The third rule of time t.., p.6
The Third Rule of Time Travel, page 6
Instead, she sets the tablet down on the table, picks up her glass, and finishes off the wine in one swallow. “No more memories,” she says, staring into the empty glass, almost wishing it were true, not realizing the impact, and irony, of having such a wish.
Because Lucy was right. Sometimes, it does seem like her life is empty.
That memories are all she has.
NINE
Thorne Park is filled with parents and children. A popular Saturday morning destination for kids under twelve, the park features toddler-safe equipment and is one of the few parks near Beth’s neighborhood that is completely fenced in. One gate in and out keeps the smaller kids from wandering where they shouldn’t, and any strange characters from doing the same. There’s ample parking, and across the two-lane street is a large neighborhood coffee shop that caters to park patrons—one more reason for parents to love it as a destination. It’s a warmer day than Beth expected, and she finds herself holding Isabella’s jacket, folded over her arm along with her own, while sitting on the bench with Lucy.
The two women watch Isabella and Lucy’s little boy, Timothy, run through, under, and over the pirate ship–themed equipment. Seeing their carefree play, Beth has a familiar thought: how nice it must be to laugh openly, to have fun without worry, to love life without the psychological or emotional boundaries that rise—unbidden, unwanted—as a person grows into adulthood.
“So what, the old guy’s out of money?” Lucy asks, picking up the thread of their conversation, her eyes never leaving the children.
“Guys like Jim Langan don’t run out of money,” Beth replies. “They don’t have dwindling bank accounts, or needless debt, or hand-wringing accountants. What they do have are thresholds of pain.”
“And he’s reached that threshold with your… you know… machine.”
Beth smirks. For years she’s had to keep her closest friend, her college roommate, her maid of honor, in the dark about what—what exactly—the machine does. Sure, the information would most likely be safe… but what if?
What if Lucy got a little tipsy one night and let it slip to a work colleague that her friend Beth dabbled in time travel? What if she thought it would be okay to tell her mother or her father? And what if Mom or Dad happened to have a friend whose kid works for a news source?
Then the NDAs would come crashing down, and Beth’s dreams right along with them.
“Sorry, I know it’s annoying,” Beth says, like she always does.
Lucy waves a hand. “It’s okay. I like to imagine you’re out there saving the world, finding a sustainable vaccine for the T-1 virus, or curing baldness. You know, hero stuff.”
“Listen, it’s my turn to get coffee,” Beth says, anxious to change the subject. “You wanna keep an eye out here while I make a run across the street?”
Lucy nods. “Yeah, sure. Oh! Get me a blueberry scone, will ya?”
“Done. Do we need waters for the kids? It’s hot today.”
“Might as well.”
Beth looks around until she finds Isabella across the enclosure, sitting on the soft foam flooring of the play area with Timothy, happily distracted. Feeling better having put eyes on her daughter, she heads toward the gate. “Be right back.”
On the sidewalk just outside the park’s exit is a crosswalk leading to a row of shops across the street, including the coffee shop. A few people stand with her, waiting for the light to change. On a whim, Beth turns her head to the left, noting the fence extending to the end of the block, comforted by the four-foot barrier that separates the kids from the bustly sidewalk and the busy street beyond. Absently, she scans the faces of the people hanging out along the park’s perimeter.
That’s when she sees Colson standing near the end of the fence line, no more than twenty yards away. He’s wearing dark pants and a worn blue work shirt—exactly the kind of outfit he’d wear on the weekends around the house.
Or to the park.
Beth’s mind freezes and her mouth drops open as if, fueled by pure instinct, she is preparing to call out for him.
To call out her dead husband’s name.
Instead, she mumbles it under her breath, her thinking slow and fragmented, her thoughts foggy and distant, as if her brain has been reset and is now slowly booting back up.
“Colson…”
He’s staring into the park. Beth turns her head to see what he’s looking at…
And of course, it’s Isabella. He’s watching his daughter play. He’s—
“Colson?” This time her voice is louder. Loud enough that she senses the people around her take notice. One woman, holding the hand of twin little girls, glares at Beth with worried eyes, perhaps sensing the strain, the fear, in her voice.
Beth takes a step toward her husband—her dead husband, the one she saw in the morgue, his face torn in half, brain fluid leaking from a crack in his skull, limbs shattered, his chest concaved with enough force to have smashed his ribs like toothpicks, pulp his beating heart into jelly—yes, that husband, who is now casually leaning against the low chain-link fence as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
As if he’s not real at all.
As if he’s a ghost.
“Colson!”
This time Beth knows people can hear her, because she’s yelling like a madwoman in the middle of a crowded throng of parents and children. Her hands are shaking, her skin prickling with shock.
The man—just a man who looks like Colson but can’t possibly be—at the end of the fence straightens; his head begins to turn toward her…
And then someone is grabbing her arm, tugging hard. Beth spins around, frantic, and finds herself staring into Lucy’s worried face.
“Beth? What the hell?”
Then Beth looks back, pointing, straining to see—to show Lucy—her husband, who’s standing on the sidewalk, watching the children play in the park. Watching his daughter…
But the man is gone.
“He’s… I saw…”
Beth realizes that more than a few people are watching now, clutching their children tight, wary of this woman yelling and trembling on the sidewalk outside a children’s playground. Her mouth opens and closes wordlessly as she searches for answers.
“Mommy?”
Beth’s head jerks toward the sound, toward her daughter. Isabella’s standing at the fence, watching her, brow furrowed, eyes worried.
“It’s okay, love. One second…”
Beth turns and grabs Lucy’s hand, points with her other hand toward the end of the fence.
“Did you see him?”
Lucy shakes her head. “Who?”
Beth stares at her friend, meets her eyes. She lowers her voice, as if anyone around them would have a clue who she was talking about. “Colson. Lucy, I saw Colson…”
She points again, thrusting her finger toward the area where he was standing, no more than a stone’s throw away. “He was right there, Lucy. He was alive, and he was right there.”
“Beth,” Lucy says slowly, the way someone speaks to a child. Or a crazy person. “What are you talking about?”
Beth looks left and right, squeezes Lucy’s hand harder. “I saw my husband. Just now. He was standing right over there.”
Lucy doesn’t look down the sidewalk. She doesn’t show alarm or surprise.
Instead, her face shows confusion. Concern.
“Honey, Colson is dead. I mean, okay, maybe you saw someone who looked like him… and it triggered something. Like a mind trick. But, Beth… come on…”
Beth grunts, lets go of Lucy’s hand, and takes two determined steps toward the fence. She drops to her knees in the grass in front of her daughter, the metal mesh separating them. Isabella looks scared, confused. Beth tries to smile, to defuse her daughter’s fear, but her body is trembling like a live wire, as if her nerves are raw and exposed, the slightest breeze painful as fire when it brushes her skin… because she knows what she saw.
If I could just stop shaking…
“Baby, sweetheart, it’s okay,” Beth says, and puts her hand to the fence, coils her fingers around the cool metal. “Did you… did you see your daddy?”
“Beth!”
The word hits her like a slap, and Beth jerks away from the fence as if shocked by an electric current. She twists her head to see Lucy staring down at her, no longer worried or confused but bordering on something else. Anger.
“Beth, that’s enough.”
Beth stares down the length of sidewalk once more, straining her eyes for the blue work shirt, the back of her husband’s head, his eyes meeting hers through the churn of people walking, obscuring his existence like a flickering candle…
Then she lowers her head, exhales. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m okay.”
Lucy steps closer to the fence, where Timothy and Isabella (along with a few other curious children and their bored, nosy parents) are now carefully watching Beth. Lucy claps her hands to get their attention, to break the spell of their innocent fear.
“Hey, who wants to get pancakes?”
Beth doesn’t hear the children’s answer. She doesn’t know if they say yes or no or beg to stay or cheer for the idea of fucking pancakes. She only hears the blood pounding in her ears, and when she closes her eyes tight she sees him again, standing straight, turning to look at her… and for a split second, their eyes meet…
And then…
And then they lock you up because you’re fucking nuts.
Beth sighs and wipes her hands over her face, tries to scrub away the image of her husband, as if it were a dream she wanted to forget. A nightmare.
“I’m not crazy…” she says under her breath, but takes no solace from the words, because she doesn’t know if they’re true.
Then she stands, brushes clippings of grass from her knees, and follows Lucy back toward the park entrance to find her daughter.
TEN
Beth sits in a leather club chair, twitchy and tired.
She didn’t sleep well over the weekend.
After the park on Saturday morning (and subsequent awkward pancake breakfast with Lucy and the kids), she felt as if she’d only gone through the motions over the ensuing forty-eight hours with Isabella. No matter how hard she tried, or internally scolded herself, Beth couldn’t focus on her little girl or enjoy their time together because her mind kept plaguing her with that image, over and over again…
For a split second, their eyes meet…
Jonathan hands her a mug of coffee and sits across from her, crossing his legs casually. “I have a theory.”
Beth nods, sips the coffee, absently realizing it’s a thousand times better than the stuff they cook up in the lab. She emailed Jonathan Sunday night, asked if he could meet her early for an impromptu session. She wanted to talk with him about what had happened—clear her mind a bit, if possible—before meeting whatever old-school business reporter dragged their spectacles and suspenders down to her office at nine AM.
She isn’t crazy about Jonathan, and she doesn’t always trust him, but they’ve known each other for many years and she likes to think there is a grudging respect between them. He is the only one who knows all her secret worries, how deep the trauma of losing Colson is, the conflicts and hardships of being a world-class scientist on the brink of one of humankind’s greatest discoveries, and a single mother. She’s never had reason to regret opening up to him in the past and hopes she has no reason for doing so now. After Colson’s death, he was instrumental in steering her emotions in a constructive way that allowed her to keep working, gave her the tools to fight off the near-debilitating moments of grief and depression.
Which was why, after a weekend of headache-inducing confusion, she decided to talk with him about what happened at the park. A big part of her hated (and feared) the idea of sharing what she’d seen (or what she thought she’d seen), because if he concluded that she was mentally or emotionally unable to perform her work duties, it could mean trouble for her with Jim. But given what they’d already been through, specifically about Colson and the ensuing hellish aftermath, she thought he’d be somewhat open-minded about the fact that she’d seen her dead husband hovering at a playground on a bright Saturday morning. He might even be helpful.
Or so she hoped.
Regardless, she was willing to risk it. Because if she didn’t talk to someone about it, she really would go crazy. “Please,” she says. “I’m all ears.”
“You’re gonna be shocked to hear this, but I don’t think what you saw is, quite frankly, all that strange. It certainly doesn’t surprise me and, further, doesn’t worry me. I’m telling you because I know my response to all this is on your mind, so you needn’t worry on that front. As a doctor, and as a friend, I appreciate your trust, Beth. I’ll never misplace it. That’s a promise.”
Beth nods. “I know. Thank you. But what do you mean about it not being strange? Because I gotta be honest, it felt really fucking strange, Jonathan.”
He laughs, sits up, and settles his elbows on his knees, hands intertwined. Eyes focused on Beth’s. “I know, and I’m sorry. Aside from being confusing, I’m sure it was traumatic.”
Beth lets out a held breath, grateful to be taken seriously. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever forgive Lucy for the way she reacted, looking at her like she was mad. Like she was somehow dangerous. “Okay, so what’s this theory?”
Jonathan sits back, his entire posture that of a man relaxed and in control. A man confident in his answers. Despite herself, Beth finds herself clinging to that feeling, that strength. God knows she needs it.
“Let’s start with facts. One, you and Isabella had been watching old videos of Colson the night before the park, right?”
Beth nods. “Yeah, I thought about that, too.”
“Good. Another fact. We are a few days away from the anniversary of Colson’s death, which also happens to be your birthday. It’s the twenty-seventh, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. It’ll be a year.”
“Both of these are what I call stress events. The fact that they happen on the same day makes it doubly so. But let’s continue with a few more facts.” Jonathan lifts a well-manicured hand, begins counting off fingers. “One, we both know you’re under a tremendous amount of strain. Two, your staff has been reduced to practically nothing and you’re essentially doing the work of half a dozen people. Three, you’ve lost not only your husband but your partner in one of the most important scientific endeavors in human history. Four, you’re raising a beautiful little girl who, let’s not forget, is also dealing with the grief of losing a parent, albeit in her own way. Fifth, and last, you’re literally experimenting on yourself with this machine, and just a few days ago you blasted your mind back in time to reexperience the most tragic moment of your life.”
He drops his hands, leans forward again. “Beth, when you add all this up… it’s no wonder your mind is showing you phantom images of your deceased husband. Your subconscious is being battered by wave after wave of trauma. It’s grasping at straws. For help. For support.”
Jonathan extends one hand across the narrow coffee table separating them, rests a warm palm on Beth’s knee. His intense gaze locks onto her eyes. “I want you to know I’m here for you, Beth. That I believe in you and in what you’re doing. And besides all that, I consider you a friend. I’m on your side, and I’ll help you through this.”
Beth’s eyes flick to his hand, but she forces herself not to shift away. She offers a weak smile and nods. “I know.”
Jonathan removes his hand, reclines once more. “Let’s do this. Let’s keep talking. Maybe, for the next month or so, we increase our sessions to twice a week, just to keep things open and conversant. I don’t want you feeling stuck with any of this pressure. In the meantime, don’t sweat this Colson vision. It’s simply your internal self’s way of telling the outside you, the focused-on-work you, that it’s hurting. Let yourself mourn. Hell, let yourself feel a little crazy, all right? I mean, sometimes repressing these natural emotions in stressful times can do more harm than good. Let yourself be sad, cry into a pillow at night, spend time with Isabella looking at old pictures from happier times. And be cognizant to let her mourn as well. And look, I’m confident you’re going to get through this with flying colors, but for the next week or two these feelings are going to be fresh. The wounds aren’t healed, Beth; they’re just bandaged up with work and parenting, or whatever busywork you come up with, which is why those bandages slip a little during quieter moments—when you’re relaxed, when your mind is free to wander. It’s in those moments that your mind is free to let you know it wants to grieve, to not ignore the pain of loss. And believe me, it’ll do what it has to do to get your attention.”
“Like showing me my dead husband.”
He smiles slightly, nodding, fingers dancing on the arms of his chair. “That’s right. And besides, you won’t be traveling again for a while, right? So we have time to get things settled, get through this rough patch. And in the meantime, if you need me to prescribe something mild, something to take the edge off, that’s okay, too.”
Beth thinks about this. “I don’t know. It’s hard enough getting people to see me the way they saw Colson. You know, genius man scientist versus genius female sidekick. If people knew I was medicated…”
Jonathan sits up. “Beth, this is all between us. Completely confidential.”
Beth stares at him a moment, wondering how far she can trust him. Wondering if she’s already made a huge mistake by confiding in him. “Plus, like you said, we’re friends, right? You’d never, you know, fuck me over.”
Jonathan laughs. “Never. Doctor-patient et cetera.”
“Fine,” she says, exhaling a held breath. “Then yes, on the meds. I think it might be a good idea.”
Because if I see my dead husband again, those bandages you talked about might be yanked clean away, exposing the wound beneath.
And that can’t happen.
