Chapter 27 Kaye
KAYE
FOUR MONTHS AGO
Iwalked down Main Street on a crisp morning, a cup of coffee steaming against my palm on my way to work.
New Malcolm is the place where people of all walks of life inevitably end up.
Even the ones who manage to leave almost always end up back here eventually.
They are drawn, I think, to the art, the culture, the dream of growth and potential.
And then there’re the Supers. Who doesn’t love the notion that there could be a real-life Clark Kent in every person you meet?
There’s also a darker side to that coin.
A figure trembled near the sidewalk. I almost walked right by him without a second look. It had been so long since I had seen him that I almost didn’t recognize him, but something called to me, drew me to give him another look.
His thick hair, always immaculately combed fresh from the shower was now a stringy, overgrown tangle hanging limply in front of his face.
I remember watching him get ready for dates with my mom, the spiky scent of his aftershave a phantom that still lingers along the edges of my memories.
This was the man I idolized growing up? This was the towering mountain that shook the household with his fury, and rebuilt it steadily in the weeks that followed?
It couldn’t be.
Still, I couldn’t stop from asking, “Dad?”
My father disappeared after my parents divorced.
About to turn thirteen and still having trouble making friends at school, I was so wrapped up in my own problems. My own life.
A small part of me always kind of wondered if it was actually my fault that my family broke apart.
I know what happened between them had nothing to do with me, but that didn’t stop the voice deep in the back of my mind from telling me it did.
The day that the divorce was finalized, he was just… gone. I told myself that I didn’t care. That I wouldn’t have wanted him in my life anyway.
“Katerina?” His voice was hoarse, just barely above a whisper.
I wanted to be cold, as firm and unyielding as ice, but when I heard his voice, so weak, fragile. As if I were his last hope for a lifeline to be cast in his world...
I crumbled.
I watch my past self pull my father up and lead him by the arm to a nearby diner. No matter how hard I scream I can’t stop myself, but I still try. Until my lungs ache from it. Until my vocal cords are hoarse and throbbing, and I taste it there already. The rough grit of smoke.
Over a modest meal of a burger and fries, my father told me about his “trials” after my mom left him.
His words, not mine. He fell on hard times, lost his job and became depressed.
How he couldn’t face his already broken family.
And to cope, he turned to alcohol, cloying and sweat.
The perfume of rot and death. It wasn’t long before he was on the streets.
That’s where he found Rose.
“At first I was just dealing the drug,” he said. “Trying to make some money to cover my debts and reclaim my life, but it was everywhere. I couldn’t avoid it, and that first time was magical.”
And that’s the problem with Rose. The euphoria is too good, too tempting. Just like heroin, the high never lasts. It’s never as good, never as smooth or true. Each time you need just a little more to get close.
I took him back to the apartment that I had only just moved into the week before.
Fresh with paint, I was able to choose for the very first time.
Shabby art I happened to adore, hung exactly where I wanted it.
The secondhand couch I fell in love with the second I saw it, with stars and moons embellished into its gorgeous blue fabric.
He spent the first of many nights on that couch.
The next morning, I checked him into St. Agatha Hospital for rehab.
I visited him every day over the following two months and watched him go from bad to worse as his body passed through the stages of withdrawal.
His eyes became dry and bloodshot, his body seemed to wither away before me, but he was on his way to recovery and that was all that mattered.
My life turned into a cycle of daylight, something it had never been before.
I woke with the sun, the scent of coffee filling the air as I rushed to get ready and spend a stolen few hours in the clinic.
Running to catch the 7:30 bus that would drop me off a few blocks from work.
Taking the 5:30 back along the same track, now tinged by the fading light.
My father came back to life and we became close.
I told him about my life, all the things he missed seeing when he was gone.
Finishing high school. College. Starting my internship at the local library.
He asked about my mom and Cooper, and I did my best to answer while being respectful of their wishes.
Every day before I left, I made a point of telling him how proud I was of him for getting clean.
We had a small party at Casa Carlos, a local mom-and-pop Mexican restaurant on the west side of town, on the day that my father was released.
I invited Cooper, not expecting much. I knew my mom was a long shot.
There was too much bad blood between them then, too many trials and love warped.
Lost. She saw the best of him. And the worst.
But Cooper came.
The menu jiggled and danced along with his leg as it bounced under the table.
His blue eyes darted around, not reading any of it.
His blond curls dangled into his eyes and highlighted the purple half-moons lining the sockets.
He was working too much, in desperate need of a haircut and a solid eight hours of sleep, but my heart still swelled at having the three of us sitting together again, almost like when we were kids. He never could sit still then either.
“What is it?” Sick of the tension and seeing no way around it, I decided directness was the best way forward.
Cooper’s eyes flashed to mine, tightening almost imperceptibly. For a second, I thought I saw something I hadn’t seen since childhood. Something distant. Almost cruel. There one second, but… gone before I could be sure. Somewhere between heartbeats, his face had shifted, softened.
He shifted his attention away from me, spearing it like a lance into our father. “I’m just wondering how long we have until he’s whoring himself out to the nearest dealer.”
The whole restaurant seemed to go quiet at just the wrong moment. I could feel the blatant stares narrowing in on our table from all directions.
My cheeks burned. “Shut up, Coop.”
“Maybe he’ll whore you out too,” he said, his tone getting louder, more aggressive. “Anything for a fix, right, Dad?”
The walls felt like they were moving closer, crowding people in around us. No one bothered pretending they weren’t listening now.
Anchoring my fingers in the white linen of the tablecloth, I looked at my father and saw my own misery reflected back at me.
Watched his shoulders slump inch by inch, and with every inch, my anger grew.
I knew he wasn’t perfect. Knew that he had done terrible things in the name of serving his addiction, but he had never done that. Would never do that.
And I just snapped. “This is a celebration, and if you can’t get on board, then maybe you should just get the fuck out.”
Cooper’s face paled. Two rough splotches of crimson appeared high on his cheeks as his eyes pinned me to my seat.
“You’re choosing him over me?” he asked, his voice unnaturally flat and even.
He didn’t give me the chance to respond before bolting without so much as a second glance. His chair tipped over in his wake, and the resounding thud seemed to snap the restaurant out of its stupor. Suddenly, the room was abuzz with conversation and wait staff flitting from table to table.
“You okay?” Dad asked. His finger pointed down at my lap, to the cloth still wrapped within my fingers. The charred, smoking fibers now melted within my grasp.
That night I told him who I really was. All of it: Checkmate, my night time strolls around New Malcolm, my gifts. I told him about Charade, and the relatively unknown rising faction I wanted to keep an eye on—the CCP.
He stared at me for several moments before swearing that he would take my secret to the grave. It felt so good to have someone to share it with, especially him.
During my father’s stay in the hospital, the CCP had only gotten stronger, gathering more numbers to its folds, and claiming a tighter grip over the city.
With every news report I heard or article read, I knew it was time for action.
The general consensus seemed to be that they were doing something good in New Malcolm, cleaning up crime along with the supers in our streets.
Sure, some of the good guys were being hurt in the mix, but that was a small price to pay, wasn’t it, when our city was becoming safer for the average citizen?
I didn’t regret taking time off to care for my father, but it was time for Checkmate’s return.
The next day, I tore through the apartment looking for my backpack, mask and costume bundled up in my hands. Dad was there to see me off, though he seemed distracted. He kept messing with the curtains and pacing.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “What if you get hurt?”
I smiled, relishing in the novelty of having someone to worry about me. “I’ve been doing this for a while, Dad. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”
Giving up on the bag and stuffing the garments into my jacket, I pulled the door open. Five men in green and gray uniforms stood in the hallway, smirking at me.
Where have I seen uniforms like that before?
The answer came to me just in time for one of the men to land a full force punch to my gut and I flew backward, sprawling across the floor with bruising force. The costume flew out of my hands, the mask floating languidly through the air, like ink in water.
“Dad, run!” I sputtered, struggling for breath.