String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “Mummy?” she whispers.

  “It’s okay, Blossom. Mummy’s here.”

  My legs wobble when Alex catches up to me—house keys jingling in his pocket. He takes Tessa. I follow him down the stairs, clutching tightly to the railing, trying to stay upright.

  When we reach the car and I sit in the backseat, Alex places Tessa on my lap and looks into my eyes—his blink breathes an apology one can only fathom through silence. Regret. We both regret this. We both regret this.

  We just failed as parents. We failed. We failed. We failed.

  I failed as a mother.

  I should have just bit my tongue and been the doormat.

  The smell of the sterile hospital environment nauseates me; reminds me of all the times I spent waiting for the doctors to release my mother after one of her breakdowns. I’d sit in the nursery—waiting—stuffed toys bombarding me with sick voices, button noses, I thought them snobs, just staring at me like that.

  “So how did this happen?” the doctor asks, removing a pen from behind his ear and jotting something down in Tessa’s file.

  “She fell face-first into her porcelain doll,” I snap, before sound comes out of Alex’s open mouth.

  “It happened so fast,” Alex adds.

  “We, er, have the doll to prove it, Doctor,” I say, regretting it instantly.

  “That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Konstantinou.” The doctor frowns. Tessa is right beside us and glaring at me, confused, with a thick white sticky gauze across her forehead. Her lips open and shut as if she wants to say something.

  “Don’t worry, Tessa, we’ll buy you a new one,” I add, before she speaks the truth. My mother did that once—lied to protect herself in front of doctors. My stomach turns at the thought. What are you doing?

  I was fourteen. She slammed my hand in my bedroom door while I was trying to close it in her face to escape her violent rage. She broke my two little fingers. When the doctor asked her how it happened, my father froze, but my mother said, with a nervous laugh, “You know how clumsy kids are nowadays. The poor thing put her fingers in the hinge of the door just as I was closing it behind me.”

  I have sixteen missed calls displayed on my mobile phone when we get home. It’s past midnight.

  Mum. I call her.

  “Melody! Thank God. Why weren’t you picking up? I almost had a panic attack.”

  “Um, Tessa had a little accident. She, uh … fell over holding her porcelain doll, and it smashed and cut into her head.”

  “Oh, shit. Is she okay?”

  “Yeah. I think she was in a bit of shock having to spend time in the hospital, but she’s fine.”

  “You know, I dropped you down an escalator in a huge department store once. I got confused because you were hooked in my left arm, and in one hand I had shopping bags and in the other I was holding your pram. You began to slip and I intended on dropping the shopping bags to get a better hold of you, but I let go of you instead. Things like that happen. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

  “I’m not.” I am. “It couldn’t have been helped.”

  She knows I’m lying.

  Tessa is lying on the couch, on her side, head on the arm rest, sucking her thumb. She’s gazing outside, at blackness, blankness, silent leaves blowing in the wind; eyes glazed like marbles. I walk over to her, feel her head, ears, neck, for a fever. No fever.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She raises her eyebrows up and down in response—the Greek “no”—Tessa’s recent adoption to let us know she’s not listening, and doesn’t intend to.

  “Blossom. I’m sorry.”

  She turns, keeping her thumb in her mouth, faces the back of the couch, the wall. I deserve it. I lied to the doctor, and she’s not going to forget it. I don’t blame her. But what else was I supposed to do?

  I sit at her feet—bare, dark gray with dirt and grime as if she’s trodden on my horrid aura these past few weeks. I rub them, but she retracts her legs, curls into a fetal position, Barbie hooked under her arm. My heart sinks as if all sources of nourishment have been vacuumed out of it, leaving it shriveled and wheezing and whistling with misery.

  “I’m so sorry. So sorry.” I swallow, my saliva hot in my throat, and move to stroke her hair. “I love you so much,” I whisper, my voice fluctuating like a pubescent boy. “Can you please forgive me?”

  She raises her eyebrows again, flicks my hand off her head—rejected; spat out like fowl-tasting candy.

  How do I fix this?

  “Blossom, you have to understand that sometimes mums and dads make mistakes too. I made a really big mistake,” I say, smiling and holding my arms as wide as they can go, trying to simmer the situation down to a jocular blunder, “and so did Papa. And we are both so so so so so sorry. Haven’t you ever made a mistake before, Blossom? Surely you—”

  “But I don’t do them on purpose. You … you were naughty!” Tessa squeals into a cushion. “You said to the doctor that I did it myself.”

  I fold my hands in my lap, scrutinizing my thumb nails; the way they grow slightly toward the left. “I had to make that story up to protect us. If they’d understood I injured you myself, they might have taken you away from us. I couldn’t let that happen, Blossom. That’s why I had to lie. I know it was wrong and bad and I … promise it’ll never happen again.”

  Tessa rolls onto her back and frowns—mumbles with her thumb still in her mouth, “Why would they take me away?”

  “Because they would think we were bad parents and that you weren’t safe.”

  Tessa looks at the ceiling, takes her thumb out of her mouth, curls her tongue around, and holds it steady between her teeth. She sits up. Wipes her wet thumb on her thigh.

  “You’re not bad parents, Mummy. You’re good parents.”

  “Thank you, Blossom, I’m very happy you think that.” I hold my arms out for a hug, guilt-ridden, but relieved, and Tessa snuggles up to me, nuzzling her face into my neck. She takes a deep breath, and sighs—snot bubbles on my skin. I wipe it away with the collar of my shirt. “Are you okay to go to bed on your own, or would you like me to come with you?”

  “I’m okay. I can go on my own. Can I still play with Barbie?”

  “Sure. But don’t stay up too much longer, okay? It’s really late, and you need to get a good night’s sleep.”

  Tessa nods, and hops off the couch, clutching Barbie from her hair—the only one she hasn’t mutilated yet.

  “Tessa?”

  “Wha’?”

  “Can you rinse your feet off a little before you get into bed?

  Tessa rolls her eyes, “Yes, Mummy,” spins around and stamps as loud as possible all the way to the bathroom.

  Rattle, rattle … slide … crash!

  There goes another frame.

  In bed, Alex turns onto his side and wraps an arm around my waist. I stiffen as his fingers creep toward my crotch. I want to reciprocate the affection, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Is it okay to make love after this? After tonight?

  I catch his wrist, move his hand away.

  “Not sure if this is a good idea,” I whisper, kissing his forehead. He smells like … Prada Pour Homme? Oh no. He’s wearing the cologne. My pelvis trembles—a flash of Richard flits by like a laser beam on a skyscraper. Alex breathes into my neck and moves my hair to the side. I hear myself gulp. Alex pulls me closer, and runs his fingers up and down my stomach. I take deep breathes, trying to control my thoughts—trying to figure out if I can do this.

  What happened to our marriage vows? Through sickness and in health. Right? Could infidelity be like a sickness? A psychological defect? Could sleeping with another woman just be a symptom of an unhealthy state of mind? If so, then shouldn’t I be supportive and help him heal? Shouldn’t I determine the cause of the problem and find a cure? That’s what we do when we are physically ill, don’t we? We go to a doctor. The doctor finds the cause of the symptoms and prescribes medicine to treat it. We don’t feel upset and b
etrayed when our other half is physically ill, so why should we feel that way when they’re psychologically ill? Why does society make us believe that infidelity is unforgivable and untreatable? After all, surely it only happens when one’s self-esteem is low, and one is trying to find a sense of self worth again. Right?

  Alex’s hand moves to my crotch again. But this time he doesn’t hover, and flicks his forefinger back and forth over my clitoris, bites my shoulder and breathes heavily into my ear. I don’t want this, I think, but groan regardless—impulsively. I can’t find the strength to stop him. I just can’t. I need to escape the day’s events. I need it like my mother needed her lithium.

  I close my eyes, and let it happen.

  I let my head spin …

  Alex and I both lie on our backs, arms firmly at our sides. We stare into nothingness—indulge in silence—abeyance—a cloud of remorse code. Calm radiates from our bodies. I wish we could summon this calm when we temporarily forget we are parents who have responsibilities far beyond tending to our own selfish needs.

  It could act like a natural sedative of anti-misdemeanor.

  Twenty-two

  Kettle boils. Coffee in mug. Wipe sleep from eye. Lose balance. Hm … bit dizzy. Weird. Pour milk in coffee. Gotta get that work done. Vision a little hazy. Oh … hot flush? Fingers tingly. Shake hand. Cut-off circulation? Doesn’t dissipate. Drop spoon in mug. Clang! Wipe splash off belly with sleeve of robe. Gotta figure out what I’m gonna take to London. Gotta tell Tessa’s preschool teacher. Insects crawl up arm; ants nibble fingertips. Um … Alex? Hazy. Cloudy vision. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Intense wave of heat penetrates through bones—head to toe, like steam flushing through my veins. Heart beats faster. Breath quick. Short. Stilted. Sweat. Everywhere. Legs fleshless. Chest achy. Can’t move! Stuck! Air hot—thick. Blocks the entrance to my lungs. Vacuum cleaner inserted into mouth—full speed, full suction. Heart palpitates in my ears—faster, harder, deeper, louder! I pull viciously at the collar of my night shirt.

  “Somebody get this off! I can’t … breath!” I shriek.

  Alex and Tessa come running into the kitchen; they fade like TV fuzz, their footsteps gliding on a gymnasium echo. Next thing I know, I’m in bed. My throat’s dry and my eyes are stuck together as if they’d been sealed with a soldering iron. I look up through one open eye and wonder if I’ve lost my mind. There’s a man standing over me whom I don’t recognize. Fuzzy, fat and furry. Whoah. Now that’s facial hair!

  “It seems you had a panic attack, Melody. Then you passed out,” the man says, with a deep husky post middle-aged Greek grit. “It’s a little odd, though. Panic attacks come on from too much adrenaline.” He rolls his R so heavily I can feel my own tongue vibrate. “So you shouldn’t really have passed out.”

  “Oh,” I say, juicing saliva from the back of my tongue and hydrating the walls of my mouth. What’s he on about?

  “I’ve taken a blood sample. There’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just for safe measure. Okay?”

  I nod. So does Alex who is standing by my side, scratching his chin, it seems, with deep concern.

  “How did I get here?” I ask, and then realize who the man is. It’s Dr Leventis. He lives in our apartment building. I had a panic attack? That’s what my mother went through almost every single day of her adult life? Oh my God … How could I be so cruel to her? How could I not show a little more compassion? I have to tell her. I have to tell her I understand!

  I make moves to get out of bed, but Alex and Dr Leventis shake their heads in unison.

  “You get some rest,” Dr Leventis says, as Alex pushes my shoulders back down muttering something I can’t comprehend. “I hear you’ve had an exciting week. Congratulations on the promotion, by the way. It sounds as if your husband is very proud.”

  I glance at Alex. He winks, emitting a silent apology.

  Dr Leventis smiles politely as he snaps closed his medi-kit, puts on his black pin-striped suit jacket and winks at Tessa, who is kneeling on the bottom of the bed, by my feet, balancing her chin on the foot rail, and staring at the doctor’s every move with curious interest.

  “I gave your daughter’s wound a clean too. Looks like it will heal up very nicely. And quite fast too. It’s not a very large cut at all.”

  “Thanks. That’s very kind of you,” I reply, with a crooked smile, wondering if Alex was put on the spot to explain how it happened.

  “Take it easy. I’ve instructed your husband to take good care of you. I’ll call ASAP with the results of the blood test.”

  Alex walks Dr Leventis to the door. I can hear them converse. “Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. Come visit us for dinner tomorrow night; I’d like to show some appreciation.” Dinner? What? He can’t be serious.

  “Oh, I’m much obliged, but your wife should really spend tomorrow in bed. Tell her to get some rest.” Spend tomorrow in bed? But I have to finish my work off for Monday!

  “Tell her not to take any notice of her husband and child complaining about not having anything cooked for dinner.” They both laugh. I imagine the doctor winking in jest and patting Alex on the back.

  I look at Tessa, staring at the wall again, chin still hooked over the rail. Absent as if dreaming of rainbows. If only she were.

  “Blossom, come here.” I pat the bed beside me. “You’re going to choke yourself if you keep doing that.” In silence, Tessa obeys, and cuddles into my side. I stroke her hair, without a word, knowing very well it’s not words she needs for comfort. Like mother, like daughter. This family is cursed. I feel a little nauseas. There can’t be anything wrong with me can there? Not now. Definitely not now, please.

  Alex returns, sits by my side, and strokes my head the way I do Tessa’s.

  “So you’re proud?” I ask, maintaining my gaze toward the foot of the bed.

  Alex searches for my knee below the covers and gives it a little squeeze and pat. He sighs heavily, stands, and stretches his arms toward the ceiling. His tracksuit pants are halfway down his bum. I focus on the inch of crack that’s visible and have an urge to stick my finger in it. No. Stop it.

  “I’ll go and make you some breakfa—, er brunch,” Alex says, and kisses the top of my head. Twice.

  For the remainder of the day, I’m pampered with odd forehead kisses from Alex and uncharacteristic cuddles from Tessa. The kind of cuddles that seem like a plea for permanency; as if letting go will mean never coming back. I recognize it because I used to be like that—during my mother’s fits of “normal.”

  By the evening, I’m feeling fine, and wonder whether my body was subconsciously reacting to stress. Well … praying my body was just reacting to stress. Because I can’t stop thinking about my mother. She was my age when … it all started. Panic attacks. Then more and more, and more often; then medication, addiction, rage, depression, withdrawal, bipolar disorder diagnosis; gigs, festivals, more gigs, stress, tours, unhealthy lifestyle, alcohol on top of it all … then what? Habit. She was left with the bad habit of negative behavior and ten records to show for it—each song a melodic cry for help to escape a life she was supposed to love; a dream she spent years aiming to reach.

  If she had taken it easy in the very beginning would her bridge have remained woven, or would it still have frayed? Is today the day my bridge is beginning to fray? Should I choose to stop crossing it, burn the thread, seal the hole? Save myself, my family, before it gets out of control like it did with her? Before I realize it’s not the life I really want, when the fact of the matter is, all I want is to be appreciated, loved, exist on this earth for a reason? Isn’t Tessa a big enough reason to want to exist? Yes. Yes, she is. But … Alex isn’t.

  How do you keep a chemical imbalance like that under control and still do all the things you passionately crave in life? Is it even possible? I don’t want to put my daughter through what my mother put me through because she was too stubborn to take a step back and see the bigger picture.

  A couple of hours after
I’ve put Tessa to bed, and pampered myself with a bubble bath, candle light, and Enigma, I poke my head through Tessa’s bedroom door. She’s still awake, examining a row of deformed Barbie dolls spread out in a line in front of her.

  “Hey, honey, what are you still doing awake?” I ask, wading through some stuffed toys on the floor and picking up odd dress-up items to return them to the basket.

  “They were feeling sad because I chopped off all their hair,” Tessa replies in a tone a little more adult than I have heard before.

  “Oh, Blossom.” I sit by her side and stroke her hair. “Are they feeling better now?”

  “No. They are angry with me. They said that I’m a horrible person.”

  I’m stunned and angry and want to punch the living daylights outta these dolls. I envisage snatching them and pulling their heads off.

  “Why? Why did they say you’re a horrible person? That’s a terrible thing to say!” I say a little too loudly, engrossed in my own imagination.

  “No, Mummy, it’s true. I am a horrible person.” Tessa begins to cry, and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

  “You are not! Don’t believe a word they say.”

  Tessa falls face-first into my lap, sobbing and heaving a little louder than I think she would naturally.

  “Oh, honey, what’s wrong? Why so sad?”

  She sits up, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mummy? Are you going to die again?”

  “Of course not! Why do you think I’m going to die? What do you mean again?”

  “You died today, and maybe you’ll die again and not wake up!”

  “Oh Tessa, I didn’t die today! I was just, sort of … well, sleeping.”

  “Sleeping? Oh. Were you having a siesta?”

  I laugh, “Well, yes, you could call it that.”