Marvel's Shendu: Dominating the Multiverse

Chapter 176 Aunt Mei's Heart-to-Heart Talk

"You didn't go to school today."

Aunt Mei didn't look at him; she lowered her head and used a fork to twirl the pasta.

Parker chewed the noodles in his mouth twice and swallowed them: "I'm going. I left early this afternoon."

"oh."

The two ate for a while longer. The kitchen faucet wasn't turned off properly, and it dripped every few seconds. Parker stirred the red sauce in his plate. He didn't have much of an appetite, but he still put some in his mouth.

Aunt Mei put down her fork and tore off a small strip of napkin to wipe her mouth.

"Peter."

"Um."

"You've been going out a lot lately."

Parker paused for a moment. "No."

"I got up at 3:30 a.m. yesterday to get a drink of water. The light in your room was off, but the window was open. In December in New York, you sleep with the window open?"

Parker didn't respond.

Aunt May didn't press the matter about the window. Her thoughts took a detour, in a direction Parker hadn't anticipated.

"Dr. Tavis of the Olympic team has had an accident, it's on the news."

Parker's fork tapped against the edge of the plate, making a soft sound.

"I saw it," he said.

"He is your favorite teacher."

"Yes."

Aunt May got up to get the kettle, poured two glasses of water, and placed one in front of Parker. She sat down without saying a word immediately.

A car passed by outside the window, its headlights sweeping across the kitchen wall.

"The newspaper said it was an industrial accident, a spinal injury. The police are still investigating," Aunt Mei said. "Have you visited him?"

Parker picked up his water glass and took a sip; the water was cold.

"I went there, but they wouldn't let me into the ICU."

Is it serious?

Paraplegia.

When the word came out of his mouth, Parker himself felt his voice was too dry. Two words, and they summed up the rest of his life. Aunt May's hand rested on the table for a moment.

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Aunt May didn't say anything. The only sound in the kitchen was the dripping of the faucet. Parker ate the last few strands of noodles on his plate, but he couldn't taste anything.

"You're blaming yourself."

Parker looked up at Aunt May.

"What?"

"You've been like this since May, Peter. You don't say it, but I can tell." Aunt May's voice wasn't loud; she wasn't trying to lecture him, just stating a fact. "You've lost twelve pounds since Ben left. You think I didn't notice? I don't care what you're wearing under your clothes, but you can't hide what's on your face."

Parker's Adam's apple bobbed.

Aunt May's words were very accurate. It wasn't a test, nor was it a subtle hint.

"Now your teacher is in trouble too." Aunt May looked at him. "You think you should do something, but you do everything."

No.

Parker's hand was under the table, his thumb rubbing the pad of his index finger. It was a little habit he only had when he was nervous, something he'd done since he was a child.

"Aunt Mei."

"Um."

"Have you ever thought—" He paused. "If I had gotten home ten minutes earlier that day in May, or if I had been there when Uncle Ben left, would things have been different?"

Aunt Mei's hand, which was holding the cup, froze.

This topic was avoided in the kitchen for seven months. Neither of them mentioned it. They didn't mention Uncle Ben's habit of standing on the doorstep after dinner, nor the cement marks that can still be seen when you walk past that street corner, nor the fact that Parker didn't shed a single tear on the day of the funeral.

Seven months. For the first time, someone spoke up.

Aunt Mei put down her cup.

"It will be different."

Parker looked at her.

"Maybe if you were there, he wouldn't have died," Aunt May said. "Or maybe if you were there, you two would have been hit together, or maybe the bullet wasn't even aimed at him at all, it was random, some bastard on that street that day was drunk or high, and whoever was standing there would have ended up the same way. I don't know."

Her voice was steady. It wasn't that she was deliberately suppressing it; it was because she had thought about it so many times over the past seven months that she had no emotions left to fluctuate.

"But I know one thing," Aunt May said. "If Ben could see you like this, not sleeping or eating properly, taking on everything yourself, he would be angry."

Parker opened his mouth slightly, but didn't make a sound.

He won't say, "Peter, you should be home," he'll say, "Peter, why aren't you taking better care of yourself?" You know him.

Parker understands him.

The phrase Uncle Ben said most often in his life wasn't that famous quote about responsibility. It was, "Have you eaten?" For Parker's three years of high school, every day after school, Uncle Ben's first words were never, "Have you done your homework?" but "Have you eaten?" Aunt May's cooking was terrible, and Uncle Ben knew it himself. Sometimes he would secretly take Parker to the corner pizzeria, and the two of them would each take a slice and squat by the roadside to eat.

Parker felt a lump in his throat. He looked down at the empty plate and pretended to scrape the sauce off the bottom with his fork.

Aunt Mei looked at him.

Then she said something.

"Do you know what hurts me the most?"

Parker didn't look up.

"It's not that he's gone. People will always pass away," Aunt Mei said. "It's that I feel that if there's even just one chance, even just one, to see him again and say one more word to him, I would consider it no matter the cost."

Parker's hand stopped.

He looked up at Aunt Mei.

Aunt May's eyes were a little red, but she didn't cry. She just sat there, her hands clasped on the table, looking at Parker. A fifty-three-year-old woman, her husband dead seven months ago, raising a seventeen-year-old nephew alone. She hadn't broken down. The kitchen was still on every day, pasta was still cooked every Wednesday, and she never missed a single supermarket sale day.

But she said, "No matter the cost."

Parker stared at Aunt May's face for a few seconds.

"Aunt Mei, you—"

"I'm fine." Aunt May stood up to clear the plates. "It was just a casual remark. Everyone thinks that way, Peter, it's nothing shameful."

She took the plate to the sink, turned the tap on, and the dripping stopped.

Parker remained seated at the table.

Aunt Mei was washing dishes with her back to him. The water was running, and she suddenly said something else.

"Your uncle once told me a story. When he was in the army, someone in his company was injured and broke his leg. Everyone said it was beyond cure. Later, their army doctor said that it was treatable, but it required a very expensive injection that the army wouldn't reimburse. Back then, a month's allowance was only a small amount."

Parker listened.

"And then?"

"Later, the whole platoon pooled their money. The soldier's leg was saved." Aunt Mei turned off the tap and wiped her hands on her apron. "Ben once said something that I still remember: some things you think are impossible are because you're using old standards to measure new problems."

Parker remained seated.

This sentence is like a needle—not heavy, but it hits very accurately.

Using old standards to measure new problems.

He witnessed firsthand on the Brooklyn Bridge how bolts deformed, titanium alloy turned to stone, and four penetrating wounds grew within eight seconds.

"Yes." The man said, "Can't the dead come back to life? How many impossibilities have you witnessed tonight?"

Before May, he thought it was impossible for a person to get stuck to a wall after being bitten by a spider. Then he got stuck himself.

Before September of this year, he thought it was impossible for a normal person's spine to have four metal arms welded on and then have their brain controlled by a chip. Then he personally carried his teacher off the bridge.

What does "impossible" even mean? That word has been repeatedly slapped in the face throughout his life.