Even after ten minutes of deep breathing in the toilet stall and a splash of cold water on her face, she was still on the edge of a mental breakdown. As she emerged from the restroom, she squared her shoulders, pasted a smile on her face, and muttered through her clenched teeth, “I just want to go home.”
She made her way back to the table, determined to soldier on, since she didn’t have any other choice. As she approached, Clark turned from where he had been standing, chatting with a younger colleague—David? Derrick? Something like that. He addressed the table at large, “Well, folks, it’s been grand, but I think it’s time for me to call it a night and take this young lady home.” His arm came to lie gently across her shoulders. “It was good to see you all. Have a lovely weekend, and we’ll see most of you on Monday.”
He was turning to go, bringing her along with him, when David (Derrick?) caught his attention. “You’re heading toward Hyperion, aren’t you? I’m just a couple of blocks away. Mind if we share a cab?”
“Sure. Just let us grab our coats and we’ll meet you out front.” As he steered her toward the coat rack, she whispered fiercely, “Kent! What do you think you’re doing?!”
He gave her a startled look. “You wanted to go home, didn’t you?”
How did he know that? “Well, yes…”
“So, I’m taking you home. Sorry about Devon butting in,” <Devon! I knew it was some D name>, “but it’s a short ride. I’ll have you soaking in a hot bath before you know it.” And with that, he pulled her coat from the hanger, helped her into it, grabbed his own from the rack, and drew her toward the front entrance and the taxi stand, where Devon had a cab already waiting for them.
Devon rode in the front passenger seat, leaving Lois alone in the back seat with Clark. He rested his left arm on the back of her seat as the cab merged into traffic. She sat stock still, afraid to relax a muscle lest she come in contact with him. That just wouldn’t be a good idea. In a few minutes, the cab pulled up to her new Hyperion Avenue address, and she opened her purse to get a $20 out of her wallet, but Clark beat her to it. He hopped out and reached his hand down to help her out as well. As he closed the door behind her, he waved goodnight to Devon, with a cheery, “So long, see you Monday.” Meanwhile, she had found her house key and was making her way to the door.
Oh God, he was following her. The cab pulled away. Why wasn’t Clark Kent in that cab? Was he such an old-fashioned gentleman that he felt the need to see her safely right into her house? Why hadn’t he asked to cabbie to wait?
She walked through the front entrance into a small foyer and fitted the key into the lock of the door marked “348.” Clark was still following her. She turned the key and pushed the door. He was right behind her. Reaching over her head, he was pushing the door wider and guiding her inside. He was closing the door behind him. He was turning the deadbolt and switching on the lights. He was hanging his coat on a tall coat stand. He was reaching for her shoulders, pulling off her coat and hanging it next to his. She kept her back to him, but she could tell he was reaching for her again. Oh, God, he was going to touch her!
His hands came to rest on her shoulders. She spun around, determined to put a stop to this highly inappropriate and—no, really!—unwelcome behavior. But the words never made it out of her mouth. As she turned, he released her shoulders and brought both his hands to her face. His left hand curved around her right jaw, his thumb at her temple in front of her ear and his fingers buried in her hair behind it. His right hand gently stroked her face, from her forehead around her left eye and back to brush the stray strands of hair away. And his eyes. She could drown in those eyes. He gazed at her with tenderness, with concern, with…yes, with love such as she had only imagined.
“Hey, there,” his voice was soft and gentle, “What’s going on?”
She lost it. She had been thinking, analyzing, playing the part of the self-assured professional all day and all evening, but at his tender touch and loving concern, it all fell apart. Rational thought flew out the window and she disintegrated into a quivering, sobbing mass of raw emotion.
At the first tear, the first hiccup of a sob, his arms scooped her up and he carried her, evening gown and all, to a sofa. He settled her in his lap and held her head against his neck, stroking her hair and whispering tender nonsense.
“Oh, Clark!” She was whining, now, her voice high pitched and the tears spilling down her face to soak into his white shirt collar. “What am I going to do? Ten years ago I had it all under control, but now there’s my job, which I know I can do, but there’s also all these people who expect me to be this mature, friendly person, which I don’t know how to be, and there’s Superman, and I could swear he said we were married but then he flew off and he said he’d meet me at the ceremony but I haven’t seen him all night, I mean maybe he’s still busy in Washington, but Perry said, no that was you, wasn’t it? Anyway, somebody said that he already gave Manendez an interview, which he wouldn’t have done if he was still rescuing people, and then you came, and you weren’t a hack, and you weren’t a hick, and you touched me, and that was not just a work partner touch, Clark! And we danced and you were going to kiss me, I could tell, and you didn’t stay in the cab and you followed me into my house and what if Superman comes home and finds you here? But I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want you to let me go. And I don’t want to go to the loony bin!”
She was bawling into his shoulder and clinging to him with both hands, afraid that he would push her off his lap, but he just held her and let her frantic words run down into shaky breaths as her tears ran out of steam. Then he pulled the silk pocket handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes, and her nose, and looked up shyly, afraid of what she would see in his expression. But he only smiled, and softly asked, “Finished?”
She nodded, and replied sheepishly, “Yeah; for now.”
“Okay. Now, do you want to slow that down and run it past me one more time? Because you kind of lost me at the Superman not coming back part.”
She shook her head “no.” She was embarrassed now and she didn’t really want to repeat her rambling. It was too late now to pretend that nothing was wrong; she just didn’t have the strength to explain it all again.
“That’s okay. We’ll just stay here as long as you like, and then I’ll go run you a hot bath. I’ll even bring you some chocolate if you’re not still stuffed from dinner.”
She was all cried out, and now she was feeling lethargic. It felt so good to be sitting here in Clark Kent’s arms. She was afraid to move for fear of breaking the spell. Because she knew that as soon as rational thought returned he would realize what a compromising position they were in and he’d run as fast and as far as he could.
So she just sat there and carefully lifted her head just enough to look around at her surroundings. There was her fish tank—at least there was one familiar piece of her old life. There was her desk, piled high with stacks of paper just like always. Most of the furniture she didn’t recognize. And there were framed photographs everywhere—on the mantel, the end tables, the bookshelves. Curiosity overcame inertia and she slid off Clark’s lap and rose to her feet, approaching the mantel in a fog. Clark rose as well, kissed the top of her head, and gave her back one gentle caress. “I’ll go get that bath ready for you, okay?”
Vaguely aware that he had spoken, she nodded mutely, not really hearing what he said and unable to tear her eyes from the gallery of family photos. There was a formal portrait of her parents, looking older but happier than she remembered them. And together; that was a shock. There was a more casual snapshot of another couple about the same age as her parents; a petite blonde woman and a robust-looking man sitting together at a picnic table. There was another copy of that picture from her desk—Lois, Lucy, Ellen, and two little girls. Next to it was a second photo in the same “Three Generations” frame. But instead of the women of the family, this one showed that robust older man, two little dark-haired boys, and, grinning for all he was worth, a very proud-looking Clark Kent. What?! What was Clark Kent doing in Lois’s family photo collection? Why would she have a photo of Clark Kent and his sons? And his dad? And that other picture of—Clark’s parents? That must be who the other couple was. She moved to the nearest bookshelf. There was a frame covered in sand and tiny starfish with a photo of those same two boys flanking the dark-eyed little girl from Lucy’s picture. They were at the beach, the little girl proudly displaying a starfish as big as her two hands.
But it was the next photo that made her catch her breath. It must be from a year ago; the children were smaller, but they were definitely the same kids. The background was a park playground, the trees surrounding it in autumn shades of russet and gold. The sky was a brilliant blue, and everyone was dressed in blue jeans and sweaters. There was Clark Kent, this time holding the little girl astride his shoulders. One of his hands rested on her shin to steady her. The other hand was on the shoulder of one of the boys, who was perched on Lois’s back, piggy-back style while the other boy hung almost upside-down, his legs straddling Lois’s hips and her arms supporting his back, while Lois was bent over, looking up at the camera with a wide smile while balancing the boy in front and the one on her back. The joy and the intimacy of that picture were unmistakable. This was not a couple of work colleagues whose kids were playmates. This was a family. Her family. She had a daughter. She had two sons. And she had….Oh. My. God.
She was up the stairs in two heartbeats. She followed the sound of running water and burst through the master bedroom into the bathroom. Clark was sitting on the edge of the tub in his shirtsleeves, just turning off the faucet, and he looked up with a startled expression as she blurted out, “You…you…you’re my husband!”
He rose and came to stand in front of her, taking her two hands in his, as he gently replied, “And you’re my wife.” He brought her hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “Now, will you please tell me what is going on? You haven’t been yourself ever since those punks attacked you at lunch time. Were you hurt worse than you let on?”
She shook her head, but she let him lead her out of the bathroom to sit on the edge of the queen sized bed, still holding her hands. There was no avoiding it now. She had stepped too far out of character, and it was time to come clean. She took a deep breath and began, “I haven’t seemed like myself because I don’t know how to be myself anymore.” She dreaded what came next, but she forced herself to say it. “I’ve lost the last ten years of my memory.”
