Precise by Rebecca Berto, Lauren McKellar Page B

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.