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

by Jessica Bell

  Ugh. Where are you, Sein and Eydie?

  Ailish nudges Kit with her elbow while drying her hands on a crisp white tea towel. Perhaps a hint to confront Ivy about the phone call. Kit shakes her head just enough for Ailish to tell the difference between a response and flicking hair from her eyes. Ailish shrugs, disguising it by rotating her shoulder to loosen up. She reaches for packets of chocolates and biscuits from the pantry to the left of the sink. She hands a couple to Kit and gestures for her to serve them on the plain white china plates stacked before her on the counter.

  “Now? We haven’t eaten yet.” Kit feels her cheek twitch.

  “Just to have them ready so I don’t have to think about it later.” Ailish smirks. “I intend to get … what is it you call it? ‘Shit-faced’?”

  Kit scoffs and rips open a packet of pistachios. “Right. No choof tonight, then?”

  A waft of jasmine flows through the room, accompanied by the rustle of Eleanor’s mauve satin pants. Ailish sneaks a glance at Eleanor and lightly pinches Kit's upper arm. “Shh.”

  Eleanor approaches from behind and whispers something in Ailish’s ear. Ailish nods, raises her eyebrows in response, then smirks with a shrug.

  “What is it?” Kit whispers when Eleanor walks out again with the bowl of potato salad from Ivy.

  Ailish opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the doorbell and smooth waves of a man’s deep voice introducing himself to Eleanor at the front door. Ailish wipes her hands, unties her apron, and flings it into the sink filled with chilling bottles without looking. She scurries out of the kitchen while securing a hairpin with all eight of her fingers.

  Kit can hear some “jolly” mumbling. And then silence. And thick footsteps.

  Ailish appears in the archway of the kitchen holding Harold’s hand.

  Dr. Whittaker? Holding Mum’s hand?

  “Everyone, this is Harry.”

  Harry?

  “A very close friend of mine.” Ailish squeezes his arm and looks up at him. Adoration spreads over her face like rouge. “Harry, you’ve met my daughter, Kit.” Ailish looks at the floor and squashes something with the ball of her right foot.

  Harold releases his hand from Ailish’s grip, takes one step forward, and holds it out for Kit to shake as steady as a Madame Tussaud’s wax sculpture. “A pleasure to see you again, Kit. You look absolutely smashing in that dress.” Kit shakes his hand. His skin feels as if it’s been dusted with talcum powder. After three defined shakes, his eyes grow wide before stepping back into his position with a nod.

  Kit, although her arm hairs are standing on end at the surprise, wants to laugh and give the man a big hug for finally breaking through her mother’s overcooked chastity.

  “And this is Ivy. Kit’s sister. And Amir, Ivy’s, er … husband. And you met Eleanor at the door.” Ailish swivels her head left and right trying to locate her.

  Eleanor calls out, “Present,” from another room, as if her attendance is being ticked off in class.

  “Also Kit’s boyfriend, Sein, and his father, Fareeq, should arrive in a min—.

  “And Eydie,” Kit interrupts. “Don’t forget Eydie.” She glances at Ivy, who turns her head in the opposite direction and stands on her tiptoes to reach a packet of serviettes from the top cupboard. Serves her bloody right.

  “Yes. And Eydie. The other sister. We’re one big happy family!” Ailish laughs with too much enthusiasm. The false laughter and throat-clearing that ensues is interrupted by another knock at the door.

  Oh, thank God!

  “Ah. Here they are.” Ailish introduces Sein and Fareeq to Harold and seats everyone at the dining table. Kit blows Sein a kiss as she brings in the remaining dishes of food. He blows one back, going pink in the face. Fareeq offers a silent chuckle and nods a friendly hello, his quiet, kind face a symbol of survival. He had watched his wife get stabbed to death by a burglar caught off guard in their own home. No wonder he didn’t want to burden Sein with such a memory.

  No more complaining. Just ride with the tide.

  “Right, let’s dig in,” Eleanor says, fanning her face with her hands. “Sorry, Ailish, I’m closing the windows and turning on the monster. I can’t bear it.”

  “It’s your house.” Ailish shrugs with a smile and grabs the knife to start slicing the ham.

  “Wait.” Kit stands. “Eydie’s not here yet.”

  All voices ebb. Everyone stares at Kit as if expecting her to combust.

  “I’m going to call her. She was meant to be here over two hours ago.”

  Eleanor and Ailish nod and say “okay” in unison as if their thoughts are connected to the same rotary circuit.

  Kit moves into the entrance hall, where the beige-grey landline is secured to the wall by the ornamental display of chronologically arranged family photos that resemble magazine cutouts. She can hear her family shaking their napkins open and resting their cutlery on the edges of their plates. She puts the phone to her ear, muffling the distant mutters from the right side of her head.

  When she returns, abrupt laughter comes to a halt when they all see the look on Kit’s face.

  “Kit. You’ve gone completely pale. What’s wrong?” Ailish stands as if to offer an obligatory gesture of respect. Sein frowns and shakes his head in question.

  “Eydie can’t make it.” Kit licks her lips and swallows a buildup of saliva. “She’s … in the hospital, she ….

  “Oh no, is she okay?” Amir’s face is contorted like squashed Play-Doh.

  What the hell do you care?

  “She’s fine, she … Beth … her mum … she’s in a coma.”

  Ivy

  Ivy finishes clearing the table while the rest migrate to the lounge for sweets. Only the rustle of summer clothes and collision of dirty plates fill the air with a hint of Christmas spirit.

  How could Kit ruin the day like that?

  Hardly anyone said a word during lunch. Only Eleanor and Ivy were hospitable enough to break the silence now and again. She runs hot water into the ice-filled sink and puts the bottles of booze in the fridge to make room for the dishes.

  No one has even met Eydie’s mother; what’s the big deal? Why on earth did Kit cry through the whole meal? She hardly knew the woman. Pathetic. Who gives a toss about the drunken whore? And Eydie’s no better. A high school dropout with a future in sniffing peroxide. Bloody lovely.

  Ivy gazes out the window, listening to the ice crackle. The sound resembles a quiet cackle.

  I’m such a bitch.

  She turns the tap off, puts a few dry plates away, and notices that Eleanor has held on to her Peter Rabbit cups and saucers. She remembers making mud pies with those in the backyard. Eleanor scolded her for taking them outside. But Roger hid a couple in the garage for Ivy to use when Eleanor wasn't looking. He told Eleanor that he’d accidentally broken them when doing the dishes.

  I’m so sorry, Kit. You do know I love you, right?

  Ivy dries her hands and joins everyone in the lounge. She enters in the middle of Harold quoting something, his eyes wide with enthusiasm and pride.

  “Oscar Wilde once said, ‘But what is the difference between literature and journalism? Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read. That is all.’” He laughs like a bubbling cauldron. Ailish smacks him on the arm like a teenager with a crush, and everyone chuckles in what seems a delay in getting the joke. Kit smiles with a little scoff, as if she’s afraid to show she enjoyed it.

  Who would’ve thought. Kit a literature buff. She sure did a good job of hiding it all these years.

  Everyone turns toward Ivy in the doorway. Amir shuffles a little closer to Kit on the couch to make room for her to sit with them. Ivy grimaces behind a fake smile.

  “Kit. Can I speak with you for a sec?” Ivy flicks her head in the direction of the hall.

  Kit looks up just as she grabs a Lamington without a saucer and drops coconut shavings all over her lap.

  She takes a quick bite, chews it briefly, swallows, t
hen rests it on a serviette on the coffee table. Ailish glares at her. Kit shrugs and stands, smacking her lips. She walks straight past Ivy without making eye contact. Ivy follows, slightly skipping to catch up.

  Ivy’s old bedroom is scattered with half-filled boxes and old clothes spread out on her king-size bed.

  “What’s going on here?” Kit asks, as if she’s got a numb mouth. She picks up a folded T-shirt with Roxette on the front of it. She smirks. Perhaps it triggered a memory. But her smile fades with haste before throwing it back down, as if it disgusts her, without having the decency to refold it.

  Ivy sits on edge of the bed, ignoring Kit’s impertinence, and pats next to her right thigh for Kit to sit too. Kit shakes her head, crosses her arms, squints, and looks out the window. She cranes her neck at something. Ivy doesn’t look.

  Stop pretending not to care.

  “Kit. I want to apologize.” Ivy picks her thumbnail and focuses on the patch of freckles under Kit’s left eye. She used to always cover them up with makeup.

  Kit shrugs, still squinting out the window. She puckers her brow.

  “So, what’s up?" Kit asks. “You gonna go back to Seattle?” Kit finally sits next to Ivy and looks into her lap.

  Ivy shakes her head, hesitant to make some sort of physical contact with Kit. “I’m not sure. I’m thinking of continuing my PhD in Sydney. I was gonna ask you. Do you want to come with me? Start fresh?” Ivy notices a hint of scorn in the way the corner of Kit’s mouth twitches. “We could share a house.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “What—is this your way of apologizing to me?”

  “You could say that.”

  Kit tilts and scratches her head behind her ear. “Nah. Sein and I are going to look for a place to rent together. Thanks though.” Kit nods, offering a weak smile. A tear trickles down her cheek, and she leans her head on Ivy’s shoulder.

  “You’re such a bitch,” Kit sobs, half-laughing.

  Ivy puts her arm around Kit and squeezes her to her breast. “I know. I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I was dealing with some stuff, and was totally off my rocker with blow and margaritas. I’m really sorry. You know I would never have said that stuff if I was sober.”

  Kit nods into Ivy’s breast, rubbing moisture into her black Bonds T-shirt. “I hope you’re being careful with all that stuff. I know you never agreed with the doctor’s advice. But still, you should be careful.”

  “I’m not sensitive to chemicals, Kit. I just get angry about some stuff when I’m drunk. But don’t worry. I can control it.”

  Kit stands. “Just like you controlled it on the phone with me.”

  “Kit. Don’t.”

  “Okay, okay.” Kit licks her lips. “Whatever.” She spins around on the ball of one foot like a rotating statue, sniffing in her tears as if a pointless form of expression. “Hey, have you still got that big chunk of citrine we found in the neighbours’ garden when we were little?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Ivy sighs with relief.

  Done and dusted. Knew she’d come ’round.

  “Must be in the closet somewhere.”

  “Can I have it?” Kits claps her hands together with a grin. A child on the hunt for Easter eggs in the backyard.

  “Sure. Why not? Should be on the top shelf behind the duvet in some random shoe box.”

  Just as Kit pulls one of the shoe boxes out, Ivy remembers the letter.

  Fuck!

  Kit

  Kit grabs a shoe box, hoping to find the chunk of citrine. The first piece of treasure Kit and Ivy ever found together. A gem that symbolizes joy and happiness and is said to be the signature of wisdom and peace, to help one’s connection with Spirit. But Kit does not want it for these qualities. She wants it because it is said to enhance creativity and memory, and to motivate writers. She wants to write. She has decided. It’s final. She doesn’t know what yet, but she is adamant to have something published one day, just like her mother. She’s realized that she doesn’t need her father to know what she wants anymore. She has everything she needs already. Here. At home. With her family.

  She opens the shoe box, and Ivy jumps up, red in the face.

  “No!” Ivy tries to grab it from her. “It’s not in that one. Let me have a look for you.” But Kit doesn’t let go, and after a brief tug-of-war, the box flies across the room when Ivy yanks it out of her hands. Clay beads, fossils, small white pebbles, old tubes of pastel lipsticks, and eye shadow scatter all over her Persian rug. And an envelope. With Roger’s name above the return address.

  Ivy gasps and bends down to retrieve it, but Kit snatches it first, slips the letter out, stands on her tiptoes, and holds it above her head. For a moment she thinks it’s some sort of ominous love letter, and chuckles at Ivy’s exasperation.

  “Fuck!” Ivy screams, clutching at her head. She falls backward onto her bed with a groan.

  Kit unfolds the letter. Smirking. Curious. But then it hits her. The stone in the stomach, rotating, catching and tearing off sensitive tissue in its wrath. She shakes her head, jaw agape.

  “You ... you fucking bitch,” Kit whispers, reading the letter over and over. Her entire body buzzes with anger. “How long have you had this?” She sneers as if the sentence were one word, teetering on the edge of a livid scream.

  “Kit, I was going to tell you. I promise. I’ve just never been ready to see him until now. I …

  “Who the fuck said you had to see him?” Kit glares at Ivy, who has now rolled onto her stomach and hid her head under a pillow.

  Kit’s pulse beats in her ears.

  “For years,” Kit growls, “you’ve known I wanted to meet him. And you keep this from me? I … I can’t believe this.” Kit reads the letter again and again, and her need to meet Roger returns as strong as an addict’s craving for a hit.

  Ivy moans and kicks the headboard.

  Kit looks at the stamp on the envelope.

  She’d received it more than ten years ago.

  Brian

  Brian is standing outside Ivy’s house. On Christmas Day. Am I insane? He paces. Outside the front gate. Rehearsing his speech over and over in his head. He looks up. He can see someone peering at him through a window. He shades his eyes from the sun with his left hand to see who it is. It’s not Ivy. Maybe it’s her mother? God, what am I doing?

  He leans against a tree at the side of the road. Sweating like a pig. Picks at the bark, flings it at a cat.

  Why didn’t anyone tell me the sun in Australia is so intense?

  He composes himself. Uses his T-shirt to dab his face.

  He knocks on the door, wipes his sweaty hands on his back pockets. Notices he’s holding his breath and lets out a croaky sigh. A good-looking dark-skinned dude answers with an accent he can’t place.

  “Hello. Can I help you?”

  Brian holds out his hand for him to shake. “Hi. I’m a friend of Ivy’s from Seattle. Is she home?”

  “Seattle?” The man nods. His eyes light up. “Come in, come in. I’m Amir. You must be Gabriel. Ivy is going to be so happy to see you. She didn’t tell—.

  “Gabriel?” Brian laughs and shakes his head. “No, no. My name’s Brian.”

  “Oh. Well, welcome, Brian. I think she’s having a D&M with her sister in her bedroom, but I’ll tell her to come down.”

  D&M? What is that? A drug?

  “Can you wait here for just a second? I’m sure she’d like to introduce you to the family herself.”

  Brian nods a thank-you and rubs his hands on his back pockets again. He looks around at the vast array of family photos on the walls. There’s one of Ivy on her first day of primary school, high school, and university. All captioned with exact dates in solid-black felt-tip pen. There’s also one of her panning for gold in Sovereign Hill, in which everyone seems to be dressed up in era attire. There’s graduation. There’s one of her at some archaeological site, holding a Greek-looking urn under her arm. And one … in a bridal
gown? Brian’s gaze slips to the groom.

  His hearts sinks.

  Ivy walks in with Amir. Her face flushed. She looks like she’s been crying. As she shakes her head in what seems to be shame, tears roll down her cheeks. She wipes them away with the tops of her wrists.

  “Brian, I … I’m so sorry. I guess I … I should’ve told you.”

  Kit

  Kit sits on Ivy’s floor, staring at the letter.

  Ten years. Ten years.

  “Fuck it,” she says, and stomps into the lounge room, where Eleanor is yelling at Ivy. Her footsteps complement Eleanor’s rage. Everyone, including Harold and Fareeq, are staring into their laps.

  “Where is your head? That poor man,” Eleanor howls, pushing the plate of Lamingtons across the coffee table as she stands, just enough for it to reach the edge but not fall off. “How could you do such a thing? He comes all the way to Australia to see you. And you just ask him to leave? Without even asking him if he’s hungry? Wants a drink? A glass of water, at least? Ivy, where is your head? Your heart? She pounds her fists on her chest. “How did you become like this? I’m ashamed. Ashamed of you.”

  “Mum,” Ivy growls through gritted teeth, “Amir is here. What do you want me to do? Ask if he’d like to join us in a threesome?”

  “Ivy!” Eleanor barks, bringing her hands to her head. She sits in an armchair, trying to take deep, steady breaths.

  Amir grabs Ivy’s arm, mutters something, and attempts to pull her out of the room. But Eleanor lifts her head and slaps her hands on the armrests. “Don’t either of you go anywhere. I’m not finished.”

  Ailish, Harold, Sein, and Fareeq stand and start collecting their belongings to leave. Ailish gestures for Kit to grab her bag. But Kit shakes her head.

  Don’t chicken out now, Kit.

  She walks into the center of the lounge and holds up her hands.

  “Wait, I have something to say.” Kit clears her throat. “I’ve had enough of all the shit everyone keeps stashing away in this family,” she snaps, then swallows, lowers her voice a touch when she sees the astonishment on everyone’s faces. “So, I think it should all just come out in the open ….