It was all right with me, though. Honestly, I was just glad to be somewhere familiar again. I looked around the apartment, pleased and maybe a little taken aback by how it looked almost exactly the same as I last remembered it. The pile of boots and shoes by the doorway, the wonky ceramic cup Peter made in Third Grade sitting on the wall of bookshelves, the same red-checkered tablecloth on the booth in the kitchen. As always, there was the mess of loose DVDs and cases around the TV, and Uncle Ben's old college typewriter collecting dust on a side table.
The changes, I noticed faster. The curtains were green instead of white now, and there were new pictures of Uncle Ben and Peter on the mantle, but other than that…
'I saw you. On the plane.' the words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. The thought had came from nowhere. Peter looked up from his sandwich, frowning at me in confusion. I ducked my head, embarrassed with myself. 'Well, not really you. Brandt — the kidnapper — she drugged me. Ketamine, I think. It makes you, uh, hallucinate. And I talked to you.'
'Really? What did I say?' Peter perked, a flicker of concern crossing his face.
'Uh,' I pulled a face. The memory was groggy. I had only just recalled it. I wouldn't have mentioned it if I had realized just how little I remembered. 'I think y-you were telling me to get out. You told me to be like Ferris Bueller.'
Peter choked on his sandwich, covered his mouth with his sleeve. Laughing seemed to have taken both of us by surprise. 'Wait, wait, are you serious? You had a vision of me talking to you about Ferris Bueller? As in, the movie?'
'Yeah,' I replied, starting to grin, too. 'You saved my life. If it wasn't for Ferris Bueller, I probably never would've gotten out of there on my own.'
Peter just shook his head, still laughing. I couldn't believe how much I missed the sound. 'Un-freaking-believable! Of all the things you could've seen, it had to be me. Did I have those dumb glasses I used to wear, too?'
The image came at me so fast my own laugh startled me, and I had to swallow my bite fast before I inhaled it on accident. 'Oh, yes! Oh, my god, you did.'
'And I'd totally say Ferris Bueller, too,' Peter snickered, his shoulders shaking. So different to how he was just an hour ago, in the FBI building. 'Ferris Bueller applies to everything. That movie was the best. Hey, wait, I still think we have the DVD, lemme go find it…'
We continued to eat in front of the TV. I could eat about ten of these egg sandwiches on my own, but I only finished three before my arms got too heavy to lift them to my mouth anymore. Peter himself had eaten two and a half; I had been tempted, for a moment, to challenge him to an eating contest, but decided it unwise considering his history of eating entire pizzas on his own.
Aunt May sighed as she flipped another egg onto some toast. Her back to the living room, she called, 'Boy, you three are going to eat through this week's eggs in one night! I definitely should've ordered take-out…'
Then, with a plated sandwich in each hand, she turned and made another round towards the living room. It was dark aside from the glow of Matthew Broderick's face studying abstract art through sunglasses on the TV screen. 'Peter, I think it's time you head off to bed now, it's past your —'
She came to a stop, standing over the couch. Both Mia and Peter had slumped over against each other, fast asleep, half-eaten sandwiches still in their hands. The exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with them.
It seemed too cruel to wake them up again and push them towards actual beds. May sighed, a faint smile pulling at her lips as she picked up their used plates, before tucking the blankets snug. The TV shut off with a tiny click from the remote, and she planted a kiss on each of their heads.
But when May pulled back, she continued to watch them for a bit longer, preserving this moment so it would forever last in her memory. The peaceful sleeping faces of two children who'd been through so much, broken in different ways, ways she might never fully understand. Everyone had lost something this year. They each bore gaping wounds they hid from one another, pretending it didn't hurt anymore.
Together again, everything felt whole.Warm November sunlight filtered into the living room from the curtained windows, nearly blinding me. It took me a second to recognize where I was — for some reason, I expected to wake up on a train, or in a bed I didn't recognize. Half-frozen, hungry, wide-awake in moments because the Komitet were still after me…
But none of that was true. Not anymore. I looked around the room, a delirious smile pulling across my face. I had been afraid, half-convinced this was some awful dream, that I'd wake up in a swamp of misery, and return to the awful life of a runaway.
But no. This was real. I was home.
I flinched, pulling up from where I had slumped over, slept on the couch. My entire body was sore from the day before, and my face twinged with the burns. The ice pack I'd been using the other day had long melted. There was a crick in my neck from the awkward position — I had used Peter's head for a pillow.
He was just was waking up as well, muttering under his breath. He opened his eyes once, groaned, then pulled the blanket over his head. 'Not today, Sun, not today…'
'Peter,' I murmured, voice thick with sleep. I yawned, nudged him with my foot. 'Hey, Peter. Maverick. Get up. Food. Fooood.'
The smell of Aunt May's certified-excellent pancakes frying filled the entire apartment, sweet and rich.
'It's a trap,' came Peter's voice from under the blankets. He yawned, and I heard a small pop as he cracked his jaw. 'Blergh. Don't trust the pancakes, they only wish to deceive you…'
That must have been when he heard the radio, and May singing along. Some bright pop song. Peter flew up, whipping the blanket off his head. His hair puffed out like a dandelion, one side flattened to his head. I had to hide my laughter behind my fist as he spun around on the spot, squinting at May, then back at me.
'She's singing?' Peter asked, rubbing a sleeve-covered hand against his face. It sounded like he was talking more to himself.
I yawned again. 'Mmm. Why?'
'Oh, nothing,' Peter just shrugged, scratching his head, pushing his hair into some form of order. 'I just can't remember the last time she sang.'
I frowned, but before I could ask what he meant by that, Aunt May called us over to the kitchen. She'd already set up the table; milk, orange juice, maple syrup, even strawberries and whipped cream.
It made my mouth water. I loved strawberries and whipped cream on my pancakes. Mom always made them when —
I froze, the breath leaving my chest in a sharp, soft sigh. Mom.
In the bliss of waking up here, I'd forgotten that she was gone. Already, I missed those brief minutes where everything felt all right.
'Mia?' Aunt May tilted her head at me as she walked over to the table, both hands carrying plates full of fresh pancakes. Twin trails of steam wafted after her. 'Is everything all right?'
'What?' I jolted on the spot, coming back to the present. Peter was already sitting at the booth — I hadn't even seen him pass me. They were both looking at me, and instead of ruining the breakfast by bringing up my thoughts, I quickly lied: 'Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just...tired. What time is it?'
'Oh, only —' setting down the plates, Aunt May checked her watch. ' — ten-thirty in the morning. You two were sound asleep for the entire night.'
I nodded without answering, my last thoughts still swimming in my head. I'd already knew the time, but I didn't know how else to divert the conversation. Sitting down, I rubbed my hands to ease the sudden chill that had taken me.
'Do you want me to get some Neosporin for that?' Aunt May asked, and i looked down, realizing I was running my fingers over the cuts on my bruised knuckles.
The pain didn't even register to me, and I tucked my hands under the table in embarrassment. How could I not notice myself doing that? 'N-no, I'm fine. They don't hurt much, really.'
'Well, okay,' May looked a little doubtful, but shrugged nonetheless. 'Well, if you need anything, I still
have some bandages. You remember where we keep them?'
'Behind the bathroom mirror,' I replied, looking down at the pancakes. It took me a second to bring out my hands again in front of Aunt May. Of course, I had to remind myself that my face probably looked a lot worse than my hands, and that's what she was looking at right now.
'Are you trying to test her to see if she's really Mia?' Peter said through a mouthful of pancakes. He had already been shoveling them into his mouth when I sat down. At May's disapproving look, he swallowed, and said clearly, 'I'm just saying. I'm pretty sure we picked up the right one from the FBI last night. Ow!'
I kicked him beneath the table. Not hard, or so I thought. Peter bent to rub his shin, looking genuinely pained, but tried to hide it behind some bravado. 'What? It's a joke, Goose!'
I would've said sorry if it weren't for his shit-eating grin. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the maple syrup and poured a generous amount over my plate. 'You're usually funnier, Mav.'
'Well, in case you haven't realized, my jokings evolved since you were gone. I mean, if we're being honest, it's your sense of humor that's outdated here —'
'My sense of humor? Yours is the one that's gone down the drain, without anyone to critique it —'
Aunt May just sighed, shaking her head as she went back to the stove, grabbing her bowl to make more pancake mix. 'Oh, Lord, what am I going to do with you two?'
But the both of us were grinning so hard we could barely keep up with the back and forth. It was all in good fun; this was just me and Peter catching up after six months apart.
And just like that I'd completely forgotten about Mom. Laughing, especially laughing with Peter, was something I had missed so much, it was such a relief to have it again. It almost hurt. I'd forgotten the effect he had on my optimism. It was just something you couldn't quantify.
Aunt May, perhaps sensing the same levity, started to sing along with the radio again, and the noise of the skillet sizzling with new batter filled the kitchen. Everything was warm, bright, lively — which Peter seemed especially appreciative, considering he would otherwise be at school right now. His phone (a new model I'd never seen before, yet already with a cracked screen — nice to see that Peter was still clumsy as ever) was buzzing on the table, incessant messages from Ned and others, but Peter just pushed it aside. It made me smile a bit wider.
'Is Ned freaking out?' I nodded towards the phone.
'Oh, he's totally freaking out,' Peter replied, looking more amused than worried. He shrugged, 'I'll tell him eventually. I think he already knows something happened from his mom. He doesn't know you're back yet — imagine the look on his face when he finds out. Oh, I know! You should be the one to tell him!'
'What, just knock on his door and say, 'Hey, Ned, surprise! I'm still alive!'' I shook my head, laughing to myself. 'He'd have a heart attack.'
'Eh, it'll be good for him.' Peter said, but couldn't keep a straight face. Breaking down into snickers at whatever mental image he had conjured up, he raised a hand and added, 'No, wait, we should record it! You can use my phone when it happens!'
'Peter, I'm not scaring Ned! He's probably going to start calling you any minute now.'
Right on cue, Peter's phone started to buzz repeatedly, and a picture of Ned's face pulling a funny grimace appeared on the screen.
'Damn,' Peter said, mildly impressed as he declined the call. I raised my eyebrows but didn't say anything. Ned must be losing his mind now. 'Guess you're psychic, Mia. Did you get superpowers when you were gone, too?'
'What? Nooo,' I said, laughing again, although this time out of nervousness, maybe even a little panic. 'I-I don't have superpowers, ha-ha. N-nothing that I don't already have, anyways.'
I winced at myself, wanting to smack my head. Idiot! Why would you say that?
But Peter just grinned, clearly taking it for a joke and not a serious admission. In a grandiose tone, he declared, 'Amelia's computer wizardry has expanded! Can nothing stand in her way?'
'Hardy-har,' I said sarcastically, but I was far more relieved than annoyed. How would they react if they knew I wasn't normal anymore? That I was a Super Soldier?
I didn't want to think about it.
Mutants had already proven that society didn't always accept those who were different. And I'd learned enough about the Avengers that not everyone liked their presence. Even in the past, the existence of Captain America, Hulk, and Iron Man were highly controversial. I knew Peter liked Iron Man, but Tony Stark wasn't some drugged up science experiment. What would he think if he knew the truth about me? Would he hate me?
I watched as Peter scraped the last of his pancakes off his plate. He seemed so happy and carefree. No matter his opinion on superheroes, I didn't want to ruin this part of him.
I did, however, notice something was missing.
In the middle of eating my pancakes, it occurred to me that not everyone was here. Not everyone that should be here. Looking around, I almost expected an explanation, before I asked, 'So where's Uncle Ben? Did he leave early for work?'
Peter went still. Aunt May stopped singing.
They looked at each other.
'Oh, god,' Aunt May covered her mouth, hand trembling. She closed her eyes, shook her head. 'We never said...I completely forgot…'
'What?' I frowned, glancing between the two of them. Peter said nothing. He had gone very pale, his eyes dropping down to his plate. His knuckles whitened around his fork. 'What happened? Where's Uncle Ben?'
Face hidden behind her hair, Aunt May turned off the radio. An echoing silence fell over the kitchen. A long pause stretched, filled only with the silence of May's shuddering sigh.
Peter still hadn't said a word. A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Aunt May turned to me, hands knotted in her apron as she approached the table. I scooted over when she sat down next to me, placed a hand on my arm.
She struggled with the words for a moment, before she stammered, 'Mia, something — something happened to Ben last spring….'
Benjamin Parker
Devoted Husband and Uncle
1967 — 2012
I stared at the gray stone, trying to remind myself that this was real, and not another nightmare.
This time, I wished it wasn't true.
Next to his stone were four others. Peter's parents, Richard and Mary. Then Mom's. Then my own.
Seeing the same year three times rocked me back on my heels.
'I'm sorry,' I said, feeling utterly stupid. Like I was a sympathetic friend, not someone who lost Ben, too. But I was numb. I couldn't think of something more poignant to say.
'It's all right,' Peter shrugged. He stood next to me, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. His tone was light, but his expression was dull. I had a feeling he'd heard it a thousand times, and had wasted all his good responses on the people before me.
It was the first thing Peter had said anything to me in over an hour.
The wind was chilly, whistling through the yews of the cemetery. Dead grass crunched under my feet as I shifted my weight. The warmth that was promised to me this morning had been a lie. A false sense of comfort, so the shock would hurt that much worse. Despite the clear skies and the shining sun, it was bitter cold. I pretended to feel it as much as Peter did, hugging my arms. Mostly it was just to make myself feel better, standing in front of my own grave.
It was a little creepy, to say the least.
I focused on the other ones, trying to ground myself with the loss. I tried to think of something to say, but still, all I came up with was a blank.
After Aunt May told me what happened, Peter had taken me here. She hadn't come with us, and I didn't really blame her. Although she hadn't cried, I did, and I heard the noticeable shift in her trembling voice when I started. Maybe she didn't want to cry in front of me, too. Leaving the apartment just felt like a good idea. So everyone could be alone for a little bit, have time for themselves.
<
br /> At some point, I just settled with the silence. Maybe some things were better said without words.
I stared at Mom's grave. I just read her name over and over again. As if it would prove itself to be an illusion and disappear.
Hedy Parker. It was strange to see next to the grave of Amelia Fletcher. Loving Mother; Beloved Daughter. Mom was always unmarried, but no one referred to her as Ms. Fletcher until I was in Kindergarten, and the teacher just assumed we had the same name. Mom had went along with it, probably to make me feel better. I already stood out enough as it was, tiny and sick all the time. Kids were curious and teachers gossiped; what rumors would be spread if they had only a piece of the truth? It wasn't their business anyways.
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