Page 48 of Limbo

“No car this weekend, Callista,” he says.

The space around me closes in fast. The air heavy and each breath a struggle. I’m already suffocated, and we haven’t even left yet.

No car means no escape.

We arrive in Sutterville at one-thirty in the morning.

Connor is sleeping at the kitchen table when I walk in. His head pops up, and he blinks several times, confused by his unusual napping place until he notices me. The chair tips over as he comes rushing over.

“I’m sorry, Cal.” He grabs ahold of me and smashes my face against his chest. “I’m so sorry. I tried to keep him from going batshit crazy.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Con. I should have just come back.”

He releases me and flashes to the fridge, retrieving a plate of spaghetti. It goes in the microwave before I can tell him I’m not hungry. Still in hyperdrive, he delivers my bags to my room and sets a place for me at the table. I sit down as he brings the food over. Whether or not I want to eat, he needs to feel like he’s taking care of me. And I let him, because if I can’t make myself feel better, I can at least help him.

We quietly talk while I more or less push the pasta around. High school gossip is fascinating when you’re not the subject. But Connor stops mid-sentence when a door shuts down the dark hallway.

Graham stomps into the kitchen and comes straight for me. I stare straight ahead, my heart pounding as he leans into the side of my face.

“Short-term memory loss?”

I force a swallow, concentrating on each breath—slow, steady—not giving him the satisfaction of knowing his presence causes every muscle in my body to tense.

“Hard of hearing, too?” he shouts, so close I feel his breath on my cheek. “I want your phone.”

My eyes lock on Connor, across the table. His mouth forms a hard line, his jaw clenched and grinding beneath the skin. One of us needs a phone, just in case. He gives the slightest hint of a nod, signaling he has his.

Even still, the thought of offering up what feels like the last shred of my freedom gnaws at me. Alternative scenarios cycle through my head. I could run, beg, argue, fake cry, but only one thing will prevent the situation from escalating any further. So, I hold up my phone and let Graham rip it away.

He straightens up, and I close my eyes, attempting a calming breath. They open in time to see terror flood Connor’s face. His pupils constrict to pinpoints, and he shoots forward in his chair as Graham’s arm swings. I flinch, but his hand narrowly misses me. It connects with the plate in front of me, sending it flying. Metal clangs, and the ceramic shatters on the tiled floor. I see the wide blue eyes watching from the shadows. They disappear, Cate’s footsteps running down the hallway.

There’s not another movement, sound, or breath until the door to Graham’s bedroom slams shut. I suck in air that only adds more weight to my chest, not satisfying the intense need to breathe. Connor’s already on his feet for the broom, his energy focused on cleaning up the shards of plate. My hands shake as I wet a washcloth. I sink down and wipe up the tomato sauce splattered over the tiles and cupboards before it stains. It’s incredible what the mind deems important when trying to shut out reality. We clean in silence, neither of us acknowledging the closest call we’ve had in a long time. We never will. Not out loud anyway. At some point, it becomes more exhausting to relive it than just file it away.

After eliminating all evidence of Graham’s outburst, Connor follows me down the hall to my room. He toes off his size fifteen sneakers while I slip off my shoes by the bed. I kneel next to him in front of the hanging blanket that slightly moves.

“What’s the password?” Cate asks from the other side.

“Catelynn is my favorite,” we reply.

“You may enter.”

Connor crawls into the blanket fort ahead of me. I built the first one almost ten years ago to give him a distraction from a screaming match with no end in sight. Somewhere he could go to escape the moments that became a little too scary. A place he could feel safe in a world of uncertainty. Of course, the moments never let up, and the damn thing has ended up a permanent staple in my bedroom decor.

A six-year-old version of myself attacks when I enter behind Connor. She squishes my cheeks between her hands and kisses my forehead—her new way of saying hello and goodbye. She flops over to Connor and snuggles in beside him. He puts his arm around her for extra protection and squeezes her tight.

She closes her eyes, not a care in the world. “Now we’re all safe.”

His chest heaves at her words, and his forehead wrinkles. One of the only sights capable of shattering my heart anymore is him crying. I move over beside him, and he leans over, so I can put my arms around him. It’s my turn to protect him and squeeze him tight.

“Nothing bad can happen under the blankets, Connor,” I tell him.

He sniffs, blinking away unshed tears. “Promise?”

I rest my chin on his shoulder and respond the same way I always have, the way I always will as long as he needs me to. “Promise.”

A majority of the weekends spent in Sutterville, Graham only graces us with his presence in short intervals. He sporadically stops in to yell at us for a variety of things, such as existing. But since I dared to miss a single Friday night at his house, he abandons his normal in and out and refuses to leave at all on Saturday, wanting to keep an eye on me. Seriously, his selfishness and relentless need for control operates on a level unachievable by most humans.

Cut off from the rest of the world outside of the Podunk town and being trapped with him have me crawling out of my skin. He works on hour four of a nap in the recliner when I walk into the living room.

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