String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “Not really.” I smile, trying to maintain my calm in front of Tessa. “Blossom, can you please not feed the dog? She eats enough as it is.”

  “Not really or not at all?” Alex takes the toast out of Tessa’s sticky hands and puts it back on her plate. “Tessa, don’t pick that up again until you decide to eat it yourself. Doggy doesn’t want toast.”

  “But, Papa, she does want toast.” Tessa holds out her hand for Doggy to lick.

  “No, she doesn’t.” Alex and I snap in unison.

  “Well, whether I believe you or not really isn’t the point, is it?” I half-whisper, gripping my butter knife so hard that my nails dig into my palm.

  “I told you that—”

  “No, I don’t want to hear it.” I get out of my seat and stack the plates in the center of the table. “Tessa, eat your other piece of toast. We have to get you to preschool.” She doesn’t move. She is her porcelain doll twin. I take her hand—the one holding the toast—and insert it into her mouth as if operating a puppet.

  “Bite. That’s it. Now chew.” I take intermittent bites myself to speed the process up until the toast is gone. Alex watches—mouth open, cereal spoon in hand. I yank Tessa out of her seat with a tight grip on her wrist, praying I don’t dislocate her shoulder.

  “Mummeee!”

  “Get your school bag.”

  Tessa puts her hands on her hips and frowns.

  “Go. Now!”

  “Mel—”

  “Oh, shut up, Alex.”

  The girls in the office are all standing in a circle surrounding Lucy—one of the assistants—when I arrive. Lucy is sick again. Lucy has taken fifty days of sick leave already and it’s only midyear. Lucy is crying and everyone is being sympathetic. Lucy has a urinary tract infection. Lucy has to go in for knee surgery next week. Lucy will now get another three weeks off work and still get paid. Somebody please help Lucy!

  As I walk to my desk, Sonia, another assistant, says as if broadcasting a rare occurrence, “Did you ’ear? Lucy’s go’ a go to ’ospi’al.”

  What I want to say is “again?” but instead force a polite “Really? What’s wrong, Lucy?” and place my hand on her shoulder, hoping for the gesture to not resemble an Absolutely Fabulous Edina attempt at concern.

  Melody, the bitch witch. I’m out with my claws. Present me with a minuscule of inconvenience and I’ll attack. Crack a whip. Watch out. I’ll scratch your face. I’ve had enough. I want out. Because I know what’s coming.

  Not only is Lucy always sick, and as a result all her work is passed on to me, but I feel so shit about the decisions I have to make right now that it wouldn’t take a genius to realize that everything is pissing me off. I feel sorry for the poor girl, but honestly, can’t she just work from home? She wouldn’t be the first to do so.

  Of course, Heather is not in the crowd of partisans. She is sitting in her messy corner pretending to be busy with a slight smirk on her face—she’s worse than me. She glances toward me and my false display of compassion and can’t seem to tame her laugh any longer. Disguising it with a vicious cough, she races toward the exit holding her hand over her mouth.

  “Whaz up wiv ’er?” Sonia asks. “Looks like she’s ’bout to frow up.”

  “She’s all right. She’s just getting over a bad cough and doesn’t want to spread the germs,” I lie, organizing my desk a little, putting papers in piles, blowing dust off the computer screen, searching for missing pencils amidst the array of loose Post-its that have lost their stick.

  “She waz fine yesterday,” Sonia frowns, with a cartoonish air.

  “Was she? Oh, well maybe it’s coming back,” I reply, hoping that Sonia is as gullible as she appears to be.

  “Poor fing. We all gonna get sick bein’ couped up in ’ere like a flock’ve ’ens. Bloody airconditionin’.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, clicking my tongue.

  I feel wicked—possessed by Medusa. Look me in the eye and I’ll turn you to stone, then pitch a cannonball your way—crumble you like stale bread. What have these girls done to me? Nothing. But I hate them. I hate everything.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. Control yourself. You’re turning into your mother!

  The PMs walk in and the girls cock-a-doodle-doo about, moving chairs, gathering notepads and pens for our Thursday morning meeting—a weekly tradition that doesn’t achieve very much—bar the chance to give the big boss the impression we are all professional and dedicated to our jobs when he passes by—Thursday mornings at nine thirty like clockwork.

  I neglect the ritual and sneak into Jodie’s office to tell her my news.

  What news? Do I actually want this? How did I reach this decision? When did I make it? A deviate force gagged it out of my mouth this morning without my prior consent. I haven’t even decided against the tour yet. Why do I want a cat? Why do I want to buy a pair of stilettos? What’s that smell? Hmm … mocha.

  I find myself standing in front of Jodie—mute—with my mouth open wide. All I need now is an insect to fly in and make my day. Shit! Speak, damn it. Say something!

  “Jodie, I … I have decided to accept the position in London.” Don’t panic. Stay calm.

  “Oh that’s … congratulations, Melody. Oh, wonderful. Wait till I break the news to the girls. You’d better wear your evil eye for the rest of the week,” Jodie winks. “Melody just accepted … did you hear that, Dianne? Melody just accepted the position in London.”

  I turn to my right and there is Dianne, as if she materialized out of thin air.

  “Well done, Melody. Well done.” Dianne nods, expressionless.

  “Thanks, I hope,” I laugh, bringing my hands to my hot cheeks. Am I blushing? I hope I’m not getting the flu. This would be the most inappropriate time to get the flu. Vitamin C tablets. I’ll purchase them as soon as I leave the office. No, actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lucy had some in her handbag. I could ask her for one. Yes, that’s what I’ll do; I’ll ask Lucy for a Vit C.

  “Oh, of course hope. Good things to come. Good things to come. Shall we join the patiently waiting and curious editors out there and get this meeting on the go?” Jodie asks, tapping her pen on a pile of files on her lap, looking more excited about my decision than me.

  I compose myself and nod my business-woman nod. “After you, Jodie.” I nod again. “Dianne.” Don’t forget to ask Lucy for a Vit C.

  I roll my chair into the meeting circle and sit. Everyone turns to me, their lips glossy with jealous drool. The atmosphere in here is a mix between a gynecologist’s waiting room and a classroom full of teenagers praying that their upcoming test is open-book.

  Heather mouths the words, “You accepted?” raising her eyebrows. I nod with my eyelids. She winks and gives me two thumbs up.

  Sonia, who is sitting to Heather’s left, whispers, “Waz goin’ on?”

  Heather returns the whisper with a triumphant smile and says, “Listen and weep.”

  Sonia huffs, turns to Lucy, who is on her right, and mouths, “Bitch.”

  I suspected Sonia had a cruel side, but not to the extent where she would verbalize it. Lucy rubs her lips together, pushes her glasses up her nose, and folds her hands in her lap, seemingly embarrassed to witness a fellow colleague use such bad language.

  Dear me. Were they always like this? I can’t ever remember seeing them like this.

  “Right.” Jodie wiggles chubby comfort into her seat—paper and pen in position. “Before we begin the proper meeting. I’d like to announce some wonderful news.”

  On hearing “wonderful news” everyone smiles, sighs, and shuffles in their seats. Heather’s smile being the widest, most knowledgeable, and most real. At least there’s someone in this world who is proud of me. The others don’t really care about good news unless it has something to do with getting extra paid holidays, so their smiles are just preoperational.

  “Melody has accepted a position in London,” Jodie chirps, with a cheerful anticipation that seems to merge her nose with her
forehead.

  The room fills with a hum of multiple disappointed sighs, which makes Heather giggle.

  “She’ll still be working for us,” Jodie lies. “She’ll just be working from a different office in a different country.” I wish she’d mention how much better my salary will be, but she doesn’t—she’s cautious, considerate. “Okay, enough of that. You can crack open a bottle of champagne when you get home, Melody. Let’s get back to business for now.”

  I’m slightly disappointed she didn’t rub it in a bit more. I feel a need for revenge and satisfaction. Revenge on what, I have no idea because these people have done nothing to me, and I’m being horribly awful, awful, awful. Why? Perhaps I want revenge on the world. Perhaps this office symbolizes my world at present—a drab, artificially lit, poorly ventilated box of ladder-climbing, order obeying, numb nuts who blindly fulfill the roles society has preordained.

  Don’t forget to get that Vit C.

  I watch a wave of pursed sour lips wash over each coworker’s face as they ready their paper and pens for rapid jotting. They look at me through invidious squints seeking information, while Heather wriggles her pastel blue, silver-glittered toes without a writing tool in sight.

  After the meeting, I ask Jodie if I can take the work home and courier it to the printer’s myself on Monday morning. She’s hesitant but agrees. Is this the mark of freedom? Or have I trapped myself into a situation impossible to escape unharmed?

  I clear my desk—you know, put papers in piles, blow dust off my computer screen, etc, when silence falls. Muffled, tense, unheard thoughts thicken the air with a smelly curiosity. My mind is absent, underwater.

  “You leaving today, Melody?”

  I look up, unable to locate the voice. “Hmm?”

  “You’re packing your things. Are you leaving today?” Heather says, a little louder for everybody to hear.

  “Oh! Yeah. I’m going to finish the final touches of the book at home over the weekend.”

  They crowd around my desk, all trying to speak at once. Their voices unite like a tuning orchestra. Without faltering, I assume a front of importance and raise my hands, gesturing for them to hush.

  “One at a time,” I say. Who are you? This is fake, I think, but I continue anyway—anticipate being ridiculed, looked down upon, and laughed at, but to my surprise, their voices diminish and each wait patiently for me to indicate who may speak first. The back of my nose stings as if I’ve swallowed chlorinated pool water. Definitely gotta get the Vit C.

  “Yes, Sonia?” I ask, giving her permission to voice her question again. She moves to the front of the group like a gang leader.

  “’ow did vis ’appen? Why di’n’t you say anyfing? ’Ow long ’ave you been ’iding all of vis behind our backs? Wha’ kind of work will you be doing? When are you leaving?” She reels questions off, laced with contempt, arms folded, nose snubbed, with a rolled-up top lip. Ok, forget it. You’re not acting horribly at all. Look at these people. They’re ready to attack!

  Lucy’s timid and discomfited voice butts in, “Um … how much are you going to get paid?”

  Everyone nods—mumbles reinforce the question under heavy breaths as if that was the answer they’ve all really been waiting to hear.

  I sigh, run my hands through my hair, “Um, Lucy … you wouldn’t happen to have any Vitamin C on you, would you? I’m feeling a little fever—”

  The office door swings open creating a gust of wind. “Good morning, Ladies,” booms Richard Viadro as if playing Mr Game Show Host.

  I feel myself blush, and all the girls shuffle back to their seats. My body goes rigid—my smile wonky like the night I met Alex. I turn, attempt to head toward Jodie’s office, afraid to look into button boy’s eyes. But he approaches me. Too late.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Um, er, nowhere, Mr. Viadro, just clearing up my space. I … uh … accepted the job.” I look my desk up and down; gather some useless papers into a clean pile.

  “Melody. Please. Richard,” button boy says in a purring semi-whisper, as he places his hand on my lower back and tilts his head to the side.

  “Sorry. Richard.” I laugh a laugh that sounds pre-recorded for a sitcom, move hair out of my face, scratch my neck, brush some invisible crumbs from my clothes, and put my hands on my hips, “Ahem, er … I’m sorry, was there something you needed?”

  “No, not really. I just dropped by to introduce myself to Jodie and Dianne. I’m to return to the London office this afternoon.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, have a safe trip, Mr … er, Richard.” I nod, moving backward an inch so he can’t touch my lower back again, even though, guiltily, I’d love him to.

  I imagine toplessness. Me. Him. Alone in the office. Silence. Twilight. Cicadas singing through the open window. His fingers brushing over my hips as he moves his hands toward the arch in my back. Our breaths hot. Skin on skin. He pulls me closer, his erection pushing against my pelvic bone as I bend backward—his firm hold balancing me like a dancer. He lifts me up onto my desk—I point my toes the moment my feet lift off the floor. He slips his hand up my thigh and unclips my garters—

  SCRATCH!

  I’m not wearing garters. I’m wearing my crappy white flowery panties that have been tinted gray after years of mixing them with blacks in the wash.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Melody,” Richard says, snatching me from reverie. He takes my hand. Shakes it. His skin is warm, soft, nails groomed. “I look forward to doing business with you.” He bends forward. I stiffen. He kisses me on each cheek, Greek style.

  I breathe in his aftershave. Prada Pour Homme. Woody, suede, bergamot, mandarin. The scent I bought for Alex.

  The scent he never wore.

  Nineteen

  Leaving UTD for the last time feels like I’ve gotten away with faking a sickie—guilty, but dizzily satisfied. I leave earlier than usual, so decide to take the route along the ocean road to clear my head, shake thoughts of Richard from my skin, and mix them with the sand, out of reach—diluted with mother earth; a creature I fear to confront.

  I find a convenient car park by the beach—the gods are working in my favor today—and slip on my blue and white checkered triangle bikini in the back seat. I throw off my shoes, lock my belongings in the car and march across the hot grainy sand and straight into the sea with blistering urgency. My head, being so full of contradictory feelings, needs to cool off.

  Salty splashes sting my face with lament, as I push my body through a sea of sorrow and awe swimming along side each other like water and oil. The saliva in my mouth is thick with disgust—toffee in teeth—at Alex, for making me want to break free from him, and at me, for feeling like it’s the right thing to do, and for allowing my attraction to Richard coax me like bait.

  The cool sea caresses my body. I imagine the beginning of life after death might feel like this. Like a baptism. Not of a new body or soul or mind, but of new skin; a little more flexible and impervious than the last. But I haven’t finished living in this skin yet. So why do I feel like I need to shed it?

  Because the love I hold for Alex is like water. It’s needed to keep my body from cracking and peeling toxic waste into this sick universe. I know it’s not irreplaceable. I can always coat my skin with moisturizer. It may not be the most natural hydration, but it’s hydration nonetheless. But I’m not sure I’m ready to wipe my skin dry; to drown myself in a new ocean, where my desire for fleeing this emotional cage hides like a mermaid ambivalent about growing legs.

  He’s lucky. Alex. For if our love were like land—easy to burn—I’d risk throwing it in a fire, to see if it might grow back like torched eucalyptus trees do in the desert.

  But we are floating now. Alex’s love and I. Like we imagine angels might float on clouds—we want it to be real, but can’t find the proof. I wish the earth would soak us up. Drench us in faith, make us soft and pliable, squash us, roll us into tiny little pearls, and place us together in the same clam. Under the se
a. Where we are bound to return.

  I hope fate has a say in us. Because tonight is the night I choose to make a better life for myself, and if it were only up to me, I think I’d run away forever.

  The traffic this afternoon is worse than trying to drive a car over one hundred kilometers of speed bumps. Most afternoons I could probably walk home faster, but like the rest of the environmentally conscious who are all talk and no action I haven’t attempted it yet.

  I’m ashamed to say I’ve united with the majority after spending my whole life trying to be different, but I’m working on it. At least I have kicked the habit of leaving the tap running when I brush my teeth. But it’s difficult to care for the environment when you’re forced to wade through a river of litter in the streets everyday. It seems so … pointless. Walking a kilometer to dispose of a lonely chocolate wrapper in a bin where there are mountains of other chocolate wrappers at your feet isn’t worth the effort. At least that’s something I don’t do—walk all the way to a rubbish bin and throw the wrapper on the ground.

  I’m stuck behind a truck and in front of a bus full of peak-hour people. Truck exhaust wafts through my air conditioning vents despite nothing being turned on, and the bus behind me inches further and further up my rear as if I’ve been inching forward. I haven’t moved. Soon all the bus passengers will be getting comfortable in my backseat.

  To my right is a bank. And I remember that I should have withdrawn money for rent and the apartment maintenance fee. I contemplate leaving the car to idle in the middle of the road, but decide against it when I visualize the bus driver suffering from impulsive road rage and squashing my olive green 1976 Mini Cooper like an empty soda can.

  I pull up on the footpath leaving enough room for the bus to pass if the lights turn green before I’ve withdrawn cash. I step out of the car, and before both feet are off the road, it does, crushing my side-view mirror, and denting the truck’s rear bumper-bar too.

  I watch, jaw agape, rage bubbling like lava in the back of my throat over the fact that I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Well, not if I don’t want to wait five years for the insurance claim to come through. I have learned through trial and error that if I were to try to get the bus company to pay for my broken mirror, it would be a waste of time, not to mention more money.