String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “G’day stranger.” She strokes my hair.

  I sit up and look at the stained pillowcase and suddenly remember.

  “I’m so—” I croak, attempting to apologize again for my behavior.

  “Don’t worry, I understand. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  We lie there, for too long, on our sides, like fresh lovers wondering who is going to make the first move.

  Serena breaks the ice. “I made an appointment for you at the gyno. Tomorrow, ten a.m.”

  “Thanks. Where’s—”

  “James is watching TV with the photo album still open on his lap, and I just put Tessa to bed.”

  I jump out of bed and bolt toward Tessa’s room, hoping I haven’t missed Alex. Maybe he’s singing to her without me. But when I get there, Tessa has already fallen asleep. I turn around and Serena is standing right behind me.

  “Honey, he’ll come to you when the time is right. He may have been a bit of an idiot to cheat on you, but he loved you. I know that for certain. Believe me. I’d have been able to see it in his eyes on your birthday if he didn’t.”

  I nod and sigh and run my fingers through my hair.

  “Are you hungry?” Serena asks. “Do you want me to heat you up some curry?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You have to eat something. You haven’t eaten all day.”

  I shake my head.

  “You’re eating. And that’s my final word.”

  Serena goes into the kitchen and I make my way into the living room to sit with Dad. He’s entranced by the TV. Watching, but not really seeing.

  How is he coping with this? How does one mourn their wife and support their mourning daughter at the same time?

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?” Dad hums through tight lips.

  “Do you want me to take you back to the island?”

  “If I’m getting in your way.” He nods, still staring at the TV.

  “You’re not getting in my way at all. I just want to know how you feel.”

  “Whatever’s best for you, Sweetheart,” he replies without a flinch.

  Submissive. Always damn submissive!

  “Dad, for once in your life can you speak up? I’m not Mum; I’m not going to dictate how to live your life.” I raise my voice a little too much, bordering on loss of control. His frown creates an air of irritation I’ve never sensed before.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “That was a terrible thing for me to say. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay. I understand.” He faces the TV again.

  Bite your tongue. Melody. Don’t. “I’m really sorry,” I say again, hoping it will tame the urge to voice an opinion that is surely not sought after.

  “I said, it’s okay,” Dad replies, his tone increasing a tad, but still refusing to show any sign of life.

  “Do you want something more to eat?” I ask, hoping to make things right.

  He grunts an affirmative response, so I get up to help Serena in the kitchen, but before I have the chance to walk out the door, he stops me.

  “Mel.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You know what? It’s not fucking okay. I loved your mum. I don’t give a shit if she ordered me around, or told me when to comb my hair, or … or anything! I let her tell me what to do because that’s what made her happy. That’s how our relationship worked. You have no right to judge me.” Dad pokes himself in the chest with a thump. “You have no right to judge her. I loved her. I loved her, Melody. And I will always, always love her!”

  I can’t help but smile. He spoke. And he said something real.

  “Okay. I said I was sorry, Dad.”

  “I know,” he replies in a calmer tone. “It’s okay … and I would like you to take me home. But don’t even think about asking me to live with my sister. I don’t want to stay with her. I want to go back home. I want to go back to where I’ll remember Betty. And don’t tell me I need to move on. I’m too old to move on. I want to stay right where I am, and I don’t care if every single day is filled with grief, because that grief is the only thing that is going to keep me alive. If I don’t have that grief, Betty will stop living in my heart and if that happens, I’ll stop living. I’ll stop living … so, Melody don’t even think about calling my sister. I’ll be fine on my own. I want to be on my own.”

  “Okay, Dad.” How did he know I was thinking of calling his sister? “I’ll take you home. I’ll take you home tomorrow if you like.”

  “Yes. That would be nice. I would like that. Thank you.”

  I have another dream about Alex. At the Patti Smith concert. Tessa was on stage, head-banging to rev up the stagnant Greek crowd. Alex took me in his arms, kissed me and whispered, “Teach Tessa.” And that was it. He disappeared and left me staring at a teenage Tessa playing air guitar to silence. Everything was silent. Except for Patti’s voice: not to die, but to be reborn, away from the land so battered and torn. And then I woke up.

  Those lyrics, being a Jimi Hendrix cover, reminds me of Dad’s obsession with him when I was young. It also reminds me of the gold Gibson guitar I wanted to buy him. So, while Dad is packing away his things, preparing for his journey back home, I call the guy at the music shop to tell him I’m coming to buy the electric guitar I had looked at a couple of months ago. I give him my credit card number so we don’t have to worry about money when we arrive.

  “Dad, I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, come with me.”

  “Okay, when I’ve finished packing.”

  “No, you can do that in twenty minutes. Just come with me.”

  Dad stares at me and Serena grinning from ear to ear in the doorway.

  “Now. Come on!”

  I take the clothes out of his hands and throw them on the bed. I grab a scarf and blindfold him. And the three of us accompany Dad to the music shop.

  “Can I get an ice cream, Mummy?” Tessa asks as I roll her onto the footpath.

  “Sure, but on the way home, okay? We have to do something else first.”

  “Where are we going?” Dad asks as he trips over a crack in the pavement and Serena takes the weight of his fall.

  “Whoops! You all right?” she asks, straightening his blindfold.

  “Is this thing necessary? I could just close my eyes, you know.”

  “It’s necessary!” me and Serena exclaim and then laugh at the synchronicity.

  “Jinx!” Tessa squeals, jiggling left to right in her chair.

  When we arrive at the shop the guy is standing in the entrance, still dressed in his flannel shirt and ripped jeans.

  “G’day, how’s things?” he asks. I put my finger to my mouth—signal him to hush. He mouths “Sorry,” recedes his neck into his shoulders and tiptoes backward a couple of feet.

  “Who was that?” Dad snaps. “Where are we?”

  “We’re right … here.” I pull the blindfold from his head as if revealing a rabbit in a top hat.

  Dad’s expression turns from annoyed to stunned when the guy opens the case to reveal the famous gold Gibson Les Paul. Speechless, Dad bends down and strokes it like a cat. He looks up, chuckles like a school boy, lifts the guitar out of its case and hangs it over his body, then jiggles it up and down.

  “Wow. I forgot how heavy these were,” Dad grins, showing his crooked stained teeth.

  “It’s a present … from Mum,” I lie. “She never got the chance to …, you know, have it wrapped.”

  Without a word, he lifts the guitar to his mouth and kisses the strings right by the bridge, then lays it in its case.

  “Thank you, Betty,” he whispers, as if in prayer. “I couldn’t have asked for anything more precious.”

  Before setting off to take Dad to the port to catch the ferry, I go to see the gynecologist. The baby is in good shape, and the doctor said it wouldn’t be a problem if I wanted to move back to Australia before it was born. So, today I decide it’s what I’m going
to do. I have to stop thinking about the possibility of leaving Alex’s spirit behind. Surely he can follow us?

  I won’t sell the apartment either. I can’t bear to think of someone else living amongst our history. It’s Tessa’s home. I won’t take it away from her. If I never return to Greece myself, maybe she will, so I want her to always have a place to stay.

  Serena and Tessa stay while I drive Dad and Doggy to the port. I’m worried about him, but he insists he’s going to be okay. I suppose I’ll just have to take his word for it. At least he’s taking Doggy with him. I’m going to miss the sweet little soul, but she’ll be much happier running around with the goats than being shipped off to the Land of Oz.

  People are already boarding the ship when we arrive. And it occurs to me only now that this is goodbye. Will I ever see him again?

  “Dad, you know you are always welcome to come back to Australia with us,” I say, focusing on the flurry of feet scurrying past us for fear of looking him in the eye and breaking down.

  “I know.” He smiles, with a glint of hope shining in his eyes for the first time since the accident. “But Greece is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else anymore.” Tears trickle down his cheeks and onto mine as we embrace.

  Oh my God. He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. Stop it. Don’t make him sadder. Keep it together, Melody.

  “Have you got Mum’s ashes?”

  Dad nods and looks out to sea.

  “What are you going to do with them?” I ask, not really sure if I want to know.

  “Well, remember that chest your mum and I found on the shore near our home last year? You know—the one that sits next to her piano?”

  “Oh. Yeah?”

  “Well, I’m going to put her ashes inside that—loose, without the urn—along with the lock of hair and baby teeth she kept of yours.”

  She kept my baby teeth?

  “I also wrote her a song I was planning to play for her when we got back from Athens. I’ll write up the lyrics and the sheet music for it and put that in, too. Then I’ll go back to the place we found the chest together and throw it back in the sea.”

  “You wrote her a song? And she never heard it?” The thought makes my heart ache.

  “Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t feel bad about it, Sweetheart,” Dad says, wiping away a tear hanging from the end of my nose with his knuckle. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

  “I sing it to her in my head every night. I’m sure she can hear me from somewhere. Don’t you think?”

  I nod and give him one last hug. “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you too, Melody … aw, don’t cry. You and Tessa will be a lot happier in Australia. And I promise I’ll come and visit once you’re settled in.”

  “Okay, go.” I flick my hands in the direction of the boarding ramp. “You’ll miss the boat.” I bend down to give Doggy a quick hug and a pat. “Give … Mum a kiss … for me … before you … throw her into the … um … sea.” The words escape my mouth in bursts as I try to swallow thick lumps of grief, sorrow, relief and looming happiness wrapped all into one, as they walk to the ferry.

  “I will, Sweetheart. I love you.”

  Dad waves and blows me a final kiss goodbye. Then he and Doggy disappear. Behind a humming motorized door.

  Thirty

  When I tell Heather I’m moving back to Australia she bawls her eyes out like a drama queen and insists on coming over to help me clear out the house. I had intended on going through Alex’s belongings on my own, but with both Serena and Heather adamant as to why I shouldn’t do it on my own, I seem to have no choice in the matter. But they’re cramping my style. Every time I try to sneak an item of Alex’s clothing into my baggage, they catch me out. They won’t let me take anything.

  “But I have to take something,” I cry.

  “Why? What’s the point? Who’s going to wear them?” Serena retorts, as she folds my underwear into perfect little squares and fills all the small pockets of my suitcase with them.

  “Exactly,” Heather says, nodding with her eyebrows so high I wouldn’t be surprised if she pushed her scalp off her scull. “Who’s going to wear them? I can’t imagine you letting your second husband wear Alex’s clothes.”

  “I’ll never have another husband.” I look down at the long-sleeved shirt I was trying to hoard—a deep, yet faded navy blue, with dark brown stitching around the hems and high square collar. It’s the shirt he was wearing the day we met.

  “Well, don’t go cutting yourself off from the world,” Heather says. “That won’t do you any good either.”

  “Since when do either of you know what’s best for me?” I ask, bringing the shirt to my nose to smell. I hope to breathe in remnants of cologne, but all I get is the standard laundry powder aroma.

  Heather tries to answer, but Serena interrupts.

  “What Heather is trying to get at here …,” Serena gives Heather the stare—her social-worker stare that seems to mean, I’d stop while you’re ahead if I were you, “ …is that keeping Alex’s clothes locked away isn’t going to bring him back. It’s better to be rid of them, so you don’t keep going to them for comfort. If you keep them, every time you feel sad you’ll just wallow in his clothes. It won’t do you any good.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be forcing me to do this?” I ask, snatching another shirt from Heather’s hands. “It’s only been a few months.”

  “When do you think it is a good time to do this? After we get back to Australia?” Serena asks, flinging a shirt over her shoulder and letting her arms drop sluggishly by her side.

  “Yeah, but what if Tessa is right? What if he does come and visit us at night?”

  “Even if he does, Melody, having his clothes is pointless. It’s just more weight.”

  “I don’t know. I just feel having some of his things around might lead him in the right direction once we leave.”

  “What are you talking about?” Heather asks, glancing at me, at Serena then back at me. “Has Tessa said that Alex visits her?”

  “Yeah, not only that, but she says he speaks to her too. He never comes to visit me. I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe she’s just pretending. Maybe that’s just her way of dealing with the loss,” Heather replies, emptying my sock drawer onto the bed.

  “But maybe not. She’s always been quite logical with her inventions. She even tells me I’m silly for thinking dolls can talk. Anyway, I’ve always believed that spirits linger around in some form or another, whether they are reincarnated, or simply let to roam free, if for some reason they didn’t finish what they were put on earth to do. What if that’s what it is? What if he’s going to linger as a free spirit for the rest of eternity because we never had the chance to reconcile our differences?”

  “God, that’d make me miserable.” Heather rummages through Alex’s shirts.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Serena asks as she investigates the top cupboard for a soft piece of baggage.

  “I don’t.”

  Heather frowns.

  “I just believe … oh, I dunno … I suppose, in notions true believers might like to debate about. Anyway, I—”

  “Oh, this’d look nice on my husband,” Heather interrupts, holding one of Alex shirts against her torso and looking at herself in the mirror. “Can I—”

  I glare at her.

  She drops it back onto the bed as if it stinks and continues to sort through my socks for ones without holes.

  “Do you think it’s possible to feel miserable when you’re a spirit?” I ask, hoping for dear life that it’s not.

  “Of course not,” Serena says jumping up and down, trying to hook the handle of my sports bag with a coat hanger. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She catches it and it drops to the ground. “Heather, get you’re bloody head out of those shirts. Jesus … Melody just pick one. You can have one. I wasn’t going to let you because I’m still letting you sleep in the same bloody bed sheets you slept in toget
her and that’s probably worse, and not to mention unhygienic, and in my opinion, just gross. But I give in. I can’t possibly be the person responsible for not letting you keep one of your husband’s shirts. It’s your right—I just couldn’t live with myself. Go on. Pick one.”

  She waves her right hand in the direction of Alex’s shirts on the bed, and nurses her forehead with the back of her left wrist.

  “Hey,” Heather squeals. “I thought you said not to give in no matter what.”

  “Yeah, well, I made the rule. I can break the rule,” Serena huffs, laying out the shirts she seems to think I should choose from.

  “So you two have been discussing it behind my back, have you?” I ask. “Great. They are my husband’s shirts, if either of you can remember correctly.”

  “Well, I’m giving you a say now. Go on. One shirt,” Serena repeats, slapping Heather’s hand away from the one she wants to take for Chris.

  I look at all the shirts, each one bound with the memory of a specific event, specific date, specific time of year, holiday, season, celebration, and I can’t choose. How can I pick just one shirt, when I long so much to take them all?

  “Can’t. Can’t take any,” I cringe and turn to look out the window.

  “You want me to choose for you?” Heather asks.

  “No. Forget it. You’re both right. It’s probably better if I don’t.”

  Heather empties Alex’s part of the wardrobe into two massive cardboard boxes. I want to ask what she’s going to do with them, but I bite my tongue. If she tells me where she’s going to put them, I’ll probably end up traipsing all the way to wherever they are in the middle of the night to retrieve them.

  I look down at my dresser drawer and remember the family photo my mother gave me the day they arrived in Athens is in there. I open the drawer and pull out the photo. I stare at it. Mesmerized by our smiles. Were we really that happy?

  I wish I could have Alex here for just five more minutes. Five more minutes to see his amazing smile; to let him know that no matter what happened between us I will always love him. Five more minutes to feel the warmth of his skin against my lips. I would do anything for five more minutes. Of Alex. To tell him all is forgiven; to feel him close—just one more time—One. Last. Time.