2
As it turns out, his mother didn’t scold him for dirtying his shoes. She just parked her car alongside the edge of the road, climbed out, and hurried over to where he sat on the dusty ground. Then, as he sniffled and wiped away the tears from his cheeks, she bent over and lifted him into her arms, cradling him close to her.
He couldn’t hear her thoughts now—the ability seemed to have shut itself off somehow—but he still felt her love as she carried him to the car, murmuring quietly and rocking him in her arms. She set him down on his feet and then opened the back door for him to get in. So he did. And then he curled up into a ball in the backseat and closed his eyes as she shut the door and climbed into the driver’s seat a moment later.
“Jon, sweetie, what’s bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?”
He didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to. He could feel his mother watching him from the front seat. She always watched him. She thought he didn’t know, but he knew. He felt her watching him all the time. And as his new ability suddenly chose that moment to switch back on, he realized he could now hear her watching him.
<<I hope he didn’t… Please don’t let it be that. I’m not ready to deal with that.>> And then, an image of Superman popped into her head before his ability shut itself off again.
He was so confused. She hoped he didn’t what? And what did Superman have to do with anything?
“Jon?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it!” he shouted, conscious that the volume of his voice was much too high for the close quarters of the small sedan. He then turned over so that his back was to her, wrapped his arms around himself, and screwed his eyes shut tighter.
His mom didn’t say another word. Instead, Jon heard the car’s engine roar to life and felt as the car turned around and started back down the long dirt road toward the farmhouse.
Random words and fragments of thoughts jumped into his mind.
<<My fault. I should have… He should know. We should have told him. What if it’s… He won’t understand. He… God, Clark, why did you have to leave? What will I… Oh shoot, the cornbread. Left the oven on again. Dammit.>> He winced and covered his ears again, barely stopping himself from blurting out, “That’s a bad word, Mom! Don’t say that!” He wanted to turn it off—this weird ability. He just wanted it to go away. He just wanted to go back to the way things were…when he knew that his dad was just out of the country on an undercover assignment. When he knew that, any day now, his dad would come walking right in through the front door of the Kents’ farmhouse and smile and hug him and tell him how sorry he was to have been gone for so long but that he was glad to finally be home. When he knew that someday they would finally meet. That he would finally meet his father.
Jon blinked back tears as the car stopped abruptly, and he quickly sat up, pushed the door open, and sprinted toward the house, ignoring his mother’s surprised “Hey, Jon, where are you going?” He didn’t bother to remove his shoes at the front door like he was supposed to. And when his grandma greeted him from the kitchen, where she appeared to be taking a blackened dish of cornbread out of the oven, he didn’t acknowledge her. After all, his grandparents knew, too. They’d been part of the Big Lie. Them and everyone else.
Did his classmates know? He didn’t have many friends, but the few he did have—did they know? Will and Taylor and Kara—did they know? And if so, why hadn’t they told him? Why hadn’t anyone just told him?!
He ran up the stairs and straight into his bedroom and then slammed the door behind him. His backpack slid off his shoulders and fell to the floor, and he kicked his shoes off, absently noting that he’d left dusty footprints on the hardwood floor. Then he dove into his bed, crawled under the covers, and buried his head into his pillow.
Let them get mad at me. I don’t care, Jon thought. But he knew he did care. Deep down, he cared a whole lot. Everything made him feel a lot. All the time. He wanted to shut that off too, along with this new mind-reading trick. He wanted to shut them both off so he didn’t hear and didn’t feel.
It was all just too much.
More tears came, and he allowed them. He didn’t even stop crying when he heard his bedroom door open and felt the bed compress next to him. He just pushed the pillow up against his face harder to muffle his sniffles and sobs. And then when his mom’s hand touched his back gently, the thoughts started up again—a loud cacophony of fully formed sentences, fragmented words, feelings, pictures.
<<God, what do I say to him? I’ve never been good at this. I should have sent Martha up here… If Clark were here, he would know…>> A man, tall and with dark hair and brown eyes and a kind smile. It was his father, he knew, and in the image, the man nodded reassuringly, and his smile left Jon feeling better, comfortable, loved. The image then faded away into a swath of red material, and he was overcome by a deep, overpowering sorrow fueled by loneliness.
<<God, I’m no good at this.>> His mother stretched out on the bed behind him and pulled him into her arms, once again holding him tightly.
<<God, Jon, I love you so much. I wish I knew… Please talk to me.>> Love again. So much love.
He squirmed around in her arms until he faced her and then wrapped his arms around her neck and cried into her shoulder. He felt her kiss the top of his head.
“Jon, sweetie, did something happen at school today?”
He wanted to lie to her, but he knew that was wrong. He wanted to tell her that he was fine and that everything was okay, but he knew that was wrong too. He wasn’t fine, and everything wasn’t okay. And so, he just nodded instead.
He pulled one hand away from her and swiped it across his face, brushing away his tears. And then, sniffling, he mumbled, “I had a bad day, Mom.”
<<Something more. Please tell me.>> Love again. It crushed him, pressed into him, suffocated him.
He sat up, shaking his head, and covered his ears as he scooted away from her. He needed to breathe, and yet even the simple act of filling his lungs with air seemed difficult right now. He found himself gasping suddenly.
“Jon?”
Her arms were around him again, and he finally inhaled a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
“Mom, I…”
“Shhh, sweetie. Everything will be okay.”
<<God, I hope I’m right. The way he covered his ears… Martha should be up here. We have to tell him…>> The tall, dark-haired man again, his father. The man stepping closer. A hug. Then again, Superman, his face slightly out of focus, smiling and turning away and floating up until he disappeared.
Jon shook his head, and the thoughts and images faded from his mind. A dull hum of sorts persisted, but he could deal with that. He felt his mother’s arms tighten again, and the embrace comforted him.
“I’m sorry I got my shoes dirty, Mom. I shouldn’t have kicked up the dust. I know you don’t like that. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay,” she murmured. She rocked him gently, back and forth, and his breathing steadied out a bit. “But you are going to have to help me clean up. You tracked dirt in the house, all the way from the front door. You know how your grandma likes things to be kept—”
“Neat and clean. I know.” Jon finished her sentence, not because he could read her thoughts, just because she’d said that particular phrase to him so many times by now that it was ingrained in him.
He felt her place another kiss on the top of his head.
“Come on, kiddo. You grab the broom, and I’ll get the dustpan.”
His mother stood, and he followed her out of the room and downstairs, thankful that, at least for the moment, the only thoughts he could hear in his head were his own.
