Previously...
Clark.
Yes. It fit the boy perfectly. Clark. Their son, just as soon as the doctor's sister could get them the paperwork that they needed. Clark. The answer to every one of Martha's prayers.
Clark.
"You're sure no one has been around?" General Newcomb pressed.
"We're certain," Jonathan said. "We've been up all night with our boy. We would have noticed anything out of the ordinary."
"If you see anything..." The man let his voice trail off as he produced a business card from the breast pocket of his jacket.
"I'll be sure to let you know. Now, if you excuse us..."
"I appreciate your time. Goodnight."
"Night," Jonathan said, through gritted teeth. Martha could tell her husband's patience was just about worn through.
He closed the door perhaps a little more forcefully than he needed to, just as soon as the men inclined their heads in acknowledgement that the conversation was over. Immediately, he crinkled the business card in his hand and tossed it in the wicker garbage pail in the living room. He took the baby from Martha's arms and smiled down as the infant shoved his tiny hands into his mouth.
"So, Clark? What do you think? You want to be our son?" he asked.
The boy smiled around his knuckles and laughed.
"I thought so," Jonathan said, as he kissed Clark's forehead. "Your new mom and I will keep you safe, I promise. Sleep now. You're home, little boy. You're home and we love you already."
***
Clark thrived in his new home. It seemed, some days, that he grew right before Jonathan and Martha's eyes. Day by day, he appeared to learn more and more about his new home. He took to the new environment easily, never fearful of the unfamiliar surroundings or strange people who now cared for him, though it did seem that he looked for his biological parents for some time in the beginning. But even that passed and the Kents became his entire world.
He was forever smiling at his new parents, rewarding everything that they did for him - a diaper change, a bottle, a bath. And once he learned to laugh, that first night with them, he did not stop. "The world's happiest baby," Martha called him. It did not escape her, the irony of that statement. She knew, deep in her heart, that her son was not of Earth. It was the only thing that made any sense. No wreck was ever found, though Lara had said she'd been injured in an accident. Only a strange, unexplained scar in Schuster's Field had ever been discovered. And the way Lara's body had vanished after her death - technology like that did not exist on Earth.
But those were not only the big indicators of how unique Clark truly was. There were also a hundred little things that set him apart from normal babies. As the time went on, Clark began to show signs of invulnerability. The normal bumps and cuts of infancy and childhood simply did not appear. Clark could roll into anything, stumble and trip, scratch his fingernails against his soft baby skin, all without being injured. At first, Martha barely noticed that anything was different about Clark. Then, gradually, she became aware that he never seemed to get a diaper rash, which plagued all of the babies that her friends had. It was odd, she thought, but mostly she was grateful that Clark didn't need to suffer the discomfort brought about by such an irritation. Then, one night, as she went to cut his fingernails, she slipped and the clippers hit his skin. She braced herself for the inevitable scream, but it never came. She checked the finger in question, expecting to see blood, and found none. Not even a nick was visible.
From then on, she kept a sharp eye on what injuries Clark should have sustained, and didn't. Soon enough, a pattern emerged, one that perplexed the Kents at first. Sometimes, Clark was hurt and sometimes, he was not. A little more careful thinking revealed that on the days that were heavily overcast or stormy, Clark could be injured the same as any ordinary child. And on bright, sunny days, nothing could harm him, though, little by little he seemed to grow invulnerable even on days where sunshine was scarce, until he never suffered another cut or bruise.
There were other things too, as Clark grew out of babyhood and into his childhood. As a preteen, he grew fast and strong, more so than any other person on Earth. And that was the least of what set him apart. Other abilities manifested as well. The ability to x-ray right through objects. Powerful hearing - so much so that, prior to Clark getting a handle on it, the neighbor's sneeze down the road became crippling to him. Sight that went well beyond that of normal men.
"What's happening to me?" Clark asked miserably one morning when he was thirteen. He'd just broken the kitchen table by placing down his mug of hot chocolate too hard, even though he hadn't used any abnormal amount of strength.
"I don't know," Jonathan said, shaking his head.
"I'm a freak," Clark lamented.
"No, honey," Martha said, leading Clark into the living room and sitting on the couch next to him. "You aren't."
"Yes, I am!"
"You're just...a very special little boy," Martha said, squeezing his shoulder.
Clark shrugged out of her touch. "Special is just another word for freak. I don't like what's happening to me. I'm afraid of myself. I mean, what if that hadn't been the table? What if I'd been handing the mug to you or Dad? What if I'd hurt you?"
"But you didn't," Jonathan said.
"I know. But what if I had? The table isn't the first thing that I've broken. I just don't get it. How am I able to do this stuff?"
"Son..."
"Yeah, Dad?"
"I'm not...I'm not really sure how to say this."
"What is it? Do I have some disease or something? Am I dying? Was I given some sort of experimental drug as a baby that made me this way?" A world of self derision was in his lowered voice.
"Martha?" Jonathan asked, looking for help.
She sighed. "Clark, the truth is, we haven't told you the whole truth about yourself," she began. "Your father and I...we thought it for the best, though we always knew that the day would come when we'd have to come clean."
"Come clean? About what?"
"Well...we've always been honest with you, with the fact that we adopted you," she answered cautiously.
Clark nodded. "You said that you found me on your doorstep one night and that Doc McSwiggan's sister helped you finalize the paperwork so that I could be your son."
Martha nodded in turn. "That's right. But...that's only half the story. We always knew, somehow, that we'd need to tell you the full story. We just...we wanted to wait, until you were old enough to handle the truth. It looks like that time is now."
"I don't understand. What else can there be?"
Martha took a breath and let it out slowly, steadying herself. "You weren't alone when we found you. You were with your mother...your biological mother."
"My...?" he seemed unable to finish. He gulped and tried again. "My mother?"
Martha nodded and sighed. "Yes."
"What happened to her? She just left me here, to be raised by someone else? How could she leave?" The words came spilling out of Clark's mouth in rush. He seemed lost in his own thoughts, then flushed as he realized what he'd said. "I mean....I'm sorry. You know you guys are my parents. And you know I love you. I couldn't ask for a better family. But...how could anyone walk away from their kid? How could she leave me?"
"Clark," Martha said, putting her hand on his back and looking at Jonathan for the strength to go on. He gave her an encouraging nod. "She didn't leave you. She...she was hurt, badly. Some sort of accident, she'd said. Your father and I were sitting here, in the living room, that night. He was reading the paper and I was in the middle of a book when we heard knocking at the door. When we opened it, we found your mother on the porch, slumped against the house, holding you in her arms."
"So...you really did find me on your doorstep?" Clark managed, not looking up from the floor.
Martha smiled. "We did."
"What happened?" he asked, his voice low and tremulous.
"We helped her into the house, got her fed and comfortable. Doctor McSwiggan did what he could, but...it was too late. Lara...that was her name...she'd lost so much blood. Too much. Later on, Tim thought that she'd had some internal bleeding, as well as her external wounds. Before we could even call for an ambulance, she..." Martha swallowed, hard. "She passed away."
"She's dead?" Clark asked, looking up, his face troubled.
Martha nodded. "I'm so sorry, Clark."
"Before she died, she asked us to take care of you," Jonathan put in. "You were her main concern."
"So...? That's why you adopted me? Because my mother asked you to?" She watched as Clark's heart broke as he imagined himself to be some kind of burden or obligation to the Kents.
"Of course not!" Martha said, trying not to show how his words had stung her, though she knew he couldn't possibly mean them. "We fell in love with you as soon as we saw you. When your mother passed...there was no way I was going to give you up. As much as I wish you could have known your biological parents, I've always felt like it was meant to be, that she showed up on our doorstep. That somehow, you were always meant to be our son. It didn't matter to us how that happened. You were ours, the answer to every prayer we'd ever prayed."
"What about my father?" Clark asked in a small voice.
"Lara said, just before he died, that he was gone. And no one ever came looking for you, so we assume he was killed in whatever accident she'd been injured in."
Clark swallowed back either a reply or a sob - Martha couldn't quite tell what it had been intended as. For a couple of minutes, he was silent. Martha and Jonathan both gave him as much time as he needed, to process all that he'd just learned.
"Wh...what does that have to do with how fre...how abnormal I am?" he finally asked.
"Well..." Martha began, searching for the right way to word things.
"When Lara died, her body...vanished," Jonathan supplied.
"Vanished? What do you mean, vanished?"
"Just...vanished. One minute she was there, the next, she was fading away, literally. Until, finally, she was gone. Body, clothing, jewelry, everything. Like she'd never even been there. You were the only evidence that she'd been in our house."
"So, you're saying...?" he asked, confused.
"We think," Jonathan continued, "or rather, we believe that you and she were not exactly...from this planet."
"As in, aliens?" Clark asked, incredulous.
"Not the word I would use," Jonathan said.
"Alien," Clark said, stronger this time. He thought for a moment. "Did she say anything else? Anything that made you think that we're not human?"
"Clark Jerome Kent, you are more human than anyone that I know!" Martha exclaimed.
"No," Jonathan admitted. "In fact, she was hesitant to say much of anything. All we know for certain is that her name was Lara, and that she called you Kal."
"Kal?"
Jonathan nodded. "When we adopted you, your mother and I thought it best that we change your name. The night we found you - and I personally believe that is the night you landed - some strange government men came knocking on our door, asking questions about if we'd seen anyone around. We were afraid for you and had no idea how much they might have known about you and your family. So we didn't dare use the name you'd been given at birth."
Clark sighed. "I guess that makes sense. But all of this still doesn't explain what happened earlier. Uh, with the table."
"Clark, from the moment you came into our lives, we've noticed certain things that have set you apart from everyone else on this planet. We think that your abilities are the result of your unique heritage - the fact that you weren't born on this planet. We've noticed that the sun seems to fuel these abilities, these powers," Martha said. "It's...well...it's reinforced our suspicions about your origins."
"I guess...I guess that makes sense. I've always felt better when I'm in the sunlight than when I'm not. But I always thought everyone was like that. I just...even knowing this now...what good does it do me? I'm a monster. I'm always afraid. Afraid that if I sit down too fast, I'll demolish a chair. Afraid that, one day, someone is going to notice how many pencils I go through at school, because I keep pulverizing them into dust when I concentrate too hard. Afraid that, if I run into someone playing football in the school yard, I'll seriously hurt them. Every second of every day is terrifying because I don't know what to do or how to control myself. I try, but it's so hard, to keep in mind what I can do, constantly. What am I supposed to do?"
Jonathan sighed. "Work at it, I suppose. Work on your control until it becomes a natural part of who you are. Remember how we worked on your hearing abilities?"
Clark nodded. "Well, sure, but that took months. And I still sometimes hear things I shouldn't be able to, when I'm not actively trying to. This...strength thing..." he let his voice trail off as he shrugged helplessly. "Why me?" he whispered quietly.
"Clark, you know that I believe we all have God-given abilities. We may not understand them at first, but at some point, we'll always a way to use them to make the world a better place."
"A better place? How, when I destroy half the things I come in contact with?"
Jonathan shook his head. "I don't know yet. But I do know one thing. You won't have this problem forever. Even if this increase in your strength continues, even if you become the strongest man on Earth, eventually you will be able to control it, as naturally as breathing is."
"I'm not so sure," Clark said miserably.
"We believe in you, Clark," Martha said.
"At least someone does," he sighed.
Martha's heart was broken for her little boy. He was always so optimistic, so full of a fierce love for life. Now though, he sounded so small and lost and utterly depressed. An intense fear marred his features, mixed with his sadness. She wanted to comfort him. Never before had she so desperately wanted to hold him close and make his world better. But she knew that there was nothing she could do. This was one time when Clark would have to work things out for himself. She could be there to love him and encourage him, but in the end, that was all she could do.
Nothing in her life had ever been more difficult.
"Oh, Clark," she finally said, putting her arms around his slumped shoulders. "Have faith. Your father is right. I don't know what may be in store for you, in the future. But there is one thing I do know. Whatever it is, it's big. And, given your uniqueness, you'll be the only one who can handle it. In the meantime, we'll work as hard as we can to get these abilities...these powers, of yours under control. Okay?"
Clark took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay."
***
Crickets chirruped in the night beyond the windows of Clark's room. A warm breeze blew in, stirring the freshly washed white curtains. Sleepless, Clark lay back on his bed, stretched to his full length, his hands behind his head. He inhaled deeply, taking in the familiar scents of his world. The lavender scent of the laundry detergent his mother had used on the curtains. The cedar of his dresser. Rain-washed earth, still damp, from a brief afternoon storm. The residual smell of the fried chicken cutlets his mother had cooked for dinner. The musty leather of the football his high school team had bestowed upon him for winning the last game of the year.
All things that would soon be lost to him, once the summer waned and fall whisked him off to college. All things that distinctly smelled of home. Home and safety and acceptance and comfort.
Clark sighed. It wasn't that he felt unready for college life. If anything, he was more than ready for the academic and athletic challenges that awaited him. But, at the same time, he wasn't ready to leave home. Out there, in college, he would be exposed to all sorts of new people and situations. And, while he was confident in his control over his powers, as he now came to think of his abilities, he was still nervous. What if he slipped up somehow, and people realized that there was more to him than met the eye? Ever since finding out what had really happened on the night he'd come to be the Kents' son, he'd feared that the men who'd shown up that night would somehow find him, capture him, and, in his parents' words, "dissect him like a frog."
Still, the opportunity to get out a little and see the world was exciting and enticing. He'd known from an early age that he wanted to be a journalist. And not just any journalist, working for a small paper like the Smallville Post, but one who covered huge stories anywhere they might occur. Leaving behind his childhood home would be bitter, but the promise of his future had too strong a hold to allow him to stay put.
"Besides," he whispered to himself in the dark, "it's not like I can't ever come home."
He smiled. Of all the strange and typically terrifying powers that had gradually emerged over his teenage and pre-teen years, his ability to fly was his favorite. The last to manifest, it had never frightened him, only thrilled him. When he flew, he felt oddly complete and at peace.
He floated off his bed now and maneuvered himself out his window. Rising to the highest point of the farmhouse's roof, he finally settled down and looked up into the clear night sky. The moon was dark that night, hidden in shadow as it cycled through its various phases. Clark didn't mind. The moon wasn't what he wanted to look at anyway. It was the stars.
For a long time, he simply stared upwards, his eyes tracing the familiar patterns of the constellations that he'd learned as a child. He wondered if his birth planet was out there somewhere, within the scope of his sight. He knew now, that his parents' guess had to be right. He had to have come from a distant planet. No one else on Earth had the abilities he did. No other explanation made any sense.
Still, knowing even that basic truth about himself, he had questions. What was his birth planet called? Why had his mother left it? Had she gone alone, taking just her infant son? Had his father made the journey as well? Why had he been brought to Earth? Had his mother fled the planet in fear? Had she simply been exploring the universe and crash landed? Did everyone on his birth planet have powers like he did?
The not knowing ate away at him, every time he allowed himself to think on the topic.
More questions swirled in his mind. What had his parents looked like? The Kents had given him the best description they could of the woman, Lara, who had brought him to their front porch. But Clark still wondered. Were there parts of him that resembled her? The shape of his eyes, for example. Or the way he smiled. Or his nose. And what of his father? He knew absolutely nothing of the man who had sired him. Had he been tall? Short? Had Clark gotten his thick, black hair from him? What had the man done for a living? Had he enjoyed writing, as Clark did?
Mostly, he wondered what they might have been like. Had they been as warm and open as the Kents? Had they been as loving? What would they have thought about him, now that he was grown and ready to head out into the world? Would they have been proud of the man he'd become, thus far? If they could know of his life with Jonathan and Martha, would they have approved of how that life had played out? He thought he could say with some degree of certainty that they would have.
Simply put, the Kents were the greatest parents Clark could have ever wished for. Ever patient, they had guided him through the scariest and most challenging moments of his life. Ever optimistic, they had given him the support and encouragement that he'd needed, especially as each of his powers had manifested, or he'd had a particularly rough day at school. He'd had a lot of those lately. With graduation only two weeks away, he and his girlfriend, Lana Lang, had had a bad break-up.
She'd wanted Clark to attend the same college she would be in the fall. But Clark had no intention of going to the same college. It's journalism program was laughable, at best. And besides, they didn't have a football team. Clark needed a school with both - a solid academic program and a strong sports program. The only reason why he was able to attend the school he wanted was because they'd offered him a full scholarship, including room and board, so long as he played ball for them.
Lana had spent the entire year pestering him about applying to her school. He had done his best to evade the subject, but it had often be the cause of fights between them. But with graduation looming, the fights had become more and more frequent and intense. Then, there was the fact that Lana had been pressuring him for other things as well. If he refused to attend college with her, she had argued, then he'd better show his commitment to her. For several months, she'd hinted at what kind of engagement rings she liked. Finally having had enough of Lana's attempts to bully him around, and being far from ready to promise himself in marriage to anyone, Clark had stood up for himself, and ended their relationship.
He thought he'd have a rougher time, ending the two year long relationship. He'd thought he'd be heartbroken. But, the truth was, he felt nothing but relief. Pure, unadulterated relief.
He hadn't realized, before the break-up, how tiring being Lana's boyfriend could be. How demanding she could be. How manipulative. He counted himself lucky now, for his extraordinary speed and nearly flawless mind, which helped him balance the otherwise overwhelming demands of school, football practice, helping with the farm, and dating Lana. Still, breaking up with her had been hard on him. One of the things that made him feel connected to the world, like a normal young man, had been dating a beautiful girl. But he knew now, with one hundred percent certainty, that there never could have been a future with her.
He thought back to the conversation that had ended their relationship.
"Clarkie," she had whined to him, while they'd been at her house, studying for their upcoming history test.
"Yeah?" he had responded, still rereading the final passages of the chapter they were to be tested on.
"How serious are you, about this whole journalism thing? I mean, it is just a fad, isn't it?"
"Pretty serious," he had answered, still distracted.
"Clark!" she had said, her voice suddenly growing sharp. "Pay attention to me!"
Clark had sighed and closed his textbook. "What?" he had asked.
"This journalism thing. When are you going to grow up and realize that it's so beneath you? You can be anything you want to be. A lawyer or...a doctor." Her eyes had lit up at the thought. "Yeah, a doctor. Better, even. A surgeon. A plastic surgeon," she had rambled on, lost in her own thoughts and steamrolling right over Clark's attempts to get a word in edgewise. "One who works on celebrities and all those rich people out in California. Yeah," she had continued, her voice going dreamy. "We'd be rich, live in a huge mansion, have a couple of kids. What do you think?"
"What do I think?" Clark had said, incredulous, shaking his head. "What do I think? I think I'll stick with being a reporter."
"But Clarkie..."
"No buts, Lana," he'd said, his ire rising. "I'm not interested in being a surgeon or a lawyer, or a restaurant owner, or whatever else you might suggest. I want to make a difference in this world. And the best way I know how to do that is by being an investigative reporter, like I've always dreamed about."
"So, you've always dreamed about being dirt poor? Come on, Clarkie. Don't tell me you like living a mediocre life."
"There is nothing mediocre about my life," he'd shot back, pushing the textbook away and getting up from where he'd been laying on his stomach on the floor.
"Right. Farm life is so glamorous. Don't you want to do more with your life?"
"Yes," he'd said, trying to get his point across. "I want to help people. That's why I'm going to be a journalist."
"But don't you want to make me happy?" she'd said, thrusting out her lower lip in a pout and twisting a lock of her hair around her finger.
"Your happiness?" he'd said, fighting back his laughter. "What about mine, Lana?"
"If you gave it a shot, you might find that you could be happy doing something where you'll actually make money!"
"Look, Lana, enough is enough. You've been pestering me about this since Christmas. It wasn't funny then, when I thought you were trying to joke around. It's downright obnoxious now."
"I was never joking about it," she'd said, crossing her arms before her chest. "If you want to make me happy, you'll drop this stupid idea of being a reporter and do something useful with your life."
Clark's fists had clenched and the muscle in his jaw had ticked. "That's it!" he'd finally said. "I've had enough, Lana! I'm sick and tired of you trying to manipulate me away from what makes me happy."
"I don't think you even know what makes you happy," she'd shot back. "You're completely lost. I mean, we've been dating, what, two years? and you still haven't made a move to try to get me into bed."
"What?" he'd sputtered. "Is that what this is about? The fact that I've tried to be a decent guy?"
"Don't pull that gentleman act on me, Clarkie. For God's sake, even the janitor has tried to get into my pants!"
"What do you want from me, Lana?" he'd asked, exasperated.
"I want you to give up on your stupid idea of being a reporter."
"No," he'd said, his voice grown hard and brooking no argument. "You know what, Lana? I'm done. No...we're done."
"Done? What do you mean, done?" she'd demanded to know.
"Done," he'd repeated, picking up his books and shoving them in his backpack. "I am not your punching bag or your boyfriend any longer."
"But, Clarkie, what about our future?" She'd done her best to sound like a wounded victim, but Clark wasn't having any of it.
"There is no future," he'd said firmly. "We're through. You'll go off to college and meet new people and study whatever it is that you want to. I'll go off to a different school and onto a different life."
"What about our wedding plans?"
"There never were any wedding plans!" he'd said, slinging the bag onto his back, working hard to control his anger. "Those only existed in your own head!"
"Don't you love me?" she'd tried, making puppy dog eyes at him.
"Goodbye, Lana," he'd said, ignoring the question and moving passed her and gaining the door.
To his eternal surprise, he was out of the house before he heard her attempting to follow and calling to him. By then, it was too late. Clark was far enough to pretend not to hear her. As soon as he could, he'd ducked out of sight behind the town library and took to the sky. He'd flown straight home, with as much speed as he'd dared, not wanting to break the sound barrier and cause talk in town.
Now, looking up at the stars, Clark felt free. He was still plagued by guilt at how things had ended between Lana and himself, but he was relieved that it was, in fact, over. He wondered too, if there was anyone out there in the world who would be a good match for him. Someone who would treat him right and not want to use him for what they thought he could do for them. Someone who he would feel comfortable enough with to trust with the secret part of his life - the things he never, ever allow anyone else to know.
Someone he could love and build a future with.
"There has to be someone," he whispered to himself. "And I'll find her."
To Be Continued...
