Precise (3 page)

“Well excu—use me!” I guffaw like he’s suggested I hump a monkey. I quieten my voice. It’s a low rumble. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Liam turns his attention from the road and those damn blue eyes quiz me again. “At some point you need to get on with it.”

“That’s it.”

“What?” He chokes on the word.

“Enough.”

“You have no idea what it’s like finding someone passed out and shaking and shaking them but they don’t wake. Thinking that—”

“Actually,” I say looking at the road ahead, “I do.”

More than anyone, I know what it feels like to walk in on the one person you love most lying there. Dead and gone before you have a chance to do anything. Then, all you have left is what ifs.

I fucking hate What Ifs. What if I wasn’t a self-centered, first-class idiot? Would my senses have told me that everything was wrong and that Paul should have responded, come downstairs to Ella and I when I called multiple times?

Yes. Yes if I wasn’t really intending to kill my husband, I would have known. Paul has been my life for thirteen years. I should damn well feel it when his soul decided to fuck off from this world.

“It’s getting late,” I say, the words pulling me back to Liam’s car. “How about we get some coffee to go?”

“Cappuccino?”

“Mmm,” I mumble.

“No sugar?”

“Mmm.”

“No chocolate powder?”

I growl reactively, which prompts Liam to dart his eyes from the road to me for a second.

“You know,” he says. “I remember the days when you could have no less than one and a half sugars, and you’d only order a latte with vanilla, caramel or hazelnut syrup in it.”

As I look out the passenger window, I stroke the smooth plastic strip between the window and the lining. It’s still jet black, shiny, new. The motion comforts me. “Those were sweeter times, I s’pose.”

“Sure, Kates. Sure.” He drives past the usual parking lot at Anne’s and around the side to the drive-through.

The counter chick is wearing a stupid pink love heart matching dress and headband outfit. She is oblivious to Liam not looking at her and his drone-like voice when he orders, pays and collects our drinks. Still, she bends over to reach for the money and unsubtly shakes her cleavage, letting it pop out from the top of her uniform.

As we guzzle our drinks on the way home, I scald my tongue. Liam must, too, because he flinches when he puts the cup to his lips.

The car is silent. The drive home is painfully long, and I think that, somehow, this can’t be the usual route. It’s much too long.

“Kates . . . ” Liam says as he pulls up in my driveway. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning to see if you’re still alive.”

I stalk back to my front door and hope he gets the hint that I do
not
want to talk.

To him.

To anyone.

I’m happy living every day in this house without speaking to another human being.

Sometimes, sadly, even my daughter.

I
wake to a buzz reverberating under me.

At first, I think it’s part of my nightmare—my car radio was loud enough to vibrate through my seat, maybe? Stupid.

When I take my sleeping pills, I usually don’t remember anything. For hours, it’s bliss. No nightmares or faces, or anxiety attacks during the night. I’m no one and, between my new self, my old self, and Paul’s ghost hanging around, I’ve never enjoyed feeling like nothing more in my life.

By the time I shake my head to wake up fully, the phone stops ringing. As I’m about to surrender to the weight in my eyelids and the sleep pulling me under, it rings again, no more than a minute later.

Pressing a random button and hoping it connects, I say, “Mmm?” It isn’t until a full ten seconds later that the typical “hello” response forms in my head. Oh well.

“Kates?”

“Yes. Liam.”

His voice is stern, like my mother’s when she caught me sneaking out of bed to meet Paul and I’d tripped over her in the dark. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not. You woke me up. I’m going back to sleep now. Bye.”

I drop my phone over the side of the bed. It clanks against something—probably a bottle from a few nights ago, or last night—and rests on the carpet. A few seconds later and everything is black and quiet again.

• • •

W
hen I can open my eyes without an automatic reflex to squint against the light, I remember Liam calling me this morning. Did he call me a few times? Maybe something’s going on and it’s an emergency. His car broke down. His brother, Brent, broke his arm. Something like that, because I’d expect Liam to know I’m not all chummy with him at the moment. Anything less and I’ll be pissed.

I feel the glass bottle under my bed. Alcohol isn’t one of my likes, actually, which is why I drink Johnny too much. It’s putrid and toxic, and perfect for me. But I need something other than Johnny. His warmth is a promise of safety from a stranger before they grab you by your collar and haul you out on a winter night. Johnny always seems like a good idea at the time, but he won’t later. He never does with those hangovers.

I tap around the carpet until I feel my phone. My suspicions are right: Liam called me three times before I answered his call and the same amount afterward. Can’t he take a hint?

For years we’d been close. It’d be weirder to call my mom at eight in the morning than Liam. We’d never gone more than a few days without chatting. Even when I was in labor he was on the phone with Paul, relaying messages back.

But the last few weeks or months he’s been way too . . . sticky. Like he’s appointed himself as my third parent. The thought of Liam lately makes me tighten my fist around my phone. I only release when I hear a crack. Life Insurance Direct
sends me enough money to live but I can’t afford to buy a new phone every time I get mad. I’m not Bill Gates.

He needs to understand my point, so I open up a new message and type:

I’ll keep this short. I need space from you so leave me alone. Our friendship isn’t over. Come back when you aren’t trying to be my parent.

As I press send, I know I’m rushing because more What Ifs pop up, but I’m sick of thinking. It’s not the best idea to piss him off. I know. It’s not like I’m surrounded by friends, but I don’t care enough about anything to really mind.

Suddenly cold, I curl up my legs. My skin meets bony flesh—I’m only just beginning to notice this about myself. I wear the exact same things as I did this time before, but I’m perpetually shivering. The clothes have all stretched, probably due to my lack of care with washing.

I grab my sheets and pull them up until it’s just my head poking out. Still shivering, I tuck my heels close to my body and draw my elbows in. The shivers don’t go. I pat down the cover so every part of my skin is cocooned.

My insides are pinched and churning into a knot.

Liam
fucking
Dayle.

I don’t need him saving me. I don’t need him anymore.

Years ago, the Dayle brothers saved me from boredom on nights out with our parents. They were the siblings I never had. Liam, who is the closest in age to me (a few months older), has always been my best friend. Anna and Craig, their parents, are all right, but my idea of a Friday night had never been spending it with my parents and their friends.

Liam and I would share a look. It didn’t involve a combination of winks and nods. Nor any gesture. We’d just stare into each other’s eyes. Liam would suddenly announce he was craving a cheeseburger from our spot, a local cheap, oily fast-food joint, or that he needed to go for a run around the block to loosen his muscles. Anything. Suddenly, I’d remember I was hungry too, or think that I should join Liam and do some exercise. Our parents rarely caught on because Liam and I never did have a signal to catch out.

These days, Liam stands in front of me and I see nothing. I just see nothing.

Nothing.

I only ever see Paul, but he’s not alive, just hanging around.

I’m sick of it.

I
hobble into one of my peep toe heels, wishing I’d fall over and knock my head on a sharp object—anything. I think through my plan: blackout, miss tonight, easy. It seems more appealing than Mom’s party.

Only, it isn’t that simple. If Ella were a few years older she’d be able to handle herself, but at six she doesn’t need to see another parent unconscious.

Instead, I balance my palm on the staircase post and wiggle my toes comfortably. Mom would prefer me like this: preparing for her damn seventieth birthday with a smile.

The memory comes pouring back, and I can’t stop it.

“Paul would have wanted it.” I still can’t believe she said it.

“Rochelle, maybe . . . ” Dad scratched at his hairline. “ . . . four months—maybe it
is
too soon after. He was practically our son. I don’t think Kates is being—”

When Mom gave him one of her
watch it
looks, he closed his mouth. He knew when to shut it after four decades of marriage.

She smiled and her plump, pink lips looked fuller. “I know he would have wanted me to go ahead with it. I know my son. Plus, it’s my birthday and this is how I want to spend it. Katie needs to talk about Paul’s death and I won’t hold back. That’ll just make me a bad mother for allowing her to avoid her issues.”

I’d been trying to sip my tea carefully, listen to everything they were saying—put on the façade that I was in another world. But those words made me choke.
I’m, like, right here!
Tea spurted from my mouth, like a garden hose on full.

Mom lingered her gaze on me and cleared her throat. “The family needs this.”

You need this, you bitch
.

“The catering has been planned for months. The Lancasters have their flights booked from England.”

My mom can talk the head off someone. This is in the sense that she has the ability to make someone want to rip their head off to stop hearing her wretched voice.

I don’t have to do shit of what she expects of me.

My house has meant more to me since I’ve been alone. Its walls are like thick, high barriers so tall they disappear into the sky, blocking anything that could penetrate through. I can leave any time I want, but the thing is I
don’t
want to. It’s not my prison. I don’t have a problem. It’s my choice to stay inside and spare the world from my whining and subsequent thrashing and screaming.

I bite my lip, and the pain brings me back. I rest my palm on the post and call up the stairs. “Almost ready?”

There’s shuffling, what sounds like hopping, and other things rustling. “Yu—up. Soon!”

I practice pacing the hallway in my heels. The last time I wore heels would have been when He and I went out for dinner. I had them on the day before to wear them in. The next night when we had our dinner date all alone, I had to bite my lip the whole drive there so I wouldn’t grin just like our little daughter. When we sat at our table, I had to look him in the face, and decided I’d let him see my stupid excitement. He made me ridiculously happy and deserved to know so.

The first lap of trying them on again I look like a penguin, the fourth like a regular office assistant. Ella confirms again she’ll be ready really soon.

Out of curiosity, I look at the mirror above the hallway cabinet. It’s the first time in a week or so that I’ve seen my reflection. It hasn’t changed. My face hangs close to the bone and my cheeks are only rosy because Ella made me put on some blush. When I twist my head, light catches the glitter in my eye shadow and blinds me. Katie, the glittering fool.

As much as Mom gets on my nerves, she’s the only one to say what she really thinks. And that’s that I look like a starved, albino monster who has been trapped in a basement.

Mom comes around randomly now. When Paul was here she’d call to make sure she wasn’t intruding on any family time. She learned her lesson and agreed to seek help for her issues after the public showdown at a café when Ella was one.

“I think you should see someone,” Mom said to me only yesterday. We were at the meals table, television blaring in the background.

“I’m fine.” I jingled my ring finger for effect.

She rolled her eyes. “Not like that. Someone
else
.”

“I’m not into girls, Mom.”

She clamped my shoulder and gave me a look that I was meant to interpret as
come on, now
.

Randomly, she blurted, “Don’t ruin everything!”

“Mom—” I said, cackling. “Don’t be silly. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

She grabbed the remote and muted the volume on the TV.
Great
, I thought,
now it’ll get more awkward.

“So, there were quite a few glass bottles in the trash, Katie.”

I tried staring out the window. Being winter, no birds flocked the skies, and gray clouds smothered every inch of possible blueness. Nothing to focus on. Nothing other than the tension choking me. Questions directed to me these days were more like an ambush than a friendly way to keep conversation going.

“Why would anyone go through someone else’s trash?” I asked.

“I help sort out your mail. Throw out what’s spam.”

Her eyes burned into the side of my head as I continued to check out the nothingness happening in my backyard. Refusing to look at her, I twirled my hair instead. “So how does that get you looking through my recycling?”

Mom turned away and I thought
aha!
but she continued, saying, “I recycle the paper. No point wasting it.”

Typical of Mom to deflect the answer, thus deflecting any wrongdoing on her part.

“Half of the bottles are from the neighbors. Next door has twin teenage boys. I don’t want to get them in trouble, so I let them dump things in there.” I twirled my hair over, hoping Mom didn’t know my neighbors. Those boys may have moved out, but I didn’t speak to them anymore so I couldn’t be sure.

“Just remember, I want to help you however I can. Whether those bottles are yours or not, or you need more of a hand with Ella. In fact, some single mothers these days say they need a brea—”

“A break? I don’t need to quit Ella.”

“I didn’t say that!”

“I. Am. Fine. No breaks.” I gritted my teeth so I would hold it all back, and I tensed my tongue, channeling my anger there and not at Mom’s nose. “I don’t need a break from my daughter.”

“Of course,” Mom said, standing up. “Tea?” As if that was the most normal follow up question to this type of conversation.

I hate tea, thanks to her. Coffee is now my go-to.

My sunken face and overly rosy cheeks form back in front of me in the mirror. I try smiling. I’ve heard that you can’t cry if you tell yourself how beautiful you are whilst smiling. Maybe it works the same for anger?

I don’t know who I’m angry at, less if it’s anyone else but myself.

Walking to the staircase, I squeeze the post to remind me I’m here, that Ella is upstairs getting changed, that I need to go tonight. Pretend all I want, I’m headed towards people who know stuff about me, who’ll want to voice their concerns. And that’s priority one I control. Their worry is stupid, though. I value no one more than Ella. Not even myself.

Tonight’s like a test, a show, to see if I’m capable and normal. I’m not, and that’s why I have to go.

Ugh, if Liam gangs up on me with her tonight . . . friendship over.

I can keep it together for one night. No matter that I’m uncomfortable in crowds. I’ll stop my rambling thoughts. I repeat, there is only one answer. I must accept the challenge.

I am good enough for Ella.

I try that smiling thing again and walk to Ella’s bedroom. If I can get through Mom’s party, I might be able to show I’m fine to look after Ella still.

I don’t know who I’m showing more: my mom or myself.