6
<<Who is this? And how are you contacting me?>>The words were filled with a sort of confusion, although any underlying meaning seemed to be deliberately hidden from him. But unlike every other thought he’d heard so far, this was…somehow directed at him; he could feel the intention behind it. And the connection was…fuzzy almost. Like when his mom had him try to make a phone call from her cell phone when they’d been up in the mountains skiing last winter. Muffled, staticky.
Jon closed his eyes.
<<I…>>
<<Your name is Jon?>>He stifled a sob, clapping his hand over his mouth to stop the sound from escaping. Instead, he nodded.
<<Yes. I’m Jon… Jonathan Jerome Kent.>>A wave of surprise, followed by understanding and then overwhelming grief hit him then, and he gasped at the mixture of strong emotions that were clearly not his, both hands now reaching up to cover his mouth.
Suddenly, the connection severed again, and he was left with an almost deafening quiet, an emptiness inside of him. And that hurt almost more than the grief he’d felt just a moment ago.
<<Dad?>> Nothing.
<<Dad? Please… Tell me what’s happening to me. And tell me when you’re coming home. I need you, and I’m…scared.>>Commotion from the front of the library distracted him, and he hopped up from his chair, still gripping the framed article from Mrs. Meeks, as he heard voices approaching.
“He told me he wanted to look up an old article Lois wrote, not that…not that he’d run off. I’m so sorry, Martha, Jonathan. I had no idea. He should still be back here.”
A moment later, his grandparents rounded the corner, hurrying toward him. His grandma knelt down next to him and wrapped her arms around him, and he felt all her love and relief and fear as she clung to him.
<<Oh thank God.>>“Jonathan Jerome Kent, if you ever take off like that again—”
“Now, now… Martha…”
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I just…”
He couldn’t tell them the truth then, and so he just let her hug him, his tears falling yet again as he buried his head into her shoulder. Gentle whispers soothed him, and he felt his grandpa’s hand, strong and solid, set on his back. Muffled voices that he was somehow able to choose not to hear faded into the background as the frame was taken from his hands and he was guided slowly out of the building and down the street.
And everything remained normal and silent. No thoughts, no feelings. Just good old sounds of birds chirping and kids playing on the playground and passersby chatting about nothing important.
His grandma kept Jon’s hand secured tightly in hers, and his grandpa didn’t let his hand leave Jon’s shoulder until they arrived back at the truck. Grandpa Jonathan then reached out ahead of them and opened up the door to the backseat.
“Kiddo, we’re gonna get you home and have a chat with your mom. There’s some things we should have told you a long time ago,” his grandpa said gently, and when Jon looked up, he saw his grandpa’s eyes filled with regret and resolve.
A sharp pain in his chest. And a flicker of fear.
<<Maybe Martha should drive home. Never been this bad before. That little run around the block to the library. Ugh.>>His grandpa grimaced but then quickly hid the pain behind a smile. “Let’s go buddy. We’ll get ice cream later. After we talk.”
But Jon hesitated. The reminder that his grandpa was sick and that he didn’t even really understand the extent of all their lies angered him suddenly, and he shook his head.
“You really shouldn’t be driving, Grandpa,” he said. And with his words, he felt his own guilt crash down on him.
He’d taken off.
He’d caused them to worry.
He’d caused his grandpa to have to run after him, even though he’d known his grandpa was sick.
And the pain in his grandpa’s chest was now his fault.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he blurted out, and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his grandpa’s waist. “I’m so sorry I ran away like that. I don’t want you to be sick. I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
And the cacophony started up again. Random thoughts and emotions—sad, happy, confused, angry, nervous, joyful, relaxed, scared—hitting him from all sides and all at once.
“Make it stop. Please.”
He felt two strong arms lift him up, and then next thing he knew, they were rumbling back down the road toward home, the voices fading to just a muffled jumble of words and feelings and then eventually to nothing as his grandma’s quiet humming of “You Are My Sunshine” filled his ears.
He almost cried with relief.
“I—I love that song, Grandma. Th-thank you.”
She paused only briefly. “Your father did too,” she said softly. And then she continued where she’d left off.
