Invisible Death

ADAM

Day 3 of the trip to Carneiros.

This place never ceases to amaze me. Early this evening, as the sun was setting, the bay shone like a billion red diamonds. I watched the sun go down from the wide West veranda, overlooking the winding path leading to the beach. All that beauty was spread out just under my feet, but it didn't cheer me up. It actually made me sadder and morose.

Standing at the porch's edge, I felt tears come to my eyes. I've been feeling them flooding my eyes a lot lately. Since the day I lead the storming of St. Clair's Vault, my emotions have been winning over my self-control. I've always kept my emotions under a tight leash, and usually, I was good at it. But when I found Donna inside that sensory deprivation chamber and I didn't recognize her, I lost it. It was like finding a Nazi camp victim. Her head was shaved bald, her gorgeous raven hair all gone. She was emaciated, all skin and bones. I've always tried to stay fit, but I'm not a physically strong man by any means. However, when I scooped her out of the sarcophagus, she weight almost nothing. I could lift her out of that horrible box like a rag doll.

After that, the emotional roller-coaster ride only got faster and more furious. Among other things, I killed a man. Not in cold blood, no. When I threw Ken Harrison over the railing to be devoured by Terra's rat pack, my blood boiled; my head was ready to blow. And I realize now, for the first time in my life, I feel no remorse whatsoever over my actions. I killed Kenneth and I'd kill him again... and again... and again.

Donna's stay at the hospital was almost a blur to me. I could barely think. Night after night I kept vigil sitting next to her bed. Night after night, she seized when she reached REM state. Lux and Emma managed to draw her consciousness up to the surface a bit, but Donna's powers are gone, her regenerative capacity is nil. She has degenerated to the state she would be had her powers never flared, meaning her legs are atrophied, the wound on her lower back never closes. To be honest, she is worse. Her organs are slowly shutting down. Little by little, heart, liver will cease to work. First to go, her kidneys; she needed dialysis two times a week. Now, it's three times. Soon, it won't do her any good anymore. Second to go, her lungs; she already needs oxygen fairly often. Soon, she'll need it permanently.

To watch the woman I love slowly fade away like a flickering candle is almost more than I can bear, but bear it I must. And I must be thankful for the fact that she is coherent, alert enough to really be with me in her final moments. I'm being selfish, I know. For her, being conscious and alert means the knowledge that she is dying. It means to be in constant pain and suffering. I have to steel myself to witness her ordeal, and I cannot let my guard down around her, for I know I am her only solace. I must be strong for both of us, but it is so very hard...

As the last rays of sun touch the sea, the tears start to run down my cheek. I feel a light touch on my shoulder and I'm startled out of my thoughts. Quickly, I blink away the tears before I turn around. I'm greeted by a wizened black face with the sweetest grandmotherly smile I've ever see. The old lady, barely five feet tall, is dressed in starched white robes and a turban. Dangling from her neck, a bunch of multicolored necklaces reveal her rank in the Afro-Brazilian religion, "candomble", as she has explained to me. Babah, my niece's nanny and my sister's best friend, from the moment she landed in her husband's native land, she is a high priestess.

I got to know Babah better this time around. On my first visit to the glass house over Carneiros Beach, Pernambuco, Brazil, I was in a kind of honeymoon with Donna, after we defeated Nicholas Lareou and his gang of rogue mutants. We needed rest badly and Angela offered us the Brazilian retreat where she was raised. After my sister's passing, Angela inherited the property, and she entrusted Babah and her family with its care and maintenance. Suffice to say I had other things in my mind at that time, but the old servant always intrigued me. For one thing, she was fluent in English. She told me she learned the language from Evangeline.

Now, caring for Donna as we would care for a fragile baby, we talked. Donna needs rest and, as we watch the hours go by, Babah and I talk. She told me of her friendship with my sister Evangeline, how they met. Babah was already in her forties, a servant in my brother-in-law's household for all her life. An African princess in her own right, Babah descends from a long lineage of warriors turned into slaves. Her own grandmother was born in slavery, but Abolition freed her shortly after birth. The family never parted from their owners; they turned into free servants and cared for generations of Marco's family.

When my sister met Babah, she was illiterate. She had the knowledge of experience. A wise woman and midwife, she cared for the poor folk of the area with herbs and common sense. Evangeline soon realized Babah was extremely intelligent and quick. And kind. They took to each other immediately. They learned from one another. Eva taught Babah to read and write, her callused hands used to kitchen utensils, not pencils. Babah opened Eva's eyes to the great wealth of herbal medicines this land boasts. Eva taught Babah English. Babah taught Eva Portuguese. Eva saw to it that Babah's grandchildren went to school. Some of them went to college. Babah initiated my sister in the mysteries of Brazilian Earth religion, the mix of Roman Catholicism and African mythology. Together, they raised Angela, my unique niece, and they did a fine job of it. Babah and her family know Angela's secret and it has never been breached.

Since our arrival, Babah has helped me care for Donna. Her older grandson is a registered nurse thanks to Eva, and he has been pulled out of his assignment at Marco's general hospital to be Donna's full time caregiver. I must say Marco has gone above and beyond my wildest expectations. We were friends once, but we had a fall out after I meddled with my sister's pregnancy to ensure she'd carry the baby full term. However, when Angela called him and explained the situation, Marco took the matter to heart. He spared no expenses and equipped a room in this house with everything needed to the care of a bedridden patient. Donna will be comfortable until the end.

Night has fallen. Babah beckons me inside. She's worried about me. She says I don't eat enough, I don't sleep enough, and I drink way too much coffee. Babah leads me to the dinner table where I bet she has laid out her latest attempt at feeding me. She faced the problem of making me pack on the pounds as a war campaign, and has pulled no punches. Every meal is an elaborate event, from breakfast with cheeses and corn concoctions, like popcorn cooked in coconut milk they call "canjica", to lunch presenting poultry and pork done in many different ways, to dinner with an unbelievable array of seafood dishes, not to mention the little snacks she brings me throughout the day together with fresh coffee or tea. It's amazing the variety of cakes and cookies, as well as breads, Babah's kitchen can turn out. Only problem is, I can't find anything tasty or interesting. All dishes, all confections, all treats, no matter how fragrant or colorful, taste to sawdust in my mouth. I try to eat just to please Babah, but I can hardly keep anything in my stomach.

Tonight, Babah surprises me. Instead of a lavish spread, there's a single bowl on the table. She pulls up the lid and a delicious aroma fills my nose. For the first time since I've arrived, my mouth waters. It's soup, simple "canja", or chicken and rice soup with carrots, spinach and potatoes. I sit and Babah ladles the thick broth, filling my plate. I taste it and it is so comforting, so heartwarming... I can only look at that plate full of soup on the table... I try to hold back, but it's impossible, everything swells up, every sorrow, every regret, every pain... I can't stop myself... Slowly, but surely, I start sobbing like a child. I haven't wept so hard in decades, but I really couldn't help it. My emotions bubbled up like a geyser. All I could do was drop the spoon and cover my face with my hands.

Babahwas standing right next to me. She stepped closer and held me against herchest. She held me like she would hold a wounded kid; and she kept saying overand over, "Hope dies last... hope dies last..."