Precise (Pulling Me Under)

by Rebecca Berto

  I’d stop at traffic lights, and it began. An ache would twist my chest. It was impossible to concentrate with the cars so still and my thoughts banging in my head. But if I closed my eyes, images of Mom slapping me again and kicking us out, would stop my heart for a moment. I’d panic it had been too long without a heartbeat. I’d die in that whole second that seemed to take a minute.

  But there were unexplainable times. I’d cup my belly. I was holding life. Finally, I had a purpose. I am Paul’s wife and this baby’s parent. Then I’d have to squeeze my eyes to block the injection of happiness from taking over. You never know what could happen.

  Liam arrives, slipping to the middle of the bench in one slide. He clicks his tongue at me by way of saying hi, and skips to, “What’s up?”

  “How’s the internship going? Haven’t been fired yet for showing up hungover?”

  Liam punches my shoulder with girly weakness, giving me a look that tells me no one in the world could be more pleased with themselves than my best friend in front of me. Under the fluorescent light, his eyes are a deep blue, and the natural bronze highlights top off the movie-star-shoot moment.

  One of Liam’s eyes twitch. He’s deep in thought, his gaze trained on me as I twist away, munching on a french fry and then another five or ten in one mouthful. I don’t dare look. Instead, I’m guzzling my cup of Coke.

  “If you’re asking about trivial things like how I’m enjoying my internship when I’ve seen you butt naked in my shower, then something is seriously up—good or bad.”

  “Don’t make this sexual, Liam. I still maintain I locked that door, and no, I couldn’t wait to get home because I had mud caked up to my eye balls from playing on the—”

  “Excuses.”

  I fold my arms into each other. It’s an act, though. I can’t remember why I came here and the warm feeling inside makes me realize I shouldn’t think too hard.

  “You’re doing it again,” he says. Liam swallows the bite from his burger and points the rest of it at me. “I’m guessing this is bad news, because good news and you’d be smiling, as grumpy as you are. It’s Rochelle, right?”

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “This is why I married Paul and not you.”

  “Enough with the ridiculousness,” he says. Obviously, he notices my not-so-subtle, and childish attempts to change the subject. “I know for a fact you married Paul for love—your words—so what’s happened?” He removes his burger from my face, bites into it and chews it down, resuming not a second later. “And I’ll bug you ‘til you say what you want to say. You can bet your naked butt on that.”

  I don’t have time to blush. A series of anger, confusion, and consideration flush through me. Liam could go on and on. He puts up with me because I put up with him, but secretly we both revel in our stupidness.

  And like that, just how I whispered to him I kissed this boy called Paul Anselin, and how I agreed to try our first Marlboro together, the words come easily. “I’m pregnant.”

  If this isn’t a Kodak moment, I’m not sure what is. Liam’s burger flops out of his hand and slaps open, mustard down, sticking to the table. He’s staring without looking at me, those blue eyes swimming in what seems like a cocktail of shock and something else.

  “So … not what I had in mind. Congratu-fucking-lations!”

  “Thanks.”

  “What did Paul say?”

  “Do you mean what did my mom say?”

  Liam waves his hand in the air. “Yeah, about that. How did she take it? She loves you for the first time in twenty-two years, right?”

  “She still has it in for me.”

  “You can’t tell me your own mom, even as ‘crazy’ as you say she is, hasn’t congratulated you over the big grandparent news.”

  “Liam—she doesn’t know.”

  He bites his lip and tears away. “Right,” he mumbles.

  We sit on this conundrum. The one where we both know what not to mention without so much as a warning glare.

  I know what it’s like to grow up with regret. If I wasn’t born, Mom wouldn’t know what it feels like walking around with the burden of her dead babies draped over her shoulders. She’d be as happy as she is in photos from years ago when it was just her and Dad and big frizzy hair, world tours, and smooching up to her doggy.

  “Kates?”

  I look up. Liam’s tapped me on the shoulder, now curling around to check out my face under my wavy, messed hair that has slid in the way. I grab my elastic and pile my hair on top of my head. When it’s up, cool air licks the baby hairs at the back of my neck.

  Returning my gaze to Liam, my head feels lighter. Less of a bowling ball, threatening to crush me into myself.

  “I’m keeping it,” I whisper, still lost in his eyes. “I want to keep it,” I say again.

  I jiggle my head furiously too. I want to keep him or her. I never want to sleep again so I can show off to Paul how I can make our little baby grow in me. Awful people wouldn’t be able to do that, right?

  For a moment, I think the fries will come up, but something worse happens instead. I’ve become so accustomed to feeling like a hot and cold puking mess that I realize I’ve confused my trepidation.

  “Don’t prove it to me. Have faith in your mom. She wants the best. I’ve seen it. Tell her the truth, if only to just tell someone you’re having a little thing with your kid of a husband, Paul. She’ll be thrilled after everything.

  “You just think she’ll be jealous,” Liam says softer than before. He runs a hand down his hair, tilts his head at me suddenly. That look is not good. “Why would you even consider letting the baby go?”

  “I haven’t!” I say too quickly.

  He leaves his head cocked, waiting for me to say that bit extra.

  “Swear it on Paul’s life, my life—your life—that I’ve never considered getting rid of the baby.”

  I have a horrible, acidic taste in my mouth at those words, which doesn’t subside even after I swallow. I sip at my Coke instead. I flop my hands on the table, the backs of them touching the surface and the palm cradling the air, as if waiting to catch the golden answer.

  Since nothing comes, I say, “I’m scared that I won’t be good enough.” I should stop there but I don’t. Talking to Liam is as natural as if I were talking to my reflection in a mirror. “That twenty-two is too young to be a mother. That people look at Paul and me and think we were a drunken mistake because we’re young—how Mom still sees us. That I am stupid for thinking I’ve got it good, because I’m selfish and I don’t deserve good. That I’m petrified to admit I don’t know how to hold my baby. Let alone how to keep him or her calm.” I squeeze my eyes and push away the shrieking voice in my head. “That it doesn’t matter how I love nothing more in this world than my unborn baby because if my mom doesn’t think I can do it, then maybe it doesn’t matter about love.”

  Liam balls up his fists, his face trembling and as red as my ketchup. Exhaling, his veins seem to slide back into place under his skin. His blood pressure must drop because the almost-ready-to-explode tomato look is less obvious, too.

  “I think worrying about keeping everyone else happy will always get you in trouble,” Liam says.

  Chapter Three

  Dad’s leaning back in his recliner watching a documentary as I step into the living room. I think about those old sketches of logos and teddies and dresses on my desk and the awards Mom will never acknowledge, because it might get my mind off my heart in my throat, my pulse throbbing at my temples and analyzing if I’m walking with my back too straight.

  I sigh. Mom isn’t on the other sofa, not anywhere …

  “I added extra cocoa, Logan,” Mom’s voice carries around the corner, “in case you—”

  She sees me. The pleasing thought smeared across her face dissolves.

  Without acknowledging Dad, she turns, heading back to the kitchen with a cup in each hand. “I’ll get you some tea.”

  How does she expect to balance three mugs on
her way back? We don’t need to add any more awkwardness or possible disaster to this upcoming conversation.

  “I’m too hot for tea.”

  Mom sighs, relieved, and strides over to the end table between her and Dad’s recliners. I wonder about her. Does she offer me tea for social etiquette? Does she mean anything she says or is it all to calm me?

  I take the other recliner—first mistake. Mom is on the other side with Dad, which leaves two empty spots and a whole lot of space between them and me. I swallow my fears but they remain stuck, gluing my lips sealed. I’m dried out.

  A cup of tea would moisten my lips and give my fidgeting hands something to do right about now.

  “I want to, um,” I start, calculating the exact inches between me and my parents. “You know,” I motion with my hands. Nothing. Time happens, it slows down, reminding me of every second, waiting, no words, come on, nothing.

  But, there in our faces, are two dogs going at it as if they were the last two of their kind alive. “To talk about this TV situation. It’s utterly ridiculous you can tell Dad what to wear and what days he can see his mates, Mom, but you can’t control that little remote?”

  So I’m a coward. Did I actually expect a platter of chocolate-dipped strawberries and touchy-feely hands on my belly? If Mom hadn’t had several baby showers for my brothers and sisters that aren’t alive today because of how I ruined her, perhaps I’d get that reception. But since I know I killed them by being a hell pregnancy and birth, I don’t deserve that.

  As I think this, it doesn’t make scientific sense that I’m personally responsible, but like all fears, rationality has nothing to do with it. This is pretty much innate knowledge for me.

  Mom’s hands are frozen, cupping the tea with the steam curling up her chin.

  “Kates, darling,” Dad drawls, all smiles, “you know there are some things a man will never relinquish to his wife,” and he taps his forehead with the remote as proof.

  A moment later, he’s watching a close-up of the humping dogs with a face that should only ever be used when studying for an algebra test.

  Mom drops her mug above the coaster, but it’s too high. The crash-like sound is twice as loud as it should be. She leaves her cup, and as I watch the swirls of steam in a trance, something appears at my side.

  “Katie?” Mom repeats.

  “Sorry, I’m tired, I think.”

  “Symptom,” she mumbles. “You’ve been worried about this situation too?” The smile trying to push its way through her stone expression? It’s acid. “Good, because I want you to know I have money, if that’s your problem.”

  “We haven’t even discussed this ‘problem’, Mom.”

  She gives me a bored, or disgusted, look. Either way, it was worth a shot. But I failed.

  “The expenses won’t come until many months from now. I don’t think Paul and I will have any trouble before the due date.”

  Mom’s look twists into a ball when something clicks. “Well, isn’t this quite the predicament. If you had just listened to me for once in your life, you’d know better. I guess I can cancel my tea and cake date with my sister to take you to the doctor. He can explain the proced—”

  I cut her off with a crumpled ‘stop’ gesture. I mean to tell her to stop, to explain, to erase. I mean to ask her so many different things. I don’t know which message my body language conveys.

  I am glad for one thing, and that is I stopped her saying what procedure she meant. We both know she’s trying to convince me to have an abortion to save this ‘poor baby’ from my existence, but hearing the words aloud is insufferable.

  Standing up, I do a once over my dress, patting down the ends, and as I picture an ideal moment, I clear my throat. Dad turns to me, Mom’s staring me down, and the English language is a pile of figures behind my lips.

  The room, although still, quavers. Walls are glass planes, exploding into shards that pierce me and everything else in my radius. The light hanging from the ceiling is white hot—the sun—complete with obliterating heat melting who I am into a blob.

  I close my eyes and fan out my fingers to my temples, imagining my husband is rubbing the small of my back. “Paul and I are having a baby.”

  It feels like a sin to admit it.

  Since I haven’t a clue how I should look—ashamed? thrilled?—or how to stand with these jelly legs that are sure to collapse if I confirm it by opening my eyes, I stay standing like this: fingers fanning either side of my head, eyes clenched.

  I count to six before hands embrace me, holding me to a chest, my head pressed to the nape of a neck with notes of woody aftershave.

  “Darling,” Dad whispers, holding me back to seeing distance.

  Looking at my dad, the tension climbing up my chest releases and tears pool in my eyes, one, two, dribbling down my nose. His reaction is similar, though watered down. His eyes are red and he has a smile only kids seem to wear before they learn this black and white world has every awful imaginable shade of color.

  “Oh, darling,” he repeats. “Why did you wait so long? Come here.” He grabs me back. We hug for three seconds before Mom sidesteps into view.

  She wants to be noticed, no doubt.

  Her expression is a mixture of thoughts and anger—which doesn’t say much. Both Dad and I in tears and hugging is a rare occasion.

  “You tell me when you’re ready,” Dad says, clicking off the TV with the remote. “I’ll leave you ladies to your lady business. Just call me when you’re ready to break out the mocktails.”

  With Dad gone, I remember my fingers. They’ve gone haywire, adjusting my dress hem with the paranoia of someone high on weed.

  I grab Dad’s cappuccino. The powder coated on top has killed the froth but it looks sweet and chocolatey and creamy.

  “I can tell you want to talk to me about this.” Mom leeches back to my side.

  In her presence, I shrink and the air expands, so this room is too dense to breathe, even if I could.

  The sound that comes from my mouth sounds like the squeak of little Katie when her mom would back her up in a corner with a wooden spoon.

  I had meant to laugh, but some things don’t change around Mom. I try a smile, which melts into a frown. Finally, the only thing that turns out how it’s meant to is a gulp of air sucked down, though that’s ragged. As if I’m scared to accidentally portray an act of defiance with a full, puffed-out chest.

  Mom licks her lips and leans closer to study my face. “You’re not coping, are you?” She reaches out her clammy hand to grip my cheek. Then she presses down on my shoulder until I buckle and collapse in Dad’s recliner. She sits in her original spot, leaning over the end table between us.

  “My old gyno’s practice is still running and I think I can get an appointment there ASAP with my connections.” She takes a breath. “See, it’s too easy to overlook problems during pregnancy when you’re stupid like you are.

  “As many as half of pregnancies don’t make it, many women suffer postpartum depression …” She tears her face away, hidden in a shadow. That topic is too close to home. “That can last forever. Someone as defiant as you are would surely raise a bratty child. I’d have to step in to prevent you ruining your poor child’s life.”

  She places her hands on her thighs. “And then there are the embarrassing issues you’d raise such the fact you can’t even buy your own place, you don’t have enough money to raise a baby, and you pretend everything’s fine when you haven’t got a clue.” She expels pent up air. “There are just so many more issues you won’t think about at your age and when you’re not set up for this thing. Babies are more hard work and emotionally taxing than they are the happy times you see in movies. Do this baby a favor and don’t let yourself ruin another person’s life as you have mine.”

  She pats me on the shoulder and says, “This will not go wrong for the baby like I endured with you.”

  In not so many words, she’s promising I will end up doing whatever I please but it won’t mat
ter because she’ll have control of my mind and Paul’s and my baby anyway.

  Mom picks up Dad’s mug, her mug and a lone candy wrapper from the end table before I find my voice.

  Even then, I only whisper, “I would die before you take my baby.”

  No one hears me.

  Chapter Four

  For a year and a half I’ve thought about the day when my mom first tried to persuade me to terminate my baby Ella’s life. I’d be lying if I said it was the only time I felt stupid for wanting a baby to care for. That I do need to be on this planet because at least one person’s life depends on me. That train of thought seems like penance at times.

  Paul took me out for mocktails, then amped up his hours at work, and took a second job. We pulled enough together to buy a little townhouse in a suburb far out of the city.

  Today, it’s a cloudy-blue-sky kind of day—just right for us to take ten-month-old Ella to the park.

  “Stroll Saturdays?” Paul winks at Ella.

  She makes bubbles with her lips as she does when she gets excited. “Dada! Dada!”

  “Stroll Saturdays?” he asks again, shaking her rattle. She grabs at the air, screeching “Dada!” so high that she could give opera singers a run for their money.

  I stand behind Paul and stick my hands down his front pockets. Feeling the shape of his back, memories of pre-baby us flood my mind, in bed, sleeping, resting, and my eyes weigh heavy. I dig deeper into Paul’s pockets, drawing his butt against my hips and his shoulder to my cheek.

  “Ka-ates,” Paul sing songs. He pulls me in to him by my wrists and pecks me on the lips. Eyes still shut, his voice is my hypnotist, leading me to follow his command.

  However, I give in to the day, and snap my eyes open. Paul jumps back.

  Laughing at him I crouch by Ella and ask, “Park-park?”