I've a picture of my parents, of my family, the three of us together, wearing our costumes as "The Flying Graysons". There we are, in colorful uniforms. I'm around eight years old, proud to be a prodigy trapeze artist, showing the biggest smile I could produce. Mom and dad are there, behind me, holding hands, and smiling too. Dad has one hand on my left shoulder; mom has her arm around my chest. We look happy, so happy... a perfect family.
It's my only picture with them.
The problem is... no matter how long I look at it, how hard I try, I just can't... I can't... I can't actually remember them.
Yes, it's true. I dont remember them, not really. I know their faces, of course, and don't need much effort to bring their images to my mind. Except that, every time I do it, I just can't see them wearing anything but the uniforms in that picture, and they are always smiling, smiling like they are in the photograph. Disturbingly enough, I don't remember their voices; I don't remember their smell, not even my mother's touch. I have almost no memories of our family dinners, or of my father teaching me acrobatic moves. The memories I do have - and that's the most awful thing - are incomplete, with my parents faces blurred and unclear. I just can't place them anywhere but in that picture, with their uniforms and smiles.
I wonder what a psychoanalyst would have to say about that, even though I'm not sure I would like to hear it.
Barbara once told me this happens because I was so young when my parents died, and since their deaths were so violent, I just blocked most things about them... a way of protecting my sanity, she said.
Still, I wish I could remember them. Perhaps it would help me right now...
Last week Tim called me, and he told me about Bruce; he said Bruce was sick, really sick...
He said Bruce was going to die.
I hung up the phone, and I was at home, alone. My apartment suddenly seemed dark, quiet, uncomfortable. Fifteen minutes passed, and all I did was stare at phone I had just dropped, standing still at the same place in my living room. And there I stood, with Tim's words in my mind.
He is going to die.
I couldn't believe in it for a while. Not in those fifteen minutes, not in the hour that followed that, not for a couple days. I kept repeating to myself the statement, I kept reminding myself that Bruce was in trouble, that Bruce was sick, that Bruce was... dying? No, I doubted. I didn't believe it, and I couldn't accept it. Something inside me just couldn't understand Tim's words as a fact.
The truth?
Here is the truth: I saw him die a number of times. Or, better saying, I saw him escape death a dozen of times, and in so many different ways. I've seen him get shot, stabbed, poisoned, burned, beaten, you name it. Explosive cars, buildings on fire, planes crashing. He has been there, and lived through it.
How could a disease, a simple disease, something that can happen to anyone, kill the Batman? He is the Batman! And, of course, we all know the Batman can't be killed. We all know the Batman will never die.
After two days, Barbara called.
"What are you doing?" she asked, and sounded furious.
"What do you mean?"
"You haven't been at the Mansion for a while."
"Yes, I know."
I meant to tell her I was busy, but I knew it would only get her more upset.
"Why are you doing this, Dick?"
Her voice did show she was upset, and I knew Barbara enough to tell she was not as angry as she was... sad.
"I... I'm sorry...!"
"Sorry? Dont tell me youre sorry." Her tone changed, and her voice was now a bitter whisper: "Tell him."
She hung up.
And I felt a cold, nauseating sensation in my stomach.
It's for real.
Bruce was really dying.
And I wasn't there for him. Me, Dick Grayson. His friend. The kid Bruce took in. The guy that was the first Robin.
His adopted son.
Barbara was right: what was I thinking? Why I didn't just went there, to stay with him, to help him, to... to...
Say goodbye.
Bruce was dying. He really was. No, not the Batman; Bruce. Not the hero; the man.
And that's when I realized, as I wondered why I couldn't accept his death; I realized that, in my memories, I just couldn't really see him.
Oh, I could see and remember the Batman, that's all right. I could remember most of our patrols, most of our fights. I could remember in details that time we got Joker, or when we first faced Ra's al Ghul, or even the last time we fought against Two-Face. I had no trouble with memories of me growing up in the Batcave, surrounded by equipments and lessons of how to fight crime. I could remember most of our conversations... between Batman and me.
And what about Bruce?
Like my memories about my parents, I realized I was having a hard time to picture Bruce in my mind.
I arrived in Gotham as night did the same, a pale, full moon taking the sky. Night in Gotham, now that did bring memories for me.
Alfred received me at the Mansion's front door, greeting me with an unexpected and unusual enthusiasm - he is always pleased to see me, but, as an English butler, he rarely shows it. He took me to the guest room, since now Tim is the new occupant of the room that used to be mine, and we talked for a while. He asked about my life, and I answered it gladly; we never touched the subject of Bruce's condition, however.
Finally, I asked where Bruce and Tim were, and Alfred just told me they were on patrol. This surprised me, and I couldn't help myself from saying it out loud:
"Should Bruce be doing that?"
"I've been asking myself this same question for at least twenty years now, Master Richard, but I concluded long ago it's a futile divagation..."
"C'mon, Alfred... You know what I mean."
He said nothing for a moment, his usual cool and emotionless expression - except that, this time, I could read something in his eyes, something I couldn't quite tell what. Sadness? Anguish? It came and it was gone in a second.
"He is who he is, Master Richard. You, of all people, should understand that."
Inside me, something rebelled against that statement: "Is he, Alfred? Is this all he is? The Batman, and nothing more? Nothing else matters but this?"
Alfred opened his mouth to answer, but an annoying sound interrupted him, a constant beep that came from a device he took from his pocket.
"The cave alarm," I recognized it immediately. "Did something happen?"
"We'll know in a moment."
Both Alfred and I ran to the cave, and I didn't even bother to change my civilian clothes for my Nightwing uniform. We arrived there just in time to see Tim helping Bruce out of the Batcar, as the man could barely stand on his own.
"Bruce!" I quickly approached them, making all I could to help Tim support Bruce; fact is, Batman probably has twice the weight our current Robin has, and even the both of us together had a hard time carrying him. I noticed he was half-conscious, and, to my surprised, as we laid him on the infirmary bed, he grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly strong grip:
"Dick," he said, his voice husky and faltering, "wh... t... re... you... d... here?"
I couldn't understand what he was saying, but Tim explained it to me:
"He wants to know what you're doing here." Robin said, not seeming to be a bit surprised or shocked by what was happening, by seeing Bruce like that.
"Why... what happened?"
Tim took a deep breath, and spoke as he helped Alfred by removing Bruce's heavy cape and cowl; they also put a pillow under his head, and Alfred prepared a shot with some sort of medication.
"He had a seizure." Tim's tone and reaction left no room for doubt: this wasn't the first time something like that happened.
"A seizure? While in patrol?"
"It had never happened while we were out there, all right?" Now Robin sounded slightly irritated, and I knew why: he was scared. "We were on our way home, nothing bad happened."
"But it could."
"I know."'
Bruce mumbled something, and not even Tim was able to understand it, this time. That was when Alfred used the medication, some sort of tranquillizer, and Bruce immediately passed out.
"This will help him," the butler said. An attentive eye, however, would tell that Alfred's expression was anything but confident that Bruce could be helped.
"This will help him?"
"He will be able to rest, Master Richard."
"Rest. That's an interesting choice of words.'
"Give us a break, Dick!" Tim had lost his temper, and he now looked at me with his eyes sparkling with fury. "What do you care, anyway?"
"Master Timothy, please..."
"No, Alfred!" He lowered his tone, regaining control of his emotions; still, he stared at me with obvious resentment. "I called days ago, Dick."
Tim removed his mask, now showing his face completely. And even though he was no more than a young teenager, his features were twisted somehow, making him look years older. He too seemed pale and tired, and appeared to be on the verge of crying.
"I... I'm so sorry, Tim. I didn't mean to abandon you... I... I just had no idea..." I waved my hand vaguely to the bed where Bruce was now sleeping. "I had no idea it was so serious."
"I told you he was dying, Dick! How could you misunderstand that?"
"I don't know." My answer was simple and direct. There were simply no excuses.
"You don't know..."
"That's enough, Master Timothy." Alfred intervened, suddenly putting himself between us. Again he looked the calm and typical English butler, reminding me that he had always been the balanced and sensate person in that house, capable of minimizing most arguments and fights we - Bruce, Tim, Barbara, myself - not so rarely had. "Stop now before you regret your words."
Alfred rested a hand on Robin's shoulder, speaking in a gentle tone: "You too need to rest, lad. Why don't you go upstairs and change? I'll be up with a decent meal in a moment."
Tim's eyes wondered from me to Bruce: "He'll be fine, won't he?"
"Yes, lad." And I saw Alfred's fingers pressing Tim;s shoulder, a reassuring gesture, and one that, in the past, had more than once helped me overcome difficult situations. "He'll join us for breakfast tomorrow, I promise."
I turned my back on that scene, hardly able to avoid my eyes from burning, burning from the tears I contained. Why did I feel like crying? It puzzled me, since I had been through so much in my life, and, even so, tears were not my way.
Yes, but seeing Tim there... and Bruce in that bed... both so... so helpless!
And helpless, of course, is just what you don"t expect to see in the Batcave.
I heard Tim's heavy steps as he left the cave, followed by the sound of Alfred's long and deep breath.
"I'm so sorry, Alfred." It was all I managed to say.
"Worry not, Master Richard."
Despite his words, I knew I had much to worry about.
"Go stay with Tim, Alfred. I can stay with Bruce."
"Master Richar..."
"It will be fine, I promise. I can handle this."
He didn't move; instead, he just watched while I dragged a chair closer to the bed, making me wonder if he was expecting something else from me.
"What's the problem?"
"There is no problem, Master Richard... besides the obvious, that is." He waved his head towards Bruce. "However..."
"Well?"
"We never had a chance to finish the conversation we were having earlier; I trust you remember it, don't you?"
"I guess. It doesn't matter, Alfred, really. Not anymore."
He approached me, and, like he had just done with Tim, Alfred put a hand on my shoulder.
"Actually, lad, I think it's all that matters..."
"What do you mean?"
"I must tell you this, something that Master Bruce might never say, but I'm sure he wished he could."
Alfred had already done this before. It wasnt the first time he had spoken for Bruce, and, in my years living at the Mansion, I had many times been left alone with my anger, or my pain, thinking I had no one in the world. And yet, there was always Alfred. More than that, there was always Alfred to make me see that I had Bruce. Many times he helped me understand what meant to live with the man that was also the Batman. Many times he showed me that what I thought was a critique, or a scowl, was actually Bruce's way of showing he cared. Many times he made me see forgiveness where I thought there was none. Apologies where I saw only indifference. Respect that I once presumed to be disdain.
If not for Alfred, Bruce and I could have ended as two strangers that only lived, for some time, under the same roof. I would have never been able to understand him - even thought I don't quite get him that much today. And no doubt many lives would have been so different, so worse, if not for Alfred.
"You asked me before, Master Richard, if this is all he is; if Master Bruce is the Batman, and nothing beyond that - although the Batman is a very demanding role, I'm positive you agree."
I nodded in agreement.
"Well, you, I'm afraid, misunderstood my words."
"It's okay, Alfred, it's not important..."
"Oh, no, it's very important!" He raised his eyebrows, emphasizing his words. "You see, Master Richard... when I told you Master Bruce is who he is, I didn't mean to say that he is this masked persona, the Batman; I meant to say that he is so much more than the Batman."
"I don't..."
"I know you don't; let me clarify." He was now looking at Bruce, still unconscious in the bed, and my glance followed his. "Master Bruce is not someone that lives only under that suit, Master Richard. He is a hero, yes, in the most complete definition you can think of. As Batman, he fights crime, and no doubt his contribution in that field of action is immeasurably valuable; still, he is even bigger than that."
Alfred faced me again, and he had an inconspicuous smile on his lips.
"He is a man that, despite all the tragedy he saw and lived, was always able to bring hope to other people. Forgive me if my speech is somewhat corny, as Master Timothy would no doubt define, but, when I look at you, I know that it was not only the Batman that helped you grow into the fine person you are today. What most people don't realize, Master Richard, is that the Batman is just a cape and a cowl; and what counts, what really matters is the man under it. His life as Batman, his life when he is not the Batman."
As Alfred spoke, I saw that day, that day, years ago. I could remember a police officer talking to me, and someone offered me a blanked - I didn't want a blanked, I wasn't cold, I was just so scared! Someone told me to seat, it was an empty room, a chair, somewhere in the police station, and I could hear people saying, poor boy, he has no one, and I would close my eyes, but that was no good: I would only see my mother's face as she was falling to her death, and hear her painful, painful scream. Lonely, I felt so lonely, and so lost.
Hello, Richard. I'm Bruce Wayne, he said. Then, he offered his hand, he, and adult, he offered me a handshake, a firm grasp, and a confident look, not full of sorrow, not full of pity... it was a look that showed me he could understand. I don't want to make any presumptions about how you feel, but I can tell you this: you are not alone.
Not alone. He was right. That was what I feared the most, back then: face the world alone.
And now, now Bruce must face death alone?
"I wont leave again, Alfred. I promise."
"You don't have to feel obligated..."
"I want to."
I do. I know you were not always perfect, Bruce, but you were always the best you could be.
And this is something I will never let myself forget.
