The Last Superhero (40 page)

I'm leaving. Going home.

Without another word,
Steven's ushered towards his cell.

Dr. Hudson smiles her bright
red lipstick smile while she and Dr. Fletcher make sure we don't
leave without them being a hundred percent sure we're fit to go back.
Her smile, though, reminds me of Mom and I can't help but realize
Steven's right: I have things I can't leave behind.

There's disappointment in
Little Miss Sunshine and Bowie-esque guy's faces as we part.

I try not to give into the
crying again, there's no need for that.

Everybody knows my heart is
breaking.

Dad stays near, Daphne puts
a hand on my shoulder, Wyatt keeps sending me concerned glances.

Suárez and Powell
both stay silent.

Ross leads us out of the
bunker to where our ride's parked.

“
Wait.”
Dr. Morgan's rushing to us, making us stop in our tracks. “That
was very brave of you. Stupid, but brave nonetheless.”

I only nod in response.
Can't even fight.

“
I
entered the nightmare but couldn't even move,” she tells us yet
no one knows how to reply. “I'll keep you posted.” She
gazes down at the asphalt we're on. “Please stay in touch.”

A good look at her shows
she's softened, lost some of her bitchy edge, and her words are
coming from that place true feelings come from.

“
You
saw what happened inside the nightmare?” I finally ask.

“
The
end of it. You weren't in it for more than five minutes.”

“
It
felt like a lot longer.”

“
Will
you tell me about it when you get the chance?”

“
Sure.”
Blink
blink
.
“Of course.” Blink some more because the tears are coming
and I can't hold it back anymore.

She sees it, believes it,
lets us go on.

Someone holds the SUV's door
open for me and I climb in, followed by Dad, who keeps me under his
arm all the way back to the motel where I fetch my stuff in the
company of Daphne who, at the last moment, asks, “Are you all
right?”

“
This
is what adults do, isn't it? Accept when we've done something wrong
and live with the consequences?”

“
It's
not like he gave you much of a choice.”

“
Now
there's no way of going back. All thanks to my stubbornness.”

“
Hey!
I'm to blame too. If you're looking for culprits, then we're all to
blame. You didn't do it alone.”

“
I
should've stopped you and I didn't. You acted upon my wish to do it
again. It's my fault and now all's gone to shit and I've lost the
only man I've loved enough to think of a future with!” All of a
sudden I'm throwing my hands in the air and raising my voice and have
to breathe myself back to normal. “It's over, Daph, it's all
over and he doesn't even want me to be at the fake execution.”

“
But...”

“
And
we're not talking about it until after I've had at least a couple of
whiskey shots.”

“
I
was thinking more like ice cream.”

She gifts me with a playful
smile that I can't help but reciprocate. One that relieves me, if
only for a moment, from the heaviness in my heart.

We pack everything and
leave.

If
only
moving
on
were like driving away life would be so fan-fucking-tastic. But it's
not. You can't drive or walk away from a feeling. All you can do is
lock it away somewhere in your heart for future reference. And, of
course, locking it somewhere means you're giving it its own little
space inside you and that is reason enough for it to ache.

Translation: You're fucked
anyway.

Night’s fallen when we
arrive at Mom's house and that first step out of the SUV feels like
stepping on square one.

Blank mind. One foot in
front of the other.

Don't listen to the sighs
around you.

Dad has the keys and lets us
in.

Even Wyatt helps with our
things as I try not to think too much about what's happening.

“
Anything
you need, call us,” Ross says and I thank him and Suárez
and Powell for being there for me, for Steven.

They don't say anything,
just hug me before leaving.

“
I
normally don't do this,” Wyatt starts, “but this might
help.” Hands me a bottle of pills. “For if you can't
sleep.”

What a psychiatrist thing to
do.

“
Thanks.
For everything.” Him I hug on my own volition and revel on the
way he lets me cling to him for a bit.

Once he's gone, Dad asks
Daphne if she'll have dinner with us. However, before I get to hear
her say yes, the stress has taken the best of me and I'm spread over
the sofa, knocked out of my senses.

43

Why does every moment have
to be so hard?

Waking up is hard.
Incredibly hard. Impossibly hard.

“
Hey.”
The voice in my ears, the hand on my forehead that travels through my
hair.

And all I manage to whisper
is “Dad” before the tears come back and the whimpers take
a hold of me again.

Week one.

Onwards. Forward.

No time to mope around or
give into self-pity.

Books help. Books help a
fucking lot.

And spending time with Mom,
although, for the most part, she can't talk.

Decay. Deterioration.
Dilapidation.

She's gotten progressively
worse and yes, Steven was right. I can't walk away from this.

His fake execution takes
place two days after we left and no, it wasn't televised. What was
televised was an aftermath that, in my opinion, could've been bigger.

Most of them hang their
heads at the realization that it's over.

Press starts calling,
showing up on my doorstep, and Dad and Simon become my bodyguards
while Ross does the talking. He keeps asking them not to bother me so
much, that I've had enough.

They want to ask me, poke
me, feed me to the lions.

But that only lasts for a
while. Soon they forget about Steven, about me, and go on to disturb
some badly behaving celebrity.

The man they thought was
dead for so long, the one they were surprised to find alive after all
this time, is dead again. Short-lived amusement.

It's over. The last
superhero's dead. Carry on.

And it's as if I'm the only
one who actually feels hurt about it. But then again, he wasn't a
superhero to me; no, he was a human being. A human being I loved with
all my heart.

Was? Or is?

For moments I think it
would've been better that he disappeared and that I, like everyone
else, thought he was dead.

At least that way I could
properly mourn him and heal myself through the grieving process.

At least that way I wouldn't
find myself pathetically staring at the moon asking the cold if he's
also staring at it, thinking of me.

At least that way I wouldn't
jump at the sight of someone who resembles him while having coffee
with Daphne and Frances and have them put their hands on mine in
tandem and tell me it's okay and ask me if I need a napkin because
it's happening again.

The tears. That tangible
betrayal after holding it in for too long running down my cheeks
because I miss him so much. So fucking much.

I force a watery smile and
it's like they've been holding their breath and can finally sigh in
sync with me.

“
I've
got something for you,” Frances says as low as she can, taking
a break from whatever it was she was drawing on her napkin.

Gets an elbow to the ribs
from Daphne, which earns her a mocking face in return.

“
What
is it?” I sip my coffee, staring at the girl rummaging through
her messenger bag and producing a rolled up paper that she puts on
the table.

“
You
don't have to open it now,” the blue eyes under the blond
fringe are averted, “but Jake also wanted me to give it to you.
In case you need it.”

Shoot a glance at Daphne and
I don't know if I should or not.

Do it anyway. Go on.

Unroll it to reveal a water
painting of a female samurai in full armor and ready to kill someone
outside the painting with her naginata.

Whoa. “This is...”
Like a blade to the heart that, even though it hurts, makes me want
to smile. “It's beautiful.”

“
D
told me about your research and, well, I wish I could've given it to
you earlier.”

“
It's
great.” Roll it. Shut it. “Thank you.”

Daphne's not exactly happy
about this, but I'm strong enough.

Or am I?

Frances pats me on the back
of my hand, her eyes piercing through me, silently telling me it's
okay before going back to her napkin drawing.

I stow the painting in my
bag under Daphne's tender stare.

Thank heavens for friends.

“
I
have no idea what I'd do without you two.”

“
This
isn't something you can just get rid of,” Daph says. Daph
understands.

Last time we were in this
situation it was her heart we were all trying to help mend, that's
why I know she understands. That time she took the breakup with such
aplomb I was in awe of her. Now I'm trying to channel that Daphne I
so much admired.

Emphasis on trying.

Bold emphasis on failing
miserably.

“
That's
what we're here for.” Frances's frantic coloring of shadowing
on her art shakes the table.

“
Hang
in there,” Daphne smiles, points at my coffee, “and
please, don't let it go cold.”

Daph's display of patience
next to Frances's lack of it is kinda funny.

“
Have
you talked to Wyatt lately?” I ask as if to change subjects.

Apprehensive looks shot left
and right.

Or is it that I see
'conspiracy' in bold red letters everywhere lately?

“
Yeah.”
Daphne's the one to answer. “I've been helping him with some
stuff.”

“
Really?”

“
Mhm.
His office archive is a real mess and you know I love archiving and
alphabetizing.”

“
Ha!
That's awesome.” Switch to Frances.

“
Not
much.” A pause. “Have
you
talked to him?”

That you goes in italics due
to the weight it carries. That bag full of meaning that's dropped on
its back because when I talk to Wyatt it has nothing to do with
archiving but the opposite, letting out, making the mess.

“
We
had our first – should I call it a session? – the other
day. It was good.”

Their eyes on mine do more
than see, they pry.

“
And
his sleeping pills work great.”

“
Oh.”
Frances exhales.

“
It's
either that or Dr. Richard Armstrong sitting next to my bed all
night.”