“Martha, that was a delicious meal,” Lois complimented as she dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.
It hadn’t been anything fancy, just a basic meat lasagna, but Lois meant what she’d said. And she wasn’t a lasagna lover by any stretch of the imagination. But Martha had made it taste truly divine somehow and Lois had needed to force herself not to eat a third helping. Clark, on the other hand, had eaten a full three helpings and probably would have eaten more if his last helping hadn’t polished off the remainder of the tray.
“Thank you, Lois,” Martha said, smiling, perhaps pleased to see that her son had appeared to still enjoy one of his old favorites. “Whatever Clark eats, I’ll be sure to give you the recipe for,” she added as she helped Clark wipe a dollop of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “There, all clean now,” she told him, and instantly, Lois could envision what it must have been like to watch Martha mother him as a small child.
“I think he enjoyed it,” Lois affirmed, purposefully neglecting to mention that he’d also put away three extremely ill-made bowls of oatmeal his first morning in her house.
“I’ve heard it said that, sometimes, taste memories can be the strongest,” Martha said wistfully. “I guess there’s a part of me that hopes I’ll wind up making one of his favorite meals and triggering his memory. A foolish hope, perhaps.”
Lois shook her head lightly but somberly. “No, it’s not foolish at all. We need to do everything and anything we can to try to jog his mind. I know Dr. Klein said his brain tissue is damaged, but I refuse to believe that he can’t heal his mind just as well as his body once his…aura returns,” Lois said cagily.
Martha nodded shallowly. She understood Lois’ staunch refusal to discuss Superman in front of Clark. They didn’t want his first memories to return to be of flying around saving people as Superman. The caped hero wasn’t a necessity. Clark could live without Superman returning if push came to shove. But Superman couldn’t exist without Clark as the driving force behind the character.
“In that case, I’ll whip up a couple of apple pies tonight that we can have for dessert tomorrow,” Martha said.
At the mention of apple pie, Clark’s eyes slid shut, but there was no way of knowing if it was from some tingling sensation of a vague memory or if he was just tired. And he seemed to always be tired. In five heartbeats, the moment was gone, however, lost to the past and not to be repeated. Then Clark yawned ever so minutely, leaving Lois conflicted in her heart. She wanted to believe that some deeply buried memory had been stirred but it looked as though that wasn’t the case. She flicked her eyes over to Martha, but Clark’s mother seemed to be at just as much of a loss as to what to think.
“in the meantime, I have Twinkies, Ho Hos, Snowballs, Ding Dongs, Yodels, Oreos, and half a dozen other junk foods that were his favorites,” Lois offered, hoping to brighten Martha’s mood a bit.
“The Twinkies,” Martha said in answer to Lois’ unspoken question. “I used to have to practically buy them by the case when he was in high school.”
Lois smiled as she stood and started to clear the table for dessert. “Sounds perfect,” she said.
***
A gentle knocking sounded on the Oval Office’s door. President Lex Luthor looked up from the stack of papers before him, his mind still firmly fixated on the sneakily worded laws that would lower the tax rates on the super-rich, like himself.
Well, not quite like myself, he thought with a grin. Few people in the world have as much money as I do. And none of them in this country have as much power as I do.
He quickly marked a paper with a note. He needed to circle back to this one. The language within made it far too obvious what he was trying to pull. It would never pass muster with the smarter voters. The less intelligent ones might overlook things, but he was never one to take unnecessary risks.
The knocking resumed after a slight pause.
“Come in,” he said, perhaps a little gruffer than he meant to.
He rubbed his eyes quickly, trying to help them adjust to looking at things further away than the top of his desk. How long had he been reading for? He sighed and turned the paper over out of habit more than a desire to hide what he was working on.
“Sir?” came a gravelly, English-accented voice. “May I interrupt for a moment?”
“Ah, Nigel, do come in,” Lex said as his old friend appeared in the doorway. He gestured once, and then steepled his fingers in anticipation.
Nigel did as he was told, deliberately closing the door and checking it to ensure that it wouldn’t swing open at an inopportune moment. Then, with long, sure strides, he crossed the room to stand before the President’s desk. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“We have a problem,” Nigel started dourly.
Lex scratched a bothersome itch on his chin. “Problem? Aren’t you supposed to handle any ‘problems’ that arise? Isn’t that what I pay you for?” he asked, his voice suggesting that he was asking a rhetorical question, though he knew Nigel would understand the very real threat hidden beneath.
Nigel gave him a single nod, the movement so slight it was barely there at all. “This one is a bit more…delicate than some of the others,” he simply stated. “Are we, uh…” He let his voice trail as he looked around with purpose.
“No one is listening in,” Lex calmly assured him. “Come now, tell me what threat I need to be aware of.”
He leaned back in his chair, presenting an aura of relaxation, though, inwardly, he was always just a little nervous when his friend and informant came to him with an issue. He opened a hand-carved, bone chest to his left, took a cigar out, and sniffed it. The Gurkha Black Dragon cigars were a recent, pricey favorite indulgence of his. But who was more deserving of the world’s most expensive cigars than him? He trimmed the end and lit it with practiced fingers.
“Another assassination plot? Another fledging attempt to have me impeached? More ridiculous conspiracy theories linking me to all kinds of unsavory acts of criminality?” Lex snorted his disgust as he took a puff of his cigar.
For a moment, he held the smoke deep in his lungs before exhaling it again, though he didn’t try to do something as plebian as to create a smoke ring. Then he took a second one out and offered it to Nigel. The older man refused with a shake of his hand and a simple “stop” gesture of his hand. Lex shrugged and returned the expensive treat to its chest, making a mental note to order more as soon as he dealt with whatever this most recent crisis was. Already he was down to half a box, and he was fairly certain he had only one more full box on hand when this one was finished. He smiled to himself. Most people thought the cigars were rare. And they were right, if you happened to be of the common folk. But not for him. He’d struck up a personal friendship with one of the cigar’s makers, and the man was paid handsomely to always have a stock of them ready to be shipped on a moment’s notice to Lex.
Nigel shook his head again, all business. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “Have you seen the news today?”
“Only the briefings for the things that are the most important,” Lex admitted, realizing for the first time how late it had gotten. “I usually take in a few of the papers with dinner.”
“You won’t like the front page of the Daily Planet,” Nigel warned.
Lex snickered a little. “Why? Did Lois Lane finally get herself into a scrape she couldn’t weasel her way out of?”
He didn’t bother hiding his resentment of the filthy trollop who’d left him at the altar and who’d continuously rebuffed his attempts to win her back. It had taken years, but the love he’d once had for her had blackened, turned to ash, and poisoned him with a hatred he hadn’t known was possible to have for someone who’d once meant so much to him.
Nigel didn’t even crack a smile. “It seems that the raid on Gotham Asylum the other day dug up an old skeleton.”
“I already saw how many of Gotham’s criminally insane were uncovered there. All of which we knew about, from our informants, need I remind you. The raid means nothing in the long run,” Lex said dismissively, taking another deep drag of his cigar.
“I wasn’t talking about those worthless worms,” Nigel spat. He’d always made his contempt for the Gotham street rats known. “Clark Kent was found, alive.”
Lex reflexively swallowed and the smoke he’d been meaning to exhale got caught in his lungs. He coughed violently, putting a fist to his chest and repeatedly beating the center in an attempt to clear out the bad air. He sat up straighter in his chair and the smirk on his face was gone.
“What?” he demanded. He let all of his ice-cold venom seep into that one word.
He scrambled to get his phone out of his pocket and clicked on the LNN app. The top story was the raid on the Arkham Asylum. He clicked it and put the volume up. The reporter – some rusty-haired young man that Lex didn’t recognize – was talking into a microphone and gesturing to the townhouse behind him.
“…At this time, there has been no word on Clark Kent’s condition or why he was at the asylum to begin with. But we expect that a statement will be made in the near future. In the meantime, if he is indeed in the house behind me, no one has caught a glimpse of him since the raid two days ago…”
Lex closed the app with a scowl.
“Why wasn’t I made aware of this sooner?” he growled.
Nigel regained his composure and seemed utterly unbothered by the rage that was seething just below Lex’s tightly controlled features. He shrugged indifferently.
“I just got word not long ago. Our informants couldn’t get close to the asylum during the raid. The police cordoned off quite an extensive area as their base of operations,” Nigel said coolly.
“And the ones inside the building?” Lex demanded.
Nigel picked up a small glass sphere from Lex’s desk and examined the exquisite swirl of colors within, like a microscopic galaxy flecked with a trillion frozen stars trapped for Lex’s viewing pleasure.
“Detained,” he said simply.
“Detained?” Lex echoed with far more gravity in his voice. “According to that blithering idiot reporting on it, the raid was two days ago. How is it that I’m just hearing from anyone now?”
Nigel placed the sphere back on its golden pedestal. “The police were thorough. No one left until the police questioned them in depth. And they were all afraid they may be being watched. As it was, the message I received was heavily coded,” he explained patiently.
Lex stubbed out his cigar, suddenly aware of how much of it was burning to ash without the benefit of him enjoying it. He let the half-used stogie lay in the ashtray to his left. Trying to maintain a neutral expression, he sat in silence for a moment, assessing the situation and his options.
“We’re certain Kent was liberated?” he finally asked.
“There’s no doubt about it,” Nigel confirmed.
“And we’re also certain he’s at that location?” He jabbed a finger at his phone, as though the motion would recall the image seen in the news segment.
“At Lois Lane’s residence?” Nigel clarified. “Almost certain.”
“Almost?” Lex asked dangerously.
Nigel studied his fingernails, unconcerned. “He’s not checked into any hospital. Not in Gotham. Not in Metropolis. Not anywhere that our little birds can find. One of them overheard something about Miss Lane having the ambulance transport Clark to Metropolis.”
“That means very little,” Lex reminded him.
“He was in no condition to travel much farther than that. He wasn’t shipped off to Kansas,” Nigel said haughtily. “Where else would he go? You know how doggedly Miss Lane has pursued every fake lead we’ve been able to throw at her for the last twenty years. Do you honestly think she’d let him out of her sight now?”
“Confirm it,” Lex ordered decisively.
“Already working on it. But I think Miss Lane may confirm it herself if she chooses to make a statement to the media,” Nigel said.
“I don’t care if the heavens open and God himself steps down from the clouds and tells you that Kent is there. As soon as you can confirm it, find a way to ensure that he never leaves the house again,” Lex hissed. “He will be erased, one way or another.”
“He should have been in a shallow grave years ago,” Nigel snidely remarked, taking Lex aback for just a moment. His friend had always been bluntly honest with him, but Lex had never seen Nigel take such a bold ‘I told you so’ approach to the way in which he spoke to Lex.
“You’d do well to check your attitude,” Lex coldly reminded him. “The asylum was never meant to keep him alive. They were supposed to break him and discard him. Dr. Fulton must be going soft.” Lex stroked his cheek in thought for a moment. “Give this story a chance to blow over. A week or two. Then do me a favor, would you?”
Nigel smiled in a way that didn’t touch his eyes. “I’ll prepare to terminate his ‘contract’ just as soon as it’s safe to.”
“Good. And make sure to make it look like a suicide. We can’t afford anyone looking into this mess further than they have to.”
***
“Are you ready for this?” Lois asked as she took Martha’s hand and gave it a slight, reassuring squeeze.
Martha shook her head, her whitish-blonde locks swaying with the uncertain movement. “Not really,” she admitted quietly. Then she sighed tiredly. “But we have to, to protect Clark.”
“To protect Clark,” Lois echoed in agreement.
“He’ll be all right on his own,” Martha mused, more to convince herself that it was safe to leave his side for more than a couple of minutes at a time. “We won’t be that long.”
“No, we won’t,” Lois confirmed. “And we’ll just be outside on the steps. “He’s got the Bills game on and those amazing nachos you whipped up. He’ll be okay.”
Lois cast a glance at Clark, who was staring uncomprehendingly at the television in the living room. It was clear from his slow blink and slack-jawed expression that he didn’t really know what it was that he was watching. But a part of Lois hoped that the game would trigger something inside of him. After all, it was his favorite team playing his favorite sport. Perhaps he would get a flash of memory of watching a game with some friends or, better yet, of playing ball in college. Maybe it would restore a microscopic piece of himself.
Martha noticed the look Lois was giving him and she nodded in Clark’s direction. “He’s tough, Lois. If anyone can come back from this, it’s him.” She patted Lois’ shoulder.
Lois nodded and placed her hand on Martha’s for a moment. “I know. And I know it’s only been four days since he got out of Arkham. But I keep searching for some hint that he’s getting better and I know I have to stop. It’s just so hard to because I miss him so much.”
A single tear slid down Martha’s cheek. “So do I.” Resolutely, she wiped the tear away and crossed to Clark. Kissing the top of his head, she spoke softly. “We’ll be right back, Clark. Just stay here and watch the game, okay? Hopefully, this will chase away those reporters out there so you can finally heal in peace and quiet and plenty of sunlight.”
Clark might as well have been deaf for all the reaction that he gave her. He went on looking at, but not truly watching – as his eyes tracked neither player nor ball – the television screen. Martha watched him for another couple of seconds, then squared her shoulders and looked with clear, bright eyes at Lois.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said determinedly.
Lois nodded again. “Fine by me. I can’t wait to be able to open up my blinds again.” She flashed Martha a smile that she only partially felt.
She allowed Martha to lead the way to the front door and watched as Clark’s mother ambled her way across the room. Age and decades of hard, physical labor on the farm had taken its toll on the woman. Her shoulders were more hunched than when Lois had first met her. And the laugh lines around her eyes had been nearly eradicated by twenty years of grief and worry over Clark’s disappearance. She was still as sweet as Lois remembered her being when Clark had first introduced his parents to her at the CornFest, but everything about her demeanor had changed. Her laugh was less frequent. Her voice was touched by a sadness that persisted even now that Clark had been found. Her smile was faded, especially in the two and a half years since Jonathan had died.
Lois found herself saying a silent prayer than Martha would find her way back to her old self if and when Clark did. She missed the way Clark’s mother had been before Clark had been ripped out of their lives. It was as though an integral part of her had died when she’d realized that her son was gone. But then again, Lois supposed that had been true for all of them. Martha, Jonathan, and she herself had been irrevocably changed by Clark’s disappearance. Perry and Jimmy too, but perhaps less so. Or maybe they’d just been a whole lot better about hiding it. Or had Lois just been too busy following bogus leads for so long that she’d forgotten to take note of the changes in her friends?
She shook her head. No time to dwell on that now. The crowd of journalists outside the house were getting rowdier and louder by the moment. She glanced at the clock as she passed by. She and Martha were now five minutes late to their own press conference. She mentally shrugged. So what? She’d been to plenty of other press conferences that had started way later than theirs.
At the door, she paused and took a deep breath, collecting herself for what she knew was about to come. Then she opened the door, trying to shield Martha as much as she could with her own body, though she knew she was buying Clark’s mother only a few seconds in the long run. Instantly, what felt like a thousand cameras began to flash and a million questions were yelled in her direction. But none of the reporters could get too close. The makeshift podium had been erected at the top of the stairs into the house. And the police had maintained their boundary tapes keep the press on the sidewalk. Officers stood by, watching with eagle-eyed sharpness to ensure that not a single toe of any reporter touched Lois’ property. Silently, she sent a word of thanks to Bill for being so on top of things.
She approached the podium with its plethora of microphones all bundled together to capture every last word, sigh, and exhalation she uttered. For a moment, Lois was brought right back to the very first public statement she’d made regarding the search for Clark and the reward being offered for information leading to his return. The weight she’d felt on her shoulders and the creeping fear that had knotted her stomach and made the short hairs on her neck stand on end had made the press conference more than a little intimidating for her then. But now she held herself confidently upright and, while her heart still bled for the truth about Clark’s condition, she walked with a self-assurance that she’d lacked when begging the public to help her find her best friend.
For a full fifteen seconds, she stood in the center of the podium, Martha flanking her on the left, just looking out over the crowd of journalists. Even in that sea of bodies, she recognized a few familiar faces. Eddy Stump, one of the photographers from the Daily Planet. Janet Hadley, from the Ocena City Tribune. Adam Winter, from the Gotham Gazette. Tim Logan, from the Morning Star. Anna Lee, from the Inquirer. Leo Nunk – still a thorn in her side after all these years – from the Dirt Digger. And numerous others Lois had worked with, against, or alongside of for years.
There were a lot of faces she didn’t know as well. Men and women who looked at her with predatory gazes, ready to pounce on her and whatever information she was about to give them. Others who looked at her with pity, as though it pained them to see the great Lois Lane, winner of a dozen Kerths and other various journalism awards, reduced to holding a press conference about a fellow reporter who, like a shooting star, had had a brilliant start to his career at the Daily Planet, but which had fizzled out and gone dark in mere seconds, to be forgotten again just as quickly.
Mentally, Lois shook her head. Ninety percent of the faces she saw before her now looked too young, too fresh, to have lived through the era of Clark Kent and Superman; at least not with any real memory of either man. Of course they would look bored to tears by the prospect of reporting on someone they considered to be irrelevant. It tore her heart to know that almost none of the men and women before her knew or cared about the man she was there to protect. They were simply hungry for the story, which they would regurgitate in their own way, then quickly forget it and move on to more exciting investigations.
She cleared her throat, making sure the microphones picked up the sound. Instantly, a shushing sound rippled through the crowd and the journalists started to fall silent, one by one. Lois waited patiently for the crowd to get as mute as she figured it would get, then she took a breath and began her statement from memory.
“Thank you all for coming today. As most of you already know, my name is Lois Lane. I was the one who reported my friend and fellow journalist at the Daily Planet missing a little over twenty years ago. I spear-headed numerous searches for him over the years, all which came to dead ends, despite the reward money promised for any leads that brought Clark Kent home.”
She paused, letting the words sink in.
“You’ve all heard, by now, the rumors going around that Clark was found during a raid on the Arkham Asylum in Gotham City. I’m happy to announce that the rumors are true. Clark was found alive during the raid and has been brought home. The circumstances of how and why he came to be in that place are still unclear at this time, and may not be for some time to come. At the request of his immediate family, those details will not be made a matter of public information. I can confirm that he was found injured and is recovering at this time, however.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd and Lois pressed on, not allowing anyone to be bold enough to throw out any questions.
“We are extremely grateful to all those who have offered their help and support over all these years – be it those who offered to chip in on the reward, those who helped hang missing flyers, those who participated in the physical search parties, those who kept a sharp eye and ear out for information about his whereabouts, even those who simply prayed for his safe return,” Lois said, her eyes scanning the gathered media. “All of it is appreciated more than you can possibly know. We’d also like to thank the Gotham PD for their assistance in helping bring Clark home. And, of course, to the tipster who alerted the GPD that Clark might be inside the asylum…his family, friends, and I owe you more than simple words can ever express. And the fact that you’ve declined the reward money is proof of what an amazing person you are. Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts.”
Lois paused and swallowed down the emotional tears that had crafted a lump in her throat. But the email she’d received from Bruce Wayne – Batman – declining the offered reward made her smile internally, even if just for a split second.
“At this time, his family and I would like to ask for privacy as Clark continues to recover from his ordeal. He’s been through a lot and we wish for him to be left alone to recover. Again, thank you all for coming out and for all the support you’ve given us over the years.”
Lois stepped back, allowing Henderson to move in from where’d he’d been standing to the rear right of the podium. As Lois and Martha went to return to the safety of inside the house, she could hear Henderson over the speakers as the reporters all sprang into action, hurling a billion questions and comments her way.
“No questions!” Bill was yelling into the microphones to be heard. “No questions!”
In the next moment, the door was open and Lois ushered Martha inside. Then she slipped through the small gap she’d made and shut the door again, leaving it unlocked so Bill could enter if he needed to.
“Do you think that’ll satisfy them?” Martha asked worriedly, looking frail and shaken by the sheer number of reporters that had all be clamoring for a personal statement or answered question.
Lois shrugged helplessly. “I can only hope so. Clark needs the sunlight, so they need to go away.”
Martha nodded. “It’s killing me to keep him cooped up in the house like this. I’m going stir-crazy with the closed drapes. I can only imagine what must be going through his mind.” She sighed sadly.
Lois put a supportive hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Martha. The media will go away or I’ll make them go away. One way or another.”
***
In the end, Lois didn’t have to threaten harm to any members of the press. Most of them stalked off angrily after the press conference. Lois didn’t blame them much. She would be fuming too if she’d wasted her time on such a vague, virtually helpless statement that would barely allow them to flesh out two paragraphs for their articles and give them half a minute at best for their filmed news segments. But that was all she and Martha dared to say on the subject of Clark. It was bad enough that the world’s superheroes had been let in on Clark’s secret in order to help find him. But then to be forced into sharing that information with Dr. Klein – necessary but still not something Lois had relished doing – and then again with Henderson…she wanted to take no chances. She wasn’t going to give anyone else any reason to speculate on Clark’s health or anything else about him. If word got out that he’d undergone electroshock therapy, and on the incredibly slim chance that he eventually recover from it, everyone would know there was more to Clark than met the eye. She wasn’t going to risk that happening. So much had already been taken from him. His secret wasn’t going to be one of them, not if she could help it.
The stubborn few who appeared to be in no rush to leave were chased off by Henderson’s officers. Lois wasn’t entirely sure what to make of their lack of motivation. Perhaps they were afraid their editors wouldn’t be happy with what they’d gotten. Perhaps they hoped that, if they hung around long enough, Lois would come out and give them more information. Perhaps they were betting on the thinning crowd as a catalyst for Lois to open the blinds so that they might just be able to catch a glimpse of Clark. Lois didn’t know and she didn’t care. She was just glad to see the officers forcing her journalistic brethren to leave the area as she cautiously peeked through the blinds.
“That’s the last of them,” she said to Martha as she breathed a sigh of relief. She watched as Jessica Porter of Channel 12 hurried across the street to her news van, climbed in, and sped off, keeping to just under the speed limit as one of the officers watched, his handcuffs at the ready if she didn’t leave right away.
“Good riddance,” Martha huffed.
Lois checked the time. “We still have about an hour before the sun starts to set. Let’s get Clark outside.”
Martha was already rising from her seat. “You read my mind.” She gently put her hand on Clark’s inner elbow. Whatever else he might know and understand, he’d come to associate the gesture with an unspoken request for him to stand and follow. He did so now, a small ripple of worry showing on his brow. “It’s okay, Clark. No one’s going to hurt you. We’re doing everything in our power to help you,” she promised him in the hushed tone of a mother speaking to her newborn.
The crease in his brow left, but Lois could tell that Clark was still ill-at-ease, even if he couldn’t communicate it. She shook her head sadly and wondered yet again what kinds of evil things Clark had endured to turn her fearless best friend into a man who would jump at his own shadow if only his broken mind and body would allow it.
Don’t go there, Lois, she warned herself. Focus on the present. Clark needs you.
Shoving aside her grim thoughts, Lois hastened her step to get ahead of Martha and Clark. After carefully checking to make certain there were no unexpected spies huddled in her backyard, she worked with freezing fingers to set up three chairs in her tiny backyard. Then she rushed back inside to brew a fresh pot of coffee and retrieve her coat, hat, and gloves. Martha had already helped Clark into the coat Lois had saved from his apartment. Once, Clark had fit into the thick material like it had been molded specifically for his body. Now it hung huge and limp on his emaciated frame, reminding Lois sharply of her young nieces playing dress up in Lucy’s old bathrobes.
Silently, Lois fixed the three cups of coffee and brought them out to the yard. Martha had already settled Clark into one of the chairs and he sat with closed eyes facing the weak, westering sun. He opened his eyes briefly as Lois touched his shoulder to alert him to his coffee. He looked at it with the same blank look as always, but he did sip it after a few minutes.
“So, where do we go from here?” Martha said after a while.
Lois shook her head. “Dr. Klein will reevaluate Clark’s condition in a couple of weeks. Hopefully Clark will put on some weight before then and get healthier overall. I’m hoping that he’ll say that Clark is ready to have some of those malfused bones of his reset. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to have to alter his way of walking, of using his hands, the way that he has to.”
“I hope so too,” Martha agreed. “I know my son. Mark my words, he’s in pain. I see it every time he gets up to move from one chair to another or to climb the steps, or hold a spoon. Maybe he’s not in excruciating pain, but he’s in discomfort.”
“I think so too,” Lois said. “I was hoping I was wrong…for Clark’s sake.” She sighed. “I wish he could tell us what he needs. If he’s hurting. If he’s remembering anything.” She looked at Clark in silent contemplation. “I’m so used to fixing things,” she finally said. “Getting apartment renters the services they need from lazy landlords. Getting answers for the public on what’s happening with our tax dollars. Getting criminals put in jail. But I can’t fix what matters most.” She reached over to Clark and took his free hand in hers. He winced at the contact at first, but when it became apparent that she wasn’t going to hurt him, his body relaxed again.
“You’ve already done more than anyone has a right to expect from you. Even if he…doesn’t,” Martha began, and it was clear the word was hard for her to get out, “recover from this, you brought him home. He’s safe because of you.”
“He’s safe because of Batman,” Lois corrected, though not unkindly. “In twenty years of searching, I had nothing to show for my efforts,” she added bitterly. She took a sip of her coffee, annoyed with herself.
“Without you and your efforts, Batman never would have been on the lookout for Clark,” Martha reminded her.
Lois sighed again. “Maybe,” she allowed, “but unless he’s got a gadget to bring back Clark’s memory…” She let her voice trail off.
After a short while, Clark began to doze off, as he often did. Martha took the opportunity to slip inside and begin to prepare the pot roast, potatoes, carrots, and homemade macaroni and cheese – another one of Clark’s favorite meals. Lois sat out in the cold, crisp air and drank in the sight of her best friend. He was so distant now; more of a stranger to her than when she’d first met him and had barely taken notice of what his name was, let alone that she was stuck with him on an assignment. In the waning afternoon light, he looked so deathly pale that it was a wonder to her that he’d survived all those years shut away in a desolate basement cell in the asylum. She was beyond glad to have him free and safe again, but how much good had they really done him? He was still locked away from them, from the world, and he might never return from the darkness of his damaged brain.
Better than dying alone and confused in that hellhole, Lois told herself resolutely. Out here, with me, he at least has a chance to reconnect to his past.
To Be Continued…
Last edited by Deadly Chakram; 01/26/20 12:47 PM.
