There Are Limits Page 4

  She collapsed, legs no longer able to support her weight. As she went down, she had a vision of Daryl in her mind, crying out in agony when her legs bent as his had, when her knees hit the floor and her body twisted backwards. She lay awkwardly sprawled like a discarded child’s toy, tears burning her eyes and nose.

  There was no telling how long it had been, but at some point the man, angel, whatever, sat on the floor beside her, lifting and arranging her head in his lap. His large hand stroked sodden strands of hair back from her face. Fingers wiped gently at the ocean’s worth of dried salt on her skin, and with every touch, she felt calmer, settled.

  That developed into a different kind of agony, losing the edge of anger and rage, being soothed. Her psyche rebelled against it, stomach cramping as if to say she didn’t deserve it.

  And did she, really?

  Her soul said no.

  She was a mother who’d lost her children twice now, unable to save them from the devil their father had turned into. She was a wife who’d failed her husband, unseeing of what he needed from her so he wouldn’t commit the most heinous of crimes.

  “If only I’d known in time.” She turned her head, cheek pressed tightly to the wrinkled fabric of angel-man’s pants. “I would have gotten him help.” Misty pushed up abruptly, clocking his chin with the top of her head as she sat straight. “You can do it again.” He didn’t wince, didn’t grimace, just stared at her. “You did it once. You can do it again. Send me back.”

  Cautious and slow, he said the same words he’d repeated so many times already, “There are limits.”

  “Are you afraid I’ll run into myself?” She shook her head. “Because I didn’t. I dropped back into my body, so there’s no doubling or anything. What are the limits? Give me the parameters within which I can work, and let me decide what I want to do.” They were seated on the floor, legs curled around themselves like commas, knees touching as she leaned forwards, whispering urgently. “Let me decide. Give me the knowledge to make a good choice.”

  “The body”—he gestured towards her, the sweep of his hand encompassing everything—“has limits. Eight hours before.” Shaking his head, he lifted a finger to her face and touched the skin above her mouth. It came back coated in red. “We believe the human body cannot bear much more.”

  “You sent me back eight hours?” He stared at her, as much of an acknowledgment as she thought she’d get. “But it wasn’t far enough, because he’d already killed them. You sent me back to talk to him, like I asked.” More staring, the weight of his gaze an oppressive blanket on her skin. “But what I want, what I have to do is save my children. My husband took his own life, that’s on him if I can’t get him help. But my kids?” She shook her head, never breaking their stare. “They didn’t deserve that. To die like that. To die at all.” The edge of her hand made a sweep across her lower face, and she brought up her crimson-covered fingers. “This is nothing compared to what he did to them. I want my children back. I want it to have not happened.” She rose on her knees, and he mirrored her posture, gazes still locked. “I want it to have not happened.”

  That continued on for a time, as her legs grew pins and needles, that tingling finally fading into numbness. That was familiar. She’d been numb in so many ways for so long that it felt like coming home. Finally he broke the stare, angling his gaze over her shoulder with a muttered, “It will hurt.”

  “It hurt last time.” It had, she remembered, but distantly. The pain was so unimportant next to the chance of seeing her children breathing, laughing, and alive again.

  “It will be worse.” Gray clouds began to creep across the orbs of his eyes, swirling and folding in on themselves. “There are limits.”

  You need help

  The agonal drag of those syllables carved furrows in her mind, each leaving its own mark like sharply folded paper. As intricate as origami, it compressed her being; she was squeezed, like a seam of coal buried deep inside a mountain. All of the pieces that made up her were creased and crumpled, then torn to bits, exploding across whatever atmosphere she occupied like so much New Year’s confetti. And the pain, oh God, the pain. Stripped nerve by nerve, misery shot through every atom of her being, bitterness and sorrow falling away, crisped to soot by the anguish.

  Skin burning, blades of torture licking along every inch, she sat upright in bed. The sheets brushed her legs and drew a croaked scream from her blistered lips. There was no place on her body that didn’t hurt, but even as she recognized the debilitating nature of the feeling, it began to fade. Twisted in the bedclothes, she fought against the constricting fabric, falling to the floor with a thump and bump that would have hurt normally but, held up against the memory of what she’d just gone through, barely registered. Scrabbling for her phone on the nightstand, she pulled up the date and time.

  The day before.

  “He did it.” She stared at the display, shocked. “We did it.”

  She listened intently and heard tones of music coming from downstairs that were shocking in their familiarity. Ellie had left the radio on in the kitchen, as she did almost every day, heading out of the house to school without thinking to turn it off. That single semblance of normalcy after so long living in the shell of a dead house shocked her to tears.

  Barefoot, long sleepshirt flapping around her thighs, she raced down the unblemished stairs and through the living room that didn’t hold a seated angel, didn’t hold an empty space where a couch had once sat. Instead, the couch stood there, bold as could be, angled across the room so those seated on it could watch TV or keep an eye on homework sessions at the kitchen table.

  Somewhere along the way she’d lost her phone, but that didn’t matter; all that mattered was getting to where her children were right now and stopping the whole event from happening. Daryl’s conference was in a town four hours away—too far to come home every night, not far enough to warrant flying or renting a car for the trip. He’d laughed as he’d packed, throwing things haphazardly into the suitcase, telling her if he forgot anything because she was distracting him, she could just make the drive and bring it up. She could do that, because he’d lost his mind, and she had time now. She had time because it was the day before, and her children were living, breathing, writing words in straight rows seated in classrooms, laughing with friends over inside jokes, thinking about what they’d watch tonight, family night with Dad out of town, knowing Mom would order pizza before she left to go to work.

  Better than tracking him down in her righteous fury was the knowledge that she had time to get her children safe.

  In the car, she buried the pedal, watching as the needle climbed and climbed, wavering in high double digits as houses and parks flashed past. Then traffic slowed and she was forced to do the same, the legal speed limit now feeling like crawling, each flash of brake lights in front of her dragging writhing shudders up her spine, each knob of bone catching and releasing individually.

  At the school, a sprawling campus housing grades kindergarten through twelve, she slammed on the brakes, parking as she had the last time in her own driveway, angled and engine running, door wide open against the shrill whistle of the school crossing guard. Inside she looked around frantically, expanding rings of confusion and noise at her abrupt entrance in the office, concern apparent in the faces and features of the teachers and administrators present. Misty headed to the office, only now aware of the crazed picture her appearance would paint.

  She paused and pulled in a hard breath. Now that she was here, and her children so near, she fought to get her mind under control, wishing she’d spent the drive working out what she’d say instead of cursing every car between there and here. “I need to sign out my kids. Their father has had an accident.” An accident. She nearly burst into laughter at the blatant lie. False words covering Daryl’s madness that hadn’t happened yet. When the secretary’s shocked expression immediately morphed into one of pity and compassion, Misty knew she’d taken the right tactic. “Can you pull them from cla
ss without saying anything? I don’t want to scare them.”

  Gnawing at the edge of her thumbnail, Misty stared at the doorway, spit drying in her mouth as she waited to see her children for the first time in more than a year. See their flesh and bone faces instead of the flattened renditions on photo paper. Hold their breathing bodies in an embrace instead of trying to hold herself together for one more day. A lifetime later relief flooded her when the door opened and Ellie walked in, followed closely by Michael and Chad. My babies.

  “Mom?” Ellie’s concern filled her single-word question, and Misty opened her arms to gather her children to her. “What’s wrong?”

  Speaking through the tears flowing down her face, Misty told her, “I’ll explain in the car. We’ve got to go.”

  ***

  Misty checked the lock on the hotel room door for the tenth time, finding it securely in place, the privacy latch flipped to only allow partial opening of the door in any case. She turned to face the room, finding all three of her children perched on the bed closest to the window, the boys huddled against either side of Ellie, her arms protectively around their shoulders.

  Once they’d gotten in the car, Misty’d had only moments to come up with a plausible reason to have pulled them from school. She couldn’t mention Daryl’s actions, because while they’d prominently figured in her every waking moment for hundreds of days, he hadn’t actually done anything yet.

  That yet had her frozen in place. She couldn’t accuse him of killing their family, not when they were all very obviously not dead.

  “Mom?” Chad’s voice was tiny. He sounded sad and scared, and she hated how that made her feel, as if this were somehow her fault instead of Daryl’s. “I’m hungry.”

  “Can I have an ice cream?” Her falsetto imitation of Chad startled even her, and Ellie’s fingers tightened against her brothers’ shoulders. That game she’d played with herself had tripped her up, and Misty shook as she realized she’d never have those moments. “I’m hungry, too, baby boy. What would you like to eat?”

  “What are we doing here?” Ellie’s question was reasonable, and her smart girl knew it. Bolstered by that confidence, she leaned forwards and stared at Misty. “Mom, are you okay?”

  A fist pounded on the door at Misty’s back, thudding through her spine and into her heart with a series of rippling blows. It sounded like death come knocking.

  “Misty.” Daryl’s voice.

  “Daddy,” came from three throats, drowning out Misty’s garbled, “No.”

  Another series of blows against the door rattled it in the frame.

  “Misty, let us in.” Muffled conversation, deep voices mumbling, a buzzing give and take of language she couldn’t decipher. “You’ve got to open it. They’ll break down the door if you don’t.”

  “Daddy,” Ellie cried, voice wavering. “Mom’s right in front of the door.”

  The terror in her daughter’s voice broke her resolve and Misty whirled, fingers twisting and flipping the lever and lock keeping the door closed. Two firemen, two policemen, and one murderer were revealed in front of her when the door opened. Daryl stepped back and Misty followed like a dog on a lead, crowding closer as she stared up into his face.

  “Daryl, you can’t do it. You can’t.” Arms wrapped around her from behind, an anchor to hold her in place as he paled, staring at her. She struggled, trying to get even an inch closer to where he stood. “Daryl, the children. Please, no.”

  “Misty?” He took a step towards her as the force that held her began to move back, dragging her towards the empty hallway. “This is my wife.” She dug her toes into the carpet, straining forwards as far as possible. “Let her go.” The bands of steel released and she staggered towards him, caught in his arms, sobbing against his shoulder. “Misty, what’s happened?” His voice was urgent and hard, as if he imagined the worst, but she’d lived through that twice now, and he didn’t get to hold an ounce of fear over the things he’d done. “What’s going on with the kids?”

  “They’re fine, the kids are fine. You haven’t done anything yet. There’s still time.” She pulled back in time to see a wave of anger wash across his features, there and gone again in less time than it took to take a breath. “They’re alive, don’t you see? They’re alive. There’s still time. You haven’t done anything you can’t take back.”

  “What are you talking about?” He gripped her upper arms and gave her a shake that rattled her head. “What about the kids?”

  “You kill them. Don’t kill my babies, Daryl. Please, I can’t bear it.”

  A tiny sinew in his jaw quivered, a sign he was angry and had clamped his teeth shut. He’d always shoved down everything, presenting a well-adjusted face to the world. She could only remember two times he’d lost his temper: once when a man had backed into their car in a parking lot, metal crumpled around a wheel so their vehicle was undrivable. She’d shielded the kids from the sight of their father shouting, red-faced and furious, until the cops came. He’d subsided into his normal self then, consoling them all after he’d called a cab to take them home, preferring to stay with the car and wait for the wrecker. The other time was when she’d told him they were going to have another baby, Chad, their little mistake. He’d wept as he patched the hole in the wall, Misty still shocked over the violence of his reaction. So here, now, in public, flanked by officers of the law, it didn’t surprise her that he held it together.

  “Don’t kill my babies, Daryl. Don’t.”

  “Sir?” One of the cops stood to one side. “We need to speak with her.”

  Daryl speared the man with a look, then barked, “I need a minute with my wife.” He shook his head and looped an arm around Misty’s shoulders. “Come with me.” His implacable grip and relentless pace moved them down the hallway quickly, putting distance between them and the cluster of official onlookers. “What in the hell are you talking about, Misty?” He broke free and took a step away, whirling to face her. “Are you insane? Bringing our kids here like this?” He gestured towards her. “Looking like that? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “You killed my sister and our kids. You can’t do that. You can’t. Please. Don’t.” Words running together in a litany of broken pleas, she ignored his questions. “Please, don’t.”

  “I haven’t done any such thing, Misty. Are you crazy?” She saw the moment when what he’d said hit home, watched as he latched onto it like a lifeline. “You are. You’re crazy. I’m afraid you’ll hurt me.” He paused, then with a glint in his eye said, “Or the kids. You’re crazy and need help.”

  Twenty hours later, she sat on the edge of a narrow bed in a narrow room with a single door, square window set into the surface just above a comfortable height to look out. She’d watched the caged clock high on the wall, waiting to feel the loss she’d tricked herself into believing she must have felt the first time. She was a mother, was she not? Shouldn’t she know when something terrible happened to her children?

  A sharp rap against the door preceded it opening, a courtesy she’d not been granted before. In addition to the two orderlies she’d already made acquaintance with was a woman with a white coat that draped past her hips. Misty didn’t let the doctor open her mouth. “They’re dead, aren’t they? All of them? He killed them, just like I said he would.”

  Doctor Whitacre nodded sadly, and Misty dropped her head to her hands, fingers gouging painfully into her skin. She yanked at her hair, strands separating from her scalp with tiny pings. Another tiny ping in her arm, and within moments, there was a blanket between her and what was happening, a smothering layer of cotton protecting her from the loss.

  My spirit is strong

  She lifted her head and looked at the doctor, still in the act of recoiling out of reach, an orderly standing sentinel on either side of Misty’s knees. They cradled her, arms around shoulders and under legs as they pivoted her body and leaned her back. But once begun, the leaning never stopped, continuing on and on, the bed not where she’d expect
ed it, their arms elongating and thinning. One man shouted and yanked away, the pop loud and startling as he escaped the microcosm of distortion surrounding her. He gripped the waist of the other man and pulled, heaving mightily even as she retreated faster. Then the touch on her legs disappeared and she was gone, swallowed whole by the pain. Siphoned through that needle’s eye again, she held onto the agony because it meant she was still there. All of her existed because pain didn’t happen to the dead, so she was still alive, and there were rules, there were guidelines she didn’t understand. If she had just understood, she could have changed their paths.

  She fell into herself, every ounce of air in the room pressing heavily on her as if her body existed as a vacuum and needed filling, insistent and unrelenting until she took her first whooping breath. As she curled into herself on the floor, the bitter taste of bright copper flooded her throat.

  Misty opened her eyes to see the man crouched at her side, and wasn’t it strange she didn’t have a name to put to him, just The Man, as if his gender defined him? “He-he-he.” Her mouth betrayed her, stuttering like laughter when all she wanted to do was wail. “He-he-he.” Trembling wildly, she fisted her hands until dark red grooves lined each palm. “He-he-he killed them.”

  “Yes.” He offered no comfort, no soft words of care, and in some way, that stark acknowledgment was worse.

  “Why couldn’t I stop it?” Red tinted everything in the room crimson until there were dark shadows looming around the edges of her vision. She didn’t know if it was the act of bouncing back into her body here causing it or some far-reaching reaction to whatever the doctor had dosed her with. The man reached towards her, a finger trailing flames, strobing as it moved. She blinked and saw tiny droplets of red staining his skin, flicked there by the movement of her lashes. “Shouldn’t it have changed something?”