String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “But you make me whole. And Tessa makes me whole. Who else could possibly make me whole?” I replied, furrowing my brow.

  “Okay. Then prepare yourself to see the one person on this planet who used to make you feel whole before you met me and had Tessa,” he said trying to dislodge something between his two front teeth. “I’ll call you when we’re ready for you to come out.”

  I lay in bed wondering who he could be talking about. Who could possibly be here that used to make me feel whole? And what a big word to use. So many meanings—connotations. Whole? How whole? Can anyone ever really make you feel whole? Or is it just something we say. Like I love you. Words that become habits—you never really know if they’ve retained their original meaning, or if they are merely survival aids.

  I could hear a lot of whispering, rattling, and feet to-ing and fro-ing. More than one person was visiting—I was convinced. Nerves prickled my ears like a sudden drop in temperature.

  And then my phone rang. It was Tessa.

  “Mummy, you can come out now,” she whispered. I could hear her standing outside the bedroom door. I peered through the keyhole—her eye stared back at me.

  “Thanks, Blossom. Could you give me a clue about who is there without Daddy understanding, so I don’t get a shock and faint when I come out?” I whispered through the door handle. I hear her shake her head against the receiver.

  “I’m wearing the new beads you bought me, Mummy.”

  “That’s not a clue.” I opened the door to see her dressed in her favorite outfit—a short denim pinafore-type mini, with light blue and pink stitching, and sparkly purple tights.

  “I know. I just wanted to tell you,” she declared with a grin, turning the phone off with ease. She didn’t even look to see where the button was.

  As we walked out of the bedroom, she bolted down the corridor and disappeared from sight. There were two men dressed as caterers, with tea towels hanging over their left arms, waiting at the entrance of the living room.

  “Kali spera, Kiria. Chronia pola,” (Good evening, Madam. Happy birthday) they both recited as if rehearsed. They held the door open for me to enter. My pulse fluttered in my ears as if I were about to set foot on stage.

  When I entered, no one said “surprise” or got up to greet me. They just sat in silence awaiting a reaction—expectation adorning their features like a sharpie pen. One man standing to the left of the table, was another caterer holding a platter of food, waiting for me to be seated. Then there was Alex, Tessa, an empty seat for me … and on the right was … Serena!

  We embraced and cried. And cried some more. It had been about eight years since we had seen each other face-to-face. Serena and I were speechless for a while. We just kept hugging, crying and stopping to get a good look at each other’s faces at arms length.

  “If it wasn’t for Alex, I wouldn’t be here now,” she said, kissing me firmly on the cheek.

  “Why is that? You don’t have to be invited to come and visit me. You know that.” I grabbed a tea towel off a waiter’s arm and wiped my eyes dry.

  “No, it wasn’t that. I’ve never been able to afford to travel this far away. I still can’t afford to. I’m a sucker for volunteer work, you know that.” She looked at Alex, then me, and at Alex again.

  I turned toward Alex’s smiling face, shiny from a few stray tears. “You didn’t!”

  “Yes, he did. He only informed me last week that he bought the ticket. I dropped everything in Nigeria to get here.”

  “Oh, Alex. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. Just pull yourself away from Serena for thirty seconds so I can tell you how much I love you.” He took my hand, seated me as if I were royalty, and placed my napkin in my lap with a little peck on the cheek.

  After a brilliant meal, the caterers packed up their stuff and were off. Alex put Tessa to bed, and the three of us flaked out on the couch, stomachs full of food and heads full of booze.

  Sipping on red wine, Serena spoke about her experiences in Nigeria. I wondered why she hadn’t said anything about them at the dinner table, but after she finished her story, I realized it wouldn’t have been something I’d want Tessa to hear.

  She’d spent a lot of time in a women’s shelter and got to know the women in the HIV area. One girl had been seriously assaulted and left mentally disabled by the beatings, and it only took the girl a couple of minutes before hugging and kissing Serena in the most trusting way. Serena said that her reaction to the immediate physical contact, such as kissing her face, was interesting because those who are suffering from full-blown AIDS have odd mottled skin—not like the legions we have all seen in books. She said she was embarrassed by moving her mouth away, or making sure she didn’t touch any broken skin, even though there was no blood in sight.

  I can’t imagine where she finds the stamina to put herself in these situations. I think Alex finally understood why I respect her so much. She was no longer that simple girl with the simple life I knew at university. She’d blossomed into a remarkable woman.

  What I envy most is Serena’s courage and desire to help the needy—something I could never do, mainly because I’ve spent my life trying to escape my own past. I don’t think I could handle getting involved in someone else’s. But when I hear stories like Serena’s, it makes me wonder why Alex and I concern ourselves with such insignificant problems. That night, I promised myself I’d make an effort not to anymore. But when I found alone time with Serena, it all changed.

  During Serena’s two-week stay, I decided to take her out for a good old traditional Greek meal in the heart of Athens—the kind of meal I can’t cook to save my life.

  “Yourrr, eyeees, arrrre, killink, meeee,” purred a lingering waiter, licking his lips at Serena as we approached the tavern I intended taking her to. Instead of entering the tavern, I nudged her forward and barked back in Greek, “If that’s how you beckon customers, no wonder your restaurant is empty.”

  The man’s jaw dropped, begged for our forgiveness, claiming to think we were just tourists, and offered a dish on the house if we sat down to eat there. So we did.

  Despite having no qualms about turning thirty, my birthday surfaced something I hadn’t expected—the awareness that my guitar had remained in the exact same place I put it when we moved in, untouched and lifeless.

  “Is it too late, now? To bring it back to life?” I asked Serena as I stuffed my mouth full of calamari and washed it down with a swig of beer.

  “What are you talking about, Hon? Of course it’s not too late. And since when have you ever questioned your ability to do something? Can’t you remember? That day I met you outside the lecture hall at Uni?”

  I cocked my head in question.

  “I was complaining about lacking the time to write my essay and that I might as well just give up now because I thought it was impossible to write anything decent in two days? I was a mess. Remember?” Serena leaned back in her wood and wicker chair, flinging her long blonde hair behind her shoulders as if in a shampoo commercial.

  “Yeah, I remember,” I mumbled, poking my fork into three different salad ingredients at once, and almost poking my eye out with a lettuce stalk while shoving it in my mouth.

  “And can you remember what you said?” She leaned forward again, grabbing my hand to stop me from eating, her intelligent gray-blue eyes turning me to stone.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘If there’s one thing my mum has done right, it’s teaching me to never give up. If there’s a will, there’s a way, Serena. It’s never too late to start anything.’ ”

  Serena smiled with gratitude. I was speechless. Not only in regard to the positive attitude I’d forgotten I had, but because Serena had remembered every word I said that day.

  “I never asked for another extension again. You know that?” Serena prodded as I wiped my mouth with my napkin.

  “No. I didn’t know that,” I whispered, resting my knife and fork on the edge of my pla
te. I felt defeated, disappointed—I’d become a mother and a wife. Just a mother and a wife. It wasn’t what I had planned.

  “Well, it’s true. I wouldn’t be as confident or active as I am now without you. You gave that to me, Melody. You’re the one who made me realize I could do anything in the world—anything at all. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have gone to Nigeria. If it wasn’t for you, the two women I looked after would still be in abusive relationships. You know, I write those words on the first page of my diary, every year, as a reminder. Those words made me realize I wasn’t taking control, and they made me do something about it. You have to start believing in yourself again, Melody. You used to be so confident. You used to do anything and everything you wanted—simply because you knew there was nothing stopping you. There’s nothing in your life right now that should influence such negativity. Alex and Tessa should be a part of your life, not be your life. Play music again, Melody, and involve them. Make it a part of their lives too. There’s no need to sacrifice anything. Have it all. Include your family in all your decisions, and encourage them to be as enthused about your music as you are.”

  I tried to respond. I wanted to say how afraid I was. I had gotten used to living in a cocoon. I knew where I stood; I knew what had to be done—I was safe from feeling. I’d created a comfort zone for myself, and I was terrified to break free.

  I turn off my laptop and the night light—crawl under the covers. Moonlight pelts down on my face like a torch. I roll over and face the wall where darkness paints shadows I can sleep in. I close my eyes—try to imagine comfort—remember what it felt like to be cradled in my mother’s arms, before she got sick.

  Mum. I need you. I want to forget you—the other you that wasn’t really you.

  I want to forget your screams, your anger, how I used to hold my breath. I want to forget your pleading, your pain, smashing pots on your head. I want to forget your prayer to die, to pass out, sleep, to fail. I want to forget how you blamed me, pulled my hair, and twisted my neck. I want to forget the slapping, the sting, and the knives you thrust into Dad’s back. I want to forget your punches, my sobbing, and my begging for you to stop. I want to forget the shrieks, the shrill, and the rage you’d blow into my face. I want to forget the carpet, the stains, your vomit and regret.

  I want to remember your hugs—the one’s that smelt like Estee Lauder. And I want to remember your kisses, painted red, and warm with love. So why are the first thoughts that come to mind, the years of tears and torture? I wish I could render my memory blind, to the fear of remembering—to the fear of becoming a mother like you.

  “Melody? Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?”

  “I just … needed to talk.”

  “You’re feeling depressed again, aren’t you?” My mother’s calm oozes through the receiver like a sweet whisper.

  “Mm-hm,” I nod, holding my eyelids shut with my thumb and middle finger.

  “Okay, look. You know that you go through these phases. You have since you were a teenager. And it’s always either triggered by alcohol or painkillers or what ever other chemical you come in contact with. Remember all the headaches and aches and pains you got after you helped paint our house? And how you couldn’t stop crying for days?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re both sensitive to these things, you and I, and no matter how much you try to deny it, Melody, it isn’t going to change the fact. I know it’s hard to believe, but if anyone would know, it’s me. Please, just humor me and start cleaning your house with lemon and water. Get rid of all the toxic fluids. I’m so sorry you have to go through these things. I would never wish any of it upon anyone—especially you.”

  “I know, Mum.”

  “Sweetheart, please try not to get too worked up over the way you’re feeling. It’s chemical. It’s always chemical. You don’t have any real reason to be depressed, right?”

  “Um … no,” I can’t tell her. I just want my mother’s hugs. I need soothing maternal hugs without having to explain why. And even though the hugs are in the form of a gentle voice through a phone, I can still imagine these hugs—the reassuring scent of henna and coconut moisturizer—her smooth skin against my cheek as she kisses and breathes me in.

  “Well, see? You’ll feel better in the morning. Please just don’t go and get stuck into the wine. It’ll only make it worse.”

  I laugh under my breath. “Okay.”

  “I’ll be up for a while yet if you want to call me back, okay?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mum.”

  “Bye. Love you, bye.”

  For once in my life I wish my mum was right. I wish the solution was as easy as cleaning the house with lemon and water.

  I could wipe my life clean.

  I steal one of Alex’s Camels and grab a box of matches. Sit on the floor in the living room, up against the wall. I strike a match, let it burn half way down, watching the blue base of the flame crawl along the stick as if lured by oil—kerosene candy. I light the cigarette, take a drag; breathe in a puff of liberation I haven’t felt since I was nineteen.

  What’s the meaning of life, you ask? Wait, let me just check the dictionary …

  Eighteen

  It’s Thursday morning. I stare at Alex while we eat breakfast. Tessa notices and ogles me, chewing open-mouthed, holding her toast in the air, hoisted by her right elbow, her fingers sticky with strawberry jam. She swings her legs backward and forward in unison. Each time they swing underneath the chair, it moves backward half an inch and scrapes the floor. She has a steady beat going. It creates a sense of power and confidence within me—an injection of courage. I don’t look at her, but I can feel her looking at me—curious eyes—green, innocent, kittenish. I wonder if she finds this amusing or senses the disturbing air. She must know something’s going on between Alex and me—but does she know it’s not just a staring game?

  Alex eats his cereal with his head down. His movements pick up speed—so do Tessa’s. Tessa’s scraping chair and Alex’s chewing become louder and synchronize with my pulse. Clang, drip, crunch, chew. Crunch, chew, clang, drip. Oh, how much I’d love to squash someone’s head between two trashcan lids. I could make music at the same time. Become a member of Stomp.

  Tomorrow’s the deadline to tell the PMs—to announce my decision about the job in London. Has Alex forgotten? He hasn’t even asked whether I’ve made any arrangements. Does he even care? I honestly think he would like me to go—to leave him here all alone, wifeless, childless, to do what he pleases at any time of day. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t said anything. Because he doesn’t want to be accused of thinking exactly what he is thinking. Mustn’t he feel ashamed? I hope so. Serves him right.

  Tessa falls off her chair. Giggles. Holds her toast in the air as if she dived to the bottom of the ocean and retrieved a possession that was thrown overboard. Alex glances toward her. Sniffs. Continues to eat with his head bowed.

  “Tessa. Wipe the jam off the floor. Get back in your seat. Sit still,” he says as if reciting a newsreel. He dislodges something from his teeth with his tongue, drops his spoon into his bowl, scrapes his chair as he gets up to find the toothpicks, and sits back down probing his molars with one. I envision snatching it from him and inserting it into his eye.

  I focus on the top of Alex’s head while I unscrew the lid off the Vegemite jar, guided by touch.

  Tessa gets back into her seat, pouting her bottom lip. The side of her mouth curls up on the verge of laughter. Her mouth twitches, trying to appear sad.

  “I’m going to tell my supervisors today,” I say, wide-eyed, scraping a burnt layer from my toast.

  “Oh, really?” Alex mumbles with a mouthful of cereal, still maintaining the steady hand-to-mouth movements and downward gaze. If his eyes were lasers he’d have drilled a hole through the table via the bottom of his bowl.

  “Yes.” I pause. Alex’s temples move up and down as he chews. The constan
t ebbing crunch and swallowing reverberate off every kitchen surface before making a full circle round the room. I turn to give Tessa a behave-yourself glare. But she gives Alex an I-hate-you look instead, ignoring me.

  “Yes,” I repeat a little louder.

  “Yes, I heard you.” Alex nods. “Glad you came to your senses.”

  “Hmm?” I squint at him sideways. He’s still staring at his bowl. Can he not at least look at me during a conversation? A little respect after what he’s done would suffice. “What do you mean? I thought you didn’t like the idea.”

  “I don’t.” Alex shrugs. His jaw clenches. “That’s why I said I was glad.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to say no?” I ask, confidence slipping like a weak grip on monkey bars.

  “Oh? Er … Oh.”

  “Oh? That’s all you have to say? Oh?”

  “Er … no. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if that’s what will make you happy. I’ll, um … visit you as often as possible.” Alex lifts his head, looking at me for the first time all morning. He stops chewing, his eyes as still as glass.

  “Oh? Will you?” I ask.

  “Of course I will. I’m your husband.”

  Tessa rocks her chair backward and forward again—licks escaping jam from the flat of her palm.

  “Uh-huh.” I’ve almost scraped a hole through the middle of my toast.

  “What do you mean, “uh-huh”?”

  “Nothing. Just comprehending what you’re saying.” I spread Vegemite on my now very thin toast, wrap my mouth around it, consuming half in one go, and bite down so hard my teeth scrape against each other—fingernails on a blackboard. I try to hide the discomfort, continue to chew as if it doesn’t hurt. I wipe the sides of my mouth with my right index finger, and raise my eyebrows.

  “You don’t believe me do you?” Alex asks, flashing a quick glance toward Tessa, who is feeding Doggy her breakfast.