String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “What? Mel, it shouldn’t have to come to this. We can work this—”

  “No. No we can’t. No matter what you say I’m still going to feel the same when you’re finished. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. I—”

  Skepticism mutes me like a button on a remote. I hang my head. Alex lifts it. Shakes his head in question.

  “I … I don’t know if I can lie to myself anymore. Or try to convince myself that it never happened, or that you’ll never do it again.”

  Alex turns. Looks toward the swaying trees in the square. It hurts to know this hurts him too, that he can’t look me in the eye, and that from this moment forward, life will never be the same for us again. Does he feel like I do? Afraid of being alone?

  “I don’t want to wake up every morning looking at you, lying beside me in bed, and wonder whether you came home the previous night at four a.m. because you had to take a band out to eat after a gig or because a fan felt like fucking you, and you said, ‘hey, what the hell.’”

  Alex scoffs with acerbic scorn, leans his elbows on the barrier, and cups his drink in both hands. He looks down, spits, waits for it to land, then lets his glass go. Thoughts of being charged with manslaughter run through my head during the glass’s short journey between leaving Alex’s hands and the moment a stray cat shrieks when it shatters on the rubbish skip.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I screech, switching from feelings of hurt and betrayal to panic and relief. “You could have killed someone!”

  “And? What does it matter?” Alex says flippantly, yet rubbing his face in angst. “I’ll go to prison? I’m in prison now anyway.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean you’re in prison now anyway? If you feel like that, what makes you think you won’t cheat on me again? You obviously still feel the same way, otherwise why would you say that?”

  I glare at him—his solemn face drawing my stare like a magnet. My vision fluctuates—double, triple, half. I’m either over-stimulated with rage, or the vodka is swimming to my head, trying to break the world record. But I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to wake up Tessa. I blink, attempting to focus on Alex’s stubble.

  “Baby, I feel really guilty,” Alex says, crunching a piece of ice he’d been holding in his mouth.

  “Well, you should.” Baby? Now he calls me baby?

  “I mean really guilty. I almost thought about—” Alex pauses, levers himself onto the ground and rests his arms on his knees. A tear escapes and trickles down his left cheek—a drop of salty sadness I want to lick; to consume as a panacea—a symbolic gesture to mark the beginning of a pact to never hurt each other again.

  “Almost what?” I kneel down beside him, willing to listen, but not give in, even though my instinct is pushing me toward taking him in my arms and comforting him like a child. I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to lose someone you love, but I certainly can’t imagine losing two in a row. Am I being unreasonable? Am I making the wrong decision? Am I kidding myself thinking this is the best for all of us and not just me?

  “Nothing,” Alex replies, resting his head between his knees.

  Nothing. Nothing? This is what is blatantly wrong with us. We don’t communicate. Here I am trying to find out how he is feeling, instead of blabbering on about myself, and I still get nothing.

  “Jesus, Alex,” I snap, whacking him on the back of his furry, neglected head. “Can’t you just tell me how you feel instead of hoping I work it out for myself? You constantly claim you can’t read my thoughts, well, you know what? I can’t read yours either. So spit it out. Please.”

  Alex’s body shakes like he is laughing. But then he lifts is head. His face is completely wet. I want to share this ache, to help each other through. But I know as soon as I let myself fall into his arms I’ll buckle and give him another chance. He may not know it, but I’ve already given him so many chances—silent chances—I’ve lost count.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, cringing at my own sarcasm, “Am I supposed to be compassionate toward you now?” I immediately regret being so cold.

  Alex turns his head so I can’t see his face. I reach for his chin and turn his head back around. I wipe away his tears with the back of my hand and lean my forehead against his. He closes his eyes and rubs my upper arm.

  Our warm foreheads merge together like dough. I watch a couple of tears hit the ground and imagine a parade of crown splashes as if it were filmed and played back in slow motion.

  “Did you fall in love with her?” I whisper.

  “’Course not. But she reminded me of you, Mel. A lot. The you I knew when we first met. I miss that you, Melody. I want you back the way you used to be. I need you. I love you.”

  I can’t help but wonder whether who he truly wants is his deceased wife. The thought makes me feel sick. I try to ignore it.

  “Alex, I’m still me. I just … became a mother … and, okay, yes, you’re right. I want to be the way I used to be too. But, Alex, you have to admit, you pushed me in this direction.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alex sits up, wipes tears from his nostrils.

  “Alex, come on. Are you serious?”

  He shrugs. Flings his hands in the air and lets them fall into his knees.

  “You organize music events. I’m a musician. I stopped playing. Notice anything wrong with these sentences?”

  “Melody, you can’t blame me for that. You have a mouth. Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “And besides, you looked happy. I knew you missed playing, but I had no idea you wanted to play gigs again until the other night when you told me.”

  “Alex, we’re supposed to be in tune with each other.”

  “Mel, sorry, but if that applies to me, shouldn’t it apply to you too?”

  “What do you mean?” I cross my arms and slide away a couple of inches.

  Alex huffs and leans his head backward. It impacts the barrier with a gentle thud. “When I come to bed after work in the middle of the night, you just turn your back to me to avoid being woken up. Never once have you opened your eyes to ask me how the event went—or whether I lost or made money—or even if I feel okay. When I’m stressed out about work and need to talk about it, your eyes glaze over and I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall. When I tell you I’m not feeling well, you respond, with, ‘You’re fine; you’re just working too hard. Try to get some more sleep.’ Have you ever stopped to wonder whether I really am sick instead of blowing me off? And when I’m in the mood to make love, you’re always too tired. Yet, when you’re in the mood I’m expected to jump at the idea despite how I’m feeling. And on that note—”

  “Alex, stop. I get it. It looks like separating will do us some good.” I twist my tongue inside my closed mouth. I despise the fact that Alex is trying to make it sound like it’s my fault he cheated on me, but … maybe … maybe he’s right? I stand. Alex follows suit.

  “Look, Mel. I’m really sorry for what I did, and you know what? I can handle the fact that you ignore me. It’s not a big deal, and I’m sure now that you’re aware of it you can work on it. And I’ll work on being a better husband. And I won’t cheat on you ever—”

  “Alex, I’m going to go to London.”

  Alex retracts his attempt to stroke my cheek.

  “Then … I’m going to go on tour in America with a rock band. And if you want us to work out our marriage, follow me to London after I’ve returned from the tour, and we can try to start again.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No. I’m not.” I attempt a non-threatening smile, maintaining the strength of this everlasting wall I’ve been hiding behind since I was a kid. “It’ll be good for us. We need the time apart.”

  “With whom?” Alex asks, his voice teetering on the edge of anger.

  I will not hesitate. “Charlie.”

  “Charlie? Wasn’t he …” Alex looks at the barrier, traces a crack of rust-stained paint with his middle finger, and clenc
hes his jaw. His ears twitch. “ …wasn’t he the one … he was the one in the heavy metal band. Didn’t you date this guy?” He taps the barrier, sending it into a fresh convulsion.

  “That was a long time ago. And you just said that you want me back the way I was, right? Well, this might help … don’t you think?”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Melody. You’re not going to fucking tour with your ex-boyfriend—full stop!” Alex pitches a punch mid-air.

  “And why not?” I move closer, trying to make it clear that I’m no longer intimidated.

  “That’s just … wrong!”

  “Wrong? I’m not going there to sleep with him, Alex. I’m going to play guitar. And if that’s wrong, I think we need a whole new definition for you cheating on me.”

  “We’re not talking about that now. Stop changing the subject all the time.” Alex paces back and forth, shoving the plastic outdoor chairs into the table, creating a noise we are no doubt going to get complaints about from downstairs.

  “Alex, this isn’t changing the subject. I’m trying to tell you I need to get away. I need space. To get away from this. From this!” I hiss, gesturing back and forth between us. “I need to do something for me. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “Why should I fucking try to understand anything, Melody? You want to leave me and spend time with an ex-lover!”

  “It’s not about spending time with him. It’s about music. It will be good for me, and it might be good for you too. The space. You know? Maybe I’ll be a happier and more creatively fulfilled person if I have the opportunity to do this. Wouldn’t you enjoy being with me more if I were happier? Alex, I miss playing music as much as I’d miss you and Tessa if you weren’t in my life anymore. You have to try to understand, Alex. Please try to understand. I need to take this opportunity. I’ll regret it otherwise. If I’m happy, it’ll help us.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t let you do it,” Alex snaps without taking the slightest moment to think it through.

  “Why not? What’s so wrong with it? Give me a valid reason.”

  “The answer is no. Just no. Full fucking stop.”

  I swallow. Nod. Suck saliva to the back of my mouth so hard I hurt my tongue with my teeth. I want to scream. Break windows. Punch him in the face. Break his nose. Just give me some fucking space! Let me live!

  “Well, what if I’m not asking you? What if I’m telling you?” I retort, grabbing his hand and digging my nails into his palm. His hands are as soft as Tessa’s. I want to make him bleed. I push them in. Harder and harder. He holds my stare. Then realizes he’s in pain and yanks his hand away. Looks at it. At me. His hand is shaking. I prepare for a slap.

  Tessa runs out. Sliding the door with force.

  “I can’t sleep. There’s a fairy in my mattress and she keeps poking me in the bum with her wand.”

  “We’ll finish this later.” Alex closes his eyes and slowly exhales. “You can count on it.”

  Twenty-one

  While Tessa is eating her snack—half a slice of whole meal bread spread with Nutella—and I’m watching she doesn’t do anything that might compromise her well-being, she holds her new porcelain doll through the railings of the balcony barrier to introduce it to the view. Of course, in my absent-mindedness, the action doesn’t register as anything to worry about, and it slips from her hands, falls, and shatters on the garbage skip.

  “Oh no, Mummy! Oh no!” Tessa cries, jumping up and down on the spot, bottom heavy, face flushed, fists clenched, tears welling up in her eyes. Doggy joins in the dance, scratching Tessa’s leg in the process, and then she screams even more, and kicks Doggy in her behind. Doggy yelps and scurries indoors to her blue furry bed to curl up into a sulking ball.

  “What were you holding it through the barrier for? That was a silly thing to do.”

  “She’s not an ‘it,’ Mummy. She’s a ‘she.’ Treat her with respect!” Tessa stops squealing and shakes her finger at me, lips pouting, saliva bubbling from the corners of her mouth. I rub an eye, wondering how she is such a sponge to my mother’s banter.

  I enter the apartment with every intention of going downstairs to see if I can salvage the doll, but I literally bump into Alex by the front door. He steps on my foot by accident, but instead of apologizing he says, “I told you so.” He’s holding my guitar. Why?

  “Oh, piss off,” I hiss, turning the door handle to exit, but he yanks my hand away and swings me around to face him.

  “How about I do a little damage to this baby of yours, huh?” Alex raises the instrument horizontal to his head like a baseball bat.

  “Whaddaya doing that for?” I gasp, the words flying from my mouth as one. I turn to my right, and Tessa is watching from the balcony door, hushed, hesitant to pass through, it seems, as her toes are placed exactly on the bronze hinge separating inside from outside.

  “Blossom, I think it’s time you go back to bed. I’ll be there in just a minute.” I wink, nudge my head in the direction of her room.

  “If you go on tour with that shitty little pinhead,” Alex sneers, “I’ll make sure you don’t get to take Tessa.” He flicks his head toward her—she hasn’t moved from the balcony door—and yells, “Tessa. Go to your room. Now!”

  Tessa takes a deep breath, as if preparing to dip her head under water, and runs down the corridor—her hum bounces with each step. But instead of going into her room, she stops at the bathroom, and watches us from behind the door. I squint at her, shake my head, pray she gains some sort of telepathic gift to read my mind—please, you mustn’t watch. You mustn’t see your Papa like this. It’s not him, Blossom. This is not your Papa.

  “Can you please put my guitar down?” I whisper, trying hard for my pauses in between words to not sound patronizing. “Tessa shouldn’t see you like this. Alex? Please?” I notice a tremble in my voice, and a little calm—the voice I used to adopt during my mother’s irrational fits to tame the rage.

  “Well, I’ll make sure Tessa never has to see me like this again. As long as you’re not around, I won’t ever become like this. I’ll file for divorce … and for custody!”

  “Don’t you threaten me,” I scream. “I have a steady job and I’ve been faithful. There’s no reason why you should get custody.”

  “Well, I know people you don’t. I’ll find a way,” Alex retorts, lifting the guitar higher.

  “What’s wrong with you? Stop it! You’re scaring Tessa! I didn’t want it come to this. I’ve never even thought of divorcing you, let alone going through a custody battle. This is ridiculous. I don’t want to divorce you. We just need a break.”

  “Well, you should have thought about that before.” Alex inches closer and closer with the guitar, now hovering over his head.

  “Thought about what before? I’m just trying give myself a little joy in this life. Can you please put the guitar down? Please!”

  “I’m the man of this house,” Alex roars, his face red, his voice becoming a deep growl. “You do as I say!”

  “Excuse me? Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t own me!” I growl, throwing an aggressive finger at his face. There’s no avoiding Tessa witnessing this now, and the least I can do is stand up for myself, give her a decent role model to look up to.

  “In that case, get the fuck out of my house now!”

  “Your house? Your house? Get a grip on yourself. Pull your head out of your arse for just one minute and think about what you are doing here. This is ridiculous! You want to smash my guitar into pieces because I want to play music? Alex!”

  Alex moves the guitar backward, ready to swing, his eyes bloodshot, fingernails white from his firm grip around the neck—the strings crying out against his strength.

  “Stop it!” I scream, bringing my hands to my ears.

  The guitar splinters as he smashes it into the wall. A photo of my parents, in a silver metal frame, smashes on the floor. Splinters of wood and glass. Everywhere. Can’t let Tessa run in. Bare feet. Calm overpowers me
like steam in a sauna—hot with guilty relief, dripping with self-consciousness—I now have a real excuse to leave. I step over my guitar and walk down the corridor, take Tessa’s silent hand, put her in her room. I stroke her cheek.

  “Don’t worry,” I whisper, “Papa’s just in a bad mood. It’ll pass. Go to bed and I’ll come in soon, after I calm him down.” I wink. She lifts the collar of her night dress to her mouth, nods, and closes the door behind her.

  Don’t make this worse. Don’t become equally to blame.

  But I can’t help myself. My mother is in me—somewhere—here—now—tearing at my inner wall—the cage of enmity. I go to the kitchen. Grab plates. Cheap. Useless. Alex’s face drops. Regret? Fear? Blank-out? What? You wouldn’t.

  I throw a plate at him. Like a Frisbee. Mind blank. He catches it. Confused. Arousing venom sears my tongue, my heart, my everything.

  You fucking arsehole. I throw another plate. He ducks. It smashes. Small pieces. Very small. Cheap shit. I knew it.

  Alex moves closer. I throw another plate. But it slips from my firm grip, detours toward the corridor. And this is when I see everything in slow motion.

  Tessa flings her bedroom door open, comes running down the corridor, arms open wide, toward me—toward my legs. The very instant I see her, the plate leaves my hand, a flying saucer toward her head. My baby! I just killed my baby!

  Alex kicks the demolished guitar out of my path as I bolt toward Tessa on the floor.

  “Alex, get me a towel!”

  All the blood rushes from my face at the sight of Tessa’s blood gushing from her forehead. I’m going to faint. I can’t faint. I need to make sure Tessa is alive. Alex brings me the towel, crying, breathing heavily, swearing under his breath, pacing, pacing—he punches the wall.

  I pick Tessa up, despite the dizziness, the back pain, the nausea threatening to collapse me, holding the towel over her jagged gash. I bolt down eight flights of stairs with her in my arms, afraid to use the elevator. I pause mid-way, lean against the wall to catch my breath. I look down and she opens her eyes.