String Bridge

by Jessica Bell

  “Mummy, what’s this?” Tessa asks, putting the brake on her chair as soon as she approaches the doorway. She’s holding onto a 2mm resin-colored guitar plectrum. Serena and Heather look at me in dread and stop folding the clothes. I can smell their anticipation like a dog. I ignore it.

  “It’s called a plectrum, Blossom. You use it to play guitar,” I reply, managing a brief smile.

  “Orh! Cool! Can I play the guitar, Mummy?”

  “Um …” I hum, glancing toward the guitar Alex bought me sitting in the corner by the window. I remember my dream: Teach Tessa.

  “I guess,” I say, pursing my lips in thought. “Do you want to have lessons?”

  “No, Mummy. I mean, can I play with it na-ow!”

  “Oh. Why not. Wait, just let me get it out of the case for you.”

  Serena and Heather exchange surprised glances as I reach for the guitar. I lie it down on the ground, open the case, trying not to breathe in the scent of fresh wood and hand it to Serena to hold. I wheel Tessa into the living room, sit her on the couch and place the guitar in her lap. Tessa is still clutching onto the plectrum as if her first ever coin. Without any further instruction from me, she places her whole hand over the first fret and plucks the bottom string. She plays an F. She shrieks in excitement and grins from ear to ear looking at the three of us for approval.

  “Yay!” We applaud.

  “What’s this called, Mummy?” Tessa points to the neck of the guitar.

  “It’s called the neck.”

  “Um … what are these?”

  “They’re called keys.”

  “Like what you lock the front door with?”

  “Um, yeah, sort of, except the keys on the guitar lock a certain note into a string.”

  “Oh!” She looks up and down the guitar as if searching for something else to inquire about. “How about this?”

  “That is called the bridge.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Well, that is one of the most important parts, Blossom. If the bridge isn’t straight, or built properly, then the strings won’t sing very well—the guitar will be out of tune.”

  “Out of tune?”

  “Well, I guess that just means, not quite right—when strings are out of tune, they sound a bit sad.”

  “Are you out of tune, Mummy? Because you sound a bit sad.”

  I squat and squeeze Tessa’s knees.

  “Blossom,” I nod. “I am a little bit out of tune. But I’ll find myself a better bridge very soon. And then I’ll be in tune again. Okay?”

  Tessa nods and smiles and plucks the E string with fervor, banging her head up and down to the erratic beat.

  “Rock ‘n’ roll,” Tessa says with a cheeky grin, and licks her lips.

  And we all break out into laughter.

  Thirty-one

  In the evening, Serena, Tessa, and I watch a movie and order pizza. When Tessa finishes eating, we transfer her to the couch and sit her between Serena and me. I stroke her hair while Serena massages her legs to keep her muscles warm—doctor’s orders. She falls asleep—ear to my stomach, and breathes a smirk onto her face as if the corner of her mouth is being hitched up by a peg.

  “Do you want me to put her to bed?” Serena whispers, removing Tessa’s legs from her lap like fragile explosives.

  I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ll do it. I might lie in bed with her for a while. Do you mind sitting on your own for a bit?”

  “No worries, I’ll just do the dishes,” Serena winks.

  “Ha, yeah, you do that,” I titter.

  I lift Tessa off the couch. The warmth and weight of her petite legs fall limp in my embrace; her small tired body sinks into my arms like dough, over-exposed to heat.

  I lay her in bed, admiring the rosy innocence flushed through her cheeks, her emotional strength, and will to keep on keeping on. I haven’t even seen her cry. Perhaps she doesn’t need to. Perhaps Alex and Mum really do talk to her during the night. If so, she probably sees more of them than she did when they were alive.

  I lie next to her, without touching, being careful not to press down on the mattress too fast. Her body heat radiates through my clothes like a hot water bottle even without physical contact; a feeling I have been deprived of for way too long. I listen to the purr of silence surround her soothing elfin wheeze, when fleeting warmth caresses my cold fingertips and toes—and I know we are not alone.

  I imagine it’s Alex—I hope it’s Alex, watching; somehow granting Tessa the life I never had. A thick curl of hair falls over Tessa’s face as she wriggles onto her side. I delicately remove it from her face, and I have a sudden urge to sing. I sing Joni Mitchell’s, Both Sides, Now—the song my mother used to sing.

  As I reach the end of the song, my unborn baby moves for the first time. I lay flat on my back, and focus on a drip of paint, frozen in time, in the corner of the ceiling. I listen; crackling stillness; feathery buzz—the room fills with an overwhelming sense of love and I smile; I let it infuse me like a drug.

  “Alex,” I whisper, tracing my fingers around in a circle on my stomach. “I’ll call you Alex.”

  Thirty-two

  I’ve prepared everything for our departure early so Tessa and I can spend our last day in Athens at the Acropolis—490 feet above sea level among the ruins of an ancient city built during the fifth century BC. You can see Athens in its entirety from up there, when you spin full-circle; where the air seems to blow in from another world.

  Fresh, clear, and flavored with fragments of history, the wind dashes across my face, marinated with late Cretaceous limestone dust that once accommodated the feet of countless ancient civilians. The grounds are bristled with tufts of dry and newly sprouting grass, and scattered with rock shavings, large and small and just plain humungous. A thick film of beige dust has settled over the entire area, and I can’t help but wonder, when I rub it between my fingers, whether I am touching the remains of a Greek God or Goddess.

  I have never taken Tessa up there before, but I’m not going to drag her to Australia without seeing it at least once. What would I tell her when she grows up? Sorry, darling, but you lived in Greece for the first four years of your life, but never saw its most significant monument?

  Climbing to the top along the slippery cobblestone path proves to be difficult with Tessa’s wheelchair, but I manage to get her as far as the entrance, where the wide but bumpy road ends and the stairway to heaven begins—a stairway, I now wish Tessa could walk up herself.

  Shading my face with my right hand from the scorching early September sun, I look around scanning for women tourists.

  Perhaps someone has a child carrier Tessa could fit in.

  To my surprise, a short, plump old lady wearing white sneakers and black widower’s attire taps me on the shoulder and says in English, with an exquisite and gentle Greek accent, “You want take child, I take wheelchair. I wait here, yes?” She removes her long, thick, black scarf from around her head and ties it around my neck and shoulder like a handbag. “This will help, agapi mou. She can sit, like chair. See?” She pushes her hands into the scarf to open it up.

  Stunned at her kindness, all I can immediately manage is an ebullient nod and smile.

  “Thank you. Thank you, so much,” I say, brainstorming how to demonstrate my appreciation. “Um, wait. One moment.”

  I dash to the kiosk and I buy the lady a cheese pie and a bottle of water. The lady takes a seat in the wheelchair, and a hearty bite out of her pie, then holds it in the air as if toasting a glass of wine. Nodding and smacking her lips together, she says, “I wait here. You no worry. You no worry, agapi mou. Go. Go see brilliant structure.” A flake of pastry drops off the pie and onto her chin as she takes another bite. A protruding skin-colored mole secures it in position as she nods again in thanks.

  “Thanks so much. We won’t be long,” I say, nodding and smiling in gratitude as we begin the daunting climb.

  “Darling, this is called the Parthenon,” I puff, paus
ing at the grand entrance and shifting Tessa’s weight to my opposite side. “It used to be the temple of the Greek goddess, Athena.”

  “What’s a temple, Mummy?”

  “This is a temple, Blossom, this big building. It’s sort of like the castles you see in your fairy tale books.”

  “What’s a goddess?”

  “It’s a girl deity, sweetheart.”

  “What’s a deity?”

  I laugh, twisting my hair with one hand and shoving it down the back of my T-shirt to stop it blowing in my face before moving on. “A deity is someone who isn’t human, and who has special magical qualities. It’s also someone that the everyday man worships, just like people worship God, or, you know, the Pope, or Queen of England.”

  “But if Athena wasn’t human, why did she need a temple?”

  “Um, she didn’t use it. The people who lived in the city, here, used it.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense, Mummy.”

  Almost out of breath, and wondering how I am supposed to explain such a complicated story to a four-year-old, I remove Tessa from the sling and sit her on a stray column block. I bend over forward, stretch and shake my legs and arms to loosen myself up.

  “Blossom, because that’s what the history books say. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? Just think—you’re standing on something that was built thoooousands of years ago.” I swing an arm backward, with a heavy, out-of-breath sigh, to signify the amount of time that’s passed. “Isn’t it amazing up here?”

  “Mummy, you’re standing on it, not me,” Tessa says with a giggle.

  “Ha! Aren’t you clever to make a joke like that?” I put my hands on my hips and take a breath of fuel. “Okay then,” I chirp, lifting her off the column block and hovering her above the ground so her feet are touching it, “Now you are standing on it.” I wobble with her weight and summon one last morsel of strength to lift her up to my waist. “Come on. Let’s go sit on that bench over there. I need a rest.”

  On a wooden park bench in the middle of the Parthenon, while we’re sharing a bottle of water, a thin white kitten with one blue eye and one brown, jumps up and sits next to Tessa.

  “Oh, Mummy, look,” Tessa squeals, bringing her fists to her mouth. “Can I pat her? Please?”

  I take a quick look to make sure her eyes aren’t weeping. They’re not.

  “Sure, but we’ll have to remember to wash your hands afterward, okay?”

  Tessa chuckles and wriggles her fingers in excitement.

  “Slowly, Blossom, don’t scare the little thing away.”

  And as she pats the kitten, with her gentle and dainty little fingers … her right leg swings below the bench.

  Thirty-three

  Six months later:

  Serena, still being the most selfless person I know, is now living off the very large and unexpected inheritance from her grandfather (and probably will be able to for the rest of her life) and volunteers full-time for United Nations in Melbourne.

  The apartment in Athens is empty. Well, not all the time. Dad says he likes to go there on occasion to get away from whatever it is he wishes to get away from—I don’t dare ask what that something is, but at least he sounds well enough. It’s ideal for me, too, because at least I know the apartment isn’t going to disintegrate, and he can make sure Alex’s record collection stays safe.

  On my dresser in my bedroom, in Serena’s house, sits the black-and-white photograph that Mum gave me the day of the accident. Every night before I sleep, I say a little prayer to it—my own personalized religion—three members and going strong with only one of them actually alive.

  The day I gave birth, I got my five minutes. Whether it was real or my imagination, I don’t care to know. But there was Alex, standing by his son’s crib, kissing life into his tiny little face.

  “You came to me. You finally came to me,” I whispered, as I sat up in bed, nursing my cesarean stitches.

  “Shh.” He put his finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything. I hear you. Every night, I listen.” He stroked my cheek; it tingled as if he was transferring energy into my soul.

  “Melody, I’m sorry I hurt you,” he said.

  Then he faded away.

  “Heya, kitten, how’s the bub?” Charlie asks, when I answer the phone. It’s the first time we’ve communicated, one-on-one, without Serena acting as my safety blanket.

  “He’s great, thanks, Charlie. How are you?” I ask, trying to be polite, but I don’t want to speak to him. His voice makes me feel sick about accepting the proposal to tour. Realistically, I could have just accepted Alex’s help, despite his affair. It was still in the cards for him to get me a gig. Did I say yes to Charlie out of spite? To piss Alex off? What was I running from? My own insecurity?

  “Er, ya know, same old same old,” Charlie replies, clicking his tongue. “Um, I was just thinkin’ … wanna join Serena and me for a beer later this arvo?”

  He was “just thinking” my arse. Charlie’s been pestering me to come out for a beer for months. Well, not pestering me directly—pestering me through Serena. I suppose I’d better just get it out of the way. I’m tired of finding excuses.

  “Um … look … Charlie, I’ll come, but I can’t stay for long ’cause I’ll have the kids with me.”

  “No probs. The more the merrier. See ya there.”

  Is there really any need to go for a drink with Charlie? What are we going to talk about? Babies? How pleased I am that Alex’s poo isn’t as runny as it was yesterday, or that it looks slightly green and “Do you think I should take him to the doctor?” Should I show him what it looks like in the nappy to get a more educated opinion? This should be interesting …

  Afternoons at the local pub are rampant with screaming kids and tipsy parents trying to escape life by living it. There’s a sign on the front door that says:

  Dear Mums and Dads,

  Our furniture has been trained to sit quietly and not run around and jump on your children, so we would appreciate if your children would sit quietly and not run around and jump on our furniture.

  Thank you.

  Serena and I decide to drink chardonnay before Charlie shows up. Tessa silently reads a library book about fairy gestation, sips on a Mars bar milkshake and hums along to background music. Talk about multitasking—I think I may have a genius child on my hands (or is that just me being a proud parent?)

  Baby Alex, thank God, is asleep for now in his baby carrier. He reminds me so much of his father I sometimes have to look away when I’m in public in fear of sending myself into a trance.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Charlie sings, as he leaps and bounces into the beer garden, full of cheer.

  “It’s Saturday,” I reply, with sarcastic joy, as he pecks me on the cheek as if it were only yesterday we’d hung out.

  “Is it?” Charlie frowns at his watch. “Oh, ha! Right, gotcha,” he chuckles pointing a finger at me and wobbling his head in jest. “So! Good to see ya, Melody. Finally. I suppose this is thee lurvely Tessa? What’s up, Chickie-dee?” He bends down and holds his hand out for her to shake.

  Tessa, being in the middle of slurping her milkshake, forgets to take the straw out of her mouth before sitting upright, and the opposite end of the straw regurgitates shake into Charlie’s hand. Without comprehending what has happened, she lets the straw drop from her mouth and into her lap. She says hi, with timid apprehension, and then puts her hand into Charlie’s milk-filled hand to shake. Gives a whole new meaning to handshake really.

  Charlie, not really giving a shit—exactly the way I remember him—wipes his hand on his jeans. I silently gag as I witness him lick the stickiness from between his fingers—consuming not only smeared milkshake, but the little denim fibers that are stuck to his hand too.

  How could I have ever been attracted to this? Ugh!

  “And this must be your little stud muffin, huh?”

  I nod, keeping my pasted smile in full motion. Serena crosses her legs and leans her head agains
t the red brick wall with a teetering grin.

  “Hey, Alex! How’s it hangin’ little fella?” Charlie tickles Alex on the belly, waking him up. Alex screams, the way babies do only when in public, and heads turn our way.

  “Oh shit, matey, I’m sorry,” Charlie says, biting his thumb nail like a schoolboy about to be scolded.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I console, lifting Alex from the crib. “It would have happened at some point during the afternoon. You just … you know, sped the process up a little.” In my attempt to sound reassuring, I realize I sound bitter and sarcastic. “Um, Charlie, I didn’t mean to sound—”

  “Nah. Nah. It’s cool.” He reaches into his back pocket. “I’ll be back, just gonna get a Stubby. You ladies right for drinks?”

  Serena and I nod in unison. Once he’s out of sight, I raise my eyebrows at Serena while trying to nurse Alex back to sleep.

  “He’s nervous,” she says, downing half her chardonnay in one go. “He’s not usually so … jittery. It’s been a big buildup to you two meeting again, you know. You put it off for so long it’s become this big … THING.” Serena flicks her eyes into the back of her head and her fingers out like a jazz dancer.

  “Yeah, I suppose.” I bend over and pretend to vomit.

  “Yeah, that was pretty gross, I have to admit.” Serena laughs. “Here, give Alex to me. I’ll calm him down.”

  As I hand Alex over, I realize my breast milk has leaked. “Um, maybe I should just feed him. That’ll calm him down. I think I need a bit of, um … relief,” I say pointing my chin toward the wet patch on my left breast.

  Just as I pull my breast out, Charlie returns. He glances at me briefly, but then turns to Serena.

  “Hey, Serena,” Charlie blushes, folding up the cuff of his right jean leg. “Check out my new boobs— I mean, boots!”