Paranoia, paranoia

*

Pre-Dawn Thursday, Oct. 17

"Mom! Dad!"

"Clark, what's wrong?" Martha called as she and Jonathan ran down the stairs. "Clark," she said confused, "who are you hold-- Isis?"

Isis, who had been hiding her face in Clark's shoulder, turned and looked at the Kents. They weren't even in robes, and didn't everyone but her wear robes? She turned back quickly. "God Clark, put me down already," she hissed, but he didn't think she sounded like she meant it. "Hi Mr.. And Mrs. Kent. I promise I don't have any scissors on me." But she said through Clark's shoulder. Not that the Kents were paying her any mind specifically.

Jonathan motioned his son into the kitchen. He and Isis were both wet. Had it rained during the night? "What happened?"

Clark gently deposited her in a chair. "I was in the barn and I heard screaming in the field. So I went to. . ."

You feel . . . You feel . . .

You'd don't know what you feel. When Martha Kent later asks you what happened, one of the things you'll say is "It felt like all this aimless malevolence was just suddenly directed at me."

But that's not how it starts. If it had been instant you would be in your aunt and uncle's kitchen right now with a cup of hot tea telling yourself what an idiot you are. Freaked out by a wheat field? you'll ask yourself incredulously.

But you're in the Kents' kitchen. Waiting for Clark to bring you a cup of tea.

Because it happened in degrees. The wind suddenly too-cold against your cheek. Itchy, shivery, goosebumps under your thick clothes.

A touch of uneasiness.

You clench and unclench your hand without knowing why. Jump when something crunches beneath your feet.

Shriek when a barn owl swoops too low.

You laugh at yourself. You laugh at your crazy, paranoid self. A shaky weak laugh that does nothing to slow your frantic heart and everything to make you feel better. Although you haven't stopped walking.

In fact you've quickened your pace. And made a turn somewhere. The moon is no longer on your right, but shining directly in your eyes.

The laugh is now a strangled cry caught in your throat. Choking. And about the time you realized your heart never slowed -- though you wish it would stop -- you realize that now you are in a flat out run.

From the night.

Because it knows your name.

For a moment it seemed she wouldn't let go, but then Isis collected herself and released her frantic grip. "I went to check on it. I ran right into her."

"I ran into Clark, actually," Isis corrected wearily. "I wasn't exactly paying attention. Just a little too terrified."

Jonathan came around the table. "Did you get a good look at it?" He asked as Isis got through her story.

"No. Not at all. But it must have been my mind playing tricks on me, you know, because it didn't move like anything real. It . . .it oozed -- flowed through the whatever. Real things don't move like that, right?" Isis turned wide brown eyes on Martha and Jonathan. "Nothing moves like that, right?"

"No," Martha reassured her, "real things don't move like that."

Isis let out an unsteady breath. "Good. I'm just trippin'." She hid her face in her hands and took deep, slow breaths. But every time she thought of that thing chasing her, surrounding her; her heart raced and she had to fight the urge to get up and run. Just run. Take the Kents with her and run.

Wisely Clark called her name before touching her shoulder and offering her the hot mug of tea. "I don't know what you like in it . . ."

"That's okay," she said reaching for it. "Um, if you could just get me some honey and lemon. If you have them that is. God, what time is it? You should all go to bed. You should all be in bed. Really. I didn't mean to intrude."

Martha, Jonathan and Clark protested. She wasn't intruding. They were fine. They were glad she could help. If Isis had been feeling better she might have found their hospitality quaint, or funny, or even touching in a small town kind of way. She might have wished her grandparents were the same. In the end she was just happy when Clark brought back enough honey to be the envy of a dozen hives, as the smell of lemon filled the air.

"My mom used to drink tea with honey and lemon. For her throat," she said quietly, staring intently at the dark liquid.

"Where's your mom now?" Martha murmured, sensing something had changed, even if she didn't know why or how.

"She died." Pour the honey. "Years ago."

"You must miss her."

Isis nodded. Pour the lemon. Slow. So slow. Don't spi--

Martha went to her. Isis wrapped her arms around her and sobbed into her stomach. One long sob, full of bitterness, anger and fear, but it was enough to make the Kent men turn away, embarrassed for her. Martha pulled bits of chaff out of her hair.

For her part, Isis wasn't exactly sure how it happened either. It was just an observation of one of the few things she remembered about her mother: she liked tea with honey and lemon. It was just one of those things she remembered. But something about that night, about being in a warm kitchen with people who loved each other and were willing to share their love with her, if only for a little while; something about that night, about that It knows your Name . . . that just caught hold of something within her and made the Ice Princess vulnerable.

She pulled away from Martha reluctantly, her cheeks a furious red. "I am so incredibly sorry. That doesn't usually happen. My mother died a very long time ago."

"It's okay for it to still hurt, sweetie."

"Not for me," she said, shocking the Kents with her absolute surety. "Thank you so much for the tea," she took three long, hot gulps, "but I really should let you guys sleep for whatever's left of the nigh--"

"No," Jonathan said, regaining his composure. "You are going to spend the night here, young lady. Clark, go air out the guest room. And get one of your T-shirts for Isis," he called after his son.

"Yes Dad!"

"No . . . Really, Mister, Mrs. Kent. If you don't mind lending me your son to find my car I can be out of your hai--"

"No ifs, ands or buts about it, Isis. Now upstairs with you. The linens are at the end of the hall."

She looked to Martha for help. There was none. "Well at least don't make Clark go through the trouble of airing out the guest room. I mean, vacuuming at 3:23?" It fell on deaf ears. "You know, despite my recent breakdown, I really am as crazy as my hair suggests. I just got off the college scene: I'm used to sleeping bags and couches. I really am. Don't let the Benz fool you."

"Upstairs, Isis."

"Upstairs, Isis," Martha repeated.

"Yes sir. Ma'am." She was halfway to the stairs when she turned around and gave them each a fierce, hasty hug. "Thank you," she said, backing away. "Really."