Jonathan reached over, catching Clark's chin and turning it to face him. "Clark, I know that was intense and painful, but I want you to listen to me, okay? It was just a dream. I know that somewhere inside you there's a little voice that says all of that, and that's what was speaking in your dream; the voice of Jor-El to you represents guilt and anger and frustration, and that's why it's haunting you. But son, I know you, I know who you are, and you are not a monster or a murderer. . Your mother really has only been pregnant once. You are my 'real child,' and I wouldn't trade you for anything. Clark, you know we love you, right?"
Clark nodded, then turned his head away to gaze at the fire again. Jon stayed where he was, certain that the issue wasn't resolved yet. Clark was silent for a few minutes as Jonathan resumed rubbing his back under the blanket. The teenager adjusted his position again slightly before looking at his father. "Dad, I'm… I'm sorry that you missed out on stuff. Like, I'm sorry you didn't really get to do the whole bonding thing."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," Clark shrugged, "Mom said that fathers bond with their newborns, usually the first time they rock them or hold them or spend time alone with them. She said it gives the dad a place in the child's life and the child a place in the father's reality, or something. Moms can bond pretty much any time, for some reason. But I guess since I wasn't a baby, you kinda got gypped. If you'd had your own kid, you could have done that."
Jonathan turned sideways and sat forward, leaning toward Clark, suddenly understanding that it was guilt driving his son's distress. He understood, but he didn't like it and he wasn't going to let it eat his son. "Son, look at me please." Clark didn't respond. Jon's tone firmed a bit. "Clark, turn around here and look at me." The teenager turned uneasily, keeping the blanket around him like a shell. He kept his head down. Jonathan reached out and rested his hands on Clark's shoulders, then, when Clark refused to look up, he caught his chin firmly but gently and tilted it upward. Jonathan's eyes locked onto Clark's and held.
"Clark, listen to me, and listen good. This has got to stop. Nothing that happened when you were so young is your fault--not the meteor shower, not the deaths or the strange effects on people, not the struggles we had trying to have a baby--none of it. You understand? You were a blessing to us, a gift when we thought we'd been forgotten. Your mother and I couldn't have asked for a better child. You didn't cheat either of us out of anything; we have more than we'd ever dreamed. And I want you to stop beating yourself up for all the things you couldn't prevent, and start concentrating on what you can create--the best you you can be. Do you understand me?" He waited for a response. "Clark Jerome Kent, do you understand?" Clark's eyes widened; his father only called him by his full name on rare occasions, when Jonathan was beyond 'meaning business.' The teenager nodded slowly, and the hand on his jaw suddenly went from stern to cradling. Jon's fingers lingered there for a moment or two before he relaxed, still gazing at his son. "And actually," Jon said, his gaze becoming reminiscent, "you and I did bond."
"We did?"
Jonathan nodded, eyes drifting to the fire as he smiled softly. "For about three days after you first came to us, the excitement of a new place with new, well, everything was enough to wear you out thoroughly. But about the fourth night that you were here, you got restless and fussy. You weren't whiny, but you were obviously uncomfortable, and of course we couldn't stand to see you like that. We tried everything--food, water, warm milk, warm bath, stories, a nightlight, no light at all; nothing soothed you. It was like you just could not get satisfied, and you wanted so badly to tell us what was wrong but you didn't know how.
"Finally, in total frustration and helplessness, I sent your mother to bed and I picked you up and carried you down here and sat down in the old recliner. I sat you on my lap and looked at you and played like I was talking to one of the animals, and you seemed faintly amused by that. I thought that was a step in the right direction. You kept looking at me with these huge, clear eyes that said you were just calmly waiting for me to do whatever it was that needed doing, and I swore I could hear what was probably my own little-kid voice in my head, saying, 'Daddy, fix it, make it better!' I didn't know what to do to help you, and I hate not knowing what to do, but I knew it wasn't your fault you couldn't communicate, so I finally pulled you close and laid you against my chest and rocked. You wiggled a little bit but not too much. It just seemed too quiet, somehow, like the stillness was pressing against my ears, so I started to talk or sing or something, just real quietly. I'm pretty sure I remember singing at least a couple of the songs I liked, and I think I talked for awhile--stuff that didn't really matter to you, like crop rotations and which animals were likely to bear good stock that year and what I could save up to get for your mom for Christmas, but it was something to hold off the silence and to give you an idea of what a conversation would be. I kept rocking, kept talking and singing, and every fifteen or twenty minutes I'd get up and walk you around the room. I didn't really expect it to work, just to keep you calm, but after about an hour and a half I looked down and you were dozing lightly. I was so tired that I was afraid I would pass out, so I finally laid down on this couch with you in my arms; I kept talking because I didn't know if you'd wake up if I stopped.
"Your mom found us the next morning, me on my back on the couch with one leg off the edge and the other hanging over that arm you're up against now, and you sprawled on your tummy on my chest, fast asleep with your mouth open. I guess by the time I stopped talking you were so far gone that you didn't notice.
"Your mom and I talked that day, and it took us a few hours to figure out what had happened: you had spent probably two years alone inside a tiny pod, hurtling though billions of miles of space, and that's all you knew. So when it came to sleeping here, you couldn't get settled because everything was wrong to you--especially the feel. We figured that the little ship must have been in a constant state of vibration, even if it was too faint to feel, and so you had a hard time adjusting to lying still in a bed that didn't move. You used to get as close as you could to us when we spoke, so you could feel the vibrations the sounds made; you did it with your mom, who taught you most of your speech skills, but since my voice was deeper and my chest was bigger, you found some comfort in the vibrations I made by vocalizing. It was all so simple, really, that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"We had to teach you to sleep in your bed, but let me tell you, it wasn't easy. I did that every night for about two weeks, and each night I would shorten the time, trying to kind of wean you off of the vibration. I could get frustrated and irritated with you during the day, not knowing how to communicate with you and still getting used to having a small person who didn't know about privacy or respect or consideration, but to be real honest, when night fell and the house was quiet, and it was just you and me together, I didn't want to let go of you. It was really the only time I got alone with you, the only time when I got to feel you in my arms and breathe you in and see the trust in your eyes.
"After a few nights, I kept you in your room while I held you. We'd done what we could to make the room comfortable for you, using blue and gray from inside your pod and mixing them with bright red and yellow from the land around us. We'd been given a toddler bed and your mother made sheets for it, and the ladies from the church of Christ in town had donated a little blue and white quilt and a handmade stuffed lamb."
Clark smiled, amazed at the thought. "Really? A stuffed lamb?"
"Yep. It was real soft, made out of flannel. It was two shades of blue, and you loved it. Your mom was teaching you sounds, and you called the lamb 'Ba Ba.' You wore that thing smooth in places; you played with it, slept with it, rubbed on it, occasionally nibbled on it, and I'm sure that at some times when you were alone, you cried on it. When we were first bonding, you had just gotten it, and you thought it was so soft that you wanted it with you all the time, so I'd wrap you in the quilt and hand you the lamb, and we'd sit in the rocker your mom had dragged in and I'd rock you and sing to you. We got close enough for you to tell me which songs were your favorites; you found a way to tell me that you didn't like most of the stuff from the 60s, but you loved Here Comes the Sun and Puff the Magic Dragon and American Pie. And your favorite song was That's My Job. I must have done that one fifty times in two weeks, and probably close to a hundred over the next couple of years, when you were too young to be embarrassed.
"Anyway, one morning, after a particularly rough night, your mother found us on your bed, me on my back and you on my chest. She came in to cover us up and rearrange us so that we could sleep comfortably while she took over the chores, but something odd happened. When she put one hand on your back and the other on my wrist, so she could lift my hand and move you and then put my hand back on your back, she felt something. She had to check to be sure, so she found the pulse points on our necks and concentrated on them for a couple of minutes, and she was amazed." Jonathan looked into his son's eyes again as he continued, his voice soft and gentle and filled with wonder.
Clark nodded, then turned his head away to gaze at the fire again. Jon stayed where he was, certain that the issue wasn't resolved yet. Clark was silent for a few minutes as Jonathan resumed rubbing his back under the blanket. The teenager adjusted his position again slightly before looking at his father. "Dad, I'm… I'm sorry that you missed out on stuff. Like, I'm sorry you didn't really get to do the whole bonding thing."
"What do you mean?"
"Well," Clark shrugged, "Mom said that fathers bond with their newborns, usually the first time they rock them or hold them or spend time alone with them. She said it gives the dad a place in the child's life and the child a place in the father's reality, or something. Moms can bond pretty much any time, for some reason. But I guess since I wasn't a baby, you kinda got gypped. If you'd had your own kid, you could have done that."
Jonathan turned sideways and sat forward, leaning toward Clark, suddenly understanding that it was guilt driving his son's distress. He understood, but he didn't like it and he wasn't going to let it eat his son. "Son, look at me please." Clark didn't respond. Jon's tone firmed a bit. "Clark, turn around here and look at me." The teenager turned uneasily, keeping the blanket around him like a shell. He kept his head down. Jonathan reached out and rested his hands on Clark's shoulders, then, when Clark refused to look up, he caught his chin firmly but gently and tilted it upward. Jonathan's eyes locked onto Clark's and held.
"Clark, listen to me, and listen good. This has got to stop. Nothing that happened when you were so young is your fault--not the meteor shower, not the deaths or the strange effects on people, not the struggles we had trying to have a baby--none of it. You understand? You were a blessing to us, a gift when we thought we'd been forgotten. Your mother and I couldn't have asked for a better child. You didn't cheat either of us out of anything; we have more than we'd ever dreamed. And I want you to stop beating yourself up for all the things you couldn't prevent, and start concentrating on what you can create--the best you you can be. Do you understand me?" He waited for a response. "Clark Jerome Kent, do you understand?" Clark's eyes widened; his father only called him by his full name on rare occasions, when Jonathan was beyond 'meaning business.' The teenager nodded slowly, and the hand on his jaw suddenly went from stern to cradling. Jon's fingers lingered there for a moment or two before he relaxed, still gazing at his son. "And actually," Jon said, his gaze becoming reminiscent, "you and I did bond."
"We did?"
Jonathan nodded, eyes drifting to the fire as he smiled softly. "For about three days after you first came to us, the excitement of a new place with new, well, everything was enough to wear you out thoroughly. But about the fourth night that you were here, you got restless and fussy. You weren't whiny, but you were obviously uncomfortable, and of course we couldn't stand to see you like that. We tried everything--food, water, warm milk, warm bath, stories, a nightlight, no light at all; nothing soothed you. It was like you just could not get satisfied, and you wanted so badly to tell us what was wrong but you didn't know how.
"Finally, in total frustration and helplessness, I sent your mother to bed and I picked you up and carried you down here and sat down in the old recliner. I sat you on my lap and looked at you and played like I was talking to one of the animals, and you seemed faintly amused by that. I thought that was a step in the right direction. You kept looking at me with these huge, clear eyes that said you were just calmly waiting for me to do whatever it was that needed doing, and I swore I could hear what was probably my own little-kid voice in my head, saying, 'Daddy, fix it, make it better!' I didn't know what to do to help you, and I hate not knowing what to do, but I knew it wasn't your fault you couldn't communicate, so I finally pulled you close and laid you against my chest and rocked. You wiggled a little bit but not too much. It just seemed too quiet, somehow, like the stillness was pressing against my ears, so I started to talk or sing or something, just real quietly. I'm pretty sure I remember singing at least a couple of the songs I liked, and I think I talked for awhile--stuff that didn't really matter to you, like crop rotations and which animals were likely to bear good stock that year and what I could save up to get for your mom for Christmas, but it was something to hold off the silence and to give you an idea of what a conversation would be. I kept rocking, kept talking and singing, and every fifteen or twenty minutes I'd get up and walk you around the room. I didn't really expect it to work, just to keep you calm, but after about an hour and a half I looked down and you were dozing lightly. I was so tired that I was afraid I would pass out, so I finally laid down on this couch with you in my arms; I kept talking because I didn't know if you'd wake up if I stopped.
"Your mom found us the next morning, me on my back on the couch with one leg off the edge and the other hanging over that arm you're up against now, and you sprawled on your tummy on my chest, fast asleep with your mouth open. I guess by the time I stopped talking you were so far gone that you didn't notice.
"Your mom and I talked that day, and it took us a few hours to figure out what had happened: you had spent probably two years alone inside a tiny pod, hurtling though billions of miles of space, and that's all you knew. So when it came to sleeping here, you couldn't get settled because everything was wrong to you--especially the feel. We figured that the little ship must have been in a constant state of vibration, even if it was too faint to feel, and so you had a hard time adjusting to lying still in a bed that didn't move. You used to get as close as you could to us when we spoke, so you could feel the vibrations the sounds made; you did it with your mom, who taught you most of your speech skills, but since my voice was deeper and my chest was bigger, you found some comfort in the vibrations I made by vocalizing. It was all so simple, really, that I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"We had to teach you to sleep in your bed, but let me tell you, it wasn't easy. I did that every night for about two weeks, and each night I would shorten the time, trying to kind of wean you off of the vibration. I could get frustrated and irritated with you during the day, not knowing how to communicate with you and still getting used to having a small person who didn't know about privacy or respect or consideration, but to be real honest, when night fell and the house was quiet, and it was just you and me together, I didn't want to let go of you. It was really the only time I got alone with you, the only time when I got to feel you in my arms and breathe you in and see the trust in your eyes.
"After a few nights, I kept you in your room while I held you. We'd done what we could to make the room comfortable for you, using blue and gray from inside your pod and mixing them with bright red and yellow from the land around us. We'd been given a toddler bed and your mother made sheets for it, and the ladies from the church of Christ in town had donated a little blue and white quilt and a handmade stuffed lamb."
Clark smiled, amazed at the thought. "Really? A stuffed lamb?"
"Yep. It was real soft, made out of flannel. It was two shades of blue, and you loved it. Your mom was teaching you sounds, and you called the lamb 'Ba Ba.' You wore that thing smooth in places; you played with it, slept with it, rubbed on it, occasionally nibbled on it, and I'm sure that at some times when you were alone, you cried on it. When we were first bonding, you had just gotten it, and you thought it was so soft that you wanted it with you all the time, so I'd wrap you in the quilt and hand you the lamb, and we'd sit in the rocker your mom had dragged in and I'd rock you and sing to you. We got close enough for you to tell me which songs were your favorites; you found a way to tell me that you didn't like most of the stuff from the 60s, but you loved Here Comes the Sun and Puff the Magic Dragon and American Pie. And your favorite song was That's My Job. I must have done that one fifty times in two weeks, and probably close to a hundred over the next couple of years, when you were too young to be embarrassed.
"Anyway, one morning, after a particularly rough night, your mother found us on your bed, me on my back and you on my chest. She came in to cover us up and rearrange us so that we could sleep comfortably while she took over the chores, but something odd happened. When she put one hand on your back and the other on my wrist, so she could lift my hand and move you and then put my hand back on your back, she felt something. She had to check to be sure, so she found the pulse points on our necks and concentrated on them for a couple of minutes, and she was amazed." Jonathan looked into his son's eyes again as he continued, his voice soft and gentle and filled with wonder.