Less Than Hero

by S. G. Browne

“You must be stressed a lot,” Randy says.

  Ten minutes later, the doctor finally comes into the waiting room and we all stand up.

  “How is he?” Vic asks.

  “Mr. Dinkins appears to have suffered from what is known as an ischemic stroke,” the doctor says, whose name tag identifies him as Dr. Carey.

  “A stroke?” Frank says. “But he’s not even twenty-five.”

  “It is unusual for someone of his age,” Dr. Carey says. “But it can happen, especially if he smokes or drinks regularly or uses recreational drugs such as cocaine or amphetamines.”

  “Charlie’s not a smoker or much of a drinker,” I say. “And as far as I know, he’s never used any recreational drugs.”

  “Does anyone know if Mr. Dinkins is diabetic or taking any prescription medications?” the doctor asks.

  None of us mention that Charlie takes prescription medications for a living. We probably should, but we don’t.

  A number of prescription medications can increase the risk of stroke. Beta-blockers and anticoagulants and contraceptives. Medications for ADHD and arthritis and Alzheimer’s disease. Drugs approved by the FDA and then withdrawn after the manufacturer admitted to withholding information about the drug’s risk.

  “No,” Vic says. “He’s not diabetic.”

  “Is he regularly taking any over-the-counter medications for pain?” the doctor asks.

  In addition to certain prescription medications, regular use of nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs can increase the risk of stroke.

  “Not that we know of,” Vic says.

  “Well, that rules out the more common risks for stroke,” the doctor says. “It’s possible he could have high cholesterol or some arterial abnormalities, perhaps an undiagnosed heart condition that could have contributed to the stroke.”

  “Could his seizure have caused the stroke?” Frank asks.

  “Usually it’s the other way around,” the doctor says. “And true to form, Mr. Dinkins has experienced several light to moderate seizures since he was brought in.”

  “Shit.” Randy sits down with his head in his hands and stares at the floor.

  “While seizures can lead to unconsciousness, it’s rare that we see a single seizure precipitate a coma,” the doctor says. “However, continuous seizures can prevent the brain from recovering from one seizure to the next, which can lead to prolonged unconsciousness and, in some cases, coma.”

  No one says anything.

  “Does Mr. Dinkins have a history of seizures?” the doctor asks, almost as if he knows we’re hiding something.

  We all avoid looking at one another as we try to come up with an answer that doesn’t reveal Charlie’s identity as a superhero and, consequently, our own.

  “What would some of the symptoms be?” Frank asks.

  “Fluttering eyelids, lip smacking, and hand fumbling are typical indications of a petit mal seizure,” the doctor says. “In partial or focal seizures, staring episodes or lack of awareness are common, as are blackout spells that can last anywhere from ten or fifteen seconds to up to several minutes.”

  I remember how Charlie spaced out while staring at the window just before Blaine showed up. And again, during lunch at Curry in a Hurry. I wonder if those were the only times Charlie had an episode or just the ones I happened to notice.

  “I saw something,” I say. Then I tell the doctor about Charlie’s episodes.

  “Those certainly sound like they could have been seizures,” the doctor says. “Until we have the chance to speak with Mr. Dinkins, we won’t know for sure.”

  “So you think he’ll wake up?” Vic asks.

  “In spite of the damage from the stroke, his brain activity is positive,” Dr. Carey says. “So we’re optimistic he’ll regain consciousness. It’s just a matter of when.”

  Everyone takes a collective sigh of relief.

  “So he’s going to be okay?” Randy asks.

  “At this point, it’s too early to tell,” the doctor says. “The CT scan shows that Mr. Dinkins suffered significant trauma to the motor cortex on the left side of his brain.”

  “What does that m-mean?” Isaac asks.

  “It means that once he recovers from his coma, Mr. Dinkins is likely going to experience some loss of the use of his right arm and leg, as well as some paralysis of the right side of his face,” the doctor says. “How much use he regains will depend on the severity of the stroke.”

  So much for the sense of relief.

  “How much is all of this going to cost?” Frank asks, always the pragmatic one. “Charlie doesn’t have any health insurance and he doesn’t have any family.”

  “I’m not able to answer that for you,” the doctor says. “But I can assure you that we’ll do everything we can for Mr. Dinkins and won’t discharge him until he’s stabilized.”

  Dr. Carey asks several more questions, then indicates that we’re free to visit Charlie but asks that we limit visitors to two at a time. Vic and Frank go first, leaving Randy, Isaac, and me in the waiting room.

  The three of us sit in silence, alternately staring at the walls or watching CNN, which is now reporting on a massacre in some African country. This is followed by another story about a car bombing in Pakistan. Then a report on a sniper shooting at cars on the Los Angeles freeways.

  Murder. Madness. Mayhem.

  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

  It’s enough to turn an eternal optimist’s outlook from sunny blue to perpetual gray.

  Isaac stands up. “I’m gonna get a C-C-Coke. Anyone w-want anything?”

  Randy and I both shake our heads and Isaac goes to visit the vending machines, leaving me watching CNN while Randy continues to stare at the floor between his feet.

  “This is all my fault,” he says.

  “No, it’s not,” I say. “If anything, it’s my fault. I should have figured out something was wrong the first time I saw Charlie space out.”

  Randy shakes his head. “I called him out on being a superhero when he said he didn’t want to meet Mr. Blank or Illusion Man, so he tried to show that he had what it takes.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say.

  “Yes, I do,” he says.

  I try to come up with something to make Randy feel better, but I’m running low on anti-guilt remedy, having used up most of it on myself.

  “I should have done something,” Randy says. “We all should have done something.”

  “We couldn’t,” I say. “Blaine stole our memories. We didn’t have any way to fight him.”

  “Sure we did,” Randy says. “There were four of us and one of him. We could have taken him. Instead we just stood there and let that asshole get away.”

  “Vic doesn’t even remember who Blaine is now,” I say, trying to justify our inaction. Or maybe just mine. “And you’ve read the news reports. Some of these people who’ve run into Blaine have suffered permanent memory loss.”

  “So?”

  “So even had we all rushed him, chances are at least one of us would have ended up losing our memories.”

  “That’s the price of being a superhero,” Randy says. “You have to be willing to make some sacrifices. Otherwise, you’re just a guy wearing colored spandex and a satin cape.”

  And here I was thinking we were making sacrifices by not going out for a round of post-superhero beers.

  On CNN, a young woman is talking about how her brother was killed by two men who beat him to death while a group of bystanders watched without doing anything to help. Then Isaac comes back into the waiting room with a Coke and some more vending machine bounty.

  “Hey,” he says. “Anyone want some S-S-Skittles?”

  You’re who?”

  Sophie sits next to me on the couch, staring at me, her head cocked at a slight angle and her eyebrows pinched in concentration as if she’s trying to understand me.

  “I’m Dr. Lullaby,” I say.

  After what happened with Charlie, I decided it was time I told Sophie about my du
al identity. There’s nothing like having one of your superhero pals end up in a coma to make you come down with a severe case of honesty.

  “Dr. Lullaby?”

  “You know,” I say. “The superhero.”

  Sophie shakes her head back and forth a couple of times, and it occurs to me that since she doesn’t watch or read the news, she probably has no idea what I’m talking about, so I show her a recent copy of the New York Post with an article about our latest exploits.

  Sophie looks up from the article. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  “No,” I say. “No joke.”

  She gives me another puzzled look, then goes back to reading. When she’s done, she looks up again with something closer to concern. “You make people fall asleep?”

  I nod and give a little smile, hoping she’ll get the vibe that this is a good thing rather than something to be concerned about, but Sophie continues to wear her serious face.

  “How is that possible? That you can make someone fall asleep?” She looks back at the paper, a single finger tracing along the text of the article. “Or vomit or gain weight or go into convulsions?”

  “Well, I can’t do all those things,” I say. “That’s Vic and Frank and Charlie, also known as Captain Vomit, Big Fatty, and Convulsion Boy. And Randy is the Rash because he makes people break out in rashes. And Isaac gives people erections, so we call him Professor Priapism.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Sophie says, apparently unimpressed by our pseudonyms. “How is it possible that you’re all able to do these things?”

  “Well,” I say, trying to come up with some way to sugarcoat my answer, but at this point it’s just a bitter pill. “We decided that it’s probably a result of all the pharmaceutical drugs we’ve taken over the past five years. And possibly because of this one specific clinical trial we all volunteered for a few months ago.”

  Sophie stares at me through a long and uncomfortable silence that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I’d rather she get angry or yell at me. At least then I’d know what she was thinking. This inscrutable silence is worse. I just hope she doesn’t ask me how long this has been going on.

  “So . . . how long has this been going on?” she asks.

  I don’t have to be a mind reader to know that Sophie isn’t going to be happy if I tell her the truth. But if I’m coming clean, I might as well bring out the soap and water.

  “A few weeks,” I say, using more water than soap.

  “Really?” There’s a sense of hurt and disappointment in her voice and on her face, which makes it that much more difficult to keep going.

  “Give or take,” I say.

  “Give or take how much?”

  I shrug and decide that my fingernails look fascinating at the moment. “Give or take a couple of months.”

  Sophie opens her mouth, then closes it and looks down at the newspaper. I’m guessing she’s not doing it to get any more information. It’s just someplace to look other than at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about any of this before?” she asks, her voice calm, almost comforting, like we’re discussing a traumatic experience. Or erectile dysfunction.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you,” I say. “And the longer I waited, the harder it got to say anything.”

  In my head, that sounded like a reasonable excuse. But hearing the words come out of my mouth, they just sound trite and pathetic and empty.

  Something a coward would say, not a superhero.

  “Lloyd . . . you should have told me,” she says.

  Sophie never calls me Lloyd, which isn’t a good sign. It’s more like CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. Or GOING OUT OF BUSINESS.

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was afraid you wouldn’t understand and would want me to go see a doctor.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand. And you should go see a doctor.” She stands up and grabs a bag of pixie dust off the side table. “Having the ability to make other people fall asleep isn’t normal. And it’s not natural.”

  “Not everything has to be natural,” I say. “Look at Spider-Man. Or Captain America. Or any of a bunch of other superheroes . . . What are you doing?”

  Sophie is sprinkling pixie dust over the plants. “This helps me to relax. And superheroes aren’t real, Lloyd. They’re make-believe. Comic book characters. You’re not a comic book character.”

  “I know I’m not a comic book character,” I say, then decide to appeal to her charitable and practical sides. “But I’m helping people, doing something that matters. Being more ambitious. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

  “I wanted you to find something that you cared about,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to get dressed up in boots and a cape and go out to fight crime.”

  “We don’t wear costumes,” I say. “And I do care about this. As a matter of fact, it’s the first time I’ve ever cared about anything in my life.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth I want them back—like when you press SEND on an e-mail to your company mailing list and realize you’ve included a link to porn spam a second after you click the mouse.

  “What I mean is . . . something other than you,” I say. “Like a job or a hobby. Like the way you feel about working at Westerly or helping people to eat healthy or volunteering at the SPCA. That’s how I feel about this.”

  She doesn’t say anything but just continues to sprinkle her pixie dust over her plants.

  “Don’t you like the idea of having a boyfriend who’s a superhero?” I say.

  “I don’t want a superhero,” she says. “I just want Lloyd.”

  “I am Lloyd,” I say. “A new and improved Lloyd. You even said you noticed something different about me and that you liked it. You only wished you understood where it came from. Well, now you know where it came from. It’s because I’m happy with who I am. For the first time in my life. And isn’t that what you said? That was all you wanted for me? To be happy?”

  Sophie’s quiet for several moments, looking at one of the plants, a Chinese evergreen that isn’t quite living up to its name.

  “I do want you to be happy, Lollipop,” she says. The fact that we’re back to Lollipop is a good sign. “But I’m worried about this ability you’ve developed. Whatever is causing this to happen, you need to get it fixed.”

  “I don’t know if I can get it fixed. For all I know, it might be permanent.”

  “You don’t know that,” she says. “Maybe if you tell someone about what’s happened to you, they can figure out how to make it better.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “Or I might end up in some kind of research facility where they would do tests on me and you’d never see me again.”

  Yet another example of something that sounded more reasonable in my head than coming out of my mouth.

  “Besides, even if I wanted to get it fixed,” I say, “even if someone could reverse this or make it stop . . . I can’t do it now.”

  “Why not?” Sophie sprinkles pixie dust on a spider plant that looks closer to an actual web.

  “Because we have to do something about Blaine.”

  “Blaine? What did he do?”

  “He’s Mr. Blank,” I say. “A supervillain. He came over to Randy’s and stole Vic’s memories and may have put Charlie in a coma. By the way, I think all the pixie dust you’re using is what’s killing the plants.”

  Sophie turns to face me. “Charlie’s in a coma? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

  “Because I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “Really?” She now most definitely looks upset. I think I prefer the calm and enigmatic Sophie. “Is that why you just told me you think I’m killing the plants?”

  “It was more of an observation,” I say. “But while we’re on the subject, I think the pixie dust is also what’s causing Vegan’s upper-respiratory infections.”

  Maybe not the best time to bring this up, but eventually I was going to have to say something. And since I’m baring the tru
th, I figure I might as well let it all hang out.

  “I also may have inadvertently used my superpower on Vegan and made him fall asleep,” I say. “Which is probably why he’s been so weird lately.”

  Sophie just stares at me, not saying anything. Then her face scrunches up and her brow furrows before she takes the rest of her pixie dust and thows it in my face, blinding me with sparkling metallic glitter. I can feel it stuck in my eyelashes as well as on my lips and up my nose, making it difficult for me to breathe.

  No wonder Vegan gets URIs and all of the plants die. This stuff is like cosmic mucus.

  By the time I’m able to get most of the pixie dust out of my eyes and nose, Sophie has retreated to the bedroom and locked the door.

  “Sophie?” I say, knocking on the door.

  No response. Just Simon and Garfunkel and the sound of silence.

  I’m beginning to sound like Randy.

  “Sophie . . . ?”

  “I think you should go,” she says through the door. Not with anger or resentment or muffled by tears, just a simple statement of fact.

  “Okay,” I say, thinking she just needs some time alone. “When should I come back?”

  “No. I mean I think you should go. As in, go go.”

  I look around as if expecting to find an interpreter who can explain what she just said.

  “You mean permanently?” I say. “As in never coming back?”

  There’s a long, drawn out silence before she answers: “Maybe.”

  While I didn’t expect that Sophie would be happy when I told her the truth about everything, it never occurred to me that she might kick me out.

  A moment later the bedroom door opens and Sophie walks out carrying her backpack, dressed in her Westerly shirt.

  “Can we talk about this?” I ask.

  “We already talked,” she says, walking away from me and into the kitchen.

  I follow along behind her, making sure to give her some angry-girlfriend space as she prepares Vegan’s dinner and puts fresh water in his bowl.

  “Is this because of what I did to Vegan?” I ask. “Or because of what I said about your pixie dust?”

  She pushes past me out of the kitchen without making eye contact and starts putting on her coat and scarf.