Around us, the patterned brickwork design of the entrance invites us in. The pavement ahead divides into different paths taking us to classrooms, some of the various playgrounds, the hall or the head offices.
Ella tugs on my sleeve. “We’re here.”
Her classroom is meters in front of us. The bricks are a bright shade of maroon against the gray backdrop of the sky.
“I hope I don’t miss painting,” Ella says.
I squat. “Why’s that?”
School inspires Ella to discuss life’s existence. So many questions about how children, like her, are made. Why she should go to school? Why I can’t buy her four Elly dolls? Then she can keep one at home, in the car, at my parents’ place and at her other grandparents’ place—the latter two for the weekly sleepovers. This time, it’s me asking why. I wonder if she notices the irony.
She clutches her fists and swivels on the spot nervously. “Miss Gordon says it’s family week so I’m going to paint my family.” The creases of her smile reach her ears.
“Really?” I outstretch my hand. She grabs it. Her hands are sweaty, despite the frigid wind.
“Can I paint Daddy too?”
“M’ere,” I say, pulling her between my legs, into my chest. I shut them tightly because she can’t see my face while I hold her like this. “Paint anything.”
“So I can paint Daddy?”
“Anything, El.” I know this isn’t the answer but I can’t make the right words form a sentence.
Just as I want to shrink inside myself—escape the words before the heat has time to burn—my phone goes off.
Liam Dayle, boyfriend-in-training, according to my mom, Rochelle. It’s one of the only jokes that crack me up these days.
Liam is easy for females to love. Thanks to being family-friends-turned-best-friends, I’ve seen him in the shower, as in naked, water streaking down his body, seen him for Friday night movies sessions after high school exams, and been a blubbering mess into his shirt back when I used to cry.
To the rest of the world, he has this bronze-colored hair that shines three shades in the sun and sky-blue eyes. I’ve hooked him up with a few girls based on those two features alone.
“Yup, what’s up?” I say into my phone.
“Hi to you too.” There is silence for a beat. “I’m, err, I mean Nancy and I are still coming over, right?”
My watch should be strapped to my wrist but I haven’t remembered to put it on. In, like, months. And I don’t even know the date. I feel myself burn up. “Sorry, what was on today?”
Liam makes a weird sound. He must have begun to complain and then felt bad about it. “Lunch? Noon?”
“Cool, yeah, yeah.” I pat Ella’s shoulder and smile. Does this show how thrilled I should be about her painting the “family”? In response, she scowls.
Remembering I’m still on the phone with Liam, I say, “Should be fun!” I sound so, so happy. “Can’t wait.”
Liam stifles a laugh. “I won’t be late this time.”
“You never are.”
“So . . . you’re at home?”
“Nope, with Ella at school.” I make a shoo action with my hands toward the door, hoping she’ll get the hint. She stands rigid.
“Oh, of course. What’s she doing today?”
Ella’s about to lose it or something, and Liam is badgering on with questions. My brain swells in response. “Can we do this another time?”
Ella huffs, throwing her hands up in the air, exasperated. I didn’t mean it for her!
“You seem pissed at me,” Liam says, prodding.
“Can you go?” I say.
Ella’s mouth drops, essentially saying, “I can’t believe you’re being so mean.”
“I really don’t know what I’ve done,” Liam says in response, too. “Can we talk?”
I growl, pulling the phone away from my ear. Anxiety pools in my fingers, making me want to cut him off and simultaneously run from Ella because she thinks I’m talking to her.
Whoa, things need to slow down.
Way to go with the “control” thing, Katie, Molten Man reminds me.
Miss Gordon, Ella’s teacher, appears at the doorway.
“Liam,” I say, trying to make my tone happy, all the while looking at Miss Gordon, “I’m busy now. I’ll see you at noon.”
“Hey,” he says, quickly.
I huff, and my phone slips a bit from my grip. “What now?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What?” I say, rushed. I need to remember what I’d sound like on the outside. “Did I . . . did something happen?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Forget about it.”
As I speak I know I should shut my mouth, but the words tumble out in a rush. “It’s not you. Just come.” Why did I say that? Perhaps I care?
No, it’s just about proving I’m okay. Liam is silent on the other side, which prompts me to add, “I think I saw your blue hoodie here. From last week? Maybe you should come. To get it.”
“Fine, Katie,” he says.
He hasn’t called me Katie since I accused him of stealing my Johnny Walker bottle—wrongly accused. I’m always Kates to him. “Fine, bye.”
I put my phone in my bag. Now he’s off the phone, I know why he sounded extra pissy. I can’t remember the last time I saw him, but it definitely wasn’t days ago. When you’re me, people say how long it’s been and you wonder who’s written a script and handed it out to everyone who knows you. But then I’ll look at my phone or they’ll tell me the date and I realize that, no matter who provided the line, it has been weeks or months.
I’m not sure how I became that woman, because the body I’m in hasn’t felt like mine since He left me.
“Time for class, Ella?” Miss Gordon is on her haunches, her skin shimmering. She must be wearing some expensive cream. Her arms outstretch, her fingers tinkling as an enticement.
Ella hurries to her embrace where Miss Gordon clutches her fingers. Miss Gordon waves to me although her eyes flit between Ella and me. Ella sniffles and props her bag higher over her shoulder. She walks inside, all without so much as acknowledging me.
Miss Gordon stands and turns, shrugging in a what can you do way.
I can’t even fake a smile. My bottom lip is shaking and it doesn’t care what I need it to do. I can’t muster the strength to pretend she’s having a “bad morning” moment because she isn’t. Despite what’s happened, Ella’s been the one to spring me back every time. Makes the breakfast. Suggests games to play.
Then she transitions to my dark moments. Asks why I make noises in my sleep. Have I had a nightmare?
Today she shrugged me off. As if she didn’t care.
And a part of me doesn’t blame her.
Any strength I had to smile, chat, and pretend is lost inside the Katie Anselin pre-Paul’s death. The organized, chirpy mother. The proud wife.
This Katie should save her relationship with her daughter.
I wish I knew how I could.
I wake up in my bathtub.
Liam is by my side. His arms are tense from holding his weight over the rim. When he exhales, I suck in warm air. His air.
He sees me wake and falls back against the tiled wall behind him, lacing his fingers as a barrier between the wall and his head. Crunch. He doesn’t react when he hits the wall, as if his hands haven’t protected his skull. Not even a flinch.
Thankfully, his eyes are closed, which makes me feel less self-conscious. I mean, I don’t remember a period of time without him—my kinder years, primary, secondary school—but it’s easier to think without scrutiny.
I’m not sure how long it takes, but soon enough I see he’s wearing the blue hoodie. Did he really leave it here or did he put it on
. . . to rub something in? His jeans are the worn ones, the ones where his knee pokes through one pant leg. Smirking, I notice he’s still wearing Ella’s Mickey Mouse watch. The one she insisted he use.
I try to form a memory but all I see are lined-up red plastic cups and me smashing them along a line with the ball of my heel. That’s all that comes to me. As I hit this memory, Liam opens his eyes. He’s breathing heavily, but what worries me are those blue eyes because they seem too wide. Those eyes have seen too much.
“Wha—” I clear my throat and taste something acidic, half-digested that makes my voice sound like a gurgle. I rinse out two cupfuls of water before I gulp down another two cupfuls. It’s only after the eagerness to wash out the vomit that I realize I have my boy shorts on and one of Paul’s business shirts.
And that’s it.
“What happened?” I say to Liam anyway, because I can’t very well ask “Why am I half-naked?” I’m lucky my body is thin enough to hide in this shirt. It would have been a different story otherwise.
He sits up and searches my face for a long time. His gaze is so still that a shiver runs down my spine. “Seems you had a party, you did.”
I’m suddenly self-conscious about my gaping shirt. I pull my ankles by my side and the ends of my shirt as tight around my chest as they will go. “Was this your idea?”
Liam points to my shirt—Paul’s shirt—and suppresses a scoff. “Nah, man. I came here at, ooh,” he checks his watch and clucks, “twelve-forty.”
“And I was . . . ”
“Well and truly partied out. I missed it all. I believe you were passed out and curled up with an empty Johnny Walker bottle.” He points over there. To Ella’s bed. Just as I guessed.
I allow myself to see through the bathroom door, trying to push through the pounding in my head. Ella’s bedroom has her ponies strewn everywhere, in a way she never leaves her precious toys.
The “why” of Liam’s presence occurs after I’ve looked away. I don’t want him seeing me look back to him. I’ve had enough shame for one day.
In Ella’s bedroom there’s the suspect Johnny Walker bottle on the floor. I clench my teeth, pushing away memories, pushing, pushing, until all I think about is running.
Looking at Paul in that picture with cascading curls is worse, though, so I refuse to look at the particular section of the wall. I can’t see happy. I took away happy and I want nothing to do with it now.
I concentrate on keeping my features blank so Liam can’t read any weaknesses. He’s about to suggest I hand Ella over to someone else to for a little while—I can sense it.
I remember that things changed about a week after what happened with Paul. The first week after a sudden, terrible death is open to all sorts of reactions, but for me there’s been a disconnect. The first week, I would stare right at something as plain as a glass, and thinking back now, I can recall from my fixture on that glass I didn’t even know I was doing it. I’d get asked what I was doing that morning and I’d think it was afternoon because, surely, I couldn’t feel that tired and ready to quit the day before midday. I didn’t even know I skipped meals because hours slipped away like soap in a shower, yet my body had never felt heavier to lug around than it did then, during the first week.
The first week has never ended for me.
There are “comforting” lines, like the Do you want to chat about it, Kates? that people repeat.
Well, what do I say to that? I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?
Then I can’t remember much.
What day is it?
What am I doing in my car?
Who am I?
I shouldn’t be surprised. I transformed from a kid, dependent on my mom and dad to being “Paul and Kates”.
Never have I been just me.
The things I have been washing away with Johnny come back, as they always do. Like they did before. I bet my daughter hates me. I hope my daughter doesn’t hate me.
Liam clears his throat. “Brent’s been asking ‘bout you again.”
Brent is Ella’s other uncle. Sort of. I grew up with Brent Dayle almost as much as his younger brother, Liam. I try counting the weeks, but it’s a pointless act. I can’t remember the months it’s been since we last caught up. I suck at being a person too, not just a Mom.
“I called once, I think. He didn’t answer.” One of Liam’s eyebrows perks. I gulp loudly, hating that look, which basically says, “I know you’re lying.” I add, “Or maybe I lost his number. Oh, I can’t keep track.”
“He misses you.”
“I, um, miss him.”
That’s odd for Liam to say. He’s never mentioned the way Brent feels about me. He must mean it in a friend-way. If it weren’t for the distance between Liam and I lately, I would have been confident that tone was of jealousy.
“Nancy?” I ask on a whim, because she should have been here.
“Busy, Kates.”
“Did something come up?”
“Yeah, she forgot she had other plans.”
“Nancy always uses a diary,” I say. She’s my friend, but even Liam would know that. I’m certain.
“Okay, okay.” He doesn’t move. His piercing gaze holds me still. It feels solid, as if, if I move, something will shatter. “You tell me where she is, smarty pants.”
Tension dissipates like it never existed. He’s the only one who can have this effect on me. As a kid, I used to stand in one spot for an hour if I had to, if Mom didn’t answer my questions.
“Tell me!”
“Well, let’s say you’re right. Your friend Nancy hates you and ditched.”
After a few seconds I say, “I don’t feel better. In case you’re wondering.”
Liam smirks. The rim separates us, though it feels like we’re touching.
Seconds pass.
I scowl, then say, “Get me that towel.”
He should be looking to the towel rack where I’m pointing, but he isn’t. Instead, he’s staring into my eyes again, making me wonder what’s going through his mind. His eyes are a shock. The bluest blue you can imagine. When he looks at me like this, I’ve always thought I must appear no different from a love-struck toddler staring at a new playmate. That blue is all I can see when he gives me full attention.
“No? Fine,” I say, when he doesn’t move to retrieve the towel.
“It’s not that.”
I’ve learnt from years of childhood trauma that begging with either Liam or Brent only leads to heightened humiliation. That’s why I grab a pink inflated butterfly toy and hold it between my legs. It’ll have to do.
Liam licks his lips and touches me with that gaze, tracing the swells and curves of my body without moving an inch. I’m feeling guilty not wanting him to stop. Wanting not just anyone, but him, Liam who has always been there for me, to take my thoughts away from the constant revulsion of death on my mind.
“Then?” I prompt.
Can he be any more painful? My cheeks must be bright and hot because they feel like they’re burning up.
Liam stands. He rustles his bronze hair from the front to the back. Liam’s tall, over six foot, but with me crouched in this bath, a pink inflated butterfly covering my boy shorts and shirt wrapped around my chest, I feel so much smaller than I usually do when I’m next to him.
Thumbs hooked in his pockets, Liam runs his tongue along his teeth, holding my gaze.
“Oh, please,” I say. “Be my guest.”
He turns the tap so it drips and he catches the wetness, then turns it off and brings his fingers to my face. I still, frozen with the intimacy, as he rubs along my bottom lip. My lip moves with his finger trailing down, then flops back to normal as he rubs a few times to the right of my mouth.
I hope he didn’t notice. Because my face ju
st warmed up. In fact, it’s emitting the same kind of heat as if I were inches from a heater on full blast. My heart plays along, deciding now is the right time to remind me it’s beating, when my surroundings are quiet and tame otherwise.
Jesus.
“Don’t even try the ‘You had something there’ because I wouldn’t fall for a one-liner from you,” I say. “Ever.”
“Well.” Liam purses his lips to hold back a laugh. “That’s bad luck, because you actually had some leftover vomit from when I cleaned you up.”
This processes quickly. I was passed out and Liam could do whatever he wanted with my half-naked body and he cleaned up my throw up. How fantastic. I’ll never live this down. But still, that was seriously amazing of him, so I say, “Thank you, really.”
“Then come here.”
I scoot closer and he grabs a washcloth to pad down my lip and cheek. He starts rubbing further down to my jaw, so I tilt my head back and to the side, my neck at his mercy, and he continues to massage the wet cloth in circles down my jaw and over the part of my neck I’ve always found to be provocative. I’m not exposing anything suggestive, but the parts where my collarbones meet and to their sides, make Liam’s hands rubbing in circles feel like an erotic massage.
Really, he’s wiping my sick mess from me, but it feels too sensual, so I have to wonder if he’s doing this for my benefit.
Later, when he’s done, Liam looks around and reaches to the floor outside of the bath. He stands with a clump of clothes. “Here.”
“You picked out my clothes?”
Liam wets his lips, thinks. He leans forwards, resting his forearms on the rim again, and looks down to my feet. The puffy bath cushion still thankfully hides my boy shorts from his eyes. His fresh scent fills my lungs as I try to hide my gasp from his proximity. He’s too close. I shouldn’t be able to make out the strands of his eyelashes.
“These were in a pile just outside your closet.”
He isn’t talking about my everyday closet, because I don’t have one. I’ve been living out of suitcases in the spare bedroom for months. He’s been inside the master bedroom.
Precise Page 2
