself to my feet, run an anxious hand through my hair, and swallow back a cough as I start toward the hallway. Thankfully, my legs are not wobbly; they actually feel strong enough to carry me forward. Within a moment, I emerge into the living room. My dad stands next to the stove, stirring a large pot of soup, and my mom removes a loaf of freshly baked bread from the oven while Lois sets the table. She looks up at me and smiles.
I manage a weak smile in return.
“That smells amazing, Mom,” I say. I reach the kitchen table. “Can I help with anything?” I know it’s a pretty ridiculous offer; I’m nowhere near strong enough to really help any of them with anything. But I also don’t like feeling so useless, and all they have been doing for the last twenty-four hours is take care of me.
As usual, Lois understands me.
“Here, sweetie, you can finish setting the table. I need to—”
Her cell phone rings from her pocket, interrupting her. I step over to where she was working and begin to carefully arrange bowls and plates at each of the seats at the table while she opens her phone.
“Ah, it’s, uh, Clark. I’d better take this,” she mumbles. Her fingers seem to fumble as she unlocks her phone and answers the call with a quick, “Hello?” She looks up at me briefly and adds, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.” And then she disappears down the hallway and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
I finish setting the table. It does feel good to have an actual job to do. And when there is a bowl, plate, spoon, fork, and napkin at each seat, my mom carries over a basket filled with warm slices of her fresh bread, and my dad sets the pot of soup in the middle of the table. I don’t have an appetite. In fact, I feel a bit nauseous. But the food smells amazing.
Lois re-emerges from the bedroom a moment later, and we all sit together at the table. My mom serves us each a bowl of soup and slice of bread.
“Clark, uh, he was calling to talk to me about dinner tonight,” Lois explains. She blows gently on her soup to help cool it and then takes a cautious spoonful. With shaky hands, I spread a thin layer of butter on my bread and take a small bite. She continues. “Jimmy is taking Perry out to dinner, and he invited us—Clark and me, that is.” She glances at me fleetingly, some emotion that I can’t pinpoint flickering in her dark eyes. “Perry, um, well, Alice just left him, only two days ago, actually. So he could use some friends right now, you know?”
Mom speaks up from my left. “Oh, Lois, that’s terrible.”
Lois nods and takes a bite of her bread. Sadness fills her eyes now, and she doesn’t look up as she chews. “Perry talked to me a bit yesterday morning. He—he knows he should have been prioritizing Alice more than the paper. He knows he took her for granted, and he says he’s going to do all that he can to try to win her back. They’ve been married almost thirty years now. I can’t even imagine.”
“Marriage is a lot of work,” Dad inserts. Mom nods and reaches over to take his hand. They look at each other and smile, their eyes communicating their strong, unconditional love for each other.
I’m reminded briefly of a scene I witnessed late one evening when I was about fifteen. I’d been up in my room studying for a physics final, and I’d snuck quietly downstairs to grab a drink of water, expecting my parents to be sleeping. To my surprise, Mom had been sitting at the kitchen table, wearing an elegant black dress, and Dad sat next to her, his black tuxedo a stark contrast to his usual dusty blue jeans and flannel shirt. The room was dimly lit with a single candle, the flame flickering and causing shadows to dance around on the walls of the farmhouse. They sat close together, chatting idly, and as I watched, Dad had reached out and touched Mom’s cheek with a tenderness that I’d never seen from him before. Mom’s hand had covered his, and then they leaned toward each other and shared a gentle kiss. Not the usual peck on the cheek that I was used to seeing from them. No, this had been much more than that. I’d turned around and tiptoed back up to my room, careful not to disturb them. And in that moment, I’d realized what I wanted most in life was to have what they had built together—someone to love me for who or what I was, despite my strange abilities, and a family to share my life with.
My lower lip quivers as I feel Lois’s presence next to me. Mom seems to sense my thoughts, and she turns back to me and Lois, her smile growing as she regards us.
“So, honey, are you going to go?” Mom asks, lifting a piece of bread to her mouth.
“Am I…going to go?” Lois falters.
I tilt my head toward her, and she raises her eyes to my mom’s, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“To dinner with Jimmy and Perry and…” Mom’s voice trails off, and I feel everyone’s eyes shift to me. The muscle in my jaw twitches, and the tickle in my throat from earlier, which caused several painful coughing fits, threatens to return.
“Oh, right, well…”
Lois seems at a loss for words, and it doesn’t require a fully functional brain—which I’m sure I don’t quite have yet—to realize why she’s feeling awkward.
There are now two Clark Kents. Lois Lane and Clark Kent are invited to dinner. I know I’m no longer Superman. That is easy. But am I really even Clark Kent anymore? I’ve spent the last several months being addressed as Kal-El. Kal-El, rightful ruler of New Krypton. Kal-El, Chief Commanding Officer of the Defenders of New Krypton. And—I shudder—Kal-El, husband to Lady Zara. I’ve been Kal-El, not Clark Kent. And now, Clark Kent should accompany Lois Lane to dinner with their friends.
I want to see Perry and Jimmy. And Perry and Alice separating—this news makes me feel incredibly sad. But, at the same time, I recognize that I’m not healthy enough, mentally or physically, to go out in public yet. No, this is a job for the other me. Lois knows it too, but she doesn’t want to be the first to admit it.
I open my mouth to explain that I understand she should take him, not me, but my dad speaks before I can.
“Of course you two should go. I’m sure you want to see your friends, right, son?”
So matter-of-fact, straight forward, no nonsense, like always. That’s my dad. And veiled in his words are his strong distrust of the other Clark. I shake my head.
“No, Dad, I—”
I stop myself and raise my eyes to meet his. He is watching me carefully, as are Mom and Lois. Several thoughts run through my mind—doubts, mostly. Doubts about whether I’m making the right decision, whether letting Lois continue to spend time with the other me is a good idea, whether they are all going to accept when I eventually tell them that he—this other me, this other Clark, this other Superman—cannot leave because…because I cannot ever be Superman again. I swallow hard and lower my eyes.
“No. Clark, the other Clark, he should go with you, Lois. I-I wouldn’t make it through dinner, I’m afraid. I’m just not strong enough yet. And…” I pause, taking a deep breath. Dad won’t accept that I’m just not ready physically—he’s a ‘push through the pain’ sort of guy. And my parents don’t exactly know how much pain I’ve been in, or how exhausted I often become. But I’m sure he’ll understand my other reason. “…I just really want to spend time with you guys right now.”
Underneath the table, Lois places a hand on my knee. A silent ‘thank you.’ I give her a tight smile and take another small bite of my bread.
My dad wants to protest; I can feel it. But my mom nods vigorously as she sets her spoon back into her bowl.
“We probably need to head back home tomorrow morning,” she admits, frowning slightly. “Your dad has an appointment in Wichita with his cardiologist at noon. So the more time we get to spend together today, the better.”
“Martha, we can always reschedule that appointment,” Dad argues, shaking his head slightly. But my mom isn’t having it this time.
“No, Jonathan. You’ve been waiting for this appointment for too long already,” she reminds him, patting him gently on the back. Then she looks up at me and Lois. “Lois, you go and take the other Clark, and we’ll hang out here.”
Dad can’t argue with that. Neither can Lois. She nods, and we all settle into a sort of pregnant silence while we finish our lunch.
