by Jessica Bell
I used to admire my second-hand Maton acoustic as if it were a rare antique chair—contemplating its remarkable existence and all the generations of people who might have used it. And knowing that no matter how many times people might walk past the window it is displayed in, appreciating its beauty and its universal and durable function, it will one day be purchased again, find a new home, and will happily sacrifice its lull to forego another few more generations of use.
But this time I look at my guitar, and I’m afraid that if I don’t pick it up soon, I will never pick it up again. I fear that I’ll become a rare antique chair—but one that has been inaccurately valued and misguidedly put in the trash. But I’m also afraid to pick it up, because that will be the moment I rebuild my body around my soul—the moment when I know, there will be no turning back, and my life will never be the same. The beginning of a new beginning, or the beginning of the end?
I stare at it for a few moments longer, wishing I could get a handle on these feelings. If I were an outsider looking in, I’d probably want to slap myself in the face. Tell myself to “Get a grip,” that I’m being whiny, irrational, weak. “All words and no action.” My mother was right.
I’m about to admit defeat and fling the guitar case shut—to close the lid on a world I once knew and try to forget it even existed, but when I hear Tessa singing, “Sugar pie, honey bunch …,” I stop. It’s our family song. Alex and I used to sing it to each other when Tessa was in my womb. I haven’t joined in since …
I lift the guitar out of its case as if heavy handling might cause it to crumble. I bring it close to my face and breathe in the warm wholesome scent of Brazilian rosewood. I sit on my bed and press my fingers to the strings forming a C chord—the first note of Sugar Pie Honey Bunch, and strum with my right thumb. Somehow the rest of the chords swim to my fingertips like fish to food.
Tessa runs into the bedroom with a huge smile on her face and starts jumping up and down and singing along. But her sweet bird-like voice summons such melancholy that a deep heavy moan comes out of my mouth instead of song. It starts in my chest, like I’ve just been winded, moves to my stomach, to my head, then throbs behind my face. I want to scream out the hurt, but when I open my mouth—nothing—like a silent film with a distressing script.
Tessa’s singing trails off into short unknowing sobs. “Mummy?” she whispers, barely moving her lips. A small bubble of saliva escapes from the corner of her mouth. She blinks a few times as a frown taints her thick soft eyebrows. I put the guitar down and take a deep breath, clutching at my ribcage, trying to swallow the rotten air that spreads regret and misery through my body. Depression. Is it hereditary? I’d rather have dementia, at least then I would quickly forget this is happening. I thought I’d gotten through this as a teen. I thought I’d kicked it for good.
I do not want to experience how my mother felt. I do not want to breathe her pain. I do not want to live in a world full of irrational ups and downs that stem from barren seeds—from defective rationale. I need reasons for my feelings. I can’t spend my life clutching at imaginary strings to get me through these debilitating mood swings, to sooth a pain with no source. I can’t. There has to be a way out of this grave.
I curl up into a fetal position on the bed and pull a pillow over my face. I cry into it, sniffing in the scent of Alex’s aftershave. I quiver as I try to breathe steadily through the ache.
Tessa rests her soft cold cheek on my shoulder blade, curling up with me, in silence, as if she understands. But how could she? How could she possibly understand?
Shame on you! Shame on you for letting your emotions run rampant in front of Tessa! How could I put her through the same torment I went through watching my mother break down all those times? I can’t let her feel the pain I felt.
When I was a kid, I could sit and watch my mother yell and scream for hours, keep my mouth shut and my heart closed. But when she cried, it hurt me more than all those sharp slaps to my face. It hurt me more to see her in pain—the type of pain nobody could see—the type of pain nobody could understand except me.
I hated my mother for everything. I hated the fact that she even existed. But as I grew up—as I get older still—the memory of her expressing that invisible pain is what makes me die inside—little by little, day by day, an inch of me dies for every tear she shed—for every moment her pain crossed over to me like a cursed family heirloom.
I never wanted to subject Tessa to this. But I just did.
I roll over on my side and look Tessa in the eyes. Her eyes search mine. For answers? For comfort? For a way she doesn’t yet know to express how she feels? I wipe away my tears and run my fingers through her hair. She smiles as if forgiving me.
“Blossom, I’m going to have a shower,” I gurgle, trying to control my fluctuating voice. I get up, get undressed, grab a towel out of the wardrobe and wrap it around myself, hoping I haven’t flagged the beginning of Tessa’s emotional demise.
“Do you want me to fix you some yoghurt, fruit and honey and pop a movie on?” I ask, in overstated mirth.
Tessa nods enthusiastically, but slows it down as though unsure if that kind of mood is allowed.
“Okay, up you get!” I chirp, and clap my hands. “Let’s go and choose one together. I’ll pop it on, and you can watch it while I make your yoghurt and have a shower, so you don’t have to wait around, okay?” I turn to walk toward the lounge room, but Tessa tugs on my towel.
“Mummy?”
“Hmm?” I look down and realize she has tears in her eyes. I sit on the floor, cross my legs, and cup her face in my hands. “What’s up, sugar pie? There’s no need to be sad. Mummy’s fine.”
“I … I wuv you, Mummy,” she says and falls into my lap, wrapping her arms around my waist.
“I love you too, sweetheart,” I whisper. “More than you know.” More than you’ll ever understand.
When Alex comes home later in the afternoon, Tessa and I are asleep, curled up together on the couch. The first thing I see when I open my eyes are Alex’s feet in his heavy-duty black boots. Still. As if posing for a photograph. Or contemplating which way to turn. I don’t look up when he moves closer. I don’t even follow his feet when they exit my line of sight.
He sits next to us and strokes my hair. His breath is heavy. The elevator must still be broken. He deserves it … No. He doesn’t deserve it. That’s … that’s just spiteful. Tessa squirms, but doesn’t wake up.
Alex whispers, “You played guitar.”
I nod. My hair crunches against my ear.
“Did I leave it on the bed?” I croak, still not making eye contact.
Alex takes my chin, moves my head around and looks into my eyes.
“What?” I mouth, twitching my head from his grasp. He bends down and kisses an escaping tear from my cheek. I want to smack his head away. Make his nose bleed. I want to tell him he’s a selfish asshole and to leave me alone, that he can’t just give me a kiss and expect everything to be alright again. Or, if he can’t do that, to explain what the hell is going on in his life to cause his behavior to fluctuate so much. I want to know why he seems to hate me. I want to know why I hate him. And how I can make it stop. I want know what happened to our happy marriage.
“We have to talk,” I whisper, trying to sit up without waking Tessa. “We have to—”
Alex puts his fingers to my lips, nods his head, and kisses me between my eyes. He smells sweaty. His stubble scrapes my nose. I want to stick my tongue into his mouth. Fuck my anger away. Treat him like a one-night stand. Then throw a couple-hundred Euros on his bedside table and walk out without saying goodbye. Then I want to have a long hot shower. Scrub away the dirt, the pain, the frustration—my irrational despair. Then call him and ask him out on a date. To start again. Without a past.
“We’ll talk. But later. For now, I’ve got cake.” Alex holds a plastic bag up in the air. “You want?”
Right here. Right now. Another moment I have to bite my tongue. Tomorrow is Alex’s
birthday. The tenth of May. Now it’s time for me to behave.
Tessa sits up. “Yes please, Papa!” She looks as fresh as ever. How do kids manage that?
“Hey, pumpkin, you have a nice sleep?” Alex asks.
“Yep! I made Mummy better, Papa. I made her watch a movie with me,” Tessa says, swaying her head side-to-side in satisfaction.
“Yes, you did, Pumpkin. Thank you. Mummy’s much better now.” Alex strokes Tessa’s cheek and flashes me an inquisitive glance fringed with disapproval. My gut sinks at the thought of Tessa seeing that ridiculous display of emotion earlier. Don’t worry, Alex. I disapprove too. I’m working on it.
The phone rings.
“You want me to get it?” Alex asks.
“No, I’ll get it,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ears. Alex leads Tessa into the kitchen to slice the cake, while I head for the phone. I feel a little dizzy, and trip over a raised corner of the red-and-black striped rug. I regain my balance by catching my fall against the bookshelf. I pick up the phone.
“So where are we going to celebrate?” my mother, Betty, asks before I’ve pressed the receiver to my ear.
“How about, ‘Hello, Melody, it’s Mum,’ first?” I reply with a scoff. My head starting to throb.
“Hello, Melody, it’s Mum first. So where are we going to celebrate? Should we go out to that great Oriental restaurant you took me to last time I was in Athens? James and I can catch the last ferry over and then perhaps stay the night. Just make sure your spare room isn’t full of dog hair like the last time. I didn’t stop sneezing for over a week.”
“Mum. It’s Alex’s turn to celebrate. We aren’t celebrating together. Remember? We’re going to celebrate alone.”
“Alone? You have to invite us. It’s my birthday too.”
“We had an agreement, Mum.”
“Yes, but that was on the condition that we all celebrated together.”
“We never agreed to anything like that. Anyway, if that were the condition, then what was the point in agreeing to alternate celebrating years?”
“The point was that the other person shouldn’t expect a gift or the birthday wishes. I thought I made that clear.”
“I still don’t understand how that’s a reason to make such an agreement, Mum. It’s easy for me to give you a gift and wish you happy birthday. That I do, regardless of whose turn it is. The point was to be able to choose how you want to celebrate it without feeling obligated to involve the other party.”
“Yes, but when it’s my turn, I always invite you.”
“Yeah, but that’s your choice.”
“Melody, of course I’d invite you. You’re my family.”
“Yes, I know I’m your family, but Alex has family too, you know.”
“No he doesn’t. He’s a bloody orphan.”
I grit my teeth, praying I don’t spurt out something I might regret and set her off on a verbal rampage.
“Me and Tessa are his family, Mum.” My lips pop from pressing them together too hard.
“So why can’t you tell him to invite James and me?”
“Because it’s against the agreement!”
“How can you be so ungrateful?”
“Ungrateful? For what? Alex only celebrates his birthday every two years. You should be grateful. Alex gives up his birthday every other year for you to celebrate with me. And I don’t even want to most of the time. But Alex makes me do it. For you.” Shit. Melody, stop!
“Oh, you ungrateful, selfish little bitch. How dare you? Wish Alex a happy birthday. And clean the spare room for next weekend. We’re staying over.”
And with that she hangs up. I put the phone down, lean against the wall and close my eyes. My limbs melt into the floor.
Selfish little bitch.
Selfish little bitch.
Selfish little bitch …
A potent tangy chocolate orange scent wafts by my nose.
“Cake?”
Startled by Tessa’s voice, I flick my eyes open. She’s holding a slice of cake in front of my face with a purple party napkin. She sits down next to me on the rug and crosses her legs.
“Cool. Picnic.” She breaks a chunk of cake off the slice and holds it to my mouth. “Here. I’ll feed you.” She giggles, wriggling with joy, the chocolate orange goo squishing between her tiny pink fingertips. I smile, and open my mouth. Tessa feeds me the cake and scrapes her fingers on my bottom teeth to make sure it all goes in.
The cake is soft like hot fudge on my tongue. The walls of my mouth grow moist. I take a deep breath as I chew, the flavor soothing me like eucalyptus to a congested nose.
Simple pleasures. You keep forgetting the simple pleasures. And that life is so much better than it used to be.
Eight
Three pieces of cake later, I am numbed into submission. With every piece, my thoughts became clearer and clearer, as if I was participating in a new wave three-step program to sanity.
Cake one: Do something about this marriage. You didn’t fall in love with Alex without reason. Find out what it is again. I know that right now you love Alex like a limp, burned and gray slither of cigarette ash. So what? With the right attitude, there is someone inside you, who might be able to take the ash, use it to give your relationship a polish, and make it shine like antique silver cutlery. So tell Alex to pitch in with sprucing up the silver of your marriage or it’s over.
Cake two: Ask him to get you a gig. Serena is right. Stop clutching onto regret like it’s a security blanket. Because, that’s what this marriage has become, hasn’t it, Melody? A security blanket? And as long as you clutch onto it, you give yourself the excuse to behave like a mental patient and wallow in unjustified sorrow. Stop it. No more.
Cake three: Talk to him about the promotion and don’t let him walk all over you. Discuss it like responsible adults, and make Alex realize that it’s not the promotion that’s the problem, but rather the fact that you didn’t say anything about it for a whole year, and now he’s angry because you just expect him to jump. But don’t forget to emphasize the fact that you jump when he says “jump.” So of course you expect him to jump. It could very well save you. Insist that he stop intimidating you with his temper and he help you crawl out of this miserable rut—support your needs—then yes—your marriage may very well be saved.
Alex suggests we go out to dinner tonight. If not to celebrate his birthday, then to do something nice together, as a family, before we talk. Excellent. I get to live like Alex—sit, get served, eat, get waited on, drink, watch the mess magically disappear from the table—even if it is just for a couple of hours, it’s a blessing I do not take for granted. So yes, I’d love to go out to eat, even if it is a means to manipulate me.
We arrive at our favorite restaurant, which is around the corner from our apartment. It’s a jazzed-up version of a traditional Greek tavern, surrounded in bottle-green plastic grapevines and decorated with miniature, molded, melted, morphed cutlery in wooden frames, which seems to be an art form the Greeks have recently discovered and think is trendy. But I remember, twenty-odd years ago, when people were hanging bent cutlery mobiles in their back yards—and they’d chime in the breeze. I’d sing harmonies to them. My mother said I sounded like a stoned hippy bluffing a Buddhist chant.
Bill, our faithful waiter, seats the three of us by the window looking into the beer garden. I feel at ease here—a place where the waiters don’t judge our parenting abilities if Tessa decides to spit out her food and throw a tantrum. This, on many occasions, has happened if her food isn’t 99% sugar.
Bill walks by with a tray of someone else’s meal—meatballs in rich tomato sauce and red wine. I breathe it in as if standing all alone in a field of tomatoes. The aroma reminds me of the night I introduced Alex to my parents. My mother cooked, a rare occurrence. But when she does, you’d think she’s been a chef all her life. Another item on her long list of skills she boasts about.
James, my father, turned into a schoolboy discussing common favorite
1970s psychedelic rock bands with Alex. It was the first time in years I’d seen him move his hands so much. They are usually squashed between his crossed legs in silent languor masked by a lacking yet compelling smile.
My mother could hardly get a word in all night. Tight-lipped, she watched my father and Alex chatter away as if she didn’t even exist. She slipped in a few comments about the music she’d been working on now and again. But my father’s eyes glazed over as if blocking her voice out entirely when Alex humored her for a few moments before continuing their conversation. Then she glanced over at me, as if I could somehow steer the conversation toward her again. But I didn’t even try. I was silently thrilled. I’d finally found a man that didn’t let her steal the limelight. I was proud to be with him. When did that fade?
“New mee-alls,” sings Alex in faltering English, looking at the menu and moving his eyebrows up and down as if a mystery were unfolding. “You see anything interesting?”
I smile as if rehearsing a scene for a movie—a frame of mind I often adopt in situations where I need to be sociable, happy, on good behavior—when life needs to be a 2D picture; a view of what only rises to the surface of the polluted pond.
Tessa looks up at me as if preparing to laugh, to join in on the joke, without really understanding why.
“Should I order the ‘Lamp In Lemon Sauce’?” I reply in an aristocratic British accent, as if reading from a script.
“Yeah, that’ll be loight,” replies Alex in his best attempt at my Australian twang.
I exhale a one-way scoff as Alex shakes up and down with forced silent laughter. He must have prepared the response when he saw it on the menu. He tickles Tessa’s neck and she brings her shoulder to her ear as she chuckles.