Nobody's Hero

by Katey Hawthorne

  The kid—Andy—didn't listen. He was standing over me in seconds. "She's not dead?" he asked through a mess of snot and tears.

  "She's not dead. Your mom have heart problems?"

  "Yeah, I think. She takes some pills or something."

  "Right."

  "Mom—"

  "Let her be, kid. She's okay for now." I sat back on my heels, took her wrist in my hand, just to convince myself, make sure it was true.

  And the world around me blurred.

  Chapter Eleven

  At the hospital, Kellan finally said, "Are you going to make me ask?"

  My head was numb. My eyes felt swollen, though I hadn't cried. My lips were cold. My world was still blurry, like I was looking out from behind a waterfall. Emotionally, there was too much of everything, and so I registered nothing. "No, sorry. I—Uh, what did you see?"

  He looked at the floor, sinking farther into the seat next to me, careful not to let his elbow touch mine. "Does it matter?"

  "Maybe."

  "As in, you're going to tell me as little as possible to explain whatever it is I tell you I think I saw."

  "No. Yes." I sighed. "Shit, I don't know."

  He looked at me for what felt like the first time in a long time. "I saw you act like a human crash cart, that's what I fucking saw. Your hands were crackling blue, and you did it with no discernible effort or concern for yourself. Like you're used to it."

  "Not used to using it like that, no. But, well, that's why my mother wanted me to be a doctor."

  The last thread of my grand lie, my entire life, undone. This was not how I imagined it happening somewhere down the road, when we were happy and secure, getting married, buying a house, having kids.

  But this was how it was, so I told him everything. About the awakened, about our various powers, about their applications in the real world, about our secrecy, about the witch-hunters, about the haters, about the irritating superheroes and even worse supervillains, about the small communities—about ours in particular. I put it on the line, and he sat there watching me, listening in silence, stony-faced. Never once moving but to chew on his nonexistent fingernails and occasionally nod.

  And when I finished, he said, "So, this is why you get staticky sometimes. It's been right in front of me the whole time."

  "Yeah. I never had trouble with control before, but lately it's been a little weird. Nothing big, just lights flickering and stuff."

  He was quiet for a second. And then he said, "Okay."

  My throat hurt, tight from the stress and the talking and the tears that hadn't come. "Just…okay?"

  "I—" He licked his lips and looked at the floor again. "I want to understand why you never mentioned this."

  I laughed but not in a funny way. "So, you're not at all concerned that I can do this weird-ass thing. Just that I didn't tell you about it."

  "I'm not saying it's not, fucking, like, out there. But, Jamie, I believe in God. You think some lightning I can actually see is going to shut my brain down? Get serious."

  I scrubbed at my hair with one hand, trying to fathom him, finding it impossible. It was like a goddamn hamster on a wheel up there in my head, running and running and getting nowhere.

  I had really just done that. That had really just happened. The thing that had horrified me my whole life. The fear that haunted me in my fucking sleep and made me who I was had come to pass. And I'd walked right through it.

  And Kellan had seen it. All of it.

  "Well, I mean, obviously we can't just go around telling people about it. We're all raised to keep our mouths shut and never use it where we can be seen. Except, you know…in emergencies."

  After a short silence, he said, "I understand. And this…is why I don't know you."

  "It's the reason you don't—didn't know all of me."

  "That's what this weird-ass arranged marriage is about too."

  I nodded. "Not all of us do that. It's just common around here. With especially powerful families, in particular. I'm kind of off the charts."

  "So you're the prize stud."

  I didn't even have the energy to laugh at the concept. I just nodded.

  "How long before you would've told me?"

  Through the haze of fear and confusion, through the swamp of relief and self-loathing, I could still see perfectly that my mother had been right. No matter what answer I gave, he would resent me for it.

  Maybe I'd always known that and just pretended not to. Just drawn it out so I could have another day with him.

  I'd told Billy the truth that day at the bar: I was a coward. I should've done the right thing after that first fight—I'd known it then, and I saw it now. But I hadn't loved Kellan then, or I hadn't known I loved him, and so I'd put myself before him. And now it was too late.

  I said, "I wanted to."

  "I would've fucked off before you told me."

  "I would've told you before I let you—"

  "No, you wouldn't. You never tell anyone anything until you have to, and by then it's too fucking late."

  There was no argument for this, so I didn't try. "But you said you understand. About the secrecy."

  "I want to understand. Rationally. But I'm not feeling particularly fucking rational right now. I just saw someone I—someone I'm supposed to be really close to shoot lightning out of his fucking fingers and save a woman's life. Someone who…who knows every fucking embarrassing and incriminating detail about my own mental and emotional state at pretty much all times." His grip on the arms of his uncomfortable waiting-room chair tightened, his knuckles going white. His voice, conversely, lowered almost to a whisper. "Not to mention my body, my family, and my God. I…am having a fucking hard time not…not exploding on you."

  Somewhere in the middle of this speech, my heart began to thaw. The pain was excruciating, like a long-asleep limb waking up, but hotter, deeper. I covered his near hand with mine, desperate. "Kellan—"

  He jerked away. "Don't do that. Don't—don't fucking confuse me. You always do that."

  "What?"

  "Just—" He leaned away. "Don't touch me right now."

  My eyes grew hotter. This was it. And though I knew I deserved it, oh God, ouch. "Kellan, please."

  But the doctor appeared. She stopped just in front of us, brown circles under her eyes but a smile on her pale lips. "She's all right, and the little boy has a minor concussion. The rest of the family might want to meet you, but if you like, you can just leave your information, and I'll pass it along."

  I fumbled in my wallet and handed her a card. "Sure."

  She tucked it into her coat pocket. "You boys did a good thing."

  "It was nothing," I said. "I'm just glad she's okay."

  Kellan just stared, pale and silent.

  I kept quiet until we were in the car, but everything in me was burning, crackling by that time. If he didn't talk to me soon, there'd be nothing left but ashes. "Should I take you home?"

  "Yes" was all he said.

  "Kelly, please talk to me."

  "I can't. I just need to think. I need to be alone."

  So I bit my lip and did as he asked.

  *~*~*

  I knew I wouldn't hear from him anytime soon, so I did the only thing I could, short of sitting home and getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself. I went to San Diego.

  I found myself on Mae's doorstep on Saturday evening, wondering what the hell I was supposed to say to her. The five-hour flight, the rental-car line, and the subsequent search through unfamiliar neighborhoods hadn't given me any answers. Neither had the conversation with my mother on the way. So there I was, standing in a stucco-and-tejas cul-de-sac in the dry Southern California summer heat, wondering what the fuck my life had come to.

  A large, well-tanned blond man opened the door. His gaze ran up and down me, but he wasn't checking me out—unless it was to estimate who'd win in a fair fight. (The answer: him, since zapping people counts as unfair.) "So, you're Jamie."

  "Uh, yeah. Nice to
meet you…?"

  Big blond guy narrowed his eyes.

  A small, frail-looking woman appeared by his side, prodding him out of the way. Only when she said, "Hi, Jamie," did I realize that the long, curly hair, healthy tan, and thick glasses hid the pixielike Mae Haywood I'd known as a child.

  "Hi, Mae." I mean, what the hell was I supposed to say?

  Big blond guy put an arm around her.

  "Okay," I said, even as I had the thought. "I think whatever is going on here…is not what I think is going on here."

  He snarled—I mean, really snarled, like a dog. "It's exactly what—"

  Mae gave him a gentle push and sidled out onto the stoop with me. "Shut up, Dallas. Jamie, let's go for a walk."

  "Mae—" Dallas (wow, stereotype much, pal?) tried to protest.

  "Shut up," she repeated. There was enough of her mother's edginess in it that I wouldn't have argued.

  Dallas apparently felt the same, though he continued with the glaring. "You make her cry, and I swear to God, I will break your legs."

  Maybe it was juvenile to roll my eyes, but it was, at least, less juvenile than that threat. "I'll keep it in mind."

  "She's not going back there," he replied nonsensically.

  "Good."

  "What?"

  As if trying to communicate with a very stupid great ape, I said, "Good. As in great. Glad to hear it."

  He stared, which I suppose would've been satisfying, had I been in a state of mind to be satisfied by anything at all.

  Mae put a hand on my arm. "Coffee?"

  "Sweet Jesus, yes." I turned and followed her out of the cul-de-sac, then walked side by side with her along a little suburban thoroughfare peopled with smiling early-evening, skin-baring types.

  Nice neighborhood. Lots of palm trees. I always found it hard to believe I hadn't left the country, no matter which coast I was on, really. You can take the boy out of the Midwest, etc.

  When Mae declined to speak—which didn't surprise me, since I still halfway expected the shy, gobsmacked seventeen-year-old—I said, "Okay, so, let's start with the obvious. You're not still on death's door."

  "I was never on death's door. It was a lie."

  That…made so much more sense.

  "We just told Mom I took those pills so she'd leave me alone. Cut me loose."

  I almost wished it didn't make so much sense, so I could get pissed. "Okay, I get that you didn't actually try to kill yourself. Congratulations, by the way."

  "On the lie or on not trying to kill myself?"

  I laughed.

  She didn't.

  "Yes," I replied. "But your mom told my mom you did it because you thought I didn't want to marry you."

  She stopped walking. "What?"

  Wow. Brilliant. Utterly fucking brilliant. "You thought I was coming here to convince you to marry me?"

  She nodded.

  "And your mother…?"

  "She said I'd change my mind when I saw you again."

  "So, when I sent you that e-mail last week—"

  "With everything Mom said about you asking about me all the time, and how…kinda desperate you sounded, I thought…"

  "No. In fact, I was trying to get you to suck it up and deal and help me talk to our mothers about this stupid shit. And by the way, my mother knew I was coming here solely to find out what the hell was really going on. We both thought the whole attempted-suicide story was idiotic."

  "Well, it was. But you got the wrong story. I didn't know Mom told you guys that."

  "Fuck, Mae." I sighed, pulling at my hair. "Just, fuck. This is so fucking…fucked." Yet more evidence that Kellan was slowly wearing down my vocabulary. I laughed again, starting to feel like each time brought me a little closer to madness.

  She stared at my feet but seemed to agree, at least.

  "I came here to tell you what I should've told you when we were kids, which is that I would not have then, and would not now, ever consider marrying you."

  Her mouth fell open.

  I went on, "And it wasn't because of you. I mean, even now, the fact that you're obviously out of your goddamn mind is just gravy."

  "I am not—"

  "You staged a botched suicide attempt to avoid dealing with your mother, Mae. Not that I blame you, but you're officially even less stable than I am. But it doesn't matter, because I'm gay."

  "Gay."

  Why the hell was this concept suddenly so foreign to everyone? "Yes. Gay. Over the rainbow. Friend of Dorothy. In the family. Homo, pillow biter, queer as fuck."

  "Oh my God." She closed her eyes, the blood draining from her face.

  "So, yeah. That's why I kept bugging you about helping me out with our mothers." Another thought occurred. "Jesus, is that guy a sleeper?"

  "Yes." She started walking again.

  I went with her. "Goddammit. God-fucking-dammit."

  "I'm sorry. I just—"

  "Wait. Just…just wait a second. It's not your fault." I could hardly believe it was coming out of my mouth, but it was true. "None of this would've happened if I'd just owned up to taking it in the ass sooner."

  "You said that to your mother?"

  I shot her a look that I really, really hoped would make it clear that I considered her a fucking idiot. "That's what concerns you here?"

  More Kellan influence—more than justified, if you asked me.

  She winced. "Oh. We're so screwed up."

  "Yes. Yes, we are. Every single one of us." Another long silence, wherein I pondered the immensity of our collective fucked-upness. Just as we came up on the little strip mall that I assumed was our final destination, I said, "You do know Billy Armin married Lisa Brandt last year, right?"

  "Yeah. Lisa used to call him 'bug eyes' in school."

  I laughed yet again, and this time I was afraid I'd never stop.

  *~*~*

  And so it transpired that the whole affair was even more farcical than I'd expected, engineered by one of the very few people to whose faults my mother was sentimentally blind: her childhood friend, Margaret Haywood. A last-ditch attempt to cow her absurd daughter into marrying an equally absurd son of a similarly ridiculous family.

  If I looked back three months, I could hardly recognize myself in the imaginary city of lies and performance I'd made. Now here I was, standing in the rubble of it. But I wasn't sorry, for the most part. There was just a single regret that made it impossible to enjoy, that lone shadow over everything, and it wasn't going away anytime soon.

  I was completely at Kellan's mercy, and the odds were grim. It'd come down to whether or not he could trust me again. Nothing I could say would change how he already felt. Bring it out, confirm it, maybe. But if it wasn't there already, I had no hope.

  Monday morning, I swung around Isabella's desk first, clutching a Michael Bublé CD I'd seen in a shop window and knew she didn't have. She squealed over it happily, but her face fell when she got a good look at me. "What's wrong, dear? You're not sick too?"

  "Something going around?"

  She arched one over-penciled eyebrow. "You haven't talked to Kellan?"

  I swallowed. "I was out of town this weekend."

  She paused, looking at me like she wanted to ask another question. I don't know, maybe she saw it in my eyes, on my face. Maybe she just knew me well enough to see the truth. But miraculously, mercifully, all she said was, "He's on sick leave. Must be serious—he's out all week."

  My knees nearly gave out. "Oh. Shit."

  "You don't look so good either." She stood and came around the partition to feel my forehead. "No fever, but maybe you should go home. If he's got something…"

  "No. No, I'm good. Thanks, gorgeous." I staggered back to my desk and put my head down on it, telling myself it was self-centered to imagine this "sick leave" could be a way to avoid me.

  Even my weekly visit to Will-Sing-for-Food Guy couldn't raise my spirits. His couplet for me that day was utterly uninspired. Monday, Monday, smiles so bright/but when he's sad, it's dar
k as night.

  An hour after lunch, I finally gave in and sent Kellan a text. Hope you're not really sick. Starting to think I might be, though.

  *~*~*

  The week dragged. I spent a few evenings at Clark's, where Sarah convinced me to lay most of the story on them—as much as I could, anyhow. They already knew about my mother's weird habits and friends, so they weren't quite as shocked as Kellan. Clark even seemed to think the whole Mae snafu was hilarious, though he curbed his laughter for the sake of my sanity. I went out for drinks again with Billy, who was, of course, sympathetic and made me feel like a regular hero for my human-defibrillator stunt.

  I still felt strange about that. But good too. I'd done it because I had to. Turned out that it hadn't been her first heart attack and might not be her last, but for now, she was okay. I wasn't going back to med school; the idea of doing it again made me sick to my stomach.

  But now I knew I could, if I improbably found myself in a similar situation again. Nice to know what little training I'd had, not to mention my entire upbringing, hadn't been wasted. Nice that I hadn't had a nightmare since.

  Nicer to know that kid still had a mom.

  While I had Billy's attention, I also figured I'd get his professional opinion. "So, is it weird to start having control issues this close to thirty?"

  "Little late for a second spurt, but not unheard of. Jesus, though, if you get any more power in you…"

  I shrugged. "I don't feel like it's bigger or anything. Just, sometimes it's like I forget myself and things happen. TVs go funny or lights flicker."

  He grinned crookedly over his beer. "Like being a teenager, you mean?"

  "Exactly like that, now you mention it." Like puberty wasn't bad enough, throw in raw, untrained superpowers and sometimes it could get a little freaky.

  "When does it happen?"

  The general pattern was pretty obvious, by then. "Usually just around Kellan. When things get intense."

  "Intense as in…?"

  "Yeah, sex, mostly." I thought about it hard. I was always a little sparky in bed—even the thermals had to put the brakes on their hot and cold when they got excited like that—but the times things had actually gotten out of control were big enough to stick out in my mind. That time after our first fight, in the pub bathroom, when I was all desperate. In his parents' house, when I realized I was in love with him. And that one time really recently, just kissing him in his cube when I was trying to apologize. Which forced me to admit, "Not all the time, though. Just when things are kind of emotionally hardcore and I'm not paying attention, I think."