Precise (9 page)

“Aw, you’re awake,” I say, rushing to her side.

“But . . . but what happened?” Her eyes search us. Dad is consoling Mom. The tension is so thick even a young girl is choking on it.

“Oh, Nana, Pa and I were having a grown-up chat. But I was about to come and get you so we can go home.”

“Wait,” Dad says, coming over. “We’ll go chat on the steps, yes.”

“Uh . . . mm.”

He nods and ushers me to the back door, to “the steps”, which is his trademark site for heart-to-heart chats, a ciggie with friends or a solitary break. In my youth, I attempted (on multiple occasions) to escape “the steps”. My methods included a visit to the toilet or a sudden hunger pang. Dad would wait until I couldn’t drag things out any longer.

“Nana, will you take Ella down to the park?” he says.

My fuse is small and burning shorter by the second. “No, Ella, time to go home. Stay here.”

Ella makes to run to me, but stops and seems too confused to know what she should be doing.

“Oh, won’t you play with Nana? She said she’ll even play on the swings with you. Plus, Roxy can come along.”

Ella beams. She turns to Mom who agrees. There’s no going back from here. Ella jumps up and down on the spot for a full minute while Mom gets a few things together and then eventually convinces her she needs to change out of her PJs before they can go. I hadn’t a chance to escape from “the steps” before and I don’t now.

Dad and I sit down. “She just loves that dog,” Dad says.

“Too much, if you ask me. Cocker Spaniels and Poodles shouldn’t be allowed to breed.”

“Why’s that?”

I rub at a crack in the concrete steps, pluck at a grass tuft. “Because you end up with a Spoodle, like Roxy, and child tantrums.”

“Only sometimes, darling.”

“Yeah.”

Dad tuts. “Roxy’s good for Ella. They both love running after each other.”

For a moment, I’m lost. I’d forgotten about what happened this morning, everything I don’t remember, but it’s suddenly caught up with me. I think of anything I can say so Dad doesn’t pick up my shift. “Well I’m glad you enjoy chasing both of them.”

“I s’pose you won’t be buying a Spoodle?”

“Not a Spoodle, a Moodle or any other dog breed. I’m not good with looking after them.”

“Who?”

“Roxy. God, Dad. I can still look after my child.” I laugh lightly, showing that I’m not having a go at him. At least, that’s what it should sound like. But Dad is too perceptive. He knows how to turn down the sound and listen to what’s really going on underneath all of the sugar coating.

He clears his throat. “Paul always had the patience for a terror like Roxy.”

He doesn’t continue at first. Then he resumes in a whisper, as if it’s blasphemy if anyone else can hear him. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Dad huffs as if he’s given up hope. “I’m sure you know I loved Paul like he was my own son. I’ve never expected you to do this or do that after what happened to him. I don’t want to be the one telling you how you should feel because I wouldn’t want to feel forced myself.”

Has Mom mouthed off about me? And what did I do last night? Is she the reason why my mind has blocked out an entire night? Party plus Mom equals some of the top things on my I-Do-Not-Want-To-Do list.

I ponder the thought. Not possible.

I’d imagined, briefly, that Liam might have had something to do with me leaving—our last encounter that I remember is that text message. So meeting him in person? War.

I choose two strands of grass, tie the ends together and layer them. I twist them over and over. Soon, my grass weaving looks like the inside of a piano accordion.

I mock up a pop tune in my mind, the beat strong.

Dad’s words blur like steam in a hot tub. I dig my palm into the grainy concrete, grazing my skin. The pounding in my head has to be counteracted somehow. Each time Paul’s curls or his emerald eyes, or even his voice try to squeeze into my conscious process, I add lyrics, a piano, and backup singers.

By the time Dad’s voice registers, I’ve run out of grass to weave and feel uninspired to invent any more crap songs.

“ . . . don’t tell your mother, though. It’s nothing. I just keep thinking he’s coming back. Four months feels like last week. I’m not getting Alzheimer’s. Promise. I just need to stop buying those outback magazines for him. And sending emails. It’s the shock that does it. I think to myself,” he waits a few beats, “how can that be it? He donated to Diabetes Australia. He worked hard and spent every weeknight and weekend with his family. It’s not fair but we’ll work out the reason for it later. You’ll work it out when the time’s right. Give it time, darling,” he says.

Is he talking about Paul or me? Where did Dad make the transition? I’ve already forgotten why we came out here.

“I know,” I say, trying out the words.

You don’t know. But, of course, you’re a super great liar.
Molten Man is back. That’s quick.

The sky darkens. Someone steals the sun and drags the light away with it. Molten Man sucks my reasoning and answers. The rush is a constant on, off, on, off, like a skipping record, on my nervous system.

“So really, Kates, I wanted to make sure you didn’t leave in a huff again.”

He has his head cocked to one side. So still.

I hunch my shoulders against the cold. At two-and-a-half times my age, Dad still sits there in his thin sweater, legs and arms uncrossed. Just looking. So strong and unaffected by the chill.

“Did you know that when you were little you’d just shut down when you refused to talk about something? Drove your mother crazy.” He rubs my shoulder in circles.

“Do you think maybe it’s all catching up to you?” he adds.

“What is?”

“You know, what you’re going through and . . . ”

“Oh.” I expect him to go on once more, but he waits for me. Dad is the opposite of Mom. I wonder how they get along sometimes. I label him the silent but deadly one. It takes few words for Dad to gain control of a situation. I can’t understand that gift. I guess it’s because I have inherited my mother’s destructive ways.

“I’d love to say you’re wrong, but I’m not sure what happened last night.” It feels like I’m lying. That’s probably because he must assume I’m talking about this fight Mom and I had.

“I only wanted to see how you were, without you having a go at me.” He flicks his eyes toward the house. “I’m sorry I’m no help.”

At that moment I consider letting go and telling him all: about Molten Man, Johnny Walker, the pills, the screams. That day. But he speaks and it’s too late.

“Well, don’t feel like you have to hide something from her. She really wants to help. You know she’s had some tough things to deal with.” He swallows, as if considering my reactions and pats my knee. “I’ll leave it up to your discretion to come to me if you need to.”

I’m envisioning Ella calling out to my mom, then grinning up at the monkey bars and swinging toward her, proudly. Although I hate the idea of Ella with Mom, I’m grateful for her having fun. This spurs a feeling. Maybe Ella would be better off with someone other than me.

“Ella really likes staying here, huh?” I say.

Dad fiddles with his shirt, and nods—like he’s using the time to think of what to say. “It’s no wonder. Your mother treats her as if she’s earth’s last child. She asked Ella if she wanted to stay over more than the usual once a week, but she just went quiet. I guess she didn’t want to say no to her nana.” He looks at me with a meaningful stare. “My guess is Ella wants to be with you as much as she can.”

“Oh.” My response took so much more effort than I should have needed for one word.

“We’re happy to have her, Kates.” He pats my shoulder again, leaves his hand there. “But I suggested to Rochelle that we don’t take her too much. For the both of you.”

This should have comforted me. But my mind starts playing again, imagining an underlying meaning. A meaning to something that Dad would never try to hide from me if he had a clue.

O
nce Ella’s strapped in the car, she launches into missiles of questions. “Where were you last night? Why didn’t you tuck me in? Why couldn’t I stay and bake with Nana?”

When the world finds a way to explain my messed up head and actions to a six-year-old, please call me. Maybe the things Mom and Liam say are right, but I’ll be damned if I let anything or anyone harm my daughter.

Ella persists. “But why didn’t you come back to see me at Nana’s?”

“I’ve already explained, Elly. I couldn’t make it back. Mommy got stuck.” I realize my mistake the moment I say the word “stuck”.

She retorts instantly. “Where?” she continues, when I take too long thinking. “You said stuck before. Where, Mommy?”

“It’s grown-up stuff. You’ll understand when you get older.”

“When I turn seven?”

“Hmm,” I say, “seven is pretty old, El.”

Her eyes pop. She claps her hands. “Really?” Then she frowns. “But that’s next year!”

“I won’t forget,” I say.

“Promise you’ll tell me the secret when I’m seven and old.”

I scan the passenger seat where she sits. And she’s grinning. I rub the shoulder closest to me and she shivers in delight. My mouth feels weird. Why does it feel weird? Oh, I’m smiling.

I keep my eyes on the road as I drive and feel around for Ella’s fingers. I lace them through mine. “I’d do anything for you, darling.” Maybe one day I’ll be able to tell her things about what happened.

Ella startles me when she speaks a few minutes later. “I wanted to show you what I found.”

“Found? Did you pick up a new toy at the park?”

As I stop at a set of lights, she swivels around with her elbows sticking out behind her back. “You’ll be mad.”

“Promise I won’t. Show me your new toy, please.”

She cowers. “But it’s not a toy.”

“Show me anyway. I—”

She brings out the ripped piece of cardboard. I realize instantly why she picked it up. There are fireworks in every imaginable color around and behind the text. Big text. The words “celebrate” and “Norweigh Drive” snag my eye. Unfortunately, all I can see are borders, fireworks and odd words on the invitation that mean nothing out of context. Most of it seems to be on the other
side.

“Where did you get this?”

“The park . . . I told you.”

I soften a smile for her. I have no right to be angry. “Where in the park?”

“Uh . . . near the—” But she cuts her sentence short and I never get the chance to hear the rest. “The lights, Mommy!”

I take off again and stuff the invitation in the side of my car door.

I
plug the charger into my phone. After a minute, when it gains enough power to turn on, the melody begins. It beeps once, and again and again, playing for minutes with missed call messages.

Ella is watching a movie, waiting for me to wake up from my nap. Easier said than done; I don’t nap. When I think about where and how I woke up this morning, my muscles paralyze. So I dig my head in my pillows, my breaths hot and heavy through the material, until . . .

It hits me, and I’m powerless now, as always, to stop the memories that replay.

I’ve just pulled up in my driveway.

But I’m in bed, I think. Surely I didn’t fall asleep? The last thing I did was climb in bed. I am—was—sure of it.

Chlorine makes the air sharp to breathe, which fires off my heart rate. The smell makes me cringe—want to curl up in a ball to shield myself.

Ella is strapped in the seat next to me. She’s humming a rhyme her swimming teacher used during this morning’s class.

I try to run, but find sheets tangled around my legs.

“
Next week there’ll be no Maccas after class, Missy,” I say.

“But
—
”

I get out of my seat and close the door. “And no twenty-minute-long shower or one-hour playtime in the pool after class.”

Ella shuts the door, hard. “Ben does. And his Mommy gives him Happy Meals, too.”

“But we are busy today. Remember we’re going to the doctor’s because Daddy has a bad headache?”

She pretends not to know what I’m saying and takes her bag inside with her. She walks through the front door. Of course, Paul is home.

Run!
But I can’t.

He’s probably watching more
Family Guy
to kill the time while he’s waiting for Ella and me to come home.

Come on, you know he isn’t watching TV. Why can’t I run? Run! I’m hot—hot from anger, all of a sudden. The rage grows as I remember strutting inside with my red, leather bag, blue jeans and clinky heels.
You let him die.
I should have called emergency services sooner. I know what’s going to come. Why don’t I do anything?

“
Hey, Pauly,” I call. I can’t stop smiling. Finally
—
finally
—
Ella is doing something that resembles freestyle without floaties. This is so amazing. So, I say, “Stop watching that annoying show.”

I wait at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing. Call again. “Pauly!”

Whatever. If he’s not answering, I’ll make toast. Ella’s full from
McDonald’s
chicken nuggets and my stomach feels as if it’s eating itself.

I take out two slices of multigrain bread. Because I’m still thinking of Maccas, I allow myself a treat of Nutella topping as the substitute. Ella climbs the chair under the counter and props her elbows on the laminate to watch me.

Chlorine. She brings the smell with her. It makes me feel like I need to retch. My heart is a hammer and my breathing thuds. Or maybe that’s me screaming. Maybe I’m yelling already.

Ella swivels in the chair and whooshes the smell of chlorine toward me.

It’s like bleach. It burns my insides as it tears through, so I scream from the pain. Tingles begin like how earthquake aftershocks feel across a distance. Then the tingles grow as if the quake roars underneath me. I’m crumbling already.

I look at my watch. We are so late. “Paul Anselin!”

Ella smirks, joins in. “Da—addy!”

“Wait here, Ella. I’ll see what he’s doing and come back down.”

I pour a glass of blackcurrant juice and bring along one of the pieces of Nutella toast.

Why do I walk so slowly? His lavender lids and lifeless face appear in my mind. It confuses me because I haven’t walked up the stairs to see him yet.

As I walk, Ella tells me she is playing
The
Lion King
and Elton John sings in my living room before I have time to climb another step. I’m stepping, biting, stepping, chewing and swallowing, stepping, sipping.

I nudge open the ajar door to my bedroom.

My eyes snap open.

Drops of sweat coat my skin. I’m hammering, thudding, and swimming in a toxic mixture of chlorine and sweat. I must also have been actually screaming because my throat feels raspy.

Shit. It
was
a nightmare.

Phone, I think. I was checking my phone. I must have fallen asleep—more like fallen into a retake of the moment I saw Paul in our bedroom.

I scan through my phone. The list is in double figures, some from my parents, Liam, Brent, and one random message from Nancy, my next closest friend besides Liam, asking how the party turned out.

I ignore Brent’s call because I don’t think I’ve seen him in months, even though thinking that feels off—as if I have just seen him. But I’d have nothing to say anyway.

When I rid the alerts, I press L in my contact list and scroll down several names before pressing the green telephone symbol. Within one ring, Liam answers my call.

“Kates?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Where are you? You just took off. I didn’t even get to say hi.”

“I’m at home. I picked up Ella from Mom and Dad’s.”

“Did you have fun at the Grand Prix?”

“Oh, sure. I made a new record in my four-cylinder hatchback. The other V12 engines were no match for me.”

“V12s aren’t allowed in the Melbourne Grand Prix. By the way.”

“By the way, what are you talking about?”

“Last night, when you took off in your V12 and raced around Melbourne, trying to kill yourself.”

I bite my lip. “Ouch,” I say, as I taste something metallic, like iron, in my mouth.

“Sorry, didn’t know I cut you that deep.”

“Well . . .” I say dryly.

“Come on. I’m joking. Thought it’d pick you up. It used to.” He clears his throat. “I’m not doing much tonight.”

“Great. I heard
Rambo
is on TV,” I say, because there’s no way he’d miss that. Give him something to do.

“I meant I can come over. Dummy.”

“I’m tired, to be honest. Just want a quiet one.”

“Then I’ll make you gnocchi so you can relax.”

As if I could relax with him there! This conversation feels like I’m trying to worm my way out with a bad excuse. Hm, but dinner sounds amazing. Ella and I have eaten one too many frozen meals. “Please don’t make my dinner.”

“Thought you’d say that. We’ll make it together.”

I force myself into silence.

“Ahh,” he chuckles. “Don’t be like that, Kates. Don’t be mad.”

This is what I mean. He doesn’t know me.
I’m not mad. A stranger would look at my drawn eyebrows or clenched teeth and suppose this. Someone who knows me knows “mad” isn’t sufficient enough of a word.

Finally, he says, “I want to come.”

“What about that message?” If I go into details, it’ll be the end of sounding reasonably calm. I sigh. “You don’t have to come.”

“I know. I don’t have to.”

“ . . . right.” I don’t get it.

“I need to,” he says. He
a-hem
s, then continues, “Not because your mom bugged me to but because, well, I’d like to make you gnocchi.”

“Okay,” I hold up my fingers so I can tick them off as I list. “You’re doing this because one, you need to show off cooking talents I so obviously don’t have, and two, because you’re shitty and want to snoop about what happened to me last night.”

“Bingo. You know me so well.”

I’m glad he didn’t see what I just did. It’d cause another fight, and we already sound like an old married couple. “That’s where you’re wrong. Maybe you don’t know yourself. Because, three, you’re doing this because you can’t admit you stuffed up and my text message telling you to stay away was right.”

“No. You suck at cooking, and you need my help.”

Gee, how heroic. Very romantic, subtle, and brave of him to say that.

“I told you I’m fine, Liam!”

“Ka—” he swallows and it sounds loud. He must have the phone pressed close to his face. “Okay, I won’t come. If you want, that is.”

“No, please . . . ” But I trail off because
what the hell?
How stupid was that? I’ve spent this call—technically, weeks—telling him to leave me alone and when he releases the pressure, I spring back?

I don’t want to see him.

I don’t want his support.

I don’t need to have him there, just in case I need it.

Because I rely on myself. Right?

This situation is normal. I’ll keep dealing with it, is what I tell myself. The chunks missing from my memory are familiar, so the disorientation isn’t shock. The cause isn’t always alcohol, and mostly, in fact, it isn’t.

After all, I wasn’t drunk when I found Paul.

Liam finds a way through. I weed through the jungle. He tracks me. I isolate myself. He’s there.

A memory of us as kids flickers. Our arms were wrapped so tight around each other I couldn’t breathe, and that was okay because the scary movie on TV almost scared my panties off. Yet, I didn’t let go of him. His bones and mine mashed together. This close, I remembered feeling his breath tickling my lips. I wanted to yank my hand from around his waist to scratch, but I couldn’t let go. Petrified by the scary movie, feeling giddy wrapped up next to him. I wondered if my breath tickled his lips, too, and I realized it must have. We were mashed together, as close as could be.

Maybe he also felt that if we let go the scary monster on TV would gobble us. That he needed that feeling, too, of being important enough to someone. To mean that much to someone.

How strange that I remember that now. That while I grit my teeth and make frustrated sounds, that I still feel this way toward Liam.