by Jessica Bell
“Oh. But he understands now?” Tessa scratches the corner of her mouth where a tear seems to be tickling her.
“Yes, he does. And so do you, right?”
“Yep.” She wriggles her legs beneath the duvet to get comfortable again.
“But, you still haven’t told me why you think you’re a horrible person.”
“I don’t think I’m a horrible person, Mummy! My Barbies do!”
“Oh. Right. Why do your Barbies think you’re a horrible person then?”
“I told you, Mummy! ’Cause I cut off their hair!”
“Right. Sorry. Silly me. I must still be sleeping,” I say, laughing a little.
She looks at me as if I’ve lost the capacity to comprehend the clear and simple. She’s probably right. There always seems to be a hidden meaning I feel the need to interpret. But maybe there isn’t. Maybe everything is just clear and simple. Maybe I take life too seriously and we are just material for mulch; on earth to merely keep the damn balls spinning.
“Mummy, I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” Tessa says with a stiff nod, attempting to imitate me. “It’s eleven o’clock. At night!”
“Oh, is it? Goodness, we’d both better get some sleep then, hey?” I get up, tuck her in as she clutches onto her Barbie dolls again, and kiss away the remaining tears from her cheeks.
“Sweet dreams, say the jelly beans, it’s time to sleep that means.”
“Nighty-night says the little mite, then switches off the light.” And with that, Tessa turns the light out herself, and says, with pure conviction, from within the darkness as I close the door behind me, “I don’t think we need to sing that anymore, Mummy. Lullaby’s are for babies. And I’m all grown up now.”
Twenty-three
Once I get to London, and Tessa and I are settled in, I’ll pull myself together for this tour. Don’t know what I’ll say to Richard—oh … Richard—but I’ll find a way for him to approve my leave. And then, once I’ve had my fun (because I could really do with a little leisure in my life) I’ll work on my marriage; I’ll make sure Tessa receives the upbringing she deserves, and most of all, I’ll stop beating myself up over the choices I’ve made.
I have a beautiful daughter who needs me. She needs me to become the woman I am not. Strong. Stable. Able. I’ll teach her to play guitar, piano, to sing, to appreciate art, whether it be music or some other avenue she has an interest in. I’ll teach her to love herself as much as, if not more than, she loves her passion. I’ll teach her to be confident, to never rely on a man to make her feel whole, to respect herself. I’ll teach her that happiness does not come from others, or things, I’ll teach her that it comes from self-worth; and if it is happiness she seeks, I’ll make sure she knows she’s not going to achieve it by becoming something—she’s going to achieve it by allowing a passion to become her, void of pressure to tell the world why, or the expectation that she should have something to show for it in the end. I’ll teach her that life does have meaning—life means living.
At the kitchen table on Friday morning, I sip freshly brewed coffee, Alex-style; reinvented, composed, considerate, and cautious to not ruin the air of calm settling on us all today. Tell me why I want to leave him again? Why is it, as soon as a man does something nice, you wonder whether all the disagreements between you were a result of your irrational temper and lack of patience?
And now I’m craving his attention—a stroke on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead, a smile that says more than words ever will. I want a guarantee he won’t let our relationship die. I want him to tell me the date he’ll arrive in London. I’m positive, that after a few months of separation we’ll be able to wipe the slate clean. Start fresh. In fact, I’m looking forward to it already. Why so happy all of the sudden? Why do I feel like I’m dressed in silk, ready for a ball? Bipolar? Exaggerated highs, exaggerated lows? Shit. Oh, who cares? I feel great!
The atmosphere is so positive in the house today that I’m somewhat hesitant to bring London up. But I have to, and I will. Right now. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past few weeks, it’s to never wait for the right moment to speak up. There never is a right moment. Speak up before it’s too late, or spin cycle in self-inflicted shit.
I walk to Alex’s office—stand opposite his desk. With a sigh, I say in the kindest voice possible, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk. Okay?”
He nods, with a melancholy smile, and rubs his hands over his face. A mannerism I’ve long associated with imminent anger. But I realize now, it’s just his way to find a moment behind a closed curtain, to express emotion in private, without being judged. I kick myself for not noticing that before. Perhaps if I had, I wouldn’t have been so afraid. Perhaps I would have found something in common—our way of coping: masking savage woes in the hope problems might disappear on their own.
“Sure,” Alex says, looking me directly in the eyes. “Just finishing something up. Gimme five.”
I nod, sick at my inability to express compassion toward him all this time.
I head back to the kitchen—stare at my empty mug. Should I clean up? Cook a meal? Bake a cake? No. Alex has already tidied everything up. Now? Now that I’m leaving he decides to support my all men-and-woman-are-equal rant?
I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve spent so many years having something to do at all times, that I need something to do. I just want to be bored and enjoy it. I want to sit in front of the TV and relax, but I can’t. Everything inside me is moving, muscles twitching. I pace the house, feeling a psychological magnetic pull toward the pile of press proofs on my desk. But I don’t want to start them. I don’t want to sit still.
I walk into my study—watch the wind toss the proofs off my desk—scatter them all over the floor. I ignore it—go to Alex’s office, smile, he smiles back. I leave Alex’s office, head into the kitchen, still no mess, leave the kitchen, sit on the couch in the living room, turn the TV on and off, get off the couch, stand on the balcony with the dog, throw the ball, leave the balcony, enter the bathroom, splash water on my face, leave the bathroom without even drying it, head down the corridor, see a Tessa fingerprint on the wall, spit on it, wipe it off with the hem of my night shirt. Oops, Alex saw that.
“What was that?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean what do I mean? You spat on the wall.”
“So?”
“So? That’s disgusting.”
“So?” I laugh, and Alex mumbles something in Greek and disappears. I follow him—stare at him again with an odd, half-possessed—half boredom induced pout.
“Don’t you have work to do by Monday?” Alex asks, smirking.
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t you do it?”
“Don’t want to sit still.”
“Don’t do it then.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, can you find something to do other than stare at me? Almost done. Just need a minute.”
“Okay. I can be patient.” I think.
The phone rings. I rush to the cordless in desperation for something to do even though Alex is only an arm’s length away from the fixed line. My hands are sweaty, and I drop the receiver onto the black marble tiles in the entrance hall. It smashes to pieces. Batteries fly to one corner and the earpiece to another. I call out, “I’ll get it! I’m coming! Don’t pick it up!” I rush to his office to answer the phone in there. Sit on Alex’s aristocratic black leather seat opposite his desk, and cross my legs like a young schoolgirl, feet hooked under my bum.
“Hello?” I gush, wiggling from side-to-side.
“Hello? Mrs. Hill-Konstantinou?”
“Yes, speaking.” I freeze.
Alex looks up, squints and twitches his head in question.
“It’s Dr Leventis here.” Am I sick? No. I feel fine. Of course, I’m not sick.
“Oh, hello, Dr Leventis.” My voice waivers. I cough, swallow a prickle of unease.
“I’m just callin
g to let you know the test result.”
“Am I okay?”
Alex stands with a supportive smile. Crouches in front of me, rests his hands on my knees, when Dr Leventis tells me the result. Relief and shock merge to combine the perfect ingredients of nausea.
“Thank you, Dr. Leventis,” I reply, trying to maintain a little joy in my voice.
The phone beeps when I hang up. My hand drops into my lap with a thud. It’s not bipolar making me happy. It’s the hormones.
“I’m not sick, Alex,” I say, disappointment cutting through my effort to sound pleased. “I’m pregnant.”
Twenty-four
“You’re going to have to tell your supervisors that you can’t take the job,” Alex says, massaging his brow, voice laced with a concerned mellow air.
“What? Why should I do that? My life doesn’t have to stop just because I’m having a baby.”
“We’re having a baby, Melody. We.” Alex walks out onto the balcony. I follow him. He stares at his feet—smiling.
“What are you smiling about?” I half-whisper, leaning against the white prickly wall. “My life is finally going in the direction I want it to, and what, you’re smiling now because you think you’re going to get your way? Is that it?”
“Melody, you have life inside you,” Alex says, holding his hands in the air, as if gesturing to some godly miracle about to rain down on us. “You should be happy about it.”
“Well, Alex, I’m not. We haven’t been happy about us for a long time. We need this break. If you want any chance of surviving as a couple, we need this break. Maybe I won’t be able to go on tour anymore, but—”
“Maybe? Mel—”
“Let me finish.” I rub my brow, taking a deep breath so as not to raise my voice. No tour. Why? Why me?
“Listening.” Alex licks his lips—clicks his tongue with attitude and folds his arms.
“There’s nothing stopping me from moving to London and continuing this job. I’m not going to sit around here all day cooking meals and washing dishes to the same dead-end tune. It’s enough. I deserve more than this. And if I can’t have music, I think I deserve the opportunity to have a proper career. At least that way, I can give Tessa the upbringing she deserves. And, see, now it’s not only Tessa we have to think about, is it? We need the money. I mean, your events are great, when they work, but your job is like gambling! We can’t rely on that anymore.”
“Mel—”
“Alex, stop.”
He puts his hands in his pockets and huffs like an impatient child.
“I do not want to divorce you. I want a break. That’s all. A break. If you love me like you say you do, you’ll understand how important this is. This can only help us. We. Need. This. Break.”
Alex takes my head in his hands and looks at me as if he’s about to say the most important thing I will ever hear. But he doesn’t say a word. Instead he kisses me on the nose, leaves the balcony, and walks out the front door.
Two hours later, after sitting on the couch watching Greek-dubbed American cartoons with Tessa, biting my nails and trying to convince myself that Alex just needed some space, he comes back home with a guitar. The vivacious rattle of the door handle startles me, and I stand up in shock.
“I hope you’ll play it for me once in a while,” Alex says, standing by the open door. “You know. When I come to London.” Alex puts the guitar down, protected in a case made with soft-toned brown and beige material, and gently shuts the door behind him.
I’m speechless. My gaze shifts from Alex to the guitar, to the front door, as if somehow the door is responsible for materializing this scene like a hologram. But a smile creeps up on me like drizzle turning to rain; a silent voice marking victory; a sense he has finally understood and accepted me for who and what I am. I walk to him, slide into his arms, and rest my head on his chest. His heart is beating fast, but the longer I stay wrapped in his embrace, the more it slows down. I balance myself on his feet—and we rock from side to side, to the same rhythm, as if we are silently singing the same tune.
Alex kisses me on the top of my head and says, “Se’agapo, moro mou.”
I look up. Nuzzle the tip of my nose into the dimple in his chin.
“I love you, too, baby,” I reply. “I love you, too.”
It’s eleven thirty at night and my mother just called to tell me they’ve arrived at the hotel. I’m relieved to hear they’ll visit around ten to ten thirty tomorrow morning.
The good thing about visiting on a Saturday morning is she doesn’t expect us to be dressed or geared to go out anywhere. Visiting on a Saturday morning means she’s prepared to laze around all day, enjoying everyone’s company as if the primary resident of this household. Queen Bee-tty. I can deal with Saturday morning visits, because I know we’ll simply chill out on the balcony and eat take-out souvlakia. Pressure low. Spirits high.
Tessa is finally asleep, and Alex has put his work to rest for the night. I pour us each a glass of red wine, take the glasses out onto the balcony, and light a few tea light candles. Is this our goodbye, see you in the next life? Melancholy soars through me like a hot flush. Why do I feel so sad? It’s not an end. It’s a new beginning. And we’re celebrating. Yes. We’re celebrating.
I sit in silence sipping my wine, looking into the brownish sky, imagining the stars I’d see if I were sitting on my parents’ verandah on the island. Somewhere up there is us, a happy us, in some parallel universe, living the way we’re supposed to be. I truly believe that the earth is our practice ground—the place where we are to test things out, to make mistakes, to discover what we believe in, what we are passionate about. Death is when we move on and go up there—to the real world; to start again, to rectify our mistakes and live a happy and fulfilling existence. There is no hell. Earth is hell. This is where we are allowed to sin. Up there, is where we no longer want to.
I can hear Alex fiddling with the old record player. The needle crackles as it lightly touches the vinyl before Elvis Costello’s raw, defeated voice, murmuring synthesized strings, and solo guitar twang surrounds me like membrane. Alex comes out, downs his whole glass of wine and sings along to I Want You, kneeling at my knees …
We listen to the song over and over again. Over. And over. And over. We make love to it. Over. And over. And over. On the couch, on Alex’s desk, on the floor, drowning each other in defeat—in the dark—swimming in song, in lyrics that speak to us like hidden thoughts.
No poetry.
Just us.
“Hey, are you coming to bed?” I call out to Alex who is in the bathroom brushing his teeth, a little too loudly, forgetting that Tessa is asleep nearby.
“Yeah, just—getting something,” Alex calls back, dropping volume halfway through his sentence.
Alex tiptoes back into our bedroom holding my new guitar. He hands it to me with a boyish grin on his face.
“Er, what are you doing?” I ask.
“Play for me.”
“Play for you?”
“Yeah, play for me.”
“Now? It’s two o’clock in the morning. I’ll wake Tessa up.”
“No you won’t, I’ll close the door and you’ll play softly.” Alex hands me the guitar, smirking, I assume at my dropped jaw, and gets onto the bed, with a little bounce, the way he used to when we’d just met—when we’d spent 24-hour blocks without getting dressed and made love like wind-up rock gods.
I take the guitar, identical to my last, cross my legs and rest it on my knees.
“Um … what would you like me to play?” I ask, swallowing an excess of saliva.
“I don’t know. You choose.”
“Er, okay. How about a bit of Joni?” Can I remember any Joni?
“Why not?”
“Actually, no, I know …”
I play the song I wrote the other night, when I stole one of Alex’s cigarettes, at a volume so low any true rock artist would say was a crime. A steady and crisp drone of four/four rock chords act as a pillow for m
y soft, drawn out vocals:
so you want to live the life of a star
and you want to be at peace with mankind
really want to be a mother and father
so you want to know the meaning of life
want to be the ripple and wave
really want to know yourself completely
so you want to start your own revolution
and you want to teach your daughter it all
and you really want to fight this depression
do you really want to hold emotions to ransom
do you want to be cruel to be kind
do you really want to lose precious intentions
so you really want everyone to hear you
and you want everyone to see
but do you really want to be this famous?
“Melody?” Alex asks, tears lingering in the corners of his eyes, when I finish playing.
“Hmm?”
“Do you think we are going to be okay?”
I put the guitar down and gesture for him you to lie in my lap.
“Yes,” I nod. “We’ll get there. In time.” I stroke his forehead and tears trickle onto my knee. Warm. Calm. And hopeful. A baptism of new life.
Twenty-five
Our buzzer rings and Tessa jumps up and down squealing with erratic glee. My parents are here. I wonder if Mum will be happy to see me, or too distracted by one of Dad’s mishaps to give me a long and meaningful hug—the daughter-turned-friend kind she always fantasized about and tried to discuss with me, odd smile breaching common aloofness, before I’d take off for school.
Her voice would muffle behind the crunch of cornflakes—the swish of milk between my teeth. When I’d swallow, she’d be looking at me—head tilted—that smile on the brink of dwindling—corner of her mouth twitching in anticipation. Oh, how I wish I wasn’t such a cold-hearted teen and listened in those moments when her voice was gentle and warm; when she needed to love me; when she needed me to love her despite the shit she put me through. Why didn’t I see it then? Why didn’t I stop chewing when I saw that smile? I wonder now if I had hugged her, given her what she seemed to be inadvertently asking for, whether we’d consider each other friends today. Perhaps if I’d hugged her—said, I understand—she wouldn’t be so bitter and cold. But I understand now. Is it too late?