Precise (Pulling Me Under)

by Rebecca Berto

  “I love you so much, Kates.”

  I’m too happy to speak so I bury my head under his chin. He wraps me up. I breathe heavily, because I don’t have to be worried about doing the wrong thing. I can just be me and breathe. I don’t know when I’ll get used to being okay with me, but since I’ve been with Paul, he’s made me feel okay to be who I am, and not feel I have to try to be no one so I don’t add any more evil to this world.

  I cling onto his stubbly cheek, the roughness holding me here in this moment with him. I lean in, touch my lips to his and I’m half a body lighter. I’m still half here with my husband but my relief has settled into a world in my mind where Paul and I kick up sand and salty waves and keep counts on who can swim the fastest out and back. Where my biggest problem is how to counter Paul’s hands dragging me under the water to cheat.

  “I ain’t going back to face her unless you are.”

  He rolls his eyes, slips his hands up my skirt and caresses the skin of my thighs with his palm, groaning into my mouth.

  “You’re intolerable.”

  “You know big words!” I cry.

  We walk inside, holding hands, to see this:

  Mom clutching a serving knife and Ella by her side on the edge of the counter. They stand in front of the white cake with the picture of Minnie Mouse that I drove across town to get. This is okay. I can fix this before I lose the opportunity.

  “Hi, Mom?” She freezes, faking a smile that’s unimpressed I found her. “What are you doing? People haven’t finished their first course yet.”

  I gesture to Liam who’s trying to suck the juicy life out of a sparerib and his brother, Brent, mouth bulging with something round. Everyone but the kids here sit with plates still at least half-full. Ryder is pawing at his cupcake, since my cousin, like everyone else, is waiting for my mom.

  “We wanted to do it early,” Mom says, clutching Ella tighter to her side as she sits on the counter.

  We stare at each other for what feels like forever. Mom makes perfectly clear Ella is her property with her hands wide-spread over Ella’s belly. Usually, I find ways to diffuse a situation with Mom. As a teenager I’d attempt to rival her attitude and I always came out with a clump less of hair, tears or a bruise from where she’d pinched my arm.

  When it comes to Ella, I don’t have any pride, dignity, or a point to prove. I just am—a motherly instinct, a protector, Ella’s mother.

  “Music!” Paul exclaims, as he turns on a song.

  Immediately, our family and friends dissolve into soft noises and go back to eating. Everyone except Liam, but I wave his attention back with stiff eyes and stiff lips. I walk up to Mom. I grab under Ella’s arms and pull her to me, but Mom doesn’t let go. I look at her, back to Ella and tug again. No give.

  “What is your problem?” I study Mom’s face, which has that look of malice in it. She knows she always gets what she wants, but we have rarely clashed like this in front of so many people we know. I have numbers on my side, and there is no other option in this game when it comes to Ella.

  “Paul?” I call, staring at Mom’s face.

  She turns her ear away, since I’ve had to call over the music to wherever Paul may be. I refuse to look away from Ella.

  “Yeah, Kates?”

  Paul notices it right away. The muscles in his jaw flare up and his face starts turning pink. In the Daddy voice he uses with Ella, he calls, “Come here Ella! Come to Daddy, Ella!”

  Ella loves a few words and two of them happen to be her name and her daddy’s name. She starts wriggling and that’s when I notice how tightly Mom holds her. Ella’s torso doesn’t move.

  Paul reaches out and grabs Ella. Mom doesn’t let go but it doesn’t matter because Paul pulls Ella to him until Mom has her hands at Paul’s waist where Ella is. The look in her eyes is still malicious, not embarrassment because she’s touching my husband in a weird place.

  “Mom,” I say. She drops her hands, losing focus to turn to me.

  Paul goes to turn away, but my hands are small worthless things, shaking violently without Ella in them. I hold out my hands. Paul kisses Ella’s forehead and gives her to me.

  Mom steps in so now it’s only us here. Anything she says will be just between us. Her expression relaxes and for a moment I think she’ll apologize and this will all be over. Then she says, “You ruined Ella’s party. I tried to save her by blowing out those candles before you had a chance. But you came. How,” Mom grits her teeth to the point spit begins to bubble at her lip, “how dare you take Ella’s first birthday from me. I lost six first birthdays because of you, you evil slut. I should have done this with six of my babies but you gave me hell showing your ugly face to the world. Doc said I’d have trouble again.”

  Mom chuckles once, low, uneasy. “Understatement. But you are such a pompous, self-absorbed slut that you won’t even stay out of the way so I can ensure you won’t fuck up Ella’s life too.”

  Absorbing this, my feet are holding me up in place here but I’m a body of thoughts. Mom doesn’t lose her temper because she skips her anti-depressants, or in a fit of rage because she’s stressed. Not even because she’s having a bad day. This is the moment it hits me. She has planned this moment—for what? A year?—to find a way to take Ella’s first birthday from me.

  Rather than crumble as every part of me seems to do, being pieces over the tiles under me, I say in the most level voice I can, “Okay, excuse us.”

  I turn away from Mom, walking slowly. She can’t hurt Ella with all these people here. I walk slowly until we’re out of sight of the kitchen and dining room. I walk slowly until my steps must be inaudible to Mom’s ears.

  Then I look down at Ella, but it’s too much, so I cuddle her into my chest, feeling her heart beat in time with mine. And it’s enough. Enough to make me do something selfish.

  I should keep trying to please Mom, help her see the right thing. But my bones are heavy, dragging me down, yet splitting apart. Before, it didn’t matter what happened to me. Now I have Ella in my arms and I’m sick of competing for her.

  Breathing is a struggle, just to sigh or expel. Nothing will work. I don’t fight it. I open the door.

  And run.

  Chapter Eight

  That night, Ella and I check in at a hotel in a suburb where cars never look more than ten years old. My bag—with its spare baby wipes and emergency diaper—is clunky on my shoulder with me in this sheer blouse, pencil skirt and stilettos.

  With Ella in my hand, I launch her onto the bed. She bounces a few times in the middle, cackling in such a happy voice, I feel as though I’ve done the right thing by taking her away. If I can’t control the first celebration of my daughter’s life, then what can I control?

  I roll back on to the bed and feel nothing. This bed is feather soft yet hugs the curve along my spine.

  “Dog-gy,” Ella says, into my chest.

  “Spot the Dog book? You want me to read to you, Ella?” I say.

  I sit up and fold my legs Indian style. Ella sits opposite me. For all I know we could be in a gray room, with a creaky bed, rusted headboard, a soiled counter and a draft under the door and it wouldn’t make a difference.

  “No! Dog-gy,” she repeats.

  “Oh, do you want the toy, Ella?”

  As I expect, she squeals, “Dog-gy.”

  Ella seems to be too far from me. I need to have her warmth touching me. So I pick her up and put her in my lap where I’ve opened the gap between my crossed legs enough to slot her in. She reminds me of myself when I was a child. I wanted to do this with my mom too, but she’d complain I would ruin the manicure she’d just gotten or pull apart her hair after she’d just had it styled.

  I prop my chin on Ella’s head and encase her tightly in my arms. Love rushes through me. Her white blonde hair is much lighter than Paul’s. One day when it darkens it should turn the same shade as his. She has his eye shape, though by some miracle she has blue eyes when mine are hazel and Paul’s are emerald green.


  “Do you love Mommy?”

  I need to hear it. It’s strange knowing these exchanges go on between mother and daughter. I probably said I love you back and forth with my mom too but when I got old enough to remember any of these times myself, they rarely occurred.

  “I love ‘ou, mama,” Ella says.

  I lean my head over, so my shadow casts over Ella’s face. She looks up, meets my gaze. Everything melts, but it’s as if all I am is love. Selfish as I was taking Ella away, I haven’t done anything for me in so long, this feels like a crime—not having to answer to my mom. Being my own person who isn’t the killer of my brothers and sisters, who isn’t the devil daughter who maliciously seeks to ruin her mother’s life is freeing. Yes, Ella’s tight in my arms, trapped by my legs, but we are embracing on a cloud. That’s where it feels as though we are.

  “Do you love Mommy?” I repeat, staring at her eyes.

  “I love ‘ou!”

  I reach for something in my bag to give Ella since I know her Spot the Dog toy isn’t there. I’m sure there is probably only a soggy tissue, or dirty candy that’s been festering in the corners for months.

  It’s nothing like that.

  There aren’t diapers and wipes in here. It was so clunky before because I’d picked up Ella’s teddy a couple of days ago, and have left it in my bag ever since.

  And suddenly the rules don’t matter anymore.

  I pull out my cell and see missed calls that go on and on. I call Paul and tell him where we are and that he needs to bring balloons and streamers and anything else he can find.

  When Paul arrives, we hand Ella her teddy in the wrapping and we let her tear at it for ten minutes. When she gets the teddy out she bangs on his chest in excitement while he lays across her lap. I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’d give up anything to see that smile on my daughter’s face.

  She proceeds to squeal while Paul and I blow up balloons and kick them around our hotel room. Paul even picks me up and runs around the hotel in circles, dangling me over his back while I scream bloody murder. We string up the streamers at each corner and between corners until the room is bursting with color and popable and breakable things.

  An hour later, I know I don’t design crappy toys because my daughter who has the attention span of a fish is still clinging to the teddy I designed, though her mouth is slack from sleep and she’s cuddled on her side between Paul and me.

  I couldn’t have planned tonight and it’s better than I’d dreamed. Mom forced us to invite people we hadn’t seen in years to the other party. Some didn’t even remember who I was. Katherine, they called me. But here, with Paul and Ella—the only two people who mean the world to me—this day is the happiest in a long time.

  I know it was only one simple design, and it’s just another teddy, but he is what I made for Ella and he tells Ella how much Paul and I love her.

  So this little teddy I created?

  He’s taken us away to this random hotel room we’ve trashed with balloons floating across the floor like dry ice and streamers so thick I can barely see the opposite wall and a party that I won’t forget for all the right reasons this time.

  I’m sick of trying to be no one.

  Still, it feels strange being this happy. Ella and Paul complete me, which is odder than being broken. Because I know what being broken feels like and it’s normal. I know that I can’t fall apart anymore than what I am when I have nothing to lose.

  Before Paul and Ella, I used to be just Katie. Just Katie whose closest relation would rather I’d died at birth.

  Since tonight, I’m starting to feel like I don’t need a license to do what I want to or who I want to be.

  Surprise: the new me is not a case of the bodies of my dead siblings, either.

  Chapter Nine

  In the morning, we take Ella to the cafeteria of the hotel for breakfast. I order some pancakes and they bring something special out for Ella. She still hasn’t let go of her teddy, and I only take it from her because Paul and I are singing our love to this whole restaurant via the recording in its belly, which has my cheeks burning up.

  Paul orders the Big Breakfast and after he finishes the mound of waffles, scrambled eggs on toast, hashbrowns and bacon he is so disgusted with himself, he kisses our foreheads and tells us not to expect him until he’s run home and back. This probably equates to a jog out for an hour or so.

  I call Liam to apologize. Besides my dad, he was the only one there last night that I feel terrible about leaving. He answers, asking if I’m okay no less than thirty times, asks if Paul’s okay another ten, by which time, Ella has finished eating and we go back to our room. Liam has me hold on the line until there’s a knock at my door.

  Hand on the knob, I hesitate before turning it. Liam thrusts it open. His image matches mine: shocked expression and cell to one ear.

  “Guh,” he grunts, slipping the phone in his pocket and taking me into his chest. He pats my back then we pull apart.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, when we look at each other afterwards.

  “Yeah, nah, cool.”

  He looks around the room whistling. Ella squeals, “Liam,” and he opens his arms, which she barrels into.

  He steps up to the window and peers out. In the light, housing estates cluster on hilltops or near parks and lakes. There are little courts with monochrome houses curved around them and open highways separating shops and buildings. It’s a whole world with traveling cars and miniature people walking the paths.

  I hold my hand to the window, my warmth outlining a foggy mark of my hand. When I take it away, my imprint is the only taint on the window, which is so shiny I see Liam’s blue eyes staring at my reflection.

  I turn to him. “What?”

  “I’d be damn pissed too,” he says.

  My shoulders sag. I just shake my head. Little too late for Liam to see my mom’s ways. “Ah, what’s it matter? Nothing new. It was Mom making sure everything works out, that there’s no room for error, that I can’t be the one to screw up her only grandchild’s first birthday. As you can see, we had a better time here anyway,” I say, gesturing to the room that looks more like partygoers have trashed it for a twenty-first.

  This morning, I don’t remember how the room got this way. I don’t understand why I have happy memories of stories and this talking teddy I supposedly created and why I thought I was saving Ella at all.

  Without Paul and with my thoughts drowning me in questions, last night feels like someone else’s memory in my head. The last real memory is my mom questioning how I dare ruin Ella’s party by being there at all.

  I bite my lip and stare at a point on Liam’s shirt. “Does she ever think what she’s taking from me?” I meet Liam’s eyes now. “What she’s always taken from me?”

  “Hey, lemme tell you a story. Let’s pick up some coffee and a fast food breakfast.” In Liam Dayle style, we go to McDonald’s. Like we did when we were kids. Liam buys me a strawberry milkshake and himself a chocolate one. Ella comes along holding my hand and so does ted, who is tucked under my other arm. We take our milkshakes and sit at a bench and table outside.

  “So, what’s this heartfelt story you have?”

  “There is none. I just had to get you away from your car and somewhere with no where to run.”

  “Oh, super.”

  Liam puts on his stern face. “I’m serious. You don’t think I’m being serious? You gave Harry Potter a run for his Invisibility Cloak you disappeared so quickly. I couldn’t take chances here.”

  “You think I have a ‘run’ reflex. Is that it?”

  “What’d ya know? She gets it.”

  I stiffen my eyebrows to send the look transferring from my eyes to Liam. I don’t have a problem. Was I meant to stand there and take it from Mom? For years I’ve waited for her to make me feel like I was loved and that I was a nice and normal human after all.

  Then there was last night. Paul and Ella and I in a hotel in a city far from our lives and
a room strung up in color and Ella’s present. That’s all that mattered, really. Drawing makes me want to sit in parks and soak up kids playing tag and the soothing sunbeams, and let my mind take over the pencil in my fingers. And when I create stuff that makes Ella happy, I’m really me.

  Then there are times like now. The nostalgia from last night is an imagination, fortified with Paul’s absence, and it’s only Mom reminding me I don’t deserve this fantastic life when I hurt hers so much.

  If someone were to tell me they believe what I think—that I am evil incarnate in the human form and I don’t deserve happiness because I am to blame for the stillborn deaths and miscarriages of my siblings—I’d fall to the floor laughing, pick myself up, and heave into fits of laughter again.

  When I tell myself this, it doesn’t feel right or wrong, but who I am. Or was. I’m not sure now. They say you get most of your learning done by the age of five. At five, I have a handful of memories.

  One of them is growing up to believe that my mommy was the most important person in the world and I hurt her by being born bad and harming her body so all my brothers and sisters would die.

  “No,” I say. Liam has been practically family my whole life; he hears from me as it is. “You just … have no idea how what it’s like. Don’t you dare say differently.”

  “That was not what I was going to say.”

  He lets that hang there. At first, I wish I had kept my mouth closed. Secondly, I want him to say this thing because it’s making me edgy. Thirdly, I want to handle his voice cords myself but I can’t stand the thumping of my pulse to handle much at all, actually.

  I manage, “What?”

  “The way I think it is, this thing with your mom going on, it’s a game. I don’t know her as you do. I stopped seeing her very much by the time I was a teenager. I do see she’s playing some game with you. I think it’s always been this way, but I didn’t notice it,” he says.