Pulling Me Under

by Rebecca Berto

  I must look like I’ve lost the last dollar to my name. I feel empty, and my face is probably stiff from anger, anger that my only lead has slipped from me, anger that no one is able to understand what I know. I’m alone on this one—not even the police are useful in this case.

  A hungover woman, me, complains she was raped but can’t remember what the assailant looked like or what really happened. It’s just a rotten feeling. It just felt different to waking up after a hangover or from taking sleeping pills.

  I have shit all.

  “It makes me sick to think that something like . . . ” Brent says, starting. I wait but he can’t seem to continue as much as I can’t bear hearing it. The tension has winded us.

  After a moment, Brent tells our waiter we’re ready to order.

  It’s ten the next time I check the clock. Brent and I say our goodbyes. We half-heartedly promise to keep in touch. It sounds like the time my schools friends and I promised to stay in touch, but the last time the class bell rang was the closest we’ve been since.

  Once I settle in my car, I call Pamela, Paul’s Mom, to wish Ella goodnight.

  “You are most welcome,” Pamela says, when I thank her. “Let me put Ella on. She heard the phone ring and hasn’t stopped jumping since.”

  As she describes, Ella begs to speak to me, saying everything at an alarming speed. Pamela compromises and allows her to speak to me only once she pulls herself back under the bed sheets. I listen for another short while until Ella gets the phone in her hands.

  “Hi, Mommy,” Ella whispers through the receiver. “Nan said if I am good and quiet and if I stay in bed, I could speak to you.” My eyes squint naturally, as I dig my phone further into my ear to hear.

  “Darling, you can speak up a little bit, I think she just wanted you to sleep. It is very late.”

  “Okay,” she says, back to her usual tone. “Am I in trouble? I promise I was in bed before nine.”

  “You aren’t in trouble. Couldn’t you sleep well tonight?”

  “No, a bad man scared me . . . I got scared when I slept.”

  “Bad dream?”

  “Yeah, he was making you scream again, like you used to.”

  I pull the keys out of the ignition and flip a button, locking all four doors. My eyes shut, closing out the parameters of the dark parking lot.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

  There is a muffled expulsion of air from under the covers.

  “I’m sorry.” In my head, it sounds grander. I have amazing things to say to my beautiful daughter. I’m heroic and flawless in my efforts to woo back her affection. Sure, I’ve colored with her until my hands turned into a rainbow spectacle, read her stories until I thought I’d actually written them, and kissed her ‘til my lips felt numb, but never have we had this honest chat before. We’ve only been making up the lost time. I press my eyelids shut and hope she won’t hear my voice quiver.

  “I’ve been a bad Mommy, Ella.”

  “Why? What happened?” she says, her voice like a squeak.

  “I haven’t loved you like I should have. I haven’t kissed you and hugged you like a Mommy is meant to, or played games with you or laughed . . . ”

  “Yes you have.”

  “Before. I mean, just after Daddy went to heaven,” I rephrase.

  “You told me you were sick, and sick people should rest in bed, you told me. You always make me have that yucky juice and sleep with Elly in bed.”

  The corners of my lips turn up from hearing this.

  “You’re right. I was sick. But I should have been a better Mommy, still.”

  My eyes sting. I blink a few times to flutter away some of the weight and a hot tear dribbles down the edge of my nose. I sniffle before speaking. When I do, I hear my voice with a nasal tone.

  Ella rustles the covers again. “Are you better now?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sound sick, but.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I want to ask you something else, Elly.” She waits, still breathing under her covers. “What do you remember . . . about Daddy?” I manage to dodge the lumps threatening to stagger my voice.

  “He always played dolls with me. I miss him taking me to the park sometimes. Don’t tell Nan and Pa,” she lowers her voice again, and I wait until she mutters a few words, even lower, “but they can’t play as well as Daddy.”

  I splutter, and a sniffle and a laugh come out at the same time.

  “Shh, Elly, don’t let them hear.”

  The sounds fall silent, like she’s stopped wriggling. “Promise you won’t tell.”

  “I promise.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Anything,” I tell her.

  “Do you still love me? You won’t not love me again, like you did before?”

  I squeeze my eyes tighter. If I wish hard enough, the pain will go away. It has to because my body throbs too much to handle this. Without the slightest hint of exaggeration, I know every single paper cut I suffered in my school years would be more bearable than right now. She is my sole reason for everything and for her to be scared to lose me again . . .

  “I’ve never stopped loving you. I know I haven’t always shown it, but you are the best girl any Mommy could ask for. I’m lucky to have you.”

  “Really?” she whispers, barely daring to ask if it’s true.

  “Don’t you think that I don’t love you. I promise we won’t stop cuddling in bed or playing dolls, or swimming together, walking Roxy. Nothing.”

  “Cool!”

  “I’d do anything to keep you safe, darling,” I say. “No one will ever hurt you.”

  My talk with Ella from a few nights ago still dances in my thoughts, her voice ringing through my ears no matter how hard I scrub the tiles or pat down a new layer of fresh bed sheets. I long to see her, hence the reason I frantically vacuum and mop the house so I can get to her school on time.

  By early afternoon, I manage to finish all of the chores. I sit on the top step of the staircase and run my fingers through the fuzzy carpet.

  Over the ledge of the first floor is the one room I haven’t entered in months.

  Today’s the day. I chickened out telling Liam what happened to me at Tim’s party, but I can do this. I must. It’s been eating away at me for too long. Ella and I have come too far. She’s put up with too much from me. Deserved the whole story long ago.

  The anticipation while I’m staring at the door, is as if I’m a swimmer standing on the starting blocks, waiting for the whistle, the moment my heart fires off. To dive into the icy water. Chills will course through me.

  I stand up, although my legs feel like they’re full of lead. When I move, the compromise is that they won’t progress faster than a shuffle. I’ve found methods to handle my PTSD well, but I can still imagine myself watching my body from above as a child presses pause on the remote and plays the frames one by one.

  Maybe I’ll never reach the door. It feels that way.

  But I do. I place one hand to the handle and push. The creak startles me; it never used to do that. The hinges creak one last time as it swings and bounces off the doorstop.

  I take my first step into the bedroom and almost trip on the stray piece of carpet that I’ve forgotten loops up, trying to bring me down. A rush of panic washes over me before something catches me, someone.

  You’re a walking accident, Kates, Paul chuckles in my memory. Thank God you fell in love with a hero. I imagine his eyes, comic and mocking. They are a bright emerald, and have been that vibrant ever since I started to see Leena. As I take another step, my heart begins to throb with more memories.

  With the curtains open, the light pours in behind me and settles over the trousers still lain neatly over the co
mforter, through the drinking glass on my side end table, and on the corner of a photo frame on our drawers. Only a hint of light licks up the far wall.

  I run my fingertips over the cotton blend that drapes the measurements of the dusty mattress. No fire or screams fill me as I pace the length of the bed, finger trailing along the edges. Paul, oh Paul, I hum under my breath.

  I stop at a corner, feeling as if I were an intruder in someone else’s bedroom. The rotten air is an unfamiliar scent. Only, this is my room. How did I manage to cut myself off from my most personal possessions in my house? This is the place where I relaxed, read Stephen King books under a pocket of light, and curled up against my husband.

  An urge itches at my feet and I let it take over as I clamber on the squeaky mattress, rolling my eyes back in delight. I remember the soft layers underneath my weight.

  I sit, motionless. I don’t know the purpose of my actions, why I need to sit neatly on the bed, only that it makes me feel giddy. Lay back, sexy, I’ve got something for you, Paul says, kissing down my chest over and over until the little hairs on the skin at my bikini line stood on end.

  Sitting up now, Paul had scolded me for doing this act back then, against what he told me not to do—be still.

  I squat, facing the foot of the bed, then slide down onto my knees beside the base. Under the bed, the scent of dust and moldy air is concentrated. I squint, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness and then fumble through some old trinkets and possessions.

  I cock my head to the side and press my back against the metal base of the bed frame, crawling my arm in as far as I can reach. My fingers run along a pair of cold ceramic plates, my beloved hair straightener. I nudge it to the side as I run into a fluffy toy. I recognize the smooth coat I used to cuddle so frequently but it’s not what I’m after. Again, I push it to the side, now able to see the worn shoebox, which was hidden by the bear’s body.

  Digging in further, I sink my nails into a hole on the box’s side, and drag it toward me.

  The shoebox comes out exactly as I left it the last time. A dull, grainy texture covers the lid’s top. Years ago, when we first exchanged these they were bright, white and crisp. I let go of a lungful of air. Particles whirl around, settle. The ink on the lid reads: Katie.

  There are little folds of paper inside. They layer on top of each other abundantly throughout the container. No ink splashes any visible sides, so I drop my hand in, remembering the thrill from the first time I read those words.

  Withdrawn, I take out a bit of folded paper. On the outside, it’s identical to the others inside the box. My stomach churns as I try anticipating the words strung together before flattening it out.

  As I open the paper, my gut fills with a warm sensation. Paul’s handwriting is weird to see. He’s alive in his words. I scan to the top where the letter begins. It reads:

  Dear my beautiful Kates,

  I hope you are busy with our daughter right about now, and clueless that I’m giving up TV time to write you a letter.

  I’m thinking of your eye color, not quite brown, but dusted with green and flecks of yellow, along the inner most circle of your pupil. I love staring into them, trying to decide what color they are. I’ve decided on a greeny-hazel tonight. Then I think of your plump cheeks and your sexy lips and I can’t decide how much I love you. Maybe a galaxy-full.

  One day, when we’ve won the lottery and we’re rich, I’ll buy you the biggest, fattest ring and a big triple story house with a swimming pool for Ella and you. The downside is, you’ll have to put up with me until I need help shitting. See? I love you enough to give you all I’ve got.

  Our little girl had her sixth birthday a month ago and I can still remember before the surprise (I’m glad we got lazy with protection). I remember the joy in your eyes the first time you held her and I still see that overwhelming beauty every time you have picked her up since (although she’s fattened out remarkably).

  I wonder if, in ten years time, she’ll still be fighting for our affection. More likely a sex-craved boy a few years older will be fighting for her affection instead. When that day comes, remind me to leave behind my rifle. If I bring a bat, he’ll only end up with a broken leg and I might only be slapped with a misdemeanor.

  You two girls are the reason I keep breathing every day. A sucker like me has truly fooled you completely to trick you into so many years of torture and that’s why I realize I really am the luckiest fool on the planet.

  And you, my Kates. I’m sorry if I don’t make enough time for you or tell you I love you as much as you deserve to hear it. So for when I can’t squeeze your skin in between my fingers or smell your sweet scent, so long as you read this letter over, you will know that I’ll be right near you, holding you tight and whispering I love yous into your ear.

  If you stay with me forever, I promise I’ll love you with all the love I’ve got.

  Forever,

  Your hubby Pauly

  I fold that letter, kiss it, and put it back into the box. I’ll set aside the ones for Ella for when she is old enough to understand.

  There’s something new in common with Paul and me.

  He never wanted me trapped by him. There’ll always be a spot snug inside reserved for him, but there’s also the rest of me ready to be filled up with all the things I’ve been busy doing since my recovery. And there’s plenty of room for more.

  Now, my bedroom seems to sparkle like it’s had a spring clean. I smile through blurry eyes as I realize I won’t be going back to the spare bedroom tonight. Or ever again. This is my place; where I belong.

  As I stand by the windows and watch the light flooding in, I loosen my muscles, letting the warmth and the brightness take my face.

  I stand back and watch it shine across the room, against the reflection of the portrait hanging above the bedhead. There, two youths grin happily, one in white, the other in black.

  My thoughts compile for a moment. Then I know what I must do. It’s my duty to bring down Cooper. Paul’s memory deserves it, for me to be whole again. I’ll figure out how to expose him so I can finally get over the days when I shunned the memory of my husband.

  Ding-dong. I hope whomever is at the door isn’t anyone I know. I need to pick up Ella from school. Surely anyone who knows me knows this.

  “Yeah, coming,” I call from my bedroom, loud enough to hear downstairs. I stand still for a moment, peering out of the window and feel the sun tingling on my skin. Hot enough, I decide, as I leave my cardigan behind and dash down the stairs with my keys and handbag ready to go.

  “I’m really sorry but . . . ”

  There they are. Liam grips Ella’s hand. Her blonde curls bounce on each shoulder as she skips on the spot, clearly delighted. As I check my wrist to make sure I haven’t skipped an hour, I’m confused.

  “You’re not seeing things. I ran out of time on the weekend to take her shopping because of the last-minute interstate meeting. I arranged with her grade one teacher, Mrs. Richardson, to have her picked up early.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can Mommy come, Liam?”

  “Only if she wants to, but remember what I told you before: she can’t come to the same shops as us.”

  They share a sly wink.

  “Hey! She’ll come along,” I say, locking the door behind me.

  • • •

  We go to The Hills Shopping Center. For the best part of an hour, I wander around aimlessly past retail stores and stop to peek when a flashy sign, piece of clothing or accessory catches my attention.

  Eventually I feel the ringing in my bag, which signals the end of my desperately trying to pass the time. On the line is Ella’s voice. She rambles something about what a pretty pink “it” is. Her voice crumbles away when she mentions a present. Liam returns and laughs off her comments before describin
g where to meet up.

  “Okay, how about we meet at the food court.”

  “Done.”

  Ella flings a gift bag into Liam’s hand before taking off. I see her leather lace-ups and then hear them stomping down the tiled walkway, even with the chatter, as she gains alarming speed.

  I dive down and scoop Ella up onto my hip in one fluid motion—albeit heaving with the weight of her seven-year-old body. Liam catches up, poorly trying to hide something behind his back, which I figure is my gift.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “Um . . . ” Ella mumbles and then picks at a button on her school dress, attempting to conceal a drawn-half smile.

  “How long?” I raise her body so that we share the same eye level.

  She mumbles something again whilst scratching her temple and then digs her face into my t-shirt when nothing of substance comes to mind.

  “Monday,” Liam says, pulling up by our side. “I called your nana’s place and we made up our plan, isn’t that right?”

  Ella lifts her head and smiles enthusiastically in a now-I-remember eye roll.

  “Over here,” Liam points. We move over to an empty table and Liam lays out two gifts. I stare at him sternly but he waves me off.

  One of the gifts is in a silver and black gift bag, with silver string attachments forming handles. The other is in a similar bag, however the printed black and silver shades are inverted.

  “Guys—”

  “It’s your thirtieth birthday for crying out loud! You didn’t actually think we’d let you get away with it that easily, did you?”

  “Happy birthday, Mommy!”

  I blush, even though I saw the last-minute shopping and surprise coming. I can’t help but feel giddy. Liam leans into Ella’s ear and whispers something. She puts her hand on one of the gift bags, then looks to Liam and he gives an approving nod. She proceeds to slide it in front of me.