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

by Jessica Bell

  You look possessed.

  “Yes. I’m coming down now.” Kit forces a smile into her own cheeks, in half-mockery, and follows Ailish down the stairs. Kit’s ready. Psychologically prepared? Dressed, yes. Grey-blue knee-length skirt and a plain white T-shirt. Nonthreatening, like Ailish suggested. She’s not worried or anxious (well, maybe a little) because she’s about to meet her sister.

  Should I put my hair in a ponytail?

  It’s perfect, really. Isn’t it? Ivy is out of the picture now, and Kit will have someone to replace her with. Well, at least today she’ll pretend to act happy about that. The last thing she wants is to scare the poor girl away. Kit’s stomach fills with schoolgirl-like butterflies, and she realizes how hard it is to feel twenty-five while still living with her mother. She doesn’t feel a day over eighteen. And this has got to change. Very soon. Before her intellectual growth is left to rot in the backyard with the oranges.

  Ailish has set up the dining table with a pot of tea and ginger biscuits; cubed watermelon and cantaloupe; and sliced sourdough bread, butter, and jam. What? No scones?

  “Mum, whydya go to so much trouble? What if it’s really uncomfortable? What if we want to get rid of her?” Kit leans her shoulder against the door frame and rotates the silver band around her thumb. It’s the only piece of jewelry she can be bothered to wear. In fact, she can’t even be bothered to take it off.

  “Don’t be silly, Kit. The girl is lovely. She sounded lovely.” Ailish rubs her sticky fruit-juice-covered fingers on a tea towel that’s hanging over a chair and sighs, staring absently at the table. “It’ll be lovely. Don’t worry.”

  “Why don’t you ever call her by her name?” And it’s just now that Kit realizes she doesn’t even know her name.

  “Oh? Sorry. Yes, I should, shouldn’t I?”

  “Well? What’s her name?”

  Ailish ignores her question and whistles the tune of a bread commercial on her return to the kitchen.

  “Why are you so happy?” Kit calls after her.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s such a lovely day,” Ailish calls back, making a clanking racket in the kitchen sink. “Look out the window. The weather is lovely!”

  “Lovely,” Kit whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  There’s a knock on the fly-screen door. It rattles. So does Kit’s stomach. The butterflies turn into tangled paper clips. Kit sits at the table as Ailish leaps into the hall. There’s some joyous muttering. Hugs? Kisses? But Kit refuses to go into the hall to join in. She’ll stay here. At the table. Rapidly shaking her right foot. She just needs a few more seconds to prepare. What is she going to say? How is she going to introduce herself? What if the girl is really shy, and there’s a horrible uncomfortable silence, and Mum starts talking about the time when I was two and peed all over her face in order to wake her up one morning? Oh God.

  “Kit! Oh my God, it’s you! I knew it. I just knew it!” Eydie squeals and flings herself into Kit’s arms as if they’ve been separated for years during a war.

  “Oh. Hi. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” Kit asks, twisting her hair into a knot and letting it drop free again.

  Ailish flashes confused looks at both Eydie and Kit. “You two know each other?” Ailish puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head.

  “Yeah, Mum, this is my hairdresser, remember?” Kit replies, giving Eydie a quick hug before attempting to shuffle her to the front door. “Eydie, we’re expecting a visitor. I’m so sorry, but I’ll call you later? You’re not in trouble or anything, right? Maybe later, we can go out for …”

  Eydie and Ailish start to laugh.

  “What? What’s so funny?” Kit asks, craning her neck.

  “I’m yer visitor, ya dag.” Eydie howls, grabbing hold of Kit again and jumping up and down on the spot like a child who won a trip to the fair. Kit feels like an electric mixer. The possibility that Eydie is her sister travels through her like a cold draft.

  “What? What do you mean?” Kit asks, loosening Eydie’s tight hold. She glances at Ailish, who is at complete ease, swinging the tea towel back and forth by her right thigh with a strange robotic smile plastered on her face.

  “I’m yer sister, Kit. Ya can’t believe it, can ya? In’t this wicked?” Eydie weaves her fingers together and brings her entwined hands to her lips, covering a mutant smile. Kit can see wrinkles form in Eydie’s cheeks as the corners of her mouth turn upward bit by bit. She seems eager to pounce for another hug. But Kit feels the colour drain from her face, and she levers herself into a chair. He sent her letters. Eydie’s giggles taper off, and Ailish’s arms fall limp by her sides.

  “What’s wrong?” Eydie asks, sitting down next to her. I thought you’d be really happy to be my sister. Aren’t ya happy? Kit?” Eydie’s voice turns from tickled to apprehensive, sliding upward at the end of every question.

  Kit’s disappointment augments Eydie’s voice with the quality of an echo, distant and desperate. The insignificant sound of Ailish’s feet scuffing the floorboards increases in muffled volume as if Kit’s head is being inserted into a space helmet. If only it was real, and fire would now blast from the soles of her feet and thrust her through the ceiling, away from this mess she started. Away from the figurative slaps she keeps getting.

  Just make me disappear. I can’t deal with being hurt anymore. Over and over. I can’t. Grant me this wish, and I’ll never mention Roger’s name again. Please.

  Kit smiles a frown and rests a hand on Eydie’s knee. She doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry. I am happy. It’s just … why did he send you letters and not me?”

  Eydie takes Kit’s hand from her knee and gives it a soft squeeze. “I dunno. But if it’s any, um, constellation, I never got ’em till it was too late. Ya know that.”

  Kit grins at Eydie’s use of constellation, but doesn’t correct her.

  Ailish takes a seat, scraping the chair on the floor, and shoves a chunk of watermelon into her mouth with a toothpick. Ailish never scrapes chairs. She lifts and gently places them back down. With her mouth full and juice dripping down her chin she asks, “Letters? About what?”

  Eydie turns to face Ailish and adopts a polite, respectful tone. “Not much, unfortunately. I just found ’em in me ma’s drawer, but they all had checks in ’em, it looks like, because at the top of every letter it has ‘cheque enclosed’ written on it. I never saw any of the money, though. Me ma, she … anyway, me ma spent the dough and never told me about any of it.”

  “Checks.” Ailish’s cheekbones become taut as she nods in slow motion. She hovers above her seat as if ready to sprint at the sound of a horn.

  “Yeah,” Eydie pours herself a cup of tea. The teapot lid rattles, filling silence with strain.

  Ailish stands up so fast that she knocks her chair backward. Kit and Eydie jump as it smacks the floor. As Ailish picks it up and pushes it back under the table, Kit notices tears.

  “Girls, I’m sorry,” Ailish stammers, holding a hand to her forehead, half-concealing her eyes. “I just remembered I have something to do in town.” Ailish’s voice wavers. “Y-you two have a good old chat and catch up, and I’ll be back soon.” She swallows. It’s loud. “Okay?” She unties her apron, throws it on the kitchen counter, grabs her handbag, and runs out the front door. It slams. The calm that follows thickens with Kit’s suspicion.

  “What just happened? Eydie asks, staring toward the front door with a finger hooked through the teacup handle.

  “I’m not sure.” Kit stares at Eydie’s magenta acrylic fingernails. How many more secrets has Mum got? “Maybe she really did just forget to do something.” Kit rubs Eydie’s shoulder with a smile. “She gets flustered quite easily. Don’t worry about it.” Kit pushes the plate of biscuits toward Eydie.

  “Here. Have one.”

  Kit takes a ginger biscuit herself and bites into it. It crumbles. Small pieces fall under her tongue like misplaced emotions seeking refuge.

  Ailish

  Ailish screeches out
of her small suburban street and onto the highway. Her tires burn rubber and create smoke, smogging up her rear windscreen. Her tail end flicks to the right, almost causing her to lose control of the vehicle. Cheques? Cheques! You mother-fucking lying bastard. How dare you. What about Kit? If I wasn’t so afraid for her well-being, I’d go and report you right this instant, you ruthless piece of … argh! Ailish bashes her palm on the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve and her hand to throb.

  Ailish takes the exit onto Bell Street and makes her way back home the long way around. She needs to drive. To think. To figure out what she’s going to do.

  On Sydney Road, she gets stuck behind a tram and mindlessly watches as people take their time getting on and off, holding up peak-hour traffic. They’re stuck in routine, newspapers hooked under their arms, handbags hugged close to their chests, afraid of muggers, pickpockets, or of simply letting go of their aimless angst. If only I could live a life of routine and not worry about the past. End this fiasco now. Tell Kit you’re finished. That you can’t pretend anymore. Just do it. She’ll understand. She has to.

  Kit

  Kit observes Eydie as she browses through the bookshelf in the lounge. Eydie pulls a book out, looks at the back cover, frowns, raises her eyebrows, and puts it back. In the wrong position. She flicks her emo fringe out of her face, over and over, like a twitch, checks her acrylic nails for damage every time they accidentally hit something hard, and clicks her tongue ring against her teeth when she seems to be contemplating what to say next. Habits Kit has never witnessed at the salon. Habits, it seems, that flourish when she feels out of place.

  “Kit. I’ve got some good news.” Eydie turns around to face Kit, who is filling her mouth with as much watermelon as possible. She steps forward, pauses, holds her hands in the air as if keeping balance on a skateboard, clicks her tongue ring, then steps forward again to sit next to Kit on the couch.

  “What is it?” Kit attempts a smile in the hopes she might make Eydie feel more welcome, even though all Kit wants to do is curl up in bed and cry. She loves Eydie; she always has. But this is all too much. Her sister? Really? Why can’t things just go back to the way they were? She should have appreciated how lucky she was. Now so many lives have been changed. And for what? All because of her stupid obsession with a man she knows nothing about.

  “Me ma gave me Roger’s address. Wanna go meet ’im together?”

  Kit laughs. “I’ve got the address too. Ivy’s mum had it all along.”

  “So why haven’t you gone to see ’im?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh.” Eydie looks out the window as if taking a moment to contemplate what that might mean. “Why?”

  “Mum said he recently had a stroke. I dunno. It makes me feel weird. Like he’s not how I envisioned him, you know?”

  Eydie bows her head and rubs her hands over her knees as if trying to warm them. She pauses and lifts her head, eyes wide with recognition like someone just flicked on her switch. “That’s probably why the letters stopped coming.”

  “Probably.” Kit looks at her feet and touches her toes together.

  Eydie nods with both her head and torso as if trying to push herself forward in a canoe. She smiles and looks at the photo of Kit and Ailish on the wall above the fireplace. “So he’s just a normal everyday guy, hey?”

  “Yeah. I suppose.” Kit laughs, thinking that there must be more to him than what Ailish is letting on.

  Eydie puts her arm around Kit’s shoulders and gives her a little nudge. “Let’s go and visit ’im anyway. You know, like normal people. For lunch or somethin’. You know, like, a family? What we got to lose?”

  Kit shrugs. “What are we going to say to him?”

  “I dunno, but why give up on ’im now just ’cause he’s not exciting? It’s silly. I mean, surely we’ll find out some interesting stuff. You said he was in the Army, right? Let’s ask ’im ’bout that.” Eydie nudges Kit in her side. “Come on. Let’s at least meet ’im. Then we can meet our uncle too. And then at least we won’t keep thinking ’bout it for the rest of our lives. We can, ya know, move on and stuff.”

  Kit shakes her head and shoves another piece of watermelon into her mouth. “I think I’ve already moved on. I don’t think I need to meet him anymore.”

  “Then why ya still looking so sad?”

  Kit scoffs.

  “You’re not upset about ’im not sending ya any letters, are ya?”

  It’s not Eydie’s fault. As much as you want to, don’t put the blame on her. Stop being so pettily jealous.

  Kit sighs and looks into Eydie’s eyes. Hers don’t turn down at the edges as much. They’re a perfect almond shape. But she has a similar nose to Kit’s. They both have a vague Mediterranean bump in the middle. Could that be from Roger? Does she really want to find out?

  “Come on, Kit. Life’s too fuckin’ short. Me ma has a problem with the bottle. Ya know that. He prob’ly sent her money ’cause he knew she wouldn’t go out ’n’ earn a livin’ on her own. Well, at least that’s the only freakin’ logical ’n’ sane reason I can think’ve. He obviously knew that you and yer ma could look after yerselves.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I do. So whadda ya say? Come meet ’im with me, will ya? Let’s start this family from scratch.”

  “I suppose it’d be cool to meet Samuel too.”

  “Yeah! So is it a deal?” Eydie stands and holds out her hand, gesturing for a high five, when Ailish comes storming back into the house, panting and flushed like an overexerted marathon runner.

  “There is no way on earth that you are going to meet your father, Kit,” she puffs, seeming to be oblivious to Eydie’s presence.

  Kit stands up.

  “What? Why?” Eydie and Kit ask in unison.

  “Because he’s a … a … he’s filth. Full stop,” Ailish spits, spraying saliva into the air in front of her. “I’m sorry, but ….

  Ailish rubs a hand over her mouth and lowers herself into a chair at the dinner table, trying to catch her breath. She looks at Kit and Eydie briefly before focusing her stare through the window and into the backyard. Her eyes flit toward Kit again before looking at her lap.

  “I’m sorry, I’m … I’m just letting my own hurt get in your way.” Ailish stands, straightens her skirt, and then crosses her arms under her breasts. She shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I’m … just sorry.” For a moment she pauses, then stares at Kit and Eydie before turning around and running up the stairs and slamming the bathroom door behind her.

  Kit sits back down on the couch. Eydie does the same, clicking her tongue ring and lifting her hands up in question. Kit winks at Eydie and squeezes her hand.

  It’s time Kit takes control.

  Ivy

  Ivy finds Brian’s synthetic Christmas tree buried behind a dozen or so brown shoe boxes in his closet. When she moved in, she had expected his shirts to all be ironed and colour-coordinated, but they’re not. His closet is completely disorganized. Half his shirts are even falling off the hangers.

  They remind Ivy of a gorilla skeleton, the way its scapula protrudes horizontally from its spine, taut and strong enough to support up to three thousand kilograms, but its humerus hangs from the scapula as if fed up with life, weak, and willing to be dragged along wherever its master desires it to go. Am I a humerus? Am I as pathetic as Kit and too stubborn to admit it? Do I just attach myself to a scapula and let it lead the way? Why do I put myself through this? Do I even want to be here?

  She sneaks a peek inside the shoe boxes and finds an array of candle-making equipment. Poignant scents of apple and papaya escape as she lifts the lids. She touches a clump of green wax, velvety and smooth like the royal-green cloak she remembers Roger bought her for her dress-up box. She nicks a chunk of wax off with a fingernail and touches it to her tongue. It tastes furry. Like when you accidentally spray perfume in your mouth. Ugh. Ivy, what are you doing?

  She imagines Brian teaching her how to mak
e candles, and how romantic it would be if they spent the next couple of days making them together for Christmas gifts. By candlelight. She smiles at the thought, but immediately washes it away with a frown when she remembers how unkind Brian has been lately.

  Ivy has been quite enthusiastic about playing house, but Brian always seems on edge. With every dirty dish that gets left unwashed in the sink, he rolls his eyes. With every item of clothing overflowing in the laundry basket, he rolls his eyes. With every coffee mug that gets left on the bedside table, he rolls his eyes. He sees Ivy putting on makeup when she doesn’t have to go out, and he rolls his eyes.

  What’s wrong with making myself feel good? Maybe he’s just stressed at work. But as soon as the thought reaches the nerve endings of her tongue, she realizes she may be making excuses for him. She used to make excuses for Amir. All the time. But really, I’d be pretty peeved if he had all of his stuff scattered all over my house, right?

  Ivy’s belongings are scattered all over the place, creating a hostile environment. Neither of them has even been able to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom without tripping over something and waking up the other.

  Last night, when she’d finally put away the last of her kitchen appliances, Brian said, “Now can you start to take a little more care around the house? The place looks like a boar’s run riot in here.” He’s right. The place is a pigsty. And seeing as she hasn’t started work at the museum yet, she’ll willingly play housewife and clean. Right after I put the Christmas tree up. We can’t not have a Christmas tree, can we? And anyway, I’ll probably make a mess putting it up. So it’s only logical I do it first. I’m sure Brian will agree.

  Ivy pulls the tree out of its box, and little broken pieces of tinsel fall around her feet. Fairy dust. She smiles and hums “Jingle Bells,” trying to plunge her psyche into the Christmas spirit. One untainted by heartbreak, such as finding Kit struggling to free herself from Amir’s firm hold in their hall last Boxing Day.