The Last Superhero (14 page)

Every news report I find
only adds to that conclusion my mother told me so many times before:
He was, simply, misunderstood.

So I turn to something more
in the likes of internal battles: Mesmer and Freud.

“
Giana!”

Oh fuck, Mom's in the shop.

Shut the laptop, hide the
psychology books, pull out Daphne's manuscript, and act as if you've
been reading that instead of having spent the last twenty-four hours
searching for answers about a man you shouldn't care so much about
before she opens the office door.

“
Mom!
You startled me.”

“
Don't
give me that, I've been calling your name since I set foot inside the
shop.” She flops in the armchair and crosses one leg over the
other. “Tell me, how did it go the other night?”

My eyes roll on their own
volition.

“
You
finally cracked Daphne, didn't you? At least she held onto it for
more than a day. That's some kind of record.”

“
Oh
Jesus, Giana. I have no idea when you became such a prude.”

“
A
prude?”

“
I'm
your mother. I know you. Start coughing.”

“
About
what?”

She drops the stance.
“Steven, of course. Did you stay with him last night too?”

“
No.
From Sunday to Monday only.”

“
Then?
How was it?”

Soften a bit, come on, the
woman held you inside her for nine months.

“
It
was great, Mom. He's...” There it is, that smile you can't
contain as your chest fills up with oh so delectable warmth. “He's
great. He cooked dinner and didn't let me do the dishes.”

“
Ooooh.”

“
And
he read poetry to me.” I lean back in my chair to contemplate
the grin spreading over her face.

“
Now
that's a catch!”

Don't think of the
nightmares, or how he jacked himself with coffee afterward so he
could remain awake because he wouldn't let me head back home during
the storm and I kept hitting my chin against my chest, or how I kept
waking up last night covered in sweat at the thought of those
memories.

“
Probably,
yes.”

“
Probably?!”

“
Yeah.
Shouldn't come to conclusions so soon. Give him time. He's
considerably older than me.”

“
Age
is only a number, my dear.”

“
I
know.”

“
Can
he...?”

No,
mother, you're not asking me
that
.

“
Can
he what?” Play dumb, for fuck's sake.

“
Can
he... get it up?”

“
OH
MY GOD, MOM! How... Agh... How can you even ask that? Come on!”

“
It's
a valid question!”

“
Not
when it's coming from your mother!”

I hide my face inside my
hands and ask the dudes snoozing at Mount Olympus why did you leave
me stuck with this one?

“
Where
did I go wrong with you? Really, you're starting to sound a bit like
your father.”

“
The
‘70s called, they want their free love policy back.”
She's sneering at me now. “He can. Does that answer your
question?”

“
See?
That didn't hurt a bit!”

Stare her down.

“
I'm
not discussing my sex life with you, mother.”

“
Watch
your tone, missy. Is he coming round for lunch?”

Dropped your jaw, pick it
up. “I don't know.”

“
Call
him and tell him we're closing the store early and having a late
lunch at that new teppanyaki place two streets from here.”

“
I
don't think that's a good idea.”

It would be a wonderful idea
if Sunday night had taken another, less nightmarish course. Not that
I didn't want to see Steven – I didn't know how to go about
what had happened. When I woke up we had breakfast in silence and
that kiss we gave each other was rather awkward.

Then a day had passed and I
hadn't had the courage to talk to him.

I feel guilty about it now,
though. Shouldn't be so harsh on him about something he can't
control.

“
It's
a great idea because I say so,” Mom says.

If I keep rolling my eyes
like that they're going to hurt.

“
Call
him. Now. And do something about those glasses.”

She storms out of the office
and I hit my forehead against the papers in my hands.

Daphne peeks through the
door and gives me a pity glance.

“
I
don't feel like teppanyaki either but...”

“
You
told her.”

“
You
know how she is.”

“
Lived
with her long enough and had to get my own place just to hide from
her, so yes, I know how she is.”

“
Are
you feeling better?” She glances outside before stepping closer
to me. “You know, if he did anything bad to you, you can tell
me.”

So everyone and their
mothers learn about it? Don't think so.

“
Gods
no, Daph, nothing. I thought I'd give him some time to miss me.
That's it.”

She grins. “That's
what I told Juliana, but she insists he joins us. I think she's
calling Simon too.”

“
Oh,
hell no.”

“
Have
you paid him back?”

“
With
what, Daphne? He insists I don't owe him anything, but I don't feel
okay with that. I tried the waitress thing already and was a
disaster. I could tutor his kids, but his wife homeschools them so
there goes that.” Ouch! I'm pulling my hair again. “I'm
babbling. You know all this already.”

A gentle hand lands on my
shoulder.

“
Go
get Steven. Maybe it'll make you feel better.”

I don't think that would be
the best way to go about this, but I don't think Mom would leave me
alone if I went to that lunch without him either.

Not climbing his wall this
time, though.

Mom doesn't take her eyes
off me while I go about some stuff around the shop until I tell her
I'll go run some errands and she smiles and reminds me to get Steven.

Yeah, yeah.

First stop: the bank.

Asses financial situation,
pay the bookstore's rent and a couple of bills and maybe I can pay
Daph some long overdue paychecks this time.

Second stop: electronics
shop.

Third stop: Steven's house.

The gate's open when I go to
tap on it so I let myself in.

Good or bad idea, I don't
know. But it's clear he's not inside the house.

Open doors lead to the back
terrace.

Calculated steps take me
down a stone stair to lower grounds of green grass followed by a vast
expanse of trees.

My eyes find him next to a
rather large one that has covered everything below it with dried
leaves. He's standing there, his back to me. Hasn't heard me.

Leave him be.

Then I see his arms move,
his hands, fingers spread. His graceful movements, even when they're
at waist height, make ripples on the bed of leaves under his feet.

They ripple like they did in
the nightmare, only slower, softer, smoother. He's making them dance,
controlling their rhythm.

Lightness surrounds me even
when I'm some feet away.

He stops. A pause. A breath.

One hand sweeps from right
to left and the leaves obey. The other hand does the same from left
to right and they wave the opposite way.

It's all so mesmerizing I
think I've started holding my breath.

I don't want to interrupt
him.

Don't want to spoil whatever
it is he's doing. This exercise.

Push both hands downward and
the leaves jump to the sides.

The lightness is building
up, he's building it up.

Watch. In silence. In
reverence. Just watch.

Elbows next to his hips,
hands facing skywards, the leaves around him start floating.

Stay still as gusts of wind
start around him and all of a sudden the bed of leaves becomes a
whirlwind that grows faster, stronger, taller. Enveloping him.

Yellow. Orange. Red. It all
becomes a blur around him.

A tornado. A twister.

It speaks. It whispers.

And I don't know how, but I
feel it, burying itself in my chest and it hurts.

It revolves around him with
a force that seems to pull me towards it.

I stumble, treading on the
grass, trying not to get too close, not to lose my balance.

The pull is more than I'd
care to admit.

A siren's song.

It's not like it'll suck me
in, no, it's luring me, softly, as I make my way around it, as I
focus on his face through the cracks in this wall he's created.

His eyes are shut and his
lips are slightly curved upwards, his expression lines deep.

He's deep in concentration.
I'm deep in contemplation.

His hair's blown all around
him, caught in this externalized demonstration of his turmoil.

Because I know, because I
feel it.

His profile, so soft, so
strong, so aged yet so young. So hard to describe, so hard to
internalize.

He opens his eyes. He's felt
me. He's seen me.

His hardened expression
fades into a smile.

Takes a deep breath.

The winds start to slow
down.

Fluttering leaves descend
back to their bed. At his feet that, I see now, are bare.

Windswept hair, clothes,
mind, soul... Do I dare?

He shrugs his shoulders.
“I've been practicing,” he says, stands still.

Opens his arms wide for me.

I pick up a run and pounce
him.

Don't care.

Because he catches me and we
make a slow landing on that comfortable bed nature has lent us and my
fingers rake his hair and my lips find his and he's holding me tight.

And our combined turmoils
are settled with a single act.

14

Steven's trying to figure
out the phone I got him.

He knows what it is;
however, last time he had a mobile they were shoebox-sized and not a
flat touchscreen that, for the life of him, keeps doing things he
doesn't want it to do.

But he's getting there as I
drive back to the shop and prepare myself for another session of
Overwhelming Mom.

Maybe that could be her
superhero name.

“
Try
not to drain the bit of battery life it has,” I chide him.

I wanted to leave the
contraption charging, but he wanted to bring it with him.