A rocky riverbank, the setting sun, artificial respiration, and the hacking cough of a young, bald man desperately trying to cough the water out of his lungs.
Beautiful.
“You’re the guy?
From the bridge…” were the first words the rescued rich kid managed to get out.
“Yeah.
Don’t worry about it.”
I sprawled comfortably across the rocks, turning my face toward the sunlight.
“You’re pretty damn good at jumping,” he said after finally catching his breath.
“You okay?”
“Probably.”
“Then we’ll rest for a minute and run.”
“Run where?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I shrugged.
“The water’s freezing, and the sun is going down.
The adrenaline is going to wear off soon.
We’ll get cold, then we’ll get sick.
You don’t want to survive a wreck just to die from pneumonia, do you?”
“That would be…”
He smiled.
“Darwin Award material.”
Then he held out his hand.
“Lex.”
“Clark.”
For some reason, I gave him my name while shaking his hand.
“Hey!
You guys okay down there?”
I looked up and saw the truck driver standing on the bridge, looking completely disheveled as he clutched his hair with one hand.
“We’re fine!” I shouted back, raising one hand.
“We’ll be up in a minute!”
“Thank God!”
The man threw his head back and offered a short, heartfelt prayer to the sky.
That reminded me of something from the Bible, which I’d actually taken the time to read in my previous life.
It said that when you pray, you shouldn’t use endless words like the pagans do, thinking they’ll be heard because of how much they say.
Don’t be like them.
Your Father already knows what you need before you ask.
The memory came back perfectly.
And that guy had just followed the advice to the letter.
Two words were apparently all he needed to say.
Of course, after that, he added a few choice words, but I could forgive him for that.
That was a prayer too, and it was sincere.
Maybe even more sincere than the endless rambling some priests liked to indulge in during sermons.
At least this came from the heart.
We didn’t have to run after all.
Instead, we waited for the road crews, emergency responders, and police in the cab of the truck with my new acquaintance, Lex.
The heater was running, keeping the cab warm and quiet.
Peaceful.
After the police arrived, an older pickup pulled up and a man stepped out.
He was wearing jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, but what caught my attention wasn’t his clothing.
He looked extremely worried, nervous, almost panicked.
Father.
I knew somehow.
My father.
The realization came a second later.
More accurately, he was the father of the body I’d opened my eyes in only a couple of hours ago.
But we were going to be living together, weren’t we?
So why not make him my father?
My old life was gone.
It had remained on the other side of death, and I’d left that life at peace with myself, with a faint smile on my face.
So why shouldn’t I have a family in this life?
My parents from my previous life had crossed that same boundary a long time ago.
They had left behind memories and a faint ache of emptiness and loss.
Even that had faded with time.
That didn’t mean I’d forgotten them.
They were simply on the other side now.
And here?
Why not give a little of that love to a new family?
Why not let them give some of it back to me?
“Clark!
Son, are you okay?!”
He rushed over and immediately began checking me over, feeling my arms and legs and looking for injuries.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
I smiled brightly.
“It’s good to see you.”
Something strange happened when I accepted this man as my father.
The feelings I’d carried from my previous life, the feelings I’d had for my own father, somehow merged with the feelings attached to this man.
The two images overlapped until the artificiality disappeared, along with the sense of duality.
All that remained was genuine happiness at seeing my father.
It felt good.
Peace of mind matters.
It’s worth doing a lot to achieve it.
Unfortunately, understanding that usually takes age.
“Who’s the maniac who was driving that car?”
That was my father’s second question.
“That was me.”
The unlucky driver stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Lex Luthor.”
My father’s expression changed instantly.
He didn’t take the offered hand.
Instead, he turned to me.
“Jonathan Kent.
Let’s go, son.”
“Dad.”
I looked at him disapprovingly.
“This is the first time you’ve met Lex.
You don’t have any reason to dislike him.
Accidents happen.
Anyone can make a mistake.”
“Fine.”
Jonathan sighed reluctantly and finally shook Lex’s hand.
“Your son saved my life, Mr.
Kent,” Lex said.
“If there’s anything I can do to repay you…”
“Drive slower.”
Jonathan said it wearily, then led me toward the truck.
***
On the way home, Dad barely said a word.
He just stared at the road and frowned while I watched the last rays of the setting sun and smiled.
Happiness.
Happiness can’t come from outside.
It comes from within.
If your soul is at peace, if your conscience isn’t eating away at you, and if you aren’t drowning in guilt, then you can be happy simply because you’re still breathing.
Because you’re alive.
Because you’re enjoying being alive.
But understanding something that simple also tends to come with age.
Apparently, Jonathan hadn’t reached that point yet.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been frowning on such a beautiful day.
***
The Kent farm was my new home.
Home…
The moment I accepted this place as my home, the feelings from my previous life merged with it just as they had with my parents.
I liked my new home.
It was big, spacious, simple, and beautiful.
It was, in every sense of the word, a home.
And there was an entire farm attached to it.
Fields stretched around the property, with pastures, outbuildings, and a whole barn that was apparently mine to use.
Pretty cool.
There was even a telescope in the barn, pointed toward the windows of the house on the neighboring property.
Mom.
Martha Kent.
A beautiful woman with intelligent eyes and a kind smile.
My first impression was a good one.
By the time we got home, the sun had been down for quite a while, and evening was already giving way to night.
Nobody started any serious conversations.
We simply had a quiet family dinner before going to bed.