Ripple Effect

Chapter Eighteen: ...the peculiarity of the tides.

Elizabeth

9:07 PM

The stars glared down upon the field. Beneath their cold light, the sea of grass turned grey-blue. The plumes swelled and broke around Elizabeth's legs as she ran; the stalks tickled and scratched and whipped at the skin of her calves, whilst jagged shards of stone impaled her bare soles. Ahead, the black walnut tree loomed. Its branches crackled across the night sky, a fractal web that reached out towards her and stretched over the blackened abyss beyond.

Her heart lurched, and she was thrust to the cusp. Her heels jutted over nothingness, her toes curled into the dusty soil, her fingertips scrabbled at the rugged grooves of bark.

'Take my hand.'

Elizabeth jolted upright, and the suit jacket that had been tucked around her slid down, over the side of the couch, and pooled on the floor. The lights in the family room were dimmed, but the whole room strobed with flashes of the dream, each beat synchronised with the slam of her heart against her ribs. Her fingers trembled as she raked them through her hair, the roots damp with sweat, and her chest heaved over every breath.

Not now. Please not now.

She swung her legs over the edge of the cushion, careful not to knock Henry where he dozed at the opposite end of the couch—his shoulders hunched, his arms folded, his head bowed—and she stooped down until her ears bumped against the insides of her knees.

Breathe, Lizzie, just breathe. In, two, three. Out, two, three. Nothing simpler than that.

But each breath held the subtle sting of charred bread that drifted up from the toaster on the countertop at the edge of the room. Pink and white sparks pinpricked her vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut whilst the pressure in her chest grew and grew, as though she were funnelling air into lungs a quarter of the size of what they used to be. And as the sparks bloomed and threatened to unfold, she grasped for something, anything else to take their place, anything to cling to. Until—

***

2002

"You're doing this to spite me." Elizabeth's voice soared above the shadows of the lounge, and at the muffled cry from one of the kids' bedrooms followed by footsteps creaking across the landing, she clambered up from the couch and pushed the door to.

Will twisted around in his seat. "How is my wanting to help people spiting you?"

"You can help people at a hospital, Will. You don't have to offer yourself up as chum to warlords and terrorists."

"Says the woman who, despite claiming to have a desk job, disappears every few weeks and goes jetting off God knows where." He stood up and turned to face her, and then swigged from his bottle of beer and gave a shrug. "At least you'll know which country to repatriate my body from."

"Making cracks about you dying isn't exactly going to sell me on the idea."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not looking for your permission." He clunked the bottle down onto the coffee table, and grabbed his bomber jacket from the back of the couch. "I've already made my decision, Lizzie. I just thought you should know."

And as he strode towards the door, Elizabeth felt as though the world around her were disintegrating, as though everything she had built over the last nineteen years had not been from stone as she thought, but from sand that crumbled and slipped and whipped into the air, as stinging as the deserts of Iraq.

"What would Mom and Dad say?"

Will halted, one hand rested against the door handle. With his back to her, he turned his head, slowly, not quite enough to meet her eye. "Mom and Dad are dead, Lizzie. We survived without them, you'll find a way to survive without me too."