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Clark sat on his bed in the dark, his knees drawn up, his foot tapping restlessly on the comforter. He threw a T-shirt on and ran his fingers through his hair. Not like the cattle would care. He had spent the last two days on his back, in and out of sleep; the kryptonite spores had made his blood feel thick and slow, his muscles heavy. Since coming home from the hospital, his normal strength had returned so completely that the lightness was almost too much to bear.
He padded down the stairs, shifting his weight left and right, finding the sturdiest spots by memory, the path worn from years of anxiety and quiet escapes. Reaching the landing, he caught the faint scent of woodsmoke.
A fire burned low, down to mostly glowing coals, but it was enough to make out his dad’s form in the nearby chair. He wore an old white T-shirt and pajama pants. His feet were bare, his body slack, a beer held loosely in his grip. He looked away from the fire.
Clark froze instinctively, though he’d done nothing wrong, and listened. His father’s heart beat rapidly. His free hand vibrated slightly against the arm of the chair until he deliberately closed his hand around it.
“Son?” Jonathan’s voice was steady, quiet. “You all right?”
“A lot better,” Clark said.
“Good.”
“What about you, Dad?”
“Fine.”
There was a long silence. Clark let it hang. The clock on the mantel ticked a staccato rhythm in the dark. The last of the fire crackled lightly, and the wind rattled the old windows. His dad had turned his head in Clark’s direction, but Clark couldn’t tell if he actually saw him. He decided to cast a delicate line. “We said we’d talk,” he started, working to keep his voice steady. “And I don’t need fish flopping in the bottom of a boat to do it. You?”
Jonathan sniffed audibly before growing quiet again. He tipped the bottle enough to wet his lips before exhaling long and slow.
“I was just sitting there in my room,” Clark continued. “Couldn’t stop myself from listening to her breathe. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t...” He’d felt like a child again, worried his mother wouldn’t be there when he got home from school.
His father’s hand started to shake again, a faint vibration against the arm of the chair. “She’s okay, Clark.”
“But you’re not. Or you’d be with her,” Clark said earnestly. In a way, he couldn’t help envying Jonathan. He would have given anything to hold on to his mother for a little while.
“I can’t sleep,” Jonathan admitted. “And I don’t want to worry your mother.”
“What is it, Dad?”
Clark waited, the silence heavy between them. He realized then that while he’d been asleep, his dad had been wide awake, forced to watch the two people he loved most slip away.
Jonathan shook his head. “It’s just … uh.” He ran his hand over his mouth. Clark waited. “You won’t understand, son, but sometimes adrenaline can make it so you can push through anything. Stay focused. And it isn’t until everything is calm again that … that it all…comes over you. I can’t stop shaking.” He held up the half-full beer. “Thought this might help.” He took another slow, deliberate swallow. “It doesn’t.”
Clark nodded, crossing the floor. He sat on the coffee table in front of Jonathan, folding his hands between his legs. “We’re not that different, Dad. Whatever that toxin was, it took all my strength. Everything felt heavy. Even breathing. And now … feels like maybe I should run to Colorado and back.” Clark grinned, but Jonathan only nodded, turning his head back toward the fire.
Clark put his hand on top of his dad’s where it rested on the arm of the chair. For years he’d had to consciously take care with the weight and strength of any touch, but with his family he no longer had to think about it. His body just knew. His father still didn’t look at him.
“Go have that run,” he said quietly.
“I was scared, too, Dad.”
His father didn’t move, didn’t try to take his hand away. Clark followed his eyes to a spot on the floor. He watched as his father smiled a little. “You were sitting right there. The first day you were here. Mom had found some of my old toys for you … and I … my head was spinning. What if you had parents? How would we explain it? What were we getting into? To be honest, I was panicking, but your mother … your mother made it so clear. And so simple.
“She put her hand on my arm, and she said, ‘This little boy needs someone to love him. We can do that, Jonathan.’ And she pulled my head down and kissed me and all the worry just … stopped.” He set the beer down on the small table beside him, careful to use a coaster. “Because she was right. I know because that one simple choice, made right in this room, has meant everything to me.”
Jonathan’s breath caught and he grew quiet, the smile fading. When he looked at Clark, the warmth that had settled in Clark’s chest slowly drained away. His father’s voice had gone flat. “Dr Bryce told me that your mother died, Clark. Our baby died. They pronounced. 2:17 am.” Clark watched a tear run down his father’s cheek. Jonathan made no move to wipe it or the others that followed. “And I can’t stop shaking.”
The realization hit Clark like a physical blow: his dad hadn't just almost lost his family; for a few horrific minutes, in his mind, he already had.
His parents’ love was subtle. Everyday. A hand on a shoulder. A morning kiss. A warm mug of tea pressed into cold hands. Its consistency was almost more intimate than anything he’d accidentally heard or seen when they thought they were alone. And if that were suddenly gone…
Clark got an idea.
“Listen,” he said softly, leaning closer.
Clark closed his eyes and let his senses expand. The ambient noise of the house flooded in first—the sharp whistle of wind against the windowpanes, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the steady gurgle of water cooling in the old radiator pipes overhead. Slowly, layer by layer, he dialed them down. He pushed past the quiet house, past the nocturnal sounds of the farm outside, until he locked onto the master bedroom directly above them.
Beneath the slow, rhythmic sound of his mother’s breathing, he found it: a double thud, deep and steady.
Clark brought his finger down against the back of his father’s hand, matching the rhythm exactly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“It’s her heartbeat, Dad,” Clark whispered. “I can hear it. She’s here.”
He paused, tuning his focus finer still, listening to the delicate, fluttery rhythm nestled close to hers. Clark was near enough that he knew his dad could feel him smile. “And the baby.” The frequency of his tapping finger grew more rapid. “It’s so fast.” The words were full of wonder.
As they sat quietly, he felt his father’s shoulders drop. The hand under his grew still as Clark continued to tap lightly.
His mother was upstairs. Her heartbeat was steady. The baby’s was quick and strong. His father was here beside him, listening.
Clark smiled.
“This is what you fought for, Dad. We’re all here.”
He continued to tap until Jonathan put his arms around Clark and drew him close. The strength of his grip, the smell of his skin, always created a feeling of safety in Clark, for as long as he could remember. That didn’t change because his dad was hurting. His mother made his dad feel that way, too. Clark had always known it. He’d just never thought about it before.
Jonathan squeezed Clark’s shoulder and gently pushed him back. Clark reached out and put his hand on his father’s chest before he could speak.
“I gotta move, Dad. I’m jumping out of my skin here. I’ll take care of the chores and–”
“Clark–-” Jonathan started, inhaling strongly to continue.
“No, Dad,” Clark interjected. “You took care of all of us tonight. It’s my turn to carry the weight.” He dropped his hand and held Jonathan’s gaze. “Mom shouldn’t wake up alone.”
His dad’s nod and crooked smile were a welcome sight. Jonathan wiped a hand over his face and stood, using the hand on Clark’s shoulder to shake him a little. “Thanks, Clark.”
“Night, Dad.”
***
The room was cool, fresh air tinged with damp earth and sweet cut hay. Somewhere between the rattle of the window and the creak of his bare feet on the wood floor, he heard her. Soft, even breaths. A long, distinctly womanly snore brought a smile to the edge of his lips.
Clark had left out a detail or two.
Jonathan pulled his worn T-shirt over his head, leaving it on the floor, and slowly sat on the edge of the bed. He ran the back of his knuckle over the soft skin of Martha’s arm where it rested on the sheets. Then he traced the delicate fingers of her hand, watching her face. Her breathing remained steady, a thin line of drool glistening on the chin of her slightly open mouth.
He exhaled, loving that nothing in the scene in front of him hinted at the hours they’d just endured. It was just … normal.
Lifting the covers, he slid in beside her. He lay on his side and leaned to kiss a small patch of pale skin under her ear, framed by the vibrant red of her hair. He then placed his forehead against her and closed his eyes, content to breathe her in.
Carefully, he put his arm across her, his hand resting lightly against her abdomen, over the tiny baby he’d seen on the ultrasound.
And held them both.
***