String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  Dad. Speak to Dad.

  It’s two o’clock in the morning, but I know he’ll be awake. My parents have a tendency to record music on their computers till the sun rises and burns their eyes out. Especially my father—Frank Zappa’s zombie turned Radiohead in Weird Science.

  My mother answers the phone.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say, trying to balance the waver in my voice.

  “Hi, Melody. Right. Where were we?” She coughs. I realize she assumes this will be a continuation of the conversation we’d started earlier in the evening.

  “I was actually wondering if I could speak to Dad.”

  “He’s fine. The usual. Not listening to a word I say,” she says, clearing her throat again.

  “You didn’t hear what I said. I said, I want to speak to him. I didn’t ask how he was.” I walk to the kitchen table, pull out a chair, careful not to scrape it. It doesn’t, but the sound of metal legs landing on spotted marble is nothing short of an echoing pop. I wince at the thought of waking Alex. Why? Habit.

  “Oh.”

  Kitchen appliances sway around my head like tornado debris.

  “Hold on a sec. I’ll get him. You know him. Glued to his computer with the headphones on.” Her hand muffles the receiver.

  “James! Phone!”

  A dampened stampede through her house ensues—the thunder of a tent being blown in the wind. Does she really think I won’t hear anything?

  Dad yelps. Thump!

  Did she just hit him over the head with the phone?

  “Stop fucking around for a minute,” she demands. “Melody’s on the phone.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I’ll turn the music down,” Dad says. I flinch, suspecting what might follow.

  “Noooo! You’re wearing headphones you fucking idiot. She wants to speak to you.”

  “Me? Oh.” He sounds pleasantly surprised and not at all troubled by Mum’s behavior. I hear the phone slide from one hand to the other.

  “Hi, Melody.” His voice gurgles like a fourteen-year-old pubescent boy.

  “Hi, Dad. How’s things?”

  “Good.”

  “Whatcha up to?”

  “You know me. Fucking around on the computer.”

  “Is Mum still there?” I imagine her standing in the doorway, watching him speak and nod with a smile that acts like a mask for resentment.

  “Yep.”

  “She watching you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is there anyway you can stop it?”

  “Nup.”

  “So we need to talk about meaningless things until she gets bored and goes back to her own computer?”

  “Yep.”

  Mum grabs the phone from Dad and says, “Sounds like a nice intellectual conversation. I’ll leave you two to it. When you’re done, remind him to pass the phone to me before hanging up ’cause he won’t remember to do it himself, okay?”

  “Givvim a break, Mum,” I plead, trying to save Dad the torture.

  “I’m not joking.”

  “All right, don’t worry. I’ll tell him to pass the phone back to you.” I suddenly feel quite sober.

  “Why do you want to speak to him anyway?”

  “I just realized I haven’t had a proper conversation with him for about ten years, that’s all,” I say flippantly, realizing how not “that’s all” it is.

  “Pfft. Okay then, don’t come back to me brain dead.”

  I hang my head wondering when she’ll ever stop being so mean; whether it’s intentional, facetious, an irrational fear of losing control, or even just habit.

  I tell Dad everything. About music, Alex, and my potentially lucrative career opportunity. I even talk about my guilty button boy fantasies. But also, how when the man was standing right in front of me, I felt so sick and afraid, that vomit rose up into my throat. I tell him how confused I am—how depressed I feel. That I’ve been having the most horrible thoughts. Thoughts I prefer to deny thinking.

  But, do I ask Dad whether it’s the right thing to uproot my family, move to another country, and expect Alex to commute from London to Athens whenever he has to attend an event? Do I ask him whether he thinks Tessa will adapt to her new environment easily? No, I ask him how I’m supposed to work in the same office as button boy and not be temped to have an affair. When did I become so selfish? Why am I so selfish? Why do I feel like I’m constantly scraping off old moldy wallpaper in search for the clean white wall?

  Dad just listens and nods against the receiver. He doesn’t try to tell me what to do or how to solve any of these issues. He doesn’t even scold me for being so self-centered.

  I like his nodding. And I know he knows all I need is nodding; that all I need is to get things off my chest. Because it’s something he can’t ever seem to do himself.

  I don’t ask him to pass the phone to Mum; and he doesn’t remember.

  When I hang up, I drift off to sleep. Who knows how long I’ve been drooling the six toxic bombs I consumed all over the kitchen table, when I am woken by a light touch on my knuckles. I travel, momentarily, back to Heather’s house, where a crisp clean powder-like smell of porcelain dolls overpowers her puke when she trips over her welcome mat.

  I lift my head—squeaky like polystyrene; dense as a bowling ball.

  Tessa takes me by the hand, walks me to my bedroom, and tucks me in. She whispers, “Sweet dreams, say the jelly beans; it’s time to sleep, that means.” As she strokes my forehead, like I do hers, I remember. My mother’s unadulterated smile as she used to put me to bed. A real memory—and my own.

  My alarm rings, it shouldn’t have, and I prematurely awake in the sediment of alcoholic self-mutilation. After thirty minutes of nagging an answer out of Alex, he admits he changed it for himself. He didn’t think it would matter, seeing as I was sleeping on the kitchen table—I wouldn’t have heard it from there. Apparently.

  “How could you just leave me there?”

  “You made it to bed eventually.”

  I look out the window, trying to recall how I got here.

  “Tessa brought me to bed,” I croak after a moment of silence.

  I rub some sleep out of my eyes and rehydrate the inside of my mouth with the dregs of bottled water on the floor.

  “Why were you home so late? I thought you said you would come home for me,” Alex says, sitting up.

  “I was having fun. Is it a crime?”

  Alex exhales a sarcastic grunt. “Tessa spilt milk all over the floor again. I cleaned it up.”

  “That’d be a first,” I whisper to myself. “It’d be nice if you didn’t complain so much, you know. I don’t go out very often.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; I’ve cleaned up Tessa’s spilt milk before.” Alex puts on a T-shirt in haste, getting himself tangled in its elasticity—his elbows poke into the fabric like an ostrich trying to break free from its pliable egg.

  I tsk between gritted teeth as Alex searches the floor for clean-ish socks.

  “It’d also be nice if you cared more. If you really wanted to see me when I got home, why didn’t you get out of bed and try to seduce me?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you. Doesn’t that show that I care?”

  “I wasn’t asleep when I walked in the door, Alex.” I throw a pillow at him. He catches it with one hand without even looking and drops it to the floor.

  Alex lies down again, fully clothed above the duvet, stares at the ceiling, and plays with the hem of his T-shirt. He opens his mouth to speak. Three times. He doesn’t say a word.

  With a gag-infused sigh, I get up and start to dress. Gray nausea tints my vision like textured windows.

  “I was worried about this,” Alex snaps, still staring at the ceiling.

  “Huh?” I pull on a pair of tracksuit pants without putting any underwear on first. My stomach screams mercy as I lift my body upright. I pause mid way, willing my bile to remain where it belongs.

  “You acting like you’re single after me agreeing to get you a gig.”
/>
  “What?” A flash of smooth button boy charm turns the corner of my mouth up. Ignominy pans from my left ear to my right as if I’m listening to it through headphones.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  I can’t manage more than a confused and defeated stare. Does he know?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, scratching under his chin.

  I stand there with my pants halfway up my legs and watch him storm out of the bedroom with a huff. A huff. Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.

  My warm calves ground me. My cold thighs will me to go after him to soothe my angst. My stomach says: just die now before I explode all over your dusty carpet.

  Paranoia. An intense unfounded fear or suspicion.

  Paranoia is a symptom of bipolar disorder.

  Paranoid. Exhibiting unwarranted suspicion or fear of persecution.

  I’m paranoid I might have bipolar disorder and that Alex knows I’ve mentally cheated on him.

  Paranormal. Beyond ordinary expectation.

  Alex’s paranormal instinctive qualities make me paranoid that I suffer from severe paranoia and might have bipolar disorder.

  I crawl out of bed, make myself a honeyed green tea and shuffle my way to Alex’s office. I sit opposite him at his desk. I breathe in the comforting steam and a sigh of limited relief.

  “Where’s Tessa?” I ask.

  “On the balcony.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Making mud pies.”

  “With what?”

  “The pot plant she tipped upside down.”

  “What pot plant?”

  “Rosemary.”

  “I just planted that.”

  “I know. Sorry. Can’t make time move backwards, unfortunately.”

  Alex taps at his keyboard, squints at his screen. The morning sunlight casts a shadow on his face. A compass. An Arrow. Pointing to his forehead. To his brain. It occurs to me that I haven’t asked him how he feels. I’ve spent the last two weeks burdening him with my feelings, my woes, that I haven’t even considered he might be having a hard time too—or that these suspicious messages might be the result of … Oh. My. God. His business! Why didn’t I think of that before?

  “Alex, are you okay? Have I, um, stopped being nice to you?”

  “Nice?” He scoffs—body shaking like a shiver from the cold. “No, you’ve been ‘nice.’ But you haven’t been thoughtful.”

  I nod, looking into my mug, at the murky yellowish brown that is supposed to be green. I hold it below my chin to feel the warmth of steam on my face. Despite the moderate weather, there seems to be a chill hanging over my shoulders.

  “I’d like to change that.”

  “I’d like that.” Alex looks at me with his head tilted.

  “Let’s take Tessa to be babysat tonight,” I suggest, hoping that if I relax him enough, he’ll be willing talk about what’s bothering him. Stress-free Alex equals rubber Alex—flexible and keen to erase mistakes.

  Alex smiles, stands up and walks to my side. His knees crack as he kneels to my level, and massages my upper arms.

  “Sorry about before,” he says, lifting my chin. “Guess I was, er, a bit jealous?”

  I cup my cold hands to Alex’s unshaven cheeks, each grain of stubble injecting me with relief. He’s just jealous.

  I take a deep breath and hold it. “I’ve been offered the job in London.”

  Alex’s arms go limp. He looks at my feet, stands, shrugs his hands into his pockets.

  “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to—”

  “I’ve decided I’m not gonna take it.”

  Fourteen

  Love should stop the world from spinning, on demand, and obsession should be the need to spin it, rather than anger, regret and yearning lodging themselves below our nails. Love and obsession, together, should make the heart heave in anticipation to experience the most desired intimate act, before, during, and after the words “I love you” become routine. They should thrive through touch, through body—a vessel to help combine our souls and minds.

  I dissolve into this thought, this heat, this wave, letting my arms fall to my sides, as Alex’s saccharine mauve taste plunges me into a place I have yearned to rekindle since I turned thirty this year. A place where love is not an expression of lust, or ink, or the familiar yet distant voice I remember now and then; it is a place where love is tangible, and lush, like fruit hanging from a grapevine in the rain. Ripe. Wet. Waiting to be devoured. Hanging. Expecting. Anticipating my need to bite the apple. Except this time, breaking the rules will make everything right again. I know it will.

  I look toward the sun setting behind the mountains and eat another grape. Its crisp mauve skin breaks between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Juice squirts into the back of my throat. It’s hot, cold—acidic sweet. I wash it down with a slice of brie and a generous sip of red wine. After an intimate evening watching romantic movies and eating Sushi, I put on Enigma’s Le Roi Est Mort, Vive Le Roi! album, and skip to my favourite track, Almost Full Moon. Instrumental, spiritual. Bringing forth a smooth connection with Mother Nature, and the calming silkiness of my jet-black full-length nightdress against my skin. I breathe in an imagined scent of the ocean as low ethnic drums beat along-side photoelectric chimes.

  I sit back down on the couch, and whisper close to Alex’s ear, “Do you really still love me?”

  “Melody, I love you so so much. I love you so much that I can’t breathe anymore,” he whispers in return, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead.

  I realize that I’ve been looking at our relationship through the rear view mirror instead of the windshield. And I’ve been putting the blame on Alex for destroying my dreams, when the fact of the matter is, I can’t blame anyone but myself. I made these choices. But the biggest realization here is, I don’t need to go back in time to fulfill my passion. And from today, I will look forward—we will look through the windshield—no matter how depressed or sorry for myself I feel.

  I swivel around and wrap my legs around Alex’s waist, kiss him softly on his lips. Right here, right now, I don’t feel cheap. I feel free, hopeful, and grateful Alex and I are finally on the road to seeing eye-to-eye. Love doesn’t ever die. We die. And it is up to us to keep ourselves alive.

  “So glad you’re turning the job down. Don’t know what I’d do without you,” Alex says, running his fingers through my hair.

  “What do you mean, ‘without you’? What … you wouldn’t have come?” I ask, struggling not to jump to any conclusions.

  “Of course I’d come.”

  I release my breath.

  “I’d just have to take care of a lot of business malakies if we moved. It would be a lot of work, and we’d have to spend time apart. I’d be traveling back and forth for months before being able to base myself in London. Trying to figure it all out has been stressing me out to no end. Especially since—well, doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re staying. My worries are over.”

  I don’t want to ask. Especially since what? He’ll tell me. He’ll tell me in his own time. I close my eyes, trying to swallow myself back into the moment, focusing on the rhythm of Enigma—heartbreaking, yet consoling, soft screams from darkened souls hovering with humming harps, contorted wind instruments, canorous guitars, and cathodic waves.

  Hot tears nestle in the corner of my eyes. Alex licks one as it escapes down my cheek. I’ve been so selfish. I’m going to change. I move in for another kiss, but he catches my tongue between his lips and sucks it into his mouth. He pulls me closer, wraps my left arm around his neck and puts my right hand down the front of his unbuttoned linen pants; I push my tongue in deeper. We groan in unison. My head spins. Heat from Alex’s abdomen radiates through my inner thighs.

  We rip each other’s clothes off in front of the sliding double glass doors that lead out onto the balcony, oblivious to possible onlookers across the road, and fumble into the bedroom. Alex pushes me against the wall, pulling my thin b
lack lingerie straps off my shoulders, down around my waist. He rotates his tongue around my left nipple, sending orgasmic currents through my fingers and toes. Our breaths heavy, I pull his face close to mine, and bite his ear while forcing his pants down with my right foot. Just as he lifts me up, hooks me around his waist to enter me, he stumbles on one of Tessa’s toys and kicks it backward under the bed. Panting, I look down between our naked bodies. And right there, sticking out from under Alex’s big toe is … a used condom.

  I lower my legs—stare at it.

  “How long has that been there?” I gasp, my breath dry against the back of my throat.

  Alex hesitates, “Must be weeks,” and tries to lift my legs back up around his waist.

  I feel sick. My head grows hot as I bend down to pick up the condom—take a closer look.

  “Alex, this condom is … glittery. Alex! This connnndom is glittereeeee!”

  I push him backward and he falls on the bed. My breath is thick, like an invisible hand is pushing me under water and I’m struggling to reach the surface for air.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, holding onto the bedpost as I lower myself to the floor. “Oh. My. God. I was right. I was right all along!” I howl into my hands. I lean my naked body against the wall and bring my knees to my chest. “What have you done, Alex? What have you done?” I kick the wardrobe door closed that is slightly ajar. It bangs so loud—I think I hear wood crack.

  Alex sits on the bed. Stares at the wall. Doesn’t speak.

  Do I cry now? Am I crying already? I shiver. Blink the throes of betrayal from my eyes, my head, my face, that sting and pound in my throat, my glands: a waterfall of drained hope. I remain. Naked against the wall. I should just stretch my arms out to my sides. Nail them to the wall.

  Somebody just crucify me. I can’t do this anymore.

  I pace the house, wiping away dust with my night-dress. I can’t bear to walk back into the bedroom and put it in the laundry basket, so I throw it in the rubbish bin. The tainted in the trash.