by Jessica Bell
Eleanor
Twenty-five years ago Roger was as pristine as a surgical instrument. Every morning he would gather his papers, his books, and his students’ assignments and march off to work with one of the most satisfied facial expressions she can remember in her lifetime. It wasn’t a smile; it was an attitude that shone through his eyes like he knew the meaning of life and no one else had a clue. He would wear the same brown-and-white tie and cream-coloured shirt every day. He owned five of the same. He even washed and ironed them himself. She often wondered whether any of his students asked him if it was the same unwashed shirt he wore. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine what he might look like now.
Eleanor chuckles at the thought.
But then, along came Ailish. A stunningly petite freckled redhead with the vocabulary of a well-educated eighty-year-old to sweep her man off his feet. Eleanor couldn’t compare. So she just stopped trying. And focused on saving lives that mattered. Some that had hardly even begun.
Ailish squeezes Eleanor’s hand with a tiny gasp.
Eleanor opens her eyes.
And there stands Roger at the end of the corridor, in exactly the same shirt and tie.
He smiles, nods, and gestures for them to come through.
“Ladies ... it’s been years.”
Kit
Kit is the last to follow Roger into the lounge room. Everyone takes a seat on different pieces of furniture. Eleanor and Roger on the two-seater fawn couch. Ailish in the armchair. Ivy on a kitchen chair, given to her by Samuel. Samuel sits on a kitchen chair too. But there’s nowhere for Kit to sit. Everyone stares at her. She scans the room looking for somewhere out of obvious view.
“I’ll fetch you a kitchen chair, dear,” Roger says, hardly moving a muscle in his face. He tuts at Samuel on his way out and glances at Kit again before disappearing behind the door.
Samuel mouths, “Sorry,” with a wink, and pours everyone a glass of water from a yellow-stained jug in the shape of a swan. Ailish stares at the jug with a half-smile on her face. Kit can see the jug’s reflection in her mother’s eyes and wonders if it might have some sort of sentimental value.
Roger returns with a plate of thickly sliced oranges and his elbow hooked into the back of a rickety wooden chair. He places the oranges on the table and the chair next to him, by the couch. He pats it for Kit to take a seat. Kit looks at the chair, not quite comprehending the fact that he is placing her right next to him.
Roger watches Kit with a strange grin as she quickly slides into the seat, flattening her skirt below her bottom.
They’re all still staring at her.
Roger too.
She focuses on Samuel’s hands as he pours, willing her knees not to tremble, wishing the staring. Would. Stop.
The purr of silence and pouring water whirl around her. Her cheeks flush. Her eyes flit toward Roger, who winks at the exact moment she allows herself to focus on his face. He has acne scars, just like in the dream she had. And something about his eyes is familiar. A solemnity that runs beneath their surface.
Samuel finishes pouring the water and hands everyone a glass. When he gives Roger his, he passes it to Kit. She looks at his sun-spotted hand, surprised at how steady it is after the stroke. Surprised at how calm she feels.
Ivy is staring at the floor. Eyes wide with indistinct anger. Sam, Ailish and Eleanor start to “chat.” Words. Words that disguise distrust. But one thing Kit has learned these past few weeks is that words do not heal; they’re merely a Band-Aid. And all of a sudden she doesn’t feel much need for them here.
This silence is real.
It’s her raw connection cable.
Roger clears his throat. Kit takes the glass with a thin-lipped smile. One of thanks, of understanding, she hopes it seems. Her stomach relaxes even more as she looks into her father’s eyes. They are gentle and kind. And wounded. He reminds her of Eydie. Broken. Wise. Kindred spirits clutching to split driftwood. A piece of which she hopes to clutch to one day.
“Thanks,” Kit whispers and takes a sip.
Roger pats her knee and holds his hand there for a second longer than one would naturally.
Kit looks at the faded ginger mohair rug under the coffee table. It’s hairy and hippy-wild and misplaced among the antique furniture and decor. Just like Roger.
Just like Mum once was.
Roger hesitantly takes a slice of orange, bites into it, faces Kit, and smiles with the rind covering his teeth. Spit escapes the left corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t seem to care. His mute laugh moves his shoulders up and down. The wrinkles at the outer edges of his eyes and mouth are as deep as the lifetime of laughter Kit imagines he’s had without her.
Or sorrow.
Kit giggles and sputters some water down her chin.
Roger tears the rind off the fruit, puts it in his pocket. As he quietly chews and swallows the orange, he strokes Kit’s cheek.
Ailish glances toward them, her eyes as hard and shiny as glass balls. But Roger’s hand is so soft and warm that Kit doesn’t take much notice of Ailish, and can’t help but hold it flat against her cheek and close her eyes, to lose herself, for a just one moment, in his fatherly touch. A touch so natural, yet so uncertain—forbidden.
Roger pulls his hand away, and Kit flicks open her eyes.
Ailish is in tears, standing above them, pointing a sharp finger at Roger.
“Y-you abused her!” Ailish barks.
And the room falls silent.
Ailish: 21 years ago
Ailish and Beth sit on opposite ends of the couch, staring at the muted television, the football, waiting for Roger to return from the bathroom. The ice in Beth’s vodka crackles. The fan hums and rattles. Eydie sucks on Beth’s breast, gurgling. Sometimes, it seems, she’s choking on her own breath.
Poor child, Ailish thinks. I hope Roger finds a way to bring her up on his own.
Crash!
Ailish and Beth glance at each other, jump to their feet, and speed-walk to the bathroom.
“Kit?” Ailish calls. The door is closed. Roger is whispering. Kit is crying. Beth knocks, balancing Eydie on her boney hip. “Rodge? Hon?”
“Are you fucking kidding me, Beth? Open the damn door!” Ailish yells.
Beth hiccups, nods, jiggles the handle with ill effort. But it doesn’t open.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Ailish hisses, then grabs a firm hold of the handle and pushes her hip heavily into the door. It swings open and ricochets off the wall. There are rose soaps scattered all over the floor.
Roger looks up at Ailish and Beth in shock, and quickly moves his hands away from Kit’s crotch.
Her knickers are wrapped around her knees.
Kit
“Mum. What?” Kit can’t have heard that correctly. No way.
Ailish’s face is bright red. Ivy’s bottom lip is on the verge of trembling. Samuel lights a cigarette, straightfaced, coughs and splutters on his first drag. Eleanor frowns, reaching for Ailish’s hand to move her away from Roger’s chair.
“Pardon?” Roger shakes his head, shifts in his seat. He glances at Kit and reaches for her hand, in what seems an attempt of reassurance.
“Don’t you ...” Ailish lunges toward Roger, but Eleanor grabs her by the band of her skirt and pulls her backward. The heel of her sandal hooks the rug and she stumbles, but gains her balance again.
“Mum! Stop.” Kit stands and holds Ailish by the shoulders, looking at her fiercely as though trying to get through to a stubborn child. “He can’t have abused me. We’ve never even met. Remember?”
Roger: 21 years ago
Roger looks down at Kit’s four-year-old hand tugging at his pant leg. Delicate. Petite. Beautiful.
“Excuse me. Can you show me where to pee-pee?” Kit chirps.
Ailish nods with a forgiving wink from the couch beside Beth. Beth smiles. Sips at her vodka tonic while Eydie sucks at her left breast, vomits a little, and then begins to wail.
Roger takes Kit by the hand
and walks her toward the bathroom, leaving Ailish and Beth to sort themselves out.
Surely it will be fine. Maybe they’ll talk. End up becoming friends.
Kit drags her free hand along the corridor wall humming “Three Blind Mice.” She smiles up at Roger and starts to skip alongside him. He reaches the bathroom door, opens it, and gestures for Kit to go in.
“Here you are, your sweet highness,” Roger says with a wink.
Just as he’s about to close the door to give her some privacy, Kit speaks. Her tiny voice gets lost in the bathroom’s acoustics.
“Sorry, dear? What did you say?”
Kit’s eyes widen in preempted panic. “My mummy always helps.”
Roger clears his throat. Peers down the corridor. Closes the bathroom door behind him.
He kneels down next to Kit and rubs her baby-smooth upper arms. He can feel goose pimples grow below his scarred fingertips. Years and years of paper cuts. His passion leaving a permanent imprint.
You are such a precious little thing. One day I’m going to teach you how to write. You will be my little genius. I promise.
Roger smiles wide. He’s sure his crooked teeth are showing and that one day, when Kit’s old enough, she’s going to tease him about them in innocent jest.
“Okay. Tell me what I need to do.”
Kit giggles, wrinkles her nose, looks at him like he’s a complete idiot.
“Lift me up, silly.”
“Oh! I see. But don’t we need to pull down your knickers first?”
Kit grasps the hem of her skirt, twists it awkwardly until it’s tight around her legs.
She looks at the window, where a basket of rose-shaped soaps sit, and nods.
Roger
Roger swallows a lump in his throat and lifts himself out of his seat, being careful to carry all the weight in his arms and legs. Just like Eleanor advised.
Ailish hangs her head, the colour in her face returning to normal. Tears stream down her cheeks in silence, her shoulders shake, and she lets her arms swing limp at her sides.
He glances at Ivy, who hasn’t yet made eye contact with him. He doubts she ever will. Eleanor is still looking at Ailish. Her frown embodies true concern.
Roger tentatively takes Ailish’s hands.
She lets him.
They hang heavy in his like large wet leaves.
He admires how much they have maintained their slenderness and moisture, their evidence. He remembers these hands the very first day they left an assignment on his desk. They oozed confidence, wit. Liberation. The epitome of love and generosity.
Of understanding.
But her hands always said things her mouth never did.
Just like his.
Epilogue
Eydie flicks through Elle magazine by Beth’s bedside, turning the pages every five beeps, seeking comfort from the mechanic rhythm, the suck and whoosh breathing life back into her mother’s selfish body.
Twenty-four hours. She hasn’t slept a wink. And the only thing she’s eaten is the glue from her nails.
She takes a sip of coffee, her eighth one today, and feels her stomach constrict.
Beths grunts.
Eydie looks at Beth’s taped fingers. They twitch.
Without looking at her mother’s face, she puts her magazine down and stares at Beth’s ghost-white hand.
Her fingers stretch and then relax.
“Baby,” Beth croaks.
Eydie sniffs, rubs her nose, looks at the floor. She takes Beth’s cold hand in hers, and gives it a gentle, consoling squeeze.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First of all, thanks go to my partner, Spilios Tzemos, and my parents, Erika Bach and Demetri Vlass, for their continuous support and encouragement while I write and write ... and write. I love you all dearly. So much more than you could possibly know. To Dawn Ius for being like a sister to me (but not the sisters in this book!). Not only a sister, but the most wonderful friend any human could possibly ask for. Without you Dawn, I would lose my motivation to write. Thank you for being my ... everything. To Amie McCracken for always being keen to help with various tasks for various projects. Amie, I would not know what to do without your constant eagerness to help me! One day I will be able to repay you for all you have done. To Nicole Ducleroir for titling this book. Killer title, Nicole. So perfect. Thank you so much. To Paula Berinstein for helping me brainstorm the plot. You are a fabulous idea person! Matthew MacNish for reading and loving my latest draft, and for pointing out that it very rarely snows, or gets icy, in Seattle (last minute change indeed). To Susanne Lakin for her vigilant proofreading skills. To Glynis Smy and J.C Martin for reading an early draft and helping me snag some major plot holes. To Neil Marr for telling me that my original ending was ridiculous and for leading me in the direction of a much much better “conclusion”. I've always disliked endings tied together with a pretty pink bow. Heaven knows why I attempted to do such a thing (Phew! Good thinking, 99.).
BOOKS BY JESSICA BELL
Novels
Bitter Like Orange Peel
The Book
String Bridge
Short Fiction
muted: a short story in verse
The Hum of Sin Against Skin
Poetry Collections
Fabric
Twisted Velvet Chains
Non-Fiction
Show & Tell in a Nutshell: Demonstrated Transitions from Telling to Showing (Writing in a Nutshell Series, Book 1)
Adverbs & Clichés in a Nutshell: Demonstrated Subversions of Adverbs & Clichés Into Gourmet Imagery (Writing in a Nutshell Series, Book 2)
The Six Senses in a Nutshell: Demonstrated Transitions from Bleak to Bold Narrative (Writing in a Nutshell Series, Book 3)
Compiled & Edited
The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2012
The Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2013
Indiestructible: Inspiring Stories from the Publishing Jungle
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
If Jessica Bell could choose only one creative mentor, she’d give the role to Euterpe, the Greek muse of music and lyrics. This is not only because she currently resides in Athens, Greece, but because of her life as a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, whose literary inspiration often stems from songs she’s written.
Jessica is the Co-Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and the director of the Homeric Writers’ Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.
Visit her website:
www.jessicabellauthor.com
STRING BRIDGE
THE BOOK
BITTER LIKE ORANGE PEEL
Copyright © 2013 Jessica Bell
Kindle 3-in-1 Box Set
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
Published by Vine Leaves Press 2013
Melbourne, Vic, Australia
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under
no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Cover Photography from Shutterstock.com
Cover design: Jessica Bell
Table of Contents
String Bridge
The Book
Bitter Like Orange Peel