Superman's Daughter [unfinished - 2013]

Chapter One

A/N: The picture to the side is how I picture Caleigh to look. [Caleigh is the character for which the story is told from]

 

 

su·per·man      /ˈso͞opəˌman/

 

Noun:              1. The ideal superior man of the future

                        2. A man with exceptional physical or mental ability

 

 

            You were never like a normal eleven year old girl.  As far as I am concerned, most girl’s your age are happy with their collection of unicorn and rainbow stickers and their messily painted fingernails.  Most children are out swinging with their friends, playing house or watching the fiftieth rerun of their favorite TV show.  Even though you do tend to watch too much TV, I would never classify you as an average kid. 

            There are the obvious reasons, but Dad and I both know that there is something about you – something very intriguing that only a select few are aware of.  It could possibly be the fact that you tend to act twice your age or maybe it was the way you presented yourself in front of other people.  It was the way your hand covered up your face to hide your tears when you were first diagnosed and it is the way that you always seemed to be fearless, no matter what the doctors threw at you. But, then again, you would have to be pretty darn close in order to cope with everything that you have to go through. 

            Dad and I both look up to you, I hope you know.  We all silently knew you wouldn’t get to experience your prom, your driver’s test, or even your raging teenage years.  We knew that each day was numbered and it was only a matter of time before your favorite flowers pile up on a stone with your name engraved.  It was about three months ago when you first spoke aloud about your death.   You were dressing your Barbie and I was helping pick out the perfect pair of shoes to match her sparkly, pink jacket.

            “Do other kid’s like bald girls?”  You didn’t raise your head upward, but you flicked your eyes quickly up to my face to see my expression.  I watched as you fumbled to get her arms through the sleeves, and finally getting the jacket on with a grunt.  You folded her arms back into place and then looked directly into my eyes.

            “What do you mean?”  I said dumbly, unsure of how to respond to such a fragile question.  I looked down, suddenly interested in the shoes in my hand.  There were lots of different colors, styles and patterns.  I was surprised that they made so many different types of shoes. 

            “Nothing,” You grabbed the red shoes out of my hand, keeping your head down, and placed them on your doll.  What seemed like hours later, you glanced back at me and asked, “When will I die?”  Your voice was so gentle, it felt like I could reach out and crush it into a million pieces.  Your big, blue eyes looked quickly away and focused on the brushing of your Barbie’s perfect hair. 

            I clenched my fist, the plastic heels digging into my skin.  How could I possibly answer you? You were eleven years old.  Eleven year olds shouldn’t even think about dying, you should be worried about how much dessert you will get tonight after dinner. 

            “Will it be soon?”  Your voice was high pitched and cracked at the end.  “Lily says it will be soon.”  I let out a breath that I didn’t even know I was holding in. 

            “No,” I lied, my voice as weak as yours.  I knew you could detect the change in my voice, so I cleared my throat and changed the subject.  “Are you hungry?  I think Dad is downstairs cooking macaroni and cheese, your favorite.”  I let go of the shoes, putting them back in the Nike shoebox.  Some landed on top of clothes, silently, while others found their way to the bottom making a thump noise when they hit. 

            When you didn’t answer, I gently nudged your shoulder.  “Come on, I think I heard him holler for us.” I began to pack up your doll’s clothes, but you kept brushing her hair, keeping your head down. 

            “Lily says that pretty girls have hair.”  I was taken aback with everything you were saying.  Lily was your imaginary friend, but she never seemed to be so harsh before. 

            “Heavyn,” I took my hand and put it under her chin, raising her head to be level with mine.  “You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen.” I didn’t lie, you truly are gorgeous.  Your eyes capture the attention of anyone that sees you, their rare shade of blue is enough to make anyone stop and stare.  You had a small nose that swooped upwards, like Mom’s.  Your lips were small, but full and your small frame fit you perfectly.  “Come on, let’s eat.”  I hopped off of the bed, trying to bring some life back into the room.  I skipped to the door and stuck my head into the hall.  I took a deep breath and waved you over.  “Smells good.” 

            You hopped off the bed, leaving your Barbie behind and ran through the hall with me to race to the staircase.  I kept behind so you would take the lead and get to the stairs first.  When we reached the steps you hollered, “I won. 33 to 9.” 

            I laughed.  You always kept score when it came to anything. “Good job, maybe I’ll beat you next time.”   You snickered and we began down the steps.  You intertwined your fingers with mine and jerked hard, keeping me behind halfway down the steps.

            “Stop.”  You cried, holding onto me harder.  I watched as you closed your eyes as hard as you could.

            “What is it?”  I sat down with you on the steps, taking in every move.  Your small fingernails dug into mine and I felt blood rush to the surface.  It wasn’t often you did this, and most of the time it was before you went to the doctors. 

            “I cannot eat.”  You finally opened your eyes and looked at me.  Your grip on my hand lessoned, but your fingernails stayed in my skin.

            “Well, of course you can.”  My stomach growled. 

            You shook your head.  “No.”  Your voice lowered to a whisper.  “Lily says pretty girls don’t eat.”