Pulling Me Under

by Rebecca Berto

  Though it must sound confusing to anyone else, he says, “How long have these occurrences been a problem?”

  I drop my hair, wiggle in my seat instead. My underarms are so hot, my face burning. It has started.

  “Since I killed him,” I say.

  “Katie.” He pauses. “Did Paul die in non-suspicious circumstances?”

  “Well, if I took him to a . . . I could have changed things.”

  “What was his cause of death?” Adam says, rephrasing.

  “Aneurysm.”

  He writes something down, then looks up. “How have you and Ella coped since?”

  “Ella talks about him a lot, and cries sometimes when she speaks of him. She wants to know when he’ll come back. She still paints family drawings of the three of us.”

  “And you, Katie. What problems have you come to talk to me about today?”

  I get it. He spent several years training in medical school for a good reason. But that day crouching under the counter follows me everywhere.

  It felt right to cope by shutting off. But sitting here with Adam? It feels wrong.

  The park, that bed. It’s another dose of poison. My day turns from the Paul guilt, fear, anxiety, to being suffocated by Marco and eternal helplessness.

  I let my husband die. I was drugged, bashed and raped.

  It’s hard to hold up and walk straight.

  Nancy is waiting outside, Liam is probably nowhere near as productive at work today because of worry, Dad would probably be watching a documentary so Mom wouldn’t bug him and he could worry on his own without multiplying her anxiety. And Ella. She needed me to do this right from the start. She’s the only reason I’ve somewhat survived.

  For Ella’s birthday this year, she’d told me I could buy her a new toy pony instead of an iPod or iPad like her friends. At her age, I was an obnoxious brat. Where did Ella get her humility?

  I would—will—do anything for her. So, I tell Adam about the triggers: chlorine, the master bedroom, talking about Paul’s death. How the adrenaline response numbs everything else and freezes me. How sometimes when I’m in a “state”, even the whistle of a kettle startles me, as if it were a gun going off.

  “How many hours sleep did you get last night?” Adam asks.

  “I don’t know. I wake a few times a night. Last night . . . mmm, four and a half.”

  “What things disturb your sleep?”

  Thump. “When I wake in bed I realize it’s been a nightmare, but I don’t know it at the time. I still don’t get how it is always a dream.”

  He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Mm.”

  He understands what I’m saying. How is this possible? I don’t even understand the jumble falling out. He must know much more than I’m aware of. Shit! I haven’t answered with what could be considered “normal”, stock-standard answers. It can’t mean anything good.

  “Do you drink more than two standard drinks at a time for greater than two days in a week?”

  “Um.” Lie? No. Just say it; you’ve said this much. “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you used illicit drugs?”

  Thump. Thump. “I don’t use them.” This is okay. I’m doing okay.

  “How often do you use sleeping pills?”

  I am fine. This is routine. My voice chokes up before I speak. Take short breaths, try to sound even. “A, er, couple times a week.”

  I tell myself to breathe but this is quickly becoming a pointless task.

  “How do you get along with your friends and family?” he says.

  What do they have to do with my health, or mind? What does he mean?

  I draw shallow breaths even though it feels like a dozen bricks weigh down my chest. “It’s a little complicated.”

  He removes his glasses then rests his arm on his desk.

  He knows something. I need an injection (I can’t; I’m afraid). No, it’s radical surgery. Oh God, please don’t cut me. Why am I thinking this?

  Thump, thump, thump. What’s that noise?

  “Katie,” he says. My name feels like a red and bumpy rash in my mouth. “Thank you for answering so well.”

  I’m sure he means to be comforting. I’m sure.

  “The symptoms and experiences you’ve described to me are characteristic of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD. It develops in people who have experienced or witnessed a traumatic event involving life-threatening situations or serious injury.”

  Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. His words stick like fresh dough.

  “Recovery involves hard work, and you do have to talk through your traumatic experiences, but with enough motivation, you are able to eliminate the thoughts, triggers, and psychological and physical reactions. And you, Katie, I know you can get through this.”

  I stare blankly, not able to feel my fingers or toes. My existence below my jawline feels worlds away as the walls close in on me. Great. I’m a fucking idiot and suffering from what . . . overreaction?

  Please.

  “With the right treatment, PTSD won’t be a life sentence, Katie,” he says, motioning with his hands. “I’ll be referring you to a specialist, which we will talk about shortly, who can determine a complete diagnosis for you through further testing.

  “Over the years that I have known you, you have been a pleasure to help. I truly wish you the best with your treatment, so I want to talk personal options with you that suit your individual needs best.” His eyes soften, his cheeks forming little apples underneath.

  My face is a mask atop a stiff body. Even my lungs are stiff, unusable. This is surreal.

  Thump. I realize the sound is my heart, in my head, beating to explode me.

  I only catch pockets of words in his next ramble as he details specifics of the disease. I think I nudge my chin up and down once I see his mouth open and close.

  My brain is thumping louder, pushing away the list of items that doom me to a pre-set existence.

  This is what fears me most; that I’m not good enough to pass my life.

  When I was five, I wasn’t good enough to keep my mother happy; her attempts to extend our family as if I had killed the fetuses and stillborns; or to save Paul’s life. The last insult was being stripped of my dignity.

  A tingle buzzes through me as he continues to describe more and more about the disorder: lost ability to express emotion, a feeling like I can’t explain the horrors I know, how no one would understand me, not really.

  My throat is so tight I swear to God someone has cut off my windpipe. The pressure hurts in the same way it would if someone had their foot shoved on my throat, pinning me to the floor.

  That isn’t me he’s summarizing.

  I tell him no. No, he’s wrong. That isn’t me: the woman with a disorder, the one who isn’t good enough.

  My shoulders hunch under the pressure.

  Adam talks more about me having PTSD and routes to recovery. How I can overcome PTSD with the right help. PTSD, PTSD, PTSD . . . The disorder flashes angrily at me.

  The problem of sucking in air climaxes. I gasp faster.

  Is it possible to die right in front of a doctor? I, and only I, could do that.

  I lap up the air, gulping madly: harder and faster. My head bops back and forward in a last dash effort to draw in the oxygen. The whole time I think this isn’t happening to me. It isn’t, it isn’t, it isn’t . . . I gasp again and wave my hands madly at my throat, managing to slip in a few words between.

  “Air—breathe—need . . . ”

  Dr. Adam, the trained professional, steps in. “It’s okay, calm down and take deep breaths,” he starts, aiding my weight off the chair when I can’t move. His directions come through swiftly, yet he delivers himself with smoothness, flipping my back to the floor
and feet atop the chair I was in.

  My gasps keep hitting a brick wall and my head pounds harder, yelling for oxygen. Each breath becomes less successful than the last.

  “Deep breaths, now,” he reminds me in a soft, smooth tone, “and raise your legs up on here for me, please.” He goes on to execute the action for me, and I’m grateful for his collected authority, that his words are more there as a caption so I know what he’s doing.

  “I can’t,” I cry, still gawping. My brain is mush and doesn’t react well to directions.

  “Trust me. One long breath. Just do it,” he says, spelling out.

  I stop for a moment because I’m going to pass out if I don’t take a chance and trust him. I slow down to the point where I can smell the fresh breeze with the aroma from the roses outside his window, and long enough to appreciate the pretty cartoon stickers on the ceiling of his office.

  At last, the air whooshes in. It isn’t enough. I open my lungs again and again. After a while, I become conscious of how I’m lying ridiculously sprawled over the carpet. No dignity.

  I bring Dr. Leena Madison’s name up in discussion with Adam later. He’s proud that I’ve done my homework (I’ll thank Liam later for the suggestion). Dr. Leena Madison is a psychologist specializing in personal trauma recovery. Adam suggests a few readings that will help me to better understand my condition, and to prepare me for my upcoming sessions.

  He tells me that the status of my case is urgent enough to push through the usual client waitlist backlog. He also seems astounded how long I have gone untreated.

  Dr. Adam sends me out with a shopping list of books that I clutch in a fist as I meet Nancy.

  • • •

  When I try my first light-hearted-slash-I’ve-fucked-up social chat, my past, my pride, is harder to get over than I gave credit for.

  You can’t spill your guilt and hope it’ll solve your problems, Molten Man says. You know that.

  Nancy . . . I need to speak to her . . . she came here today because she cares.

  Yes. She does care. Are you going to let her die, too?

  My finger is stuck in a clump of my hair, and I realize when it’s too late. For a few minutes, I twist and tug until the last strand is free. I resolve to be aware of my bodily actions before things like this occur again. Maybe I’ll start with my hair twisting habit and work up from there. Unconsciously, my breathing slows.

  Maybe what happened in Adam’s room has taught me something. If I can get over one of my panic attacks, I can do this.

  At first I check my handbag, am aware of everyone walking around me. Once I see the coffee shop Nancy and I are to meet at, I stride over. It’s been so long since we both last came here that I can only remember one previous event.

  Nancy had pointed to a mug, bowl and plate set and squealed. “Katie! It’s perfect. Lachlan will love this for our new house.”

  “Yep,” I said, because I was more focused on a backward-stepping child heading toward her.

  “Thank God,” she said. “I was starting to worry my house would remain black, white and stainless steel.”

  The boy still back-stepped, stomping deliberately because he seemed thrilled with his talent. I had figured out what might happen by this stage but Nancy babbled too fast for me to warn her.

  “ . . . and you know I love red,” she said, gushing.

  The boy counted. “Six, seven.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Eight, nine.”

  “Uh, Nance—” I cut in.

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so pessimistic.”

  “Timmy!” The boy’s mother cried, looking up from her phone.

  Nance said, “Huh—”

  Then came the crash. Her bum to the floor, a shower of broken china chiming in, and her heels higher than her head.

  Okay, I shouldn’t have laughed, but I clutched my tummy anyway and cackled like a green, fairy tale witch. It seemed like a full minute, though it might have only been seconds, before I picked her up, and patted her down with comforting words and apologized profusely.

  When I sit by Nancy at the café and she has a caramel latte at the seat next to her, I’m still cackling. I must have tears in my eyes, too.

  “Kates, are you all right?”

  “No . . . I mean,” cackle, breath, “fine.” One last breath. “I’m good. Do you remember that homewares falling incident?”

  She pushes my drink forward and shuffles closer. “Uh, yeah?”

  “That boy’s face. Absolutely no color.”

  “Yep.”

  “You couldn’t wear heels for a week. An ugly—I’m sorry—swollen ankle.”

  She looks like she just got the punch line to the joke, when she smirks and says, “I know. I hobbled out on your shoulder.”

  I cup my drink and let the warmth heat up my hands. “I took a long time to pick you up but I came, didn’t I? My shoulders hurt, too, but I stayed with you, Nance.”

  She doesn’t respond, just sips at her cappuccino.

  “I wouldn’t have left you there on the ground, you know.”

  Silence. Then she says, “I’m glad you let me take you today.”

  “You won’t be after this. I’ve been given a gazillion books to read and I’m buying them today. You’re coming.”

  She smiles like I’ve read her mind. “Perfect.”

  By the next night, Thursday, I’ve stuffed my mind full of information. Also, I got a call for a cancellation and was I free to come in tomorrow morning? Pressured, I agreed when an excuse didn’t come fast enough.

  It was after that call I noticed the change. For a whole day I’ve obsessed over food, starting with imagining a variety of sweet and savory dishes. For days all I’ve been is a woman craving food. I haven’t been hungry in months. After hours of going through this confusing change, I settle that the only way to get through this weird obsession is to cook (not reheat). For dinner, Ella and I are making risotto.

  We sprinkle herbs, Ella grinds cheese against the grater like someone’s paying her to do it, and I let the risotto simmer until it thickens to a mush with some type of consistency. We eat it all and she helps me clean the dishes, skipping from the sink to the cupboards the whole time. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a six-year-old daughter who wants to clean. Then again, she gaped at me in awe the whole time, so I’m not altogether convinced she did it for the cleanliness.

  When we’re done, the air feels cleaner and the area gives us space to breathe, and think. There’s nothing to get in the way.

  “Ella,” I call, as she goes upstairs to her room as per normal routine, “I’ve got a new princess coloring book.” She loved her new Elly, and I’ve gained an addiction to seeing her delighted ever since.

  Ella skips back to the kitchen and climbs on a stool. Her grin makes a banana seem short.

  I flip open to a random page and point to the princess. “You see, I’m not quite sure what color to make her dress.”

  She doesn’t seem aware of her slack jaw when she says, “Baby pink. Duh!”

  “Well, how lucky I asked you. Or else I would have made it blue.”

  “Ugh. Princesses aren’t blue!” She has one eyebrow raised, but her facade is broken by her trying to hide a smile. “Here, guess I’ll show you, Mommy.”

  I pull out another animal coloring book from a shopping bag and we sit down at the coffee table in the living room. I line up her crayon and marker collections from a drawer under the table.

  “You hid them!” she says, squealing.

  “No, you just didn’t know where they were.”

  “My old felt tips are all wasted.”

  I shake my head sorrowfully, and point to both collections.

  “The crayons, please. I don’t like
felt tips anymore. They waste.”

  So we color. I use the browns, yellows, and greens, thus, my princess looks more like a goblin than anything radiating beauty. Hers has a purple bonnet, a long, baby-pink dress and is surrounded by orange daises.

  I put down my crayon and point to Ella’s page opposite mine. “She looks beautiful, Ella.”

  “I got out the line too much.”

  “You’ve done a great job!”

  Her chin drops. “I always stuff it up.”

  “Here.” I take a skin-colored crayon and slide it between her fingers. I open my hand and match her grip over the crayon. Her skin is soft like silk. She shuffles in closer before we start. The sofa behind us leaves enough space if we want to spread ourselves but I prefer her close where I can hold her hand with a better grip.

  She flinches when I squeeze her close; I think she recognizes, also, that this hasn’t been done for too long.

  I dab her hands between the thin lines. At first her hand is stiff when I try to maneuver it, but then, as our hands assimilate, I learn how to work the angle and she lets her muscles relax.

  By the time we’re done, the princess’s face is bright and, best of all, her skin and hair don’t leak outside the black lines.

  “That’s how I do it!” Ella says. “Now you have to show me how to do this butterfly. He’s so small. And I’ll get my ABC book!” She stands to leave. “I can’t do ‘B’ properly.”

  “Down you get.” I tug at her hand. “Hush, we’ll have plenty of time for that book after.”

  When I reach my hatchback, I turn the key in the ignition with apprehension. My hands tremble so badly that I pick my keys up from the wiry carpet and hold on to them firmly as I try a second time.

  There’s no going back, I force myself to think, no going back. Dr. Leena will help me understand. I need this.

  As it happens, I do go back. I run inside and fortify myself with a drink. My edges are smooth, nerves almost burnt out. Then I go straight back to my car and wiggle into a comfortable position in the seat. A voice blares through my stereo. I can hardly hear myself think. Perfect.