Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “I’m sorry, what did you say? I don’t speak Greek,” I say with a tight-lipped smile, playing dumb. The Greek police don’t bother with foreigners—it’s too much paperwork and they’re too lazy to deal with it. The man smiles, swaying his head side to side with an I’m-cool-look-at-me-in-this-uniform-doesn’t-it turn-you-on attitude.

  “I said, may you be, er …,” he winks and clicks his tongue through the back of his teeth, “ …owning this ve-hicle, Miss?”

  “Yes. I’m so glad you’re here. Did you see what that bus driver just did to my side-view mirror? And to the back of that truck?”

  He leans on one foot, tilts his head, and looks at me from above his shades, “Miss. Please be known that you are in discussion with an officer of the abiding law and that it is requirement that you speak in dignified manner.”

  “I am speaking politely—”

  “No, it’s good. You don’t must feel the necessity to be apologetic.”

  I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to explain myself. It would only make this encounter longer than necessary.

  “Thank you, sir. Will you please—”

  “Miss. One moment. It is my duty to be you informed that you park illegally, Miss, and I’m going to issue you paper ticket.”

  A ticket? For parking on the curb where there are already ten cars standing with emergency lights flicking away? He has got to be kidding me.

  “What? Me a ticket?” I squawk, pointing to all the other cars. “Excuse me for being a bit blunt here, but where are you when people park in front of my driveway in the mornings and make me late for work?” I don’t know what inspires me to blurt that out, especially since I don’t have a driveway.

  “Pardon, Miss? I’m not understanding. Please do speak with correct diction so I can be to interpret your strange accent.” His top lip moves like a wave as he runs his tongue along his teeth. He switches the weight to his other foot and wobbles his head.

  I want to squash the arrogant little turd like a cigarette butt. Confidence mutates like bacteria, “Excuse me, but why do you spend all day giving useless tickets to considerate ladies like myself, but let men in suits double park in front of fire hydrants?”

  “Pardon, Miss. What is this “fire hydrant” you describe of?”

  I laugh, my voice on the brink of sarcastic mockery. I contemplate saying something that could put me in prison, but am saved by an old woman yelling like a wicked boarding-school teacher at the police officer through the bus window. He apologizes to her and refers to her as … his mother?

  “Please, Miss, de-park your car and drive home in safeness,” he says, in a hurry, blushing like a five-year-old boy who peed his pants in public.

  “May I withdraw some money first?” I ask.

  “No. You not need to give me money. I not issue you paper ticket. I let you disappear.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t going to. I need some money from the bank. For me.”

  The police officer hangs his head, nods, defeated, scrunches up his nose and looks at his feet.

  “Yes, Miss. Do as you may be wishing.”

  He mounts his motorbike, hooks his arm through his helmet and takes off, navigating through the stagnant peak hour traffic like a dying bumble bee.

  After half an hour of circling several blocks in my neighborhood looking for a parking space, I find one in front of the guitar shop I have chosen to ignore all these years. I gaze at a gorgeous secondhand Gibson Les Paul 1957 gold top in the shop front window—just like the one stolen from Dad when I was a kid. He would be delighted if I bought it for him.

  Bells jingle when a fifty-year-old-looking guy with a full head of grayish dreadlocks, ripped jeans and a red and black flannel shirt pokes his head through the shop door.

  “Bee-ootiful, isn’it?” he sings in an authentic Australian accent.

  I smile and nod toward the friendly, familiar voice, and ask if I can give it a play.

  “Of course. Come on in.”

  The shop is packed to the brim with secondhand electric and acoustic guitars. The moment I enter the shop, the smell of musty wood and rubber amplifier leads reminds me of the rehearsal studios my parents often dragged me to—when I’d sit and draw, trying to mimic my mother’s scrapbook fashion sketches from when she was a teenager.

  The guy plugs me into a small practice Mesa Boogie Amplifier with a funky pink and white striped cable. He hands me a plectrum—resin-colored—smiles with one corner of his mouth, turns off the stereo playing Jimi Hendrix, and slides into the back room. Only true guitarists know that a quiet moment between human and guitar is the key to developing a bond.

  I pluck the crisp new strings, gaining no comfort from the tortured dirty rock sound of the original P90 pick-up. I don’t feel a connection to the guitar at all. It’s way too heavy and the friction too tough. But I’m glad I feel that way. This way I can buy it for Dad without the pang of loss rendering my generosity worthless when I give it to him.

  I put the guitar down to look for the guy, but he is already standing behind the counter. Hmm, intuitive.

  “So whadid ya think?” he asks, looking up and down with narrowed eyes and fiddling with something out of sight.

  “Yeah. It’s great, but not for me,” I reply, scratching my chin as if I have a beard. “How much is it going for?” I lift the guitar off my lap from the base of its neck, rest it face up on the ground, bend over with my legs spread like a bloke in dirty ripped jeans, and examine the almost unnoticeable scratches on the body as if a little shortsighted.

  “Um, that one’s going for two thou, but if it’s too expensive for ya, we’ve got another goldtop, but it’s a 1975 DeLux with a mini-humbucker. Its neck is made from maple instead of mahogany, though. Not really the best quality if ya ask me.” He stops whatever he’s doing behind the counter and points behind him with his thumb toward the back room.

  “Um, yeah, they didn’t sell too well if I remember correctly.” I click my tongue. “Look, I just live a couple of blocks down, can I think it over?” I ask, hoping not to sound as if I’m just being polite. I would really like to get it for Dad, but not sure if I can afford it. Maybe I’ll ask Mum for some input. Make it a joint gift.

  “Sure, no probs … um, you wanna take a card?” he asks, with a scrutinizing look in his eye. I’m positive he’s trying to sum me up. Here I am, dressed in black tailored pants and a white shirt, with scraggly wet hair and a bikini strap sticking out of my collar, talking about guitars like an expert.

  “Yeah, why not. Thanks,” I say, smiling at the back of his head as he turns to find one. I wonder why he isn’t he asking me which part of Australia I’m from. They all do—usually—expecting the world to have shrunk to the size of one city: Oh, you’re from Melbourne, hey? Well, maybe you’ve met my cousin, aunt, sister …. Or they think because you’re from the same country, you must have common interests: Oh, my daughter lives there, maybe you two can go for coffee next time you’re Down Under?

  The guy holds out the card like one would hold a cigarette. I take it and slip it into my trouser pocket.

  “Ta.” I open the shop door to leave, but the guy says, “Um, by the way, we’ve also got a really nice Gibson acoustic Hummingbird, out the back. I haven’t displayed it because it’s been really bashed around. There’s no logo or markings left on it anywhere. It was one of the very first—a 1962 model. You wanna give it go?”

  “Really? An original Hummingbird? I’d love to have a go.”

  I put my handbag down and have a seat on a leather footstool near the door. A footstool near the door. Weird. The guy goes to the back and comes out with what looks like a chunk of hollow wood with a hole in the middle and a few threads of metal stretched over the top—for all I know there could be a bird’s nest inside. But I find myself strangely drawn to it.

  The guy hands it to me—the neck warm from his grip—he must have been playing it himself. Before the first strum has even rung out, woe falls from me like loose autumn leaves in wind. I have fa
llen in love. I want to take this baby home. Replace my crisp, abandoned guitar—gifted with poise, passion, power—with something worn, used, loved for its purpose rather than its beauty. Perhaps this guitar will suit me better. Perhaps we’ll understand each other.

  I look up with an absent smile, hand the guy the guitar with a nod, and say, “I’ll be back to buy them both next week,” without even asking how much it’s going to set me back.

  Right here. Right now. I have to. It’s now or never.

  Outside, standing by my car, I sift through my handbag for my mobile phone, and search through my recent messages. I open one of Charlie’s and press reply.

  I type: I’m in.

  Twenty

  I stand at our front door, sea salt burning a small cut in my nose. I hold my shirt sleeve against it, with my wrist, trying to sooth the sting—my handbag falls down around my elbow. My hair partly dry, stuck together in clumps like dreadlocks, tickles the back of my neck. Like a birthmark, the scent of ocean owns me. Smells like … freedom? Salt grains exfoliating pollution from my skin.

  Tessa and Doggy come charging for me like bulls. Tessa clutches Doggy’s left ear. Doggy pants, her thick pink bouncy tongue hanging from the side of her mouth. I kneel down and hug them both at once. Warm wet drool splashes on my hand. I intend to scratch Doggy behind her ears, and stroke Tessa’s hair, but my wires get crossed and I do the reverse. I wish the three of us could sit on the floor in the corridor all night—in a cocoon of unconditional love, freedom from the world, no responsibility, no ache, simple pleasure at its best.

  Alex is sitting at his desk, blank-faced. I walk over to him, unsure of what to say, whether I want to say anything at all, or even if I want to be anywhere near him. I stand by his side. Don’t utter a word. He doesn’t look up. I bend down; semi-consciously give him a peck on the forehead. I soar above images of my future on an imaginary flying carpet.

  “What’s up?” Alex asks, smirking as if I’ve given in.

  Alex’s voice snaps me back to reality.

  “I missed you,” I say, covering my bikini strap with my hair. “Doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I add, pulling back. But I didn’t miss him. I missed the idea of him; the impression of how we used to be.

  He looks at my breasts through my damp shirt exposing blurred blue checks below. Once upon a time he would have cupped his hands over them, squeezed them, and nudged me toward the bedroom. But now he looks at them as if I’m violating some cultural indecent exposure law.

  “Mummy, what does ‘forgive’ mean?” Tessa tugs on my pants, looks up at me. Curiosity shines through her sad eyes. I never thought I’d witness melancholy from her so young. My airway constricts as she looks at the ground, picking at a fingernail the way I do when I’m upset and don’t want to look Alex in the eye.

  “Honey,” Alex says, looking at me and then Tessa. “Someone has to forgive someone when they do something that hurts them.”

  “What did you do to hurt Mummy, Papa?” Tessa asks, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.

  “I did something very bad. I did something that you won’t understand right now, but I’ll explain it to you when you’re a bit older, Blossom.” Alex shifts his eyes back and forth from Tessa to me. His seat creaks. His reassuring smile weakens—twitches to a frown, a result of guilt. He rubs his hands over his face as if attempting to wipe his feelings away.

  Is he trying to make me pity him?

  Out of pure concern for Tessa, I say, “Alex. Don’t be silly. This isn’t necessary.”

  He shakes his head and swallows. I can hear the saliva travel down his throat.

  “Tell me what you did, Papa,” Tessa says as if consoling one of her toys. “I’ll forgive you. Did you break one of Mummy’s dolls? Don’t be scared, Papa. If you did, it doesn’t matter, does it Mummy?” Tessa looks to me for affirmation, pulling her knickers out of her bottom. I laugh a little. “We can just go to Jumbo on the weekend and buy Mummy a new one, can’t we Papa?”

  I have no intention of letting Alex expand on his explanation, so when Alex opens his mouth, I interrupt. Shake my head. Stiff. Short and tight. Inconspicuous.

  “Tessa, Daddy didn’t break one of my dolls. He broke one of my plates.” A pang of sympathy to match Alex’s apparent appreciation stimulates a little nausea. Tears well up in Alex’s eyes—prisms of blue crystal brimming with self-hatred. I know what that feels like. If I hadn’t already doubted the success of our future together, I’d probably forgive him without a second thought. Despite the pain. Despite the little voice that would constantly tell me that men never change and he will do it again. Despite what Serena or Heather or anyone would advise. I would stay with him. Forgive him.

  But at this stage in my life, I can’t. I won’t. I won’t become my mother, who at fifty claimed she only ever loved my dad like a brother, but stayed with him because she was afraid to leave, and now regrets it; wonders whether she missed the chance to find a true soul mate. Is that what love is meant to be? Brotherly? Void of the deep hurt that twists your flesh at the mere thought of never being able to see or touch him again? Whatever happened to that? That … that spasm … of heartache … that triggers a vicious thirst to hold on tight and never let go. Is that meant to disappear? And should I hang around to find out? I don’t think I could forgive myself if I did. What if I realize that, “no,” loving him like my own flesh and blood is not the way it’s supposed to be?

  “Was it your favorite plate, Mummy?” Tessa asks, flicking my knuckles to get my attention.

  “Yes, darling it was,” I nod, biting my bottom lip, swallowing diffident tears. “Daddy always liked to use it, but I’m not going to let him use my plates for a while until he learns how to take care of them.”

  Tessa mouths, “Ah,” nodding as if she has just understood the meaning of life.

  “Come on, Blossom,” I pinch her cheek. “Go wash your hands for dinner.” On her way she shoots Alex a squint, a finger shake, and says, “Naughty, Papa.”

  Alex forces a laugh and slaps himself on the hand.

  It’s the right thing to do, I say to myself. Even if it’s just temporary.

  I stand out on the balcony after putting Tessa to bed, in my dressing gown, inhaling the uncongested breeze we are lucky to have up here. Every now and then, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, I can smell the basil Alex and I planted together. I breathe a smile onto my face with the memory—our touching crouched bodies, cracking knees, dirt stuck below our nails—him nibbling on my ear as I’d pat down the soil, me drenching him with water after dropping mud down the back of my shorts. It was a time when we could be stupid and play pranks on each other without getting pissed off—inappropriately irritated at good intentions.

  There’s a false sense of security standing here, eight floors high. Away from chaos. Untouchable. Restful. Conscious. I … feel. I move to the corner of the balcony and lift my arms into the air—trying to inhale what’s left of the happy thought. But immediately bring them down when I realize I might appear to be reenacting The Titanic.

  I look toward the sky hoping to witness a shooting star—an omen for good luck?—but can’t see any stars at all. The Sahara Desert is responsible for this night sky—the dark orange-brown sheath that hangs like fog illuminated by city light. I imagine watching sand encompass us like a violent hurricane from space, eventually suffocating our planet until all that remains is a dried-up prune. Pop! The Big Bang revisited.

  When I look back down, Alex is standing in front of me. It seems he’s been talking to me the whole time, but I only catch the last few words. “ … and the aliens will invade us.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Was asking if you’d ever forgive me, but then realized you weren’t paying attention, so made up an alien story. Funny, the things you learn from kids, eh?” Alex smiles, looking into my eyes as if searching for answers.

  “Can you close the door? Mosquitoes will get into the house.”

  “Don’t think mosquitoes
can fly this high, Mel.”

  “Can you close it anyway?”

  “Sure.” He sighs, briefly pauses at the door before sliding it closed behind him.

  He returns holding two glasses of vodka. Citrus vodka. My favorite.

  “Thought you might need a drink,” he says, handing me a whiskey glass filled to the brim with ice, garnished with lemon rind. It’s cold in my warm hands. Is that saying, “cold hands, warm heart” true? Is he trying to warm my heart?

  “Thanks,” I say, hardly moving my lips.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Will you forgive me?” Alex strokes my cheek.

  “Oh. You were expecting an answer. Sorry, but I got distracted by the thought of you in bed with another woman,” I reply, gently removing his hand from my face.

  “Mel …” He swirls his drink, looks into his glass as if it might offer a solution, while holding himself steady on the iron barrier with one hand. He scratches the back of his left knee with his right foot. It reminds me of the time my prep teacher taught us how to pat our heads and rub our tummies at the same time. “Can you … look, I’m so sorry. What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg?”

  I shake my head.

  “Please, Mel. Please forgive me.” Alex places his glass heavily on the barrier. It vibrates and hums end to end.

  “Alex, I can’t because—” I focus on his inert right hand gripping the hem of his Kinks T-shirt, willing myself to complete my sentence. No cushions—just needles. Just say it. I can’t go through life tacking hems in the hope they don’t unravel in the wash. I pull my dressing gown tight around my waist. “I want to separate for a while.”

  “What? Mel, it shouldn’t have to come to this. We can work this—”

  “No. No we can’t. No matter what you say I’m still going to feel the same when you’re finished. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. I—”

  Skepticism mutes me like a button on a remote. I hang my head. Alex lifts it. Shakes his head in question.