Pulling Me Under

by Rebecca Berto

  I kill the engine in a private parking lot exclusively for the clinic’s clients and staff. As I approach a set of sliding doors, an illuminated sign greets me. It reads: Madison Care Clinic. I drag my feet through the entrance once the tinted sliding doors open. My nerves aren’t quite sticking, more like knocking inside me saying, What on earth are you about to do?

  “Ms. Anselin,” I say, checking in with a woman behind a laminated desk. She peers over the edge of her glasses. This receptionist pulls it off well. Her smoky eyes suit the thick frame, and the green shirt complements her hazel irises. I rarely dare that shade of green clothing.

  “Is this for your ten-fifty with Dr. Leena Madison?” she asks.

  “Yep.”

  “Thanks, she will come to greet you in a few. Please take a seat.”

  I sit in a waiting chair and my vision is sharpening, my mind processing thoughts at a faster rate. The drinks don’t take to me the same as they used to. I curse myself for not fixing myself another. The area is deserted, bar one other man hunched over in his chair.

  “Feel free to make a beverage or read one of the magazines on the stand over there,” the receptionist calls.

  I thank her, and pour some water, feeling like I have to, now. Surely she can’t see my thoughts. No, I’m pathetic; of course she can see that I’m sweating, drenched already. And, my long face is my kryptonite, if she does happen to miss everything else.

  I take gulps of the water, even though I’m already bloated.

  A woman calls me after a couple of minutes. I stand to follow her. She has dirty blonde hair slicked back behind her ears, and a hanging blue lanyard with a mini picture of her smiling face. There’s writing beneath the miniature-size photo of her but I already know it reads Dr. Leena Madison.

  Her presence makes my nerves pulsate so strongly that the secretary and Hunchback are both sure to feel the buzz. Not a good start to meeting the woman who is about to pick my brains.

  She directs me to her consulting room. It’s warm and bright, studded with designer furniture. I sit down and we take turns in some introductions.

  I lose count of the years she has studied for, although those trying years have treated her well. I wonder what I’ll look like when I’m her age, which probably won’t be my early-thirties, as she does.

  “This first session is the intake. Don’t worry too much about getting caught up in any gibberish, high-tech terms. We’ll just chat. Feel free to talk about everything that will help me specify your diagnosis and to plan your treatment. I’ll prompt you if I need you to clarify something or answer anything that will help our sessions,” she says.

  “Um, okay.”

  Randomly, she asks, “Have you seen the movie, Freaky Friday?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Well it’s quite a comedy, and because of all the wrong reasons.” She laughs. “It stars Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis.”

  Nancy begged me to watch it years ago. I couldn’t bear to sit through an hour and a half of it just to keep her company because it is a) named Freaky Friday, b) stars Lindsay Lohan, and c) is a soppy love story. I wonder why Dr. Madison cares, or brings it up.

  “My friend Nancy loved that one. I know it.”

  “Well I mention that movie because it creates a false stereotypical image of the client-therapist relationship. In the movies, breaking confidentiality is high entertainment, if not a little overdone, but I want to assure you I’m not going to draw unicorns and love hearts on my notepad, or anything else of the sort. I won’t be scratching at my notepad while you wonder if the top of my head has dandruff. I see importance in face-to-face contact. I’ll write more notes than usual today to add to your file, but I’ll be writing less in future sessions.”

  “All right.”

  I twist my hair further around my finger as I try nodding without ripping the lot out of my head. Urgh, mess. Dr. Madison has her ankles crossed, her hands resting in her lap and sits in her couch with a straight back.

  Pick the shrink.

  She offers me juice, cordial, or soft drink and tells me I don’t have to pick water out of courtesy because there is carpet in her room. We both settle on tropical cordial and she sets one glass by my end table and the other by hers. She puts the pad and pen in her lap, then covers it with her hands.

  “Can you describe your day yesterday?”

  “Er, Dr. Madison, I don’t quite know what to, you know, say.” Oh, God. Good one, Katie. I have already stuttered and this woman is probably trained to tell if I have kids just by my body language.

  Get a grip.

  “Oh, Katie, please call me Leena. Dr. Madison makes me sound like a fifty-year-old doctor from an outdated TV show. How about you show me how your day is affected by your issues. I’ll listen. Talk however makes you most comfortable—to me, to your lap, to the wall. How do the things on your mind affect your mornings?”

  “Do you mean what is it like when I wake up?” I think about Molten Man, Marco, the scenes that replay to me, and how I wake up in bed after these episodes that feel real. By the time I find my words I know she could have helped me along, but she hasn’t. She waits.

  “They aren’t mornings for a start. They’re continuations of the night before. I’m either lethargic because I’ve had hours of broken sleep. But I don’t remember falling asleep in the first place. I just see, smell and hear things. Or, I’m lethargic because . . . ”

  I have to be careful. It’s easier to report facts to someone I don’t know, who makes me feel welcome, but lying is still simpler than admitting I rely on pills or alcohol. That’s not true anyway; I don’t use them that much.

  “ . . . because I had a different—better—sleep,” I say, in a lower voice. I go on to explain the fragmented bits I can remember when I woke up in that bed.

  She glances down at the small amount of scribble she notes on her pad, then up to meet my eyes.

  “From then on, I’m avoiding things I can, wondering how not to choke or freeze up about what I can’t avoid in relation to Paul’s death. The, er, rape too. I feel like I’m choking and frozen up and splitting apart at the same time. And let’s face it, I have a daughter to look after, a house to clean, a life to live. I’d be in bed for whole days otherwise.”

  My slurps are much too loud as I gulp my cordial. As I put my glass down, the clink on the coaster resonates throughout the room. Leena still seems like she’s in listening mode with her head slightly tilted. It isn’t until I realize I have more to say that it occurs to me she knew I wasn’t finished much earlier than I did.

  I clench my fists. The visible space between the sofa arm and my leg is thin but her perception so far is as accurate as a sniper’s, so I can’t discount her missing this. Shit. “If I don’t remember . . . ” I have to sift through the chunky mess in and around Paul’s mouth, the throbs as my wrists immobilize. “ . . . then I can cope.”

  She pushes the pad out of her writing distance. “It seems like the triggers you avoid are linked to your sleep disturbances.”

  “Yes,” I answer, trying not to appear too hesitant.

  “Can you tell me how these events affect you and your environment?”

  Although I’m anxious around this topic, I’ve said more than ever before. I had a plan when I was coming here. Try not to roll my eyes and run off a factual list without the bone-crunching urge to screech out bloody murder and throw my fists at things or people. I started well, and surprised myself, but if I delve deeper, I know I’m not just sharing facts, I’m learning how to cope, and through all that’s happened, survival is all I’ve ever wanted.

  I just didn’t think it would happen.

  How on earth has she achieved this?

  It’s homework time. I watch over Ella as she colors in the letters of the alphabet; Liam helps me fill in my A, B,
C, D, Es.

  Why did you let him come over, Katie? Please do remind me.

  I felt bad refusing his help after he spent four nights at my place on the sofa over a couple of weeks after my intake session. He cooked dinner, and played scrabble, amongst other activities.

  Earlier today, he arrived with a bunch of flowers. He walked in the door with the stems as tall as his torso, and a shirt that hugged his chest. When he opened his mouth, I’d nodded and agreed to whatever he said.

  Turns out he asked if I wanted his help with the Automatic Thought Record I’d explained from my intake session with Leena. My ATR involves me dissecting things I’d rather not talk about—Paul, the rape, Mom’s miscarriages—but apparently I should talk about traumatic events.

  Apparently it’s good to die and come back alive ten times over.

  Apparently it’s healthy to feel like your heart’s being squeezed to death.

  Leena has said this in different words.

  Weirdly, I’m starting to believe her.

  I use one of Leena’s relaxation tips to keep my cool. I practice the suck in, hold two, three, four, five, slowly exhale, hold, and repeat. The table, Liam, Ella and my ATR seem to return. Ella is already on her “B for Bees” page. Her arm curls around her book.

  “And you haven’t even started on your ‘A’,” Liam says, eyeing my page.

  I snap out of a transfixed glare at the bee Ella colors in and try to catch up to speed. My Automatic Thought Record. “A” is for activating event. My “A” always meant avoid.

  I sip at the caramel latte Liam made from his coffee machine. That machine is one of the many reasons Ella loves this place. And why not? He makes her a babyccino exactly how she likes it, every time.

  I pull my finger out of my glass and lick the sweet liquid. The smallest things can trigger a feeling. Right now, sucking my caramel latte off my finger reminds me what it feels like to laugh, the unstoppable feeling of having to let it all out and only stop making sounds until I’m done. Of a time when Katie felt free enough to do something as simple as really laugh.

  “I feel stupid doing this table.” I pick up the page and look at the first blank square I need to fill in with the event at the core of my PTSD: finding Paul unconscious. I hold a breath, but Liam interrupts before I finish my count.

  “Leena suggested this would help. Talking minimizes the initial anxiety related to the memory. Like learning to ride a bike the first time is mighty scary, but the fear lessens the next ride. I did similar communication exercises with my dad.” Liam looks from Ella’s half-colored B for Bee to my empty A. “Except, I didn’t have to do my A, B, Cs.”

  “D and E too.” Writer’s block hits me square in the head. No ideas. No inspiration. No words. And I’m not even inventing fiction. “I know this’ll only make things worse. I’m not very good at talking . . . about it.”

  “It’ll make all the difference,” he says. “It validates that what you’re feeling is okay.”

  Hearing Liam talk like this . . . It’s weird I’m only now getting to know this side of him. The one with a wealth of knowledge on feelings and emotions. I thought that was my job as the girl. But I’ve never been good with that mushy stuff anyway.

  The thought of mushy, girly stuff draws my eyes to Liam’s body in the chair next to me. While I crush the pen in my hands, I notice Liam’s shoulders lined up with mine. How close is his shirt to my skin?

  Why am I thinking about this? Stop.

  Liam takes a breath so deep that it looks like someone fills up his shoulders with an air pump. Ella is still coloring and the room seems unchanged, but Liam has aged in the seconds I was “away”.

  He says, “Would I give up my house, my car, my savings to bring Paul back?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He holds up a palm to the air then and gulps.

  I nod, folding my hands on the table in front of me.

  Liam’s face hardens. He looks to Ella coloring a black line on her last bee before I can study his expression further. He crosses his arms, perking up his shoulders. Somehow, he seems smaller than before, though.

  “He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Liam—”

  “There’s a moment from the last time I saw him that keeps replaying in my mind.” He pays no notice to my protest. Just picks up my homework and flips it onto the blank side. He tucks his chin in. I’m not sure if his eyes are closed. “We’re playing PlayStation.”

  Liam’s eyes snap open. He’s demanding my gaze, stripping my breath away, inches from my face. “You know I can’t think what the game is? Not for the life of me. What’s that game?”

  “Which one?”

  “You know, that war game with the missions and guns and soldiers.”

  “I actually spent most of my time blocking out that lovely game so I only remember weeks of cleaning the house by myself whilst Paul and you were glued to the TV.”

  He grunts. “No.” He puts his fist to the table, but there’s no force behind it. As if his strength has been zapped.

  He mutters, “What was it?” which I take is a curse to himself. That this is him feeling incompetent maybe? He’s slumped over and there’s something shocking about his huge shoulders seeming smaller than mine.

  When he resumes, I’m conscious of his loud breathing. “Anyway, we both choose the same guns, the same back-up. The same everything.

  “He’s winning at first. Like he always does. At one point, I’m so fed up of being embarrassed that I can’t kill him, not even once, that I drop my controller and throw a punch to his shoulder, then to his gut.”

  Liam is drawing circles on the back of my sheet. He must mean to sigh but his teeth are clenched and so the sound is more of a hiss. Although I don’t care for what he does to my sheet, I want to grab his hand because the friction on the paper must be scalding by now. I need his calmness.

  Doesn’t he know this?

  “Paul throws back decent punches. I had constant reminders of purple and blue skin for ages. Ages of . . . ” Liam halts when the paper rips open from the middle. He stares like that long enough for Ella to look up, quiz him with her eyes, and shrug it away. Liam clamps two open palms on my paper. His knuckles are white and the tendons in his neck are bulging from pressure. Sitting here with our shoulders so close, I’m scared he’ll blow up into pieces and it’ll shower over Ella.

  “Suddenly I’m winning the game. He kills me once but I sniper, bomb, and execute the shit out of him a dozen times. The first and last time that was.”

  Another pause. With shaky fingers, he pulls out Ella’s crayons, begins to re-align them in an order. I wonder if I’m shaking too, or if I can feel the trembles through him.

  “‘An effing n00b, this clown,’ Paul says. Later he says, ‘You’re so shit.’ He doesn’t look me in the eye when he says that. I’m so darn proud I’ve won for once. I think he’s embarrassed. God, I feel good. ‘Takes ten minutes to kill me’ was his excuse. Yeah, I think, that’s all he can do: insult me. He’s never lost before, doesn’t know what to do.”

  This time, Liam finishes arranging the colors: pink, magenta, red, orange . . . He tries to speak twice and either thinks better of it, or can’t say anything yet. “When I leave, he says the strangest thing: ‘Sorry, man. I’ve had a killer headache. Kates is gonna take me to the doctor tomorrow after Ella’s swimming lesson. I told her don’t worry but—’ ‘Yeah,’ I say, cutting in, ‘she’s too bloody organized.’ Then Paul says three last words to me: ‘It’s probably nothing.’”

  Liam trembles and knocks the crayons. They scatter and slip off the table. I grab him close before he blows up into pieces; at this point, that may actually be possible. His breaths against my chest are heavier than they had been before when I was looking at him. The heat from his face on the nape of my neck s
eeps into me. The sadness of Paul’s premature death is a fire engulfing us.

  I’m not ready yet. I don’t know what to do. Don’t want to talk about Paul because, hey, what the hell am I going to say?

  Paul was everything to me. How do I explain my whole damn life?

  Liam and I grab each other tighter. At the same time my skin burns up, and my eyes feel heavy. Will he cry too? Maybe it’s a shift in reactions: me emotional, and Liam high on rage.

  This is odd. Why am I holding him? Something magnetic flutters inside me. It makes me pull Liam close to my chest, where I can protect him; connects us irrevocably in this moment.

  After a while, Liam looks at my eyes, patting down my hair as if he is styling me with comfort. I don’t care if he sees my eyes, which must be ugly, red puffs of things by now. Having him here, and realizing he’s here to support me, is all I want.

  He cups my cheeks and brings his lips to my forehead. I expect to feel a quick kiss, but he holds his lips there and it’s exactly what I wanted, really, because I hate when Liam disconnects from me. Anxiety builds up at times like these otherwise.

  It took me a while to see why Leena asked me to do this: talking. Why it matters. After I read Ella a bedtime story a couple of nights ago, she smiled and then paused before saying she loved me. She didn’t say or do anything else, but I felt something in me. Something that is the opposite to angst. Something I hadn’t written down in my daily diary but I read from my writing when I looked over it afterward, the insinuated meaning.

  Because Ella is here, I should hold back to be strong for her, even if she hasn’t noticed anything but the letters and animals on her page. Though stopping my tears at the moment is like trying to stop a car accident whilst it’s flipping, I manage to hold back.

  Liam extends a hand over Ella’s shoulder and curls his other hand over the back of mine. My breath slows with his touch.