Super Jaded (2/23)

Chapter 2: Grandpa

As I cried myself to sleep, I dreamed a memory. I did that a lot. Especially lately. And most of the time I thought of my Grandpa. Probably because this whole superhero thing was really his fault. It started when I was 14...

I coughed, grimacing in pain. I remember trying to raise my stick-thin arm to my mouth to wipe the saliva from my lips, but after a brief struggle, it fell immediately to the blanket. Willpower alone wasn’t enough. I just didn’t have the strength.

“Here, child. Let me get that for you.” Grandpa pulled a tissue from the box and wiped my chin. His eyes crinkled around the corners. It was his way of smiling, I knew. It probably had to do with me. I had been sick for years, but by then, it had gotten to the point where Grandpa’s smiles didn’t reach his lips.

His scrubbing motion with the tissue pushed my head this way and that. My neck muscles lacked the strength to keep my head steady from even as gentle a motion as that of my grandfather’s caring hand.

“I’m sorry I’m so weak, Grandpa,” I said. I apologized to him a lot. I knew I was taking up most of his time and energy, and I felt guilty about it. He was a retired geneticist. He should be able to relax and enjoy, but instead he was stuck with me.

His eyes grew glassy, the crinkles around them shifting. They still looked warm, but now they looked sad. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, sweetie. It’s not your fault you’re sick.”

It took effort, but I smiled up at him. I was so thankful for Grandpa, and he needed my smiles sometimes. Like now.

I attempted to lift the comic book that rested on my chest but failed. Grandpa’s gaze flicked to the book, and he took a seat next to my bed. His wrinkled hands lifted the crinkled cover from my small, weak fingers. He opened it, his eyes growing brighter as they scanned the pages. He began to read.

“Hypergirl raced to the little girl, throwing herself in front of the child, shielding her from the blast…” he narrated. As he read each caption, he turned the book to show me the artwork.

“I wish I could be like Hypergirl,” I said, sighing, wishing I could run my fingertip over the colorful artwork on the page. But it just took too much energy for me to manage by then. My hands felt as if they were made of lead.

But Hypergirl was so strong, so full of life. I wanted to be like her. I managed to pry the fingers of my right hand from the blankets, reaching out to touch the strong, beautiful form that seemed to jump straight from the pages directly into my imagination.

My desire must have been obvious because Grandpa chuckled softly. I hadn’t heard him laugh in so long. It was a wonderful sound, rich and lilting. It was like being tackled to the sun-heated grass by puppies on a summer day.

When I shifted my gaze from the comic to his weathered face, I noticed that his eyes were shining. I knew what that meant. He was about to do something adventurous.

But then I coughed again. Right onto the book. Horrified, I shrieked. “Oh, no! I ruined it!”

Grandpa pulled out another tissue and cleaned off the glossy pages of the book. He turned it to me once more, showing me the unblemished paper. “See? No harm done.”

I felt my body, stiff with tension, relax as I saw that he was right. I summoned the strength to reach out to Grandpa with both hands. He sensed what I was trying to do and leaned in to return my limp hug. I couldn’t hold it for long, and my hands fell, dangling limply to the mattress as he held my noodle-like form.

“I love you, Grandpa,” I said, wanting to press my cheek to his chest, but unable to muster the strength to lift my head that high.

“I love you too, child,” he replied after releasing the hug, pinching my cheek affectionately.

His smile faded, his eyes continuing to focus on my face. They seemed to grow more intense as he brushed my blonde bangs out of my eyes. Then, he cupped my cheek with his leathery hand. “Nina, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

That immediately got my attention. Grandpa never used my name unless he was really serious about something. Normally, I only ever heard it when he was reprimanding me for bad behavior. I couldn’t recall ever hearing him use it in a quiet tone of voice like this. Usually he preferred endearing terms like “child” or “little one” when he wasn’t upset with me.

“You’ve grown quite weak,” he continued, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “And the doctors say they’re running out of options.”

I already knew that. I’d been sick for years. After spending so much time either in bed at home or in the hospital, I knew I wasn’t getting better. When I was little, I had so much energy. Back when I had Mom and Dad. And friends.

But I’d been growing weaker, especially over the last few months. My body seemed almost magnetically pulled toward the ground these days. It was as if gravity had become so much stronger than it used to be. Hypergirl could defy gravity completely, leaping into the air with such ease. It was one of the reasons I liked her so much. It gave me a reprieve from the inexorable pull that the planet seemed to have on me, always tugging me downward with increasing strength.

I knew things weren’t going well with my treatment. They couldn’t be. Not when I felt like I did. But Grandpa had never said anything about it aloud before. He never talked about my sickness. I had only been able to tell anything at all about my condition by overhearing snippets of his conversations with the doctors outside my room.

I’d gone in for shots. I’d been placed into weird cylindrical machines. I’d been given nasty drinks and bitter pills. I knew they were experimenting on me. And they didn’t experiment on people when things were going well.

Tears began to well in Grandpa’s eyes, and he stopped talking. I summoned the energy to move my hand to his and squeeze it gently. I wanted to support him as he had always supported me.

I felt wetness on my cheek and suddenly became angry. Why was I crying?! This whole situation was my fault, and I needed to be strong right now. For Grandpa. I didn’t need to make things any harder on him than they already were.

A tear rolled down the coweb of creases in his cheek, and my anger intensified. I needed to stop crying! I was making Grandpa sad!

The corners of his mouth turned upward in a pained smile, his lips beginning to tremble. He rose from the bed, turning away from me, causing a lump to form in my throat. I wanted to say something to make him feel better, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. Damn it! Why did I have to be so weak when I needed to be strong?!

After a moment, Grandpa turned to face me, his cheeks glimmering as they caught a ray of sunlight that streamed in from the window from between parting clouds. He cleared his throat, then began again. “There’s something I can do for you, Nina. Something wonderful.”

He stepped toward me, taking my hand in his. “But it’s very risky.”

He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his free hand, his voice gathering strength, sounding more determined as he continued to speak. “I’ve been working on it for some time, but was hoping never to use it. I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.”

“What is it, Grandpa?” I asked, more than a little curious what Grandpa had in mind. I’d never seen my grandfather this emotional, and I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

“It’s a serum. Something that builds on work I did a long time ago when I worked for the government. It's something that can strengthen your body. Something that might be able to help you fight off the disease you’ve been stricken with.” Grandfather’s voice grew more certain still as he spoke with rising passion.

I considered asking him to clarify his statement about its risk, but he seemed to be gaining optimism as he spoke. I didn’t want to take that from him by turning his attention toward anything negative. So instead, I simply gave him a warm smile and curled my fingers to give his hand the lightest of squeezes.

“Let’s try it,” I whispered, feeling the momentary control over my fingers fade away. Though he didn’t come out and ask for it, I could sense that this explicit statement of permission was what Grandpa was seeking, so I gave it to him. It was the least I could do.

Grandpa’s eyes trembled again, more tears falling from their desperately sorrowful depths. He squeezed my limp hand a final time, then placed it back on the blankets. He sucked in a shaky breath as he straightened, rising to his full height as if a burden had suddenly been lifted.

Grandpa wiped away his tears, his wispy hair flowing over his tanned, balding head as he disappeared out of sight for a few moments. Then, he returned, a syringe full of glowing red liquid in his right hand.

Giving me a tremulous smile, he rolled up my sleeve. His left hand drew forth an alcohol-soaked cotton swab, using it to wipe a small spot on my arm clean. Then, his right hand, quivering slightly, pressed the needle into my flesh.

I felt it immediately. Fire. In my veins. It seemed to ignite the muscles within my arm as it burned upward, its searing heat  toward my shoulder.

I looked upward, finding Grandpa’s eyes fixed on me intently. I had never seen him as focused as he was right then. But the sensations traveling through my body were distracting, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. So I let them close, my attention turning inward as the blaze of sensation entered my chest. Suddenly, the fire exploded through the rest of my body, each pulse of my quickening heat sending it further outward into each of my extremities.

It was painful. Intensely so. I had grown accustomed to pain, but it had never been as intense as this. Was Grandpa’s shot fighting the disease? Was my body the battleground? Was that why it hurt so much?

Writhing in agony, I heard Grandpa say something, but it was so distant that I couldn’t make out his words. I could tell they were distressed, however. A moment later, I felt his hands shaking my shoulders. The motion made the pain even worse, and I screamed.

Grandpa’s hands left my body, and I heard a thump come from the ground beside me. But I was just relieved that the level of pain was reduced.

The fire continued to burn the insides of my body for a few more minutes before it finally abated. I felt my tense body grow limp once again, consumed by an immense tiredness. My body had felt heavy before, but it was nothing compared to the weight it seemed to carry now. I fought to open my eyes, but my eyelids seemed to grow heavier as well. A moment later, I lost consciousness.

I don’t know how many hours passed before I woke up, but when I did, I felt lighter. Far lighter. And stronger.

I blinked my eyes open and smiled. “Grandpa! I feel better! Lots better! I think maybe it’s working!”

I sat up. Sat up! I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been able to do that!

Looking around, I saw something on the floor beside me. A pile of clothes? No, a person!

I jumped out of bed, landing in a crouch beside the prone form. I rolled it over.

It was Grandpa.

His eyes were closed, and he didn’t move. I lowered my ear to his mouth.

He wasn’t breathing.

Panic surging within me, I looked up, casting about for Grandpa’s phone. When I located it on the counter, I sprang to my feet and dialed 911 with quaking fingers.

That’s when I woke up. I always woke up at that moment. The moment that the full realization hit me. That Grandpa was dead.

Tears fell down my beautiful face. They always did when I had this dream.

It was ironic, in retrospect. The day I gained superpowers was the day I’d lost my Grandpa. I would give anything to erase that day from existence.