I’m aware my heels clank on the tiles once I enter the living room, but I don’t bother to conceal anything. That is past me.
I need to walk, clear my head. I concede. I never used to be the type who had the urge to punch something or someone when mad, but it’s somehow who I am these days. I need to get out before I do something so stupid.
I find the drink I left behind before our chat and gulp down the rest of it in one go. As it burns, I curse silently how much I hate it, and it feels good to hate something other than me.
As I pick up my bag from beside the drawers, I see Dad is on the floor, tickling Ella. His hands freeze when we lock eyes. I’m the first to draw my eyes away.
Someone at waist level tugs my dress just before I open the front door. Ella is staring up at me with big eyes, like Puss in Boots from Shrek. Something about her vulnerability catches a feeling in my throat. It suddenly hurts, a lot. When I swallow, the chlorine sensation burns again. At half my height in an A-line dress, fluffy lace socks and with a frown wobbling from her chin, I’m frozen by my daughter’s needs.
Ella mouths “Mommy” but no words come out. Perhaps she can’t talk without bursting into tears.
I pat her head, fingering a ringlet. As soon as I smile, and start saying, “Mommy needs a—” she throws her arms around me.
Again, chlorine mixes with the scent of her soap wash from when we played bubble bath earlier. She’s so tight against my chest as I crouch by her that I can feel her ribs. I squeeze, but it’s not as tight as her death grip. My head is spinning with the toxic chlorine in the air. Pulling away from Ella feels like letting her slip off the edge of a cliff, but anger is pooling in my fists and I can’t bear to hurt her.
She squeezes tight, relaxes, tight, relaxes. I’m still here, I think, but she doesn’t know that. Her hug reminds me of squishing a milk carton—trying to squeeze out every drop.
A blonde ringlet flings in front of my nose and her watermelon shampoo fills the air I suck in. But I’m really seeing, thinking, smelling blonde, curls, blonde, curls.
The flashback pulls me in faster than I can pull my mind out.
Paul is pale, lavender eyelids, lying by us on the floor of my parents’ house. His eyes are slits, much thinner than a cat’s. Knives begin to tear at my skin, pulling my insides out.
Head down, I hear the front door slam after me by the time I realize I let Ella slip off that cliff without so much as a goodbye, and I’m heading that way myself.
I’m not sure where I will go but I’ll sort that out somehow. I shouldn’t have bothered trying tonight just for Mom. Look what it did.
I pull my cardigan from my bag when the wind bites at my skin, forming goose bumps. I wrap the ends around the mid-section of my dress.
My car sits beside the driveway. I contemplate going back, imagining Ella’s big, sad eyes, but my feet won’t let me. Minutes later and I’ve kicked off my heels and unpinned the hairdo inspired by an old magazine Ella found at home. I don’t deserve to be made up like this.
I drive and drive, my windows low. The winter chill is so cold it stings my bare arms and coats my open chest. I look to the cardigan I threw off as soon as I became too comfortable—it’s now on the passenger’s seat. I think I’ve looked there half a dozen times. I repeat, You must not feel comfortable, whilst driving in the dark. It’s too easy to recall Paul’s slit-like eyes rolling back when I’m not shivering.
The silhouettes of houses and traffic lights change to long windy roads and street signs that point to different towns across the state. Now that the stars are brighter where the city lights don’t reach, and there is looming bushland ahead, there’s less commotion to keep me occupied.
My fingers hover over the window button, but I snatch them back moments before they touch. I need to keep thinking about being cold.
Mom was so vulnerable in our old bedroom before. That’s what I keep seeing: her, heaved over, quiet, so unlike herself.
I feel a stir in my chest. Although I wheeze, cough too, the pressure settles. Snickering, I pull Johnny from under my seat because fuck everything and I need something.
We accompany each other as the bushes thicken, signs become obsolete, and everything blurs. A sign indicates I left Melbourne fifty kilometers ago, so I decide it’s about time I turn back.
My phone goes off when I’m five minutes from Mom’s party. Gee, does she have cameras installed here? I twist in my seat. Teeth gritted, windows unable to go further down, I silence the call.
She’s just earned herself a bit more waiting: a slight detour from her damn party.
It goes off again as I drive down a side street. One new message. I ignore that, too.
It seems familiar: telltale nature-strip trees, earthy paint colors, and houses with outlandish front yards appear.
It’s only now that I see them sway. There’s one house nearby that Ella waits for to point out as I drive by and we laugh at how silly all the dozen garden gnomes look lined up, but when I realize where it is, I’ve already passed it. Feeling agitated, my fingers are buzzing again and drawn to Johnny.
The rumble of voices starts to sound—giggles, deep voices, and the like. It surfaces some old memories of Saturday night house parties from my teenage years. In fact, the music that rumbles through my car is identical.
Bitch. Her son-in-law must be thrilled from “up there”. What a fantastic party. A boring one wouldn’t have satisfied, huh? I drive in the direction of the music, praying she hasn’t sunk this low. I hope I’m wrong.
Dizziness stirs in my head, and I gulp, realizing I’ve spent too much time with my bottle of Johnny while also behind the wheel.
I kill the car by the curb not a moment later, retrieving my heels from where they’d been rolling near my feet. I hate people like me. If Liam had been here, he’d have stopped me earlier. If only he didn’t smother me, I might actually like it because it’d mean he cares.
Thank God he’s not here. I hate the idea of admitting he’s right. And thank God I haven’t harmed anyone.
Way to go, Katie! You’re real responsible.
Dispersed cars, balloons and signs in rainbow colors stand out the suspect house like a Daewoo in a Ferrari showroom. I step out of my car and my heels catch on the rough surface of the road, courtesy of my inability to walk on pinpricks.
As I cross the road to the musical house, the beat rumbling drowns out the clinks of my heels. There is a littering of cars that gather over the yard and surrounding area.
If I hadn’t drunk so much, I would have realized immediately that this isn’t my parents’ house, but, yes, I’m drunk. There. I thought it.
I turn to leave but one of the cars parked meters from the house stops me. I squint to read the registration plate: brentd. The personalized plate is unmistakable; Brent Dayle has carried it down from his first car.
The double-story rendered house in front of me is bold in its own way, not smothering the other properties on the street but clearly a standout. A double garage, two thick pillars stretching both levels, and moist, muddy earth. No plants.
Shaking my head, I tell myself how stupid I am for coming here. What if I’m seen? I don’t want him to know I’m here.
Do I care to see Brent? Hardly. It’s not anything he’s done.
All I know is that inside the backyard with a boisterous crowd is the last place I want to be. A suffocating group of people I don’t know, all the questions . . .
I dash back to my car, hearing sounds and ignoring them in a panic to get away. My breath wheezes because the last time I ran, it was to catch the train to work. It’s an enormous effort not to trip.
The growing murmur I heard seconds ago clearly should have sent me hiding, but it didn’t click. Now, I hear my name as a voice bellows across the street, “Ka—ates!”
I
turn, knowing my escape plan is practically burned to a crisp. Brent mutters something into his phone and puts it in his pocket.
The outline of his figure appears as he steps over the threshold at the front door. The vibrating music is loud enough to match the thuds of my heart. I don’t have time to hide, or anything equally as stupid.
He skips every other step and flashes a smile. Reluctantly, I move out of the middle of the road and walk to him.
“My girl . . . ” Brent is beaming so his pearl-white teeth show. “Far out, it’s been ages. Come here!” A warm tingle spreads through my body. Anxiety? Excitement? No, the fortification in its next stage, probably.
Although I drag my feet, he still crosses the distance quickly. He stops inches from my face and laughs when I flinch. Both Dayle brothers are equally capable of stirring me.
“How have you been, Kates?”
I tilt my head backwards in an attempt to create a distance between us, try to read his expression. “Good, Brent.” Lie. “And pretty surprised to see you in the area.”
“Well, an old friend chose to call me tonight, after years. You practically saved me from awkward conversation.” He beams, then adds, “Thanks.”
“Oh, this isn’t your party, then?” Is it a friend’s?
His eyes wander for a moment, back to the house. “No, I am celebrating tonight. It’s a late sort of gathering, joint with my mate. Just had a call and came out here to hear a word.”
“Happy birthday.” Noticing his jittery movements, I add, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Sure. What takes you to this part of town?”
“Mom’s birthday—”
“Damn! Rochelle’s party. Liam’s at that, isn’t he?” I nod as he responds, “Damn, damn. My mate and I already organized this thing tonight, and well, I couldn’t be a no-show.”
“No worries.”
“Tell Rochelle I’ll visit soon. I feel terrible.”
“You don’t need to explain. She can wait. She’s having a ball celebrating, actually.”
“Oh, now I feel really bad.”
“You’re such a suck. She’d love to have you and Liam as her biological sons.”
Brent smiles.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Like I said, it’s nothing. Come inside. See what you’re missing out on,” he tells me.
“Can’t, I . . . I need to get back.”
“Give them a call. Don’t be a party pooper.”
“You know my mom. She’ll go nuts. She already thinks I’m irresponsible, despite the fact that I’m twenty-nine.” It’s a good line. Believable.
He makes a pout-like frown with his mouth. “What about me? It’s my birthday too.” He pauses as if waiting for my decision to change. “You’ve spent some time there, and I’d really love if you could come in with me. I won’t leave you. I’ll be with you the whole time. It would mean a lot to me.”
Unable to turn down a plea like that, I mumble: “Mmm.”
“Kates,” he taps me on the arm and lowers his eyes to mine. “Please.” He takes my hand and plants a firm kiss on my cheek. “I doubt you’re that eager to get back anyway. I’ll give her a good excuse. Don’t worry.”
“Brent . . . ” What can I say? His eagerness breaks even my stone emotions.
My decision not to return isn’t about Brent celebrating his birthday any more than tonight is about Mom having a problem with me drinking, or Liam suffocating me with his concern.
Three reasons prevent from me going back to Mom’s party.
Mom would remind me I wasn’t good enough. Paul.
Liam would smother me. Why does he care so much? Paul.
Ella. Mine and Paul’s.
Still, it’s not good enough to use weak excuses. I need to go back and see if I can convince Mom I’m stable, calm, reliable.
“Want to come?”
“Uh . . . ”
On cue, my phone rings. Mom again. I answer, torn between escaping her and escaping Brent. What am I going to do?
“Katie, Katie. Are you coming back?”
“Of course.” I grit my teeth, and Brent notices. I don’t try to hide it. “Just—clearing my head.”
“Oh. That’s good. I thought you weren’t coming back because you were mad. About me bringing up Paul and your mothering.”
Oh, Mom. She’s my ever-reliable source of guilt. As if I don’t have enough of that from Molten Man. “Don’t worry. You were right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Before continuing, I sweeten up my tone. “You always are.”
“Thank you. It’s a shame you lose your temper too quickly. You know, it might be an idea if . . . ” but Mom trails off and doesn’t finish the thought. She doesn’t have to.
“Well, see you later. Bye.”
While I tuck my phone away in my bag, Brent says, “That bad, huh?”
I let out a sigh. He’s so much easier to handle than Mom. “Yep. You’re lucky she isn’t related to you.”
He bites his lip and nods. “You’re lucky Liam’s not related to you.”
“Why?” I say, and realize afterward that he was just turning my statement back on me. I wasn’t meant to embarrass myself and reply.
Brent puts a finger to his mouth and hums. “If you come inside, I can tell you.”
“I can’t. Really.”
“So you don’t want to know about Liam?”
Know what? How would Brent know about the Ella-Mom issue? As far as my shabby memory goes, he hasn’t had much contact with the family lately, so it wouldn’t be that. Too busy with work, I think I heard?
Suddenly, my heart drops. It can’t be. This thing about Liam could be worse. Much, much worse. Because I’m in love with Paul, and I do not want to know if Liam is beginning to love me. I can’t. It’s wrong. Sick. They were buddies too.
Now, I’m consumed. I can’t shake the image of Liam. Shit.
My mind comes back, and I’m no longer outside the front door. Brent is pulling me inside, mumbling something like, “Too cold.”
Brent grasps Katie’s fingers. He wouldn’t usually be so bold, but he’s had a beer to loosen him up, so it doesn’t feel weird to touch her. He pats his pocket with his free hand, saying a silent thank you to the old friend who’d called a moment ago. The guy hadn’t spoken to Brent in years, and what luck to ring . . . and lead him to Katie.
This is a sign. It’s his time to make amends for not being there for her since Paul’s tragic death.
Walking through the front room, Brent hears the cheers and music from the backyard where the party is. He turns to say something to Katie, but shuts his mouth. He can’t say a typical “You’re looking good”, or “What have you been up to?” because both seem inappropriate. Instead, Brent says, “Coincidence I met you out front, hey?”
“I know.”
He nods, pleased to have Katie here. The little sister he hasn’t seen in too long. “And Rochelle is having . . . fun?”
Katie stares at ornaments as they walk through the house, but seems worlds farther away as she takes in the tall ceilings and odd shapes. She looks at a set of portraits on the wall and she scoffs.
She says, “Yes,” and it takes Brent a moment to realize she is answering him.
He heads toward the kitchen, where the backdoor to the party opens just behind. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. She looks like she’s been stranded on a foodless island for weeks, and slept on a bed of rocks. After what she would have had to deal with, he couldn’t blame her. Brent gulps and the saliva feels thick and lumpy.
The lumpy feeling reminds him of his first mistake for the night. His birthday was three weeks ago. This party isn�
�t a joint one with his mate—Tim Johnston is the actual party man. A pang of guilt fills him when he thinks of the lie he told her. He focuses on that back door again, which suddenly feels impossibly far.
The Birthday Lie was the only way to invite her in. The only way. She’s so . . . cut off. Odd.
Her old radiance is a figment of his imagination. Gray skin cases her body, and he wonders if the girl he grew up with is still behind her lost, wandering eyes.
Originally, bringing her in to Tim’s party had sounded like a way to distract her from whatever plagued her. Now, Brent feels stupid.
To try and make the best of the situation, he runs through his friends. Marco? She’ll get along well with him. He’s a weird bloke, but reserved, and perhaps that’d make her feel like she has company. Cooper? Brent would keep her away from him. God, Brent couldn’t stand him for too long. Had he thought his idea through, sleazy Cooper in mind, he definitely would have taken her for a walk outside instead.
He runs through anything else he can offer her. Drinks. Show her where the facilities are. He thinks again, running ideas past of how to make her happy.
Katie says, “Who’s the other guy?” She releases her hand from Brent’s and twists her hair. “The birthday guy, I mean. Who is this joint party with?”
“Tim.”
That’s when Brent realizes why he feels odd. It’s the look in Katie’s eyes. The look of a stranger staring at him through the eyes of his lifelong friend. As if it’s the shape of the person he’s known all his life, but the soul of a stranger.
I’m not sure I want to know what she’s thinking.
Brent stops at the sliding door and holds his hand out.
“Thanks, sir,” she says, and grasps the wall so her fingers go white. She steps down to the pavement slowly.
He laughs in a meek way that could be appropriate if she was serious or not. He should have noticed she was tipsy before, but he’s been drinking himself.
Pulling Me Under Page 5
