Pulling Me Under

by Rebecca Berto

  Finally, my lips part to speak but he beats me to it, saying, “We need to talk.”

  He steps forward so if I were to reach, I might be able to touch his chest.

  “You don’t mean ‘fight’, do you?”

  Rightfully so, Liam rolls his eyes at my childish reply. “It shouldn’t have to be like that. You wouldn’t go chopping off your toes just because they caused you to trip over. You’d rub and rest them to make them feel better.”

  I scoff and don’t try to suppress it. “We aren’t toes.”

  “No, you’re right. We’re best friends.”

  I find myself biting my lip and about to flick my hair before I stop my fidgeting in time. Best not look like a nervous schoolgirl. It’s bad enough I’m clutching the Elly doll to my chest. But that’s what he does to me. I feel everything with him. I’m just waiting to feel the sinking, heavy feeling in my eyes—the need to cry. Then I’ll know he’s inhuman. He’ll be my miracle if he can make me get back to that sort of state, pre-death.

  “Look, hear me out,” he says. “I know I’ve been wrong. I’m seeing how ignorant I can be. I need to understand how you feel, not how I think you should. All these jokes and minding my own business—you aren’t worth losing because of my stubbornness.” Liam steps in again and my mind replays his perfume, his scent, rushing into the air I breathe, and settling inside me.

  When I take a slow, deep breath, it sounds like I’m drawing air through a cloth. “Okay.”

  He dips his head, searching my eyes. God, they’re so blue. Sky blue, and full of all the same feelings as when you dip your head back and take in the big, endless sky above.

  I draw in another breath. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  “I won’t ask how you’ve been feeling. I’ll let you begin on the proviso I don’t hear ‘nothing’ mentioned,” Liam says. I don’t know why he says this. There are no giveaways around his living room as to his thoughts or mood. He leaves his drapes down and has flicked on any artificial source of light. We sit with distance between each other.

  Before, on the way here, he drove us in his Volkswagen with the air conditioner on so high I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering, though he didn’t seem to notice. His face was stiff. I didn’t dare ask him to turn it off. I just shivered as quietly as I could manage.

  “I dislike my mother,” I say, sitting straight. I want to pat myself on the back. I’m sharing my feelings. Isn’t this a huge step? “She’s pushy and shallow.”

  “Standard,” he says, dryly.

  I pick up a nearby cushion and poke it so Liam doesn’t see the sunken look on my face. “So?”

  “Go on. Something different.”

  All right, how does this sound? “The most riveting news I found out was just how un-me I am when I’m drunk. I joke, laugh, and converse well. Basically, you’d be very impressed by my range of emotions.”

  Liam doesn’t react as comically as I expect. Why am I failing so miserably? This is the best I can do. Grr, what’s his problem? I thought enough time had passed for our fights to subside into the we-can-make-fun-of-ourselves pile.

  “Um . . . . ” He clears his throat. “What’s this business about your drunken escapades?”

  Liam’s voice triggers my body to violate me. My heart stammers. His voice is an invitation, one I cannot decline. His voice is liquid gold, melting my steel organs. It’s smooth, rich, powerful.

  “I realized I left Mom’s seventieth party because of an argument, then somehow ran into your brother,” I say. My mouth itches to open, talk, share something, and the part of me with restraint isn’t strong enough to stop it. Continuing, I say, “Ended up at a stranger’s party, a park, and then woke up in a random bed.”

  “What?” he splutters. His knee jerks in response and knocks the coffee table, spilling the milk from our cappuccinos.

  “There. Now you’re pretty much as up to date as I am.” I play up the “pretty much” almost beyond the truth, but at least I’m saying what I can.

  He reaches his hand to mine. Before I can withdraw, there’s an immense pressure swallowing my hands. I’m cold. My next gulp of air feels like swallowing a rock.

  Liam shudders. His blue eyes are as concerned as a parent nursing their sick child. He’s hardly a monster, but my body flushes instinctively nonetheless. He notices me stiffen and pulls back.

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I won’t do it again,” he mumbles.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” I pant, “I’m . . . ” I lower my voice, “fucking scared.” There I go: talking and talking. I’ll empty myself out if I’m not careful. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I feel stupid talking.

  “I’m here to listen,” Liam says.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

  “I am crazy.”

  He lays out his hands on his thighs. His legs are tensed and look like I’d hurt my fist if I punched them, but I want to punch something, and touch him. His hands are laying face up. They are unmoving, visible. His eyes are dropped to his lap. Nothing to hide.

  I haven’t seen him so edgy in longer than I can remember. I want to pull at his face and make him look at me. I’ll hold onto his shoulders and assess his face, the eyes specifically. Maybe he’s mad. His cheeks seem red, but perhaps that’s my imagination.

  No. Bad idea. Lucky I didn’t do anything so brash. I’m not ready for him to read me back.

  As much as I want to be comforting to Liam, I don’t know what to do. Is asking for a hug inappropriate? Will I look insensitive if I pat him on the back?

  “I know of someone called Madison.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, shifting here, there, on Liam’s couch.

  “Madison. She’s a godsend . . . apparently.”

  I nod for effect. He must be in his own world, because I haven’t heard of a “Madison” woman, nor can I guess what she does.

  I force myself to say, “I have no idea what you are on about.”

  “So the godsend part may have been something I quoted from someone else. Nonetheless, she is still meant to be great.”

  I don’t bother acting like I catch onto any of his ramblings. Liam’s taunting abilities are acquired from years of school experience and I’m not about to challenge his skill now. My inkling, anyway, is he needs some time to explain this. He must sense my awkwardness. The hamster wheels in my mind are spinning, but this still isn’t making sense.

  He’s stalling. Thinking about what needs this kind of lead-up sends a chill down my spine.

  “She’s in that specialist stream,” he adds.

  Rather than adding to his ramblings, I remain silent.

  He shifts his weight onto his other leg and sips his cappuccino out of a mug that jokes about comparisons between women and guns. He drops the weighty mug onto the wooden coffee table. It ends up slipping out of his grip. The froth bubbles at the top, spills over the sides.

  Liam clears his throat, grunting deep, and swallowing excess phlegm, which makes me shift in my spot for the umpteenth time, along with twirling the end of my hair. If this is an intentional build up, I’m feeling it.

  He lingers with his mug again, tracing his fingers up and down the froth that spilt over the sides.

  “Liam, are you—”

  “Fine. Sorry.”

  I punch the cushion in my lap into a comfortable shape, waiting for when he’s ready. The couch is smooth and hugs my shape as I fall back.

  Liam turns, abruptly, and looks me in the eye. “I know I said I wouldn’t, but this is different; I’ve got a question for you.”

  “All right, ask.”

  “What do you think of me?”

  “Ha, Liam . . . ” I start, pausing to gather
my sense again. “You go all right, I s’pose.”

  “No, really. What do you think about me, of how I’ve coped after Paul?”

  Ouch. A shiver stings my chest. I reach for the first thing I see in front of me, and realize when it’s too late that I’ve drunk from Liam’s mug.

  “I think you’ve done great. I think I’m the meal served to seniors at a retirement village and you’re a fresh catch, right out of the ocean.”

  Liam paces to one of the drapes and pulls the cord as far down as he can manage in one sweep. Light streams in when he speaks, making him glow. “My girlfriend at the time, Bindi, she saw me get worse. At first I’d have some beers after work. Then I’d add some Coke and scotch to that, because my head was still screwed on. Eventually I’d miss dinner out with our friends because I’d want to finish a whole bottle, or I’d keep the cans flowing until I couldn’t stand any longer.”

  He does the same thing with the other window a few meters along and suddenly the whole room feels lighter.

  “Ask me now and I still have no idea what my intentions were for doing that. I think I just wanted to get as annihilated as I could, all the time. It made me feel better for twenty percent of the time, if that. The other eighty I suffered in a boozy, blurry, lost world. I missed a lot because my head wasn’t actually there. Like Brent; I didn’t support his café when he needed me.”

  “Liam, I . . . I don’t know what to say. How did this happen? Are you okay?”

  He’s at my side now. The space between us lessens. “I tried forgetting. I thought I was better than everybody and it was them who had it wrong. One day when Bindi packed up and I woke up alone . . . well, I got the clue then.”

  “Is that why the pair of you broke up?” I say, still half-dazed from what I hear. All these years of friendship . . . I feel cheated that I didn’t know the extent of this. I missed the whole damn boat, in fact. It boarded, shipped and sailed out before I had a clue.

  I vaguely remember meeting his other half. She had a dark, bob-type hairdo. I try picturing her face and can’t recall anything else. Maybe I only met her once. It’s the first of his girlfriends I haven’t pushed to give a tick of approval to. What happened to me? When did a tradition that Liam and I lived by suddenly crumble into non-existence?

  He continues. “She came back a week later and found me quite sick, not exactly as my boss had told her, but more of the self-inflicted, drink-myself-into-a-state-of-a-vegetable kind. That day she swore she wouldn’t leave until I talked to her about what was going on. Soon enough, I was having regular chats with Crowley.”

  “Uh, right, Crowley. Is this ‘Crowley’ character the same sort of Madison thing you didn’t quite explain before?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” Liam half-grins. He draws in a deep breath and sips at his mug.

  “I’ll tell you this: it changed the way I thought. Crowley was my godsend, anyway. I deal with things differently now. I’ve realized I’m just human and that the essence of human existence is learning. I can’t learn if I don’t make mistakes, so it’s pointless regretting mistakes. I’ve learned how to stop blaming myself for things I can’t control. Now I see the positive out of what happens to me, how I can turn it around, learn why it happened rather than depressing over the worst. I talk when I need answers, no matter how difficult those answers may be. Otherwise, my thoughts simmer in my head and get fucked up. It’s only worse taking the easy way, for me at least.”

  I look up at him to see a placid, calm man. There are no quirks, or looks of I-got-you-good with this one.

  My chest is open—tender and spongy inside. It’s like a surgeon has performed open-heart surgery on me and forgotten to sew me up; whilst I’m fine at this split second, my environment reminds me that things will change.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know all that, Liam. I would have helped, or tried, if I knew,” I tell him, hoping that I sound as truthful as I feel.

  “I did, on a couple of occasions. But you and me, we were two peas in a rotten pod. Rotting together. I’m not sure if you blinked, to tell you the truth.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “What happened with . . . ?”

  “We never got back together.”

  I’m beginning to understand the rotten pod part.

  I draw away from shame.

  “I was at the depths of somewhere pretty dark in my mind. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through. When you’re in that friggin’ deep, and I know how sticky it gets, you can’t get out. You feel like you are sinking, eternally. You need a Good Samaritan. Someone who doesn’t know you from shit, but knows what shit to do for you.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell my parents, brother, you or even my girlfriend how weak I was. I couldn’t talk about it and then I’d almost want to, but I just couldn’t get the words out of my mouth. Dr. Crowley listened. He listened and then spoke a bit and listened until I had it all out. He helped me find a way to cope.”

  I wonder how two best friends can have such similar stories and not know about it. As I think, I begin to see that my ignorance is the problem.

  If I ignore something, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist; it means I hide it away in a place that I won’t reach. It’s a thick, concrete, sound-barrier wall. I spent months of hard labor building it up good and strong with the toughest tools I had. It has me trapped, just as Liam had been, with no way out. The difference is courage. He has it, for one thing.

  “I’m proud of you. I truly am.”

  He shuffles in, angling in my direction. “Thanks. I know you are.”

  “I’m still the rotten one that’s left.”

  “I see Ella cry sometimes. She cries for you to be her playmate. She cries for you to bake some cupcakes with her.” I’m aware of the Mickey Mouse watch she gave him as he continues, which is still on his wrist. “I know your heart is in there, you just have it wrapped up so tight you can’t feel it anymore. It’s not that you’re ignoring her intentionally. I know you better than you know yourself. Paul was obviously better than I was, though. He’d say, ‘Get up off that ass of yours and play, goddamn it!’”

  “It’s just . . . sometimes . . . ” I begin, sigh and continue, “never mind.”

  “You’re blank. I’ve come to learn that face, too. Your eyes are thinking but they stare straight ahead. I know you’re thinking because your lips will tense and relax as if the words are literally itching to come out.”

  Liam and I: we’re not so different.

  Silence.

  “It’s okay, you know. To let go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “I know you can. You hammered a rusty nail into my hand when we were five. It killed like hell. I never second guessed your strength again.”

  Liam has both hands by his sides. I have mine wedged under my legs to prevent them from flapping around or doing something equally as crazy. I rarely feel awkward with Liam since being around him feels normal, but stripped this raw makes it feel like we’re sitting skin-to-skin. Two naked bodies.

  “I know I’ve been all ‘stop drinking and it’ll get better’ and,” Liam closes the gap between us mid-sentence so I feel his heat through my fingers and leg, “‘you need to do this’ but I’ve realized now that I stuffed up.”

  He leans the back of his hand on my arm. He’s pale. Except for his eyes. This is my hurt he wears. I look away, but he draws my face back with a finger.

  With his blue eyes clear and unwavering, he says, “You’re the strongest person I know. If I put Brent, Nancy, or even me right there,” he points to the where I sit, “we wouldn’t have fought and survived as you have. It’s what you do, Kates. Fight.”

  “Mm.”

  “Know that I’ll never let you down again.” His eyes resemble the tenderness of a
rose petal. Liam’s “tough” shell is crumbling. Thoughts swim on his tongue again. They circle in loops, not confident enough to slip from his mouth.

  Instead, he yanks out my left hand. It has red impressions of the stitching from my pants. He traces the creases from beginning to end. Then, as if my hand passes the test, he sandwiches it between his palms.

  Our bodies reflexively turn inward, as it’s easier this way, with our shoulders facing each other. I see our past in his eyes. Maybe I see this in the same way he does with my hand.

  I remember something from when we were eleven. I was slipping off the smooth limb of a eucalyptus tree. Liam was under me. He told me to trust he’d catch me when I fell.

  So I released.

  “Okay,” I say, thinking of how Liam hasn’t changed as an adult.

  I add another layer to our hand-sandwich.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Outside, the muffled sound of car engines whirs past. Yelling kids on the sidewalk mock their moms, their voices rising and disappearing as they pass Liam’s house. I see one kid peddling like crazy on his rusty bike and a mother jogging behind him, punching the air with her fist and yelling back.

  Inside here? It’s so quiet I can hear Liam swallow. We let the silence fill our space, weaving us back together.

  And then I realize: am I allowing him to see inside me? Am I ready for this?

  There’s a lump in my throat that expands as Liam and I go on. I think of Paul smiling at me from the altar steps on our wedding day and a hot flush pours through my chest to my armpits. His grin is wide, but he looks like it’s still not big enough to convey his excitement.

  It used to be impossible to turn away from that face, the way his eyes could ignite a fire inside my belly and warm every inch of me. Suddenly, I want to crawl into a hole and stay there for as long as I’ve repress these memories because I’m ashamed of myself. I should be remembering Paul’s memory, not shunning it.