String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “Hey! Charlie. It’s been a while.” I try to imitate the same cheer as I pick up a little speed and screech around the bend into the street that leads to my office. A lone ray of sunlight targets one eye through a gap in the clouds. I blink, and flick down the shade.

  “Sure has. Listen up. When I got your message on FB, I had a light-bulb moment.”

  Wow, he still uses that phrase? “Oh yeah? And what would that light-bulb moment be?” I smile, amused and comforted by his guilelessness.

  “You. Gee-tar. Band. Tour.”

  “What?” I stop the car in the middle of the road. Luckily it’s not a residential area and the only traffic it sees is UTD Publications staff. “Ha. You get straight to the point, don’t you? We haven’t spoken for years.”

  Shouldn’t expect any less from him, I suppose.

  “Yeah, well, beatin’ ’round the bush’s over-ahhed. Whatcha think?” Charlie prods in his old-time grisly heavy-metal voice.

  “Well …” I find a park, turn off the ignition, grab my bag from the back seat, switch speaker phone off and put the phone to my ear. “I don’t think I could just get up and leave everything, Charlie,” I reply, knowing very well that I was willing to leave everything for London. I’m not making any sense. Running away isn’t going to solve anything. Is it?

  “The tour will only last a month. Com’on MD! You know ya wanna! Serena’s spilled the beans ’bout your life.”

  “Has she now?” Oh my God.

  “I know the go. Escape the daily routine. Yada yada.” He imitates the twang of a guitar. “And look. I know there was a lot of shit between us, but hey, it’s all water under the amplifier ramp, right?”

  “Ha. Of course. I’m not worried about any of that. It’s just …”

  “Just what, kitten?” Kitten. Wow. Memories.

  “Charlie …”

  “Look. Don’t answer me now. I’ll send ya an email. Tell ya all ’bout it. Decide when ya got all the nitty gritty. Deal?” he asks in an odd paternal voice I don’t recall. Has he had kids I don’t know about?

  I sigh, remembering the day I broke up with him, changed my number, and never contacted him again. I was horrible.

  Why is he being so kind? Surely he can’t … still have feelings—

  “What was that big sigh for? Sounds like a good deal to me.”

  “Yeah, okay, Charlie. I’ll keep my eye out for your email. But I can’t promise you anything. I’m er, a little—”

  “MD, don’t worry. I’m not gonna try ‘n’ get into ya pants.”

  “Charlie.” I hang my head in my hands. Laugh under my breath. An image of Charlie and me, having sex on a plastic tavern table in the middle of the night, sends my knees into convulsion.

  “I wasn’t thinking that. I gotta go. Thanks so much for the offer. I’ll think about it.”

  “Cheers. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hang up. Throw the phone into my handbag and get out of the car.

  Am I insane? I’d really love to do it. Escape for a month and pretend I’m a famous musician. Is it normal to think this at such a critical time in my life? In my marriage? What if I sleep with him? What if I become the woman I used to be? Do I really want that? Now, after all I’ve been through, and grown to become? Am I … cut out for it?

  Charlie and I used to attend each other’s gigs like a Sunday church service. Charlie’s gigs, however, were a lot different from mine, and I’m still not sure if we enjoyed each other’s music as much as we enjoyed the fact that we were both musicians. His band wasn’t the free-spirited, enlightening hippy-sort like mine. His band was the devil-worshipping, throat-hurting, head-throbbing, metal-cutting, and rage-enhancing type. I soon learned that I had to wear black makeup, chains, and spiky jewelry in order to not draw attention to myself at his gigs, and he learned to wear his rainbow-colored trousers and tie-dye T-shirt to mine.

  Although our relationship lasted for three years, we weren’t in love. We just had great sex and a shit load of fun together. Music always came first. If love didn’t need to be a major factor in a relationship, the two of us would have been the perfect bride and groom. Looking back, it makes me wonder whether it makes more sense to marry a great friend, rather than someone you love. Friendship does seem to last longer.

  We met each other competing in a band competition. He approached me after my performance—drunk, slurring, “A chick on guitar is really cool, man.”

  Already editing at age eighteen, I snapped, “If you take a better look you’ll realize that I’m not male, nor am I a bird of any sort, the guitar is on me, I’m not on it, and in fact, it’s not cool, it’s pretty damn hot under those lights, so if you like, man, you can go and try that pickup line on my violinist. She’s blonde.”

  “Ho, ho, ho, a chick with a dick! I like it!” he laughed, almost spilling his beer on my feet.

  I bumped into him the next day when I was picking up some equipment from the pub. He was sober. Trying to speak as if he’d been raised in an upper-class environment—avoiding slang and whatnot. Although I could see through him, it amused me, and I ended up giving him my number. We hadn’t even exchanged names at this point, so I wrote on top of the number: “chick with a dick.”

  He called the same night.

  “Just one moment please,” my mother said, swaying a little from her one too many vodkas. She put her hand over the receiver and whispered, “Melody, there’s a guy on the phone saying that there should be a woman living here who gave him her number at the pub this afternoon. I thought it may have been for me—” She glanced around to see where Dad was, then whispered with gritted teeth, “I started speaking to him in my sexy voice, Melody! Then he said he thought he may have dialed the wrong number. So, I asked him if there was anything else written on the piece of paper.”

  She stared at me, hunched over as if in pain, clutching the receiver to her stomach. I held out my hand. Shrugged. Wiggled my fingers as a gesture to give me the phone.

  She put the receiver back to her ear. “Er. You there? Sorry ’bout the mix-up. Can I have her call you back? Melody’s not available to speak right now.” She wrote down his name and number and hung up.

  “What were you thinking, Melody?” Mum yelled.

  “What were you thinking, Mum?” I snarled, crossing my arms and leaning my weight on one foot.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” Mum pointed her finger at me as if a sharp weapon.

  “You just spoke to me like that!”

  “I’m your mother! I’m allowed!”

  “What happened to the equal rights you were trying so desperately to preach yesterday when you got all ooh-la about sexual discrimination and decided you shouldn’t be obligated to cook any more?” I maintained a level tone, trying to pretend the conversation wasn’t bordering on the aggressive.

  “As long as you’re living under my roof, you’ll do as I say!” She moved her finger closer to my face. I can remember thinking, Here we go again. Duck and run. But I didn’t duck and run. I kept testing my new boundaries. I had just turned eighteen—the legal independent age in Australia. I could do what I wanted. If my mother had decided to flip out again, I could have just left. And she wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.

  “When did you start becoming so conservative?” I screeched. “Living under my roof? What are you talking about, Mum? Don’t give me that shite.”

  “Shite?” She snorted. “The character on the agenda today is an unemployed Scottish bum. Let me introduce myself. I’m the Wicked Witch of the East. Nice to meet you,” she narrated like a DJ accepting a radio caller, holding out her hand.

  “Shut up, Mum. The problem here isn’t me. It’s you! And what do you mean sexy voice? I knew I should have taken your diary more seriously! But I—”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I read your diary. Something about dreaming of kissing that ‘lifelong’ friend of yours in Greece! Wasn’t he actually Dad’s friend first?”

  “How dare yo
u—” Mum’s jaw dropped. Her skin stretched so much her crying lines disappeared.

  “Don’t ‘how dare you’ me! I thought they were just fantasies. But it looks like you actually like to bring them to life!”

  Our aggressive whispering mimicked a female Godfather duet. We were both irate and red in the face—my mother from holding her breath, and me from giving myself a tonsillectomy.

  Dad walked into the corridor.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, his vocal cords doing a little dance as they do when there might be a threat of having his head bitten off. My mother was on the brink of telling him what I’d done, when I shot her an ambiguous glare. She responded with guilty calm—an invisible wink. So I took control.

  “She took a message for me,” I said. “From a guy I met at the pub and forgot to write down his number, so I got angry ’cause now I can’t call him back and he’s going to think I’m not interested.” My mother moved the scribbled number behind her back with discretion.

  “Ah,” Dad nodded with a hesitant laugh. “Well, at least it wasn’t me who answered the phone, ’cause then you’d both be having a go at me. I’ll leave you two to it.”

  When Dad walked out, my mother pushed the number into my hand with the force of attempted crucifixion, walked into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. I stared at the number for about ten minutes before I recollected myself and dialed it.

  “Ye-ah?”

  “Hi, it’s me. Melody. You just called me.”

  “Hi MD! Charlie here. But you can call me whatever you like.”

  I chuckled. “Charlie’s fine.”

  “Um, yeah, your roommate sounds a bit er … yoko.”

  From that day forward, we stuck together like ‘cheese toast.’ Charlie said that he was the toast, because he was hot and crusty, and I was the cheese because I was hot and squishy. It was fun being an ingredient of cheese toast. Until Greece ate me.

  I walk into the office almost two hours late—worn out. I head straight for the coffee station for a double dose with my bag still hanging over my shoulder. I open the cupboard above the sink to pull out the jar of Nescafé. But there’s only decaf.

  Okay. Percolated.

  No filters left.

  Shit. I need coffee!

  Just as I think things can’t get any worse, I look down at my feet—and there it is—the almost reality of the turn-up-at-school-naked dream. I’m wearing two different shoes—one flip flop and one sandal. Not the most embarrassing combination in the world, but noticeable. If I didn’t manage to coordinate shoes this morning, I dread to look at my face in the mirror. I didn’t even wash off my make-up from last night.

  I’m about to run back to my car to see if I have any shoes in my boot when my mobile rings. It’s Heather.

  “I’m in the coffee station,” I say, leaning against the counter. I hit my head on the corner of the cupboard I left open. “Ouch!”

  “What was that? What are you doing in the coffee station? How long have you been here? Why are you so late?” Heather speeds through the questions as if on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and she’s using the call-a-friend lifeline.

  “Um …” I close the cupboard. “Hit my head. Trying to find some coffee. About two minutes. Long story,” I answer in much the same fashion.

  “There’s no coffee,” says Heather.

  “Uh … duh!”

  Duh? How old are you?

  “What?” Heather asks, probably thinking the same thing. “Well, meet me on the lawn. I brought in a thermos of Jarrah’s coffee.”

  “Really? Where did you get it? I thought they didn’t sell it here.”

  “Long story. Come. Lawn. Now. Desperate.” Heather hangs up.

  I run back to my car to seek out a matching pair of shoes. Thankfully, I have an old pair of sandals in the boot from the island.

  “Thank you thank you thank you, whoever is out there, thank you,” I whisper.

  I catch a glimpse of my wrinkly shirt in the rear view mirror. I freeze.

  Don’t do it. Don’t look at your face.

  I bend down toward the mirror—my eyes clenched shut.

  Okay, do it like the Band Aid trick. Open quickly and it’ll all be over.

  I open my eyes. Oh. Mascara a bit runny. Nothing that a bit of saliva can’t fix. I lick my two forefingers and rub away the smudges. Not too bad. I smile at myself. But then I remember.

  “There’s nothing to be smiling about, Melody.”

  I look toward the tuft of trees at the end of the street. Anesthetized in this semi-humid, pre-summer atmosphere. Stagnant — numb — the way I should feel inside. But I don’t even feel that. I’m beyond numbness. I’ve been through numbness, emptiness, nothingness. What I am, is detached.

  You can’t pretend everything is alright forever.

  I cough away a swell in my throat as I push the side-view mirror in. The flick resonates through my fingers; the snap through my ears. I kick the car door. Dent it. Fuck you. The sound of reality making its mark.

  Musician. Mother. Wife. Editor.

  No.

  Mother. Editor. Musician. Wife.

  No, no, no.

  1: Mother / Musician

  2: Musician / Mother

  3: Editor

  4: Ex-wife.

  Cheater. Liar. Bastard. Asshole.

  As I reach my desk, the girls mumble “hi”, as if programmed on a timer, all staring at their computer screens. A very temperamental bunch—on and off like bipolar emotions—switchless too. It’s like the PMs have sprayed the office with a sedative gas. And it’s so quiet that the most dominating sound in the office is my feet separating from the sweaty soles of my sandals as I crouch down to pick up a fly-away post-it.

  I catch a glimpse of Heather pacing back and forth on the lawn, swigging her thermos of Jarrah’s as if a bottle of beer.

  “Okay, Heather. Cough it up. What’s up with you and the thermos?” I ask, scratching behind my ear.

  “My daughter!” she wails, almost choking on her coffee. “She brought her boyfriend home last night and I let him stay over. I’m so irresponsible; they were at it like flippin’ seagulls at fish. All I could hear, all night, was her wardrobe rattling. She’s too young for this. I thought he was just going to innocently sleep over. Why am I such a sodding fool?” She takes another swig of coffee. Swallows it like whiskey—wincing at its potency.

  “Um,” I say, short and quick, uncertain whether it’s my cue to speak. I wait for a signal. Heather throws up her arms and eyebrows in unison.

  “Sorry if this is an insensitive question, but what’s this got to do with the thermos of Jarrah’s?” I step in front of her, halting her stride, and grab the thermos from her hand. I gulp down half a mug’s worth. The warmth and smooth coffee aroma coats my mind with pseudo reprieve. “And please stop pacing up and down. You’re making me dizzy.” I sigh and hand her back the thermos.

  “Well,” Heather exhales, collapsing cross-legged on the grass. “She made it for me, my daughter, to stop me from asking her questions this morning. She was ever so helpful, making my lunch, brushing my hair, choosing clothes for me to wear—the whole shebang. Talking like a parrot in order to prevent me from talking about the wild sex I could hear last night. She talked right up until the moment she stepped out the door to go to school.” Heather frowns—tears lingering in the corners of her eyes. “Want some more?” She holds the thermos above her head, like a wagging teen drinking a bottle of cheap champagne cross-legged on the train platform.

  “Yeah, thanks.” I take it and swig it—sit by Heather’s side on the lawn. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “To be frank, I have no sodding idea … can’t bear to tell Chris. He’ll ground her. I don’t think a girl should be grounded for losing her virginity in her own home. I mean, that’s pretty good, right? I mean, at least it wasn’t in some dirty old public toilet in order to keep it a secret. Right?” The corner of Heather’s mouth turns up in a seeming effort to look on
the bright side. But the lurking smile is instantly retracted when she clenches her fists and brings them to her chest, “Oh my God! What if that wasn’t the first time?”

  “Heather, don’t worry.” I try to sound as if I’m in the know. “She was all right when she got up this morning, right?”

  Heather nods, sucking in her bottom lip. It reminds me of how Tessa slurps spaghetti.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure it was her first time. As you said—be happy that she did it at home.”

  But what I should remind her is that if it was her first time, there’s no way she’d be able to do it all night because she would have been in pain.

  I remember the day I lost my virginity. I had just turned fourteen and had a crush on a young drummer called Seb, a couple of years older than me. Many girls left love letters in his locker, decorated with heart cut-outs and photos of themselves. But I couldn’t even bring myself to utter “hello” every time I passed him in the corridor. Because I was the pretty, shy girl who looked the part of everything I was not and sung remarkably well in the daggy school choir, and he was the outgoing artistic version of a football star. A popular boy with a twist. Not twisted. Like me. I would dream though. Alone in bed at night. Pretend that my pillow was his face. But I didn’t have to dream for long.

  The day we met, I was putting books in my locker after class, and he appeared by my side with a huge grin on his face. His shoulder-length floppy blond hair hung over his narrow brown eyes as he tilted his head forward and rested his dimpled chin on my open locker door.

  “Hi,” Seb said. He pushed my locker door shut and held out his calloused hand for me to shake, “You’re Melody, right?”

  “Um, yep. Melody,” I shook his hand, nodding, trying to think of something cool to say. An entire corridor of students looked our way. Their scrutiny burned holes in my stockings. I was sure they could see my knees shaking. Perhaps this is where it all began—the stage fright.

  “I’m Seb.”

  “Uh, yeah, I know.” I giggled stupidly, wondering why I was acting like the “other” girls.

  “You have a free period now, don’t you?”