Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “I know you do, but plea—” Dad coughs and clutches at his side, grimacing until the brunt of the pain subsides. “Please,” he heaves amidst tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please just … just sit down. You have to know—” He loses balance and I drop my handbag to break his fall. He moans as a nurse runs out to aid us. She lowers him into a seat.

  “Sir, we really ought to get you back to your room.”

  The nurse smiles a smile of low self-esteem—fighting to be classed as a smile, but insecure about whether it belongs here.

  Dad has dry blood smeared from his cheek bone to his ear and down his neck.

  “Shouldn’t someone have cleaned him up?” I ask, directing my chin toward Dad’s face.

  The nurse nods and apologizes—claims Dad forced the doctors off him because he wanted to be in the waiting room when I arrived. I sit next to him and gently cup his cheeks in my hands. His tears trickle pink between my thumb and forefinger as I wipe them away.

  “Dad. Listen to me.”

  Dad stares blankly into my eyes—his windows foggy with woe.

  “What room are they in? I need to see them.”

  “Sweetheart—” Dad moves my hands away with his uninjured arm. He turns his head in the opposite direction where people are leisurely rolling in. “Alex … Betty.” He shakes his head. “They didn’t …” he breathes in sobs, hunches over, nursing his abdomen.

  I take a deep breath in anticipation, but I can’t exhale—it’s stuck in limbo. I refuse to believe the connotations of what he neglected to voice.

  “Tessa? What about Tessa?” My heart beats like a twig suck in bicycle spokes.

  “She’s alive, but she’s … in a coma, Melody.”

  Alive. He said “alive.”

  “Tell me where she is. I have to be there when she wakes up,” I say, getting out of my seat so fast my handbag goes flying across the floor.

  I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything. He didn’t say anything. No. Nothing. Alex and Mum are waiting for us—waiting for Dad and me to bring Tessa home. We were only all standing in the same room together this morning. It’s impossible for them not to come back from the beach. Dad came back from the beach, Tessa came back from the beach, but it was such a tiring trip that she fell asleep in the backseat. Yes. She fell asleep. Now all I have to do is wait for her to wake up. When she wakes up, Dad and I will take her home to where Alex and Mum are waiting. Yes. They’re waiting. They’re waiting at home. And we’ll all eat souvlakia on the balcony like we planned. Everything will be fine, you’ll see. Everything will go back to the way it was. You’ll see. You’ll see, Mel. Everything will go back to the way it was.

  I’ve been sitting at Tessa’s bedside for two days listening to machines talk her through chokes and vacuumed air.

  “I love you, Blossom,” I whisper for the hundredth time, stroking her silky smooth cheek, and tracing her cracked lips with every single finger at least once over. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the beach with you. I should be the one in this bed, not you. I’m the one who has been a bad girl. I’m the one who should be punished. Not you. Not you, Blossom. … I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. I love you, Blossom. … Blossom? I’ve been such a bad mother. I’m sorry. … From now on, you come first. I promise. I promise, Tessa. Please forgive me, please … wake up.”

  I sing Joni Mitchell’s “River.” Her eyes flutter. I will them to open, but I guess I’ve been forbidden to grant miracles after receiving a decent share of my own. A great job and a tour. What was I complaining about? Was it a test? Was I supposed to turn them down, to discover that family was so much more important before it was too late? Did I miss the train? I missed my train. You stupid, stupid woman!

  I don’t want to leave her side until she wakes up. I have to be the first person she sees when she does. I’ve been waiting hours to go to the toilet just in case Tessa wakes up and I’m not here. I even pissed into a basin yesterday to avoid it—twice. Dad walks in, just released from hospital care, and sits beside me. His face hollow, body frail, legs like chopsticks.

  “I was driving,” he says, without even saying hello. “I killed your husband. I killed your mother. I put Tessa in this horrible state.” Dad sobs, face embedded into his palms.

  “No, no, no, don’t say that. Don’t say that, Dad. They’re fine,” I nod, licking my dry lips. “They’ll be at home when we get there. Don’t worry, you haven’t killed anyone,” I smile out of need. “They’ll be home when we get there. Everything will go back to the way it was. You’ll see.”

  “Listen to me. Alex is dead. Betty is dead. Pretending isn’t going to bring them back! It’s my fault. It’s all my fault! I’m too old to drive. I shouldn’t have. And I’m sorry, Melody. Please … please forgive me.”

  He kneels down on the floor as if preparing to pray; his wrinkled brow beseeching me to love him. I do love you. I bend over and rest my forehead against his. Stunting this pain with imaginary reassurance thumps my temples like a migraine. I can’t hold it in anymore. It hurts as it sweats from my glands—fills my mouth with rancid saliva—pain’s placenta. It summons energy from my body—to thrive, to inject my soul with grief, with mourning, so it has strength to infect its next victim when I let it out. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t manage more than a silent wail as I drop to where Dad is kneeling at my feet. We hold our gaze until I see emptiness mirrored in his face. It is at that moment, that emptiness claims my soul—when pain runs rampant through a violent moan.

  I’m gaunt and weak and Dad tells me to go home. I’ve forgotten about Doggy, but I refuse to leave until Tessa wakes up. He reminds me it could be days, weeks, months. I beg him to go and feed Doggy for me, but then realize he’s still in a lot of physical pain and it’s probably not a good idea for him to leave without assistance. We sit for a few more hours, hoping, imploring for Tessa to open her eyes and … she does.

  “Tessa? Tessa! Blossom?” I touch her arm—give it a little shake. “Can you see me? Hear me? It’s me, Mummy. It’s Mummy, Blossom.”

  She stares. Blank. Lost.

  “Tessa. Blink if you can hear me. Tessa?”

  Tessa’s lazy green eyes stare like embedded marbles—glazed—as if she’s wearing foggy contact lenses. Desolate. Perhaps left behind.

  I stand in my kitchen doorway—kick off my shoes. My feet face forward, knees locked, arms by my side. My fingers feel nail-less—yanked from their natural habitat. A wave of rheumatism washes through my body and a heavy pounding numbs my right eyebrow. I stare at the reflection of the coarse ceiling through the photo frame lying on the table. I pick it up—hands shaking. I watch a tear fall as if not my own, precisely upon Alex’s face. Weightlessness creeps from my shoulders to my fingertips and the frame crashes to the ground. The sound depleted. Glass shatters everywhere. It wasn’t long ago my mum put it there. “The hotel was great,” she said. “Great choice, really great choice.”

  If Tessa were here she’d help me clean it up. I step on the glass—invincible shavings of ice scorched on the fire—cut my naked foot. I take a banana from the fruit bowl. It’s brown and mushy, but I peel it anyway. I eat the banana standing, staring at some blood trickling from beneath my little toe—the toe I’ve always hated; the toe that makes varnish look like dirt under the nail. The silence in this household hurts my head. I flatten the banana to the roof of my mouth with my tongue—the sound of gumboots in mud. I clear some space on the floor with my healthy foot and sit with my legs crossed. I move my right knee up and down—up and down—I can’t stop it. It’s like a twitch—I can’t stop it. It swings so high that it flaps against my breast and my hip cracks. It hurts. I stop. I can’t remember why I came home. The fridge starts to hum. I don’t like it. It hums life. I pull the plug. I lean against the leg of the table—road vibrations on my skull. Can’t understand how they travel eight stories high.

  The shutters are open in every room. Curtains blow about. Doors slam. Bills fly off the bulletin board. I haven
’t washed since the knock on my front door. I smell. Of salt and bad breath. My eyes are red, my nose split, and my mouth sticks together every time I close it. Time shrouds my head like a scarf. Still and protective until the convertible picks up some speed and blows it away.

  I hear whimpering. I limp to the balcony spreading blood across the lounge room floor. I find Doggy curled up in the corner—her nose crusty, her eyes half closed. I bring her food and water. I sit by her side surrounded by urine and feces—ambivalent about the stench. There’s a knock at my front door. I wonder if I should open it or just play dead.

  Someone puts a key in the lock. Alex! I get up and run to the door. It opens before I get there.

  It’s Dad and Serena.

  “Alex? Is Alex with you? Where’s Alex?” I look out into the corridor and inside the elevator to see if he’s hiding. But he isn’t.

  “He’s sitting with Tessa in the hospital, isn’t he?” I ask. Dad and Serena look at me— pity prettying their eyes. “Alex is a good father. He’ll take good care of Tessa … Serena, would you like a coffee? Dad? Coffee?”

  “No,” they say in unison.

  “So, Serena, when did you get here? What a surprise.”

  Serena looks down, her eyes focusing on the blood on the floor and my injured little toe. “Melody, I came as soon as I heard.”

  It’s that voice. The voice I hate. The social worker’s calm, soothing, phony escape from reality.

  “Oh, don’t worry. Tessa will be fine. She’s opened her eyes now. Soon she’ll be back to normal. Everything will be fine. Everything will go back to the way it was, you’ll see,” I say in confidence as I limp my way to the couch.

  Dad shakes his head and leaves the room. My bedroom door opens and closes. Serena and I sit and listen. It sounds like he’s closing the window and the shutters too. He must be sitting on my bed. In darkness. Serena wipes up smudges of blood from the floor, cleans my toe, and wraps a Band-Aid around it.

  “There you go. We never liked those toes anyway, right?”

  I nod. Serena looks up to me from her crouched position at my feet, rubs my knees, and smiles in sorrow. It seems as if she’s trying to hold back tears.

  “Do you want me to make you something to eat?” she asks, taking a deep breath and holding it with puffed cheeks.

  “No, I think I’ll wait till they get home, so we can eat all together.”

  “Melody. Stop it. Stop pretending for one minute and look at me. Look at me now. They’re not coming home. Alex is gone. Your mum is gone. Tessa is in the hospital, and she just woke up from a coma. For God’s sake! She hasn’t even spoken yet! Nothing is fine! Stop pretending. I know you think I’m being cruel, but you have to see the truth. I’m the only one who’s not going to play along with this silly game. You have to trust me. Let go. Let it out. Scream in my ear for all I care. Deafen me. The sooner you accept what has happened, the sooner you can get on with your life. … Goddamn it, stop fucking looking out of the fucking window and look me in the eye. Melody!”

  I look at her. Cheeks hot with disbelief. But I don’t see Serena’s face. I see Alex’s. Tears stream down my cheeks. I fall into her arms and nestle my head into her chest. I scream into her shirt, “Alex, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have come with you. I’m so sorry. Take me with you. Take me and Tessa with you. I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

  Serena rocks me backward and forward in her arms. “Melody, it’s okay. Just let it out. Let it all out.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” I scream, snapping out of my imaginary world, furious at Serena’s social-worker tone. I stand and kick the couch.

  Click.

  Reality succeeds to gnaw through my brain. “I need to fucking strangle something!” I roar, feeling myself go red in the face. My throat constricts—I’m swallowing knives. I hold my hands out to reach of something solid to twist, to throw, to grip, squeeze to death. I go to the window—rip the curtains down and cradle the mass of fabric in my arms as if a human being.

  “What the fuck have I done in this life to deserve this?” I heave, letting myself drop to the floor. “And Tessa! Her father is gone! Her grandmother gone! How do I explain that to her? How is she going to understand? Serena? Can you fucking tell me what I have done to deserve this? This is fucking insane! Is this for fucking real? Serena. Help me. Help me,” I plead, banging my fists on my chest so hard I feel like I’m bulldozing myself to the ground.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper, dropping my arms to my sides, “just … just hit me over the head with a frying pan or something. I can’t take this. I want out of this body. I want out.”

  Serena doesn’t move. She just stares with her bottom lip trembling.

  “What? What are you staring at? You’re here to help, aren’t you?” I roar, levering myself up from the windowsill. Serena nods, holding her hands over her mouth. She cries. I feel nothing for her.

  “So help me!” I scream even louder, but she doesn’t move. I run into the kitchen and grab a steak knife out of the drawer. I need to feel physical pain. I need to take the focus away from this twisted situation. But before I manage to touch it to my palm, Serena is behind me, sticking a fork into her bicep, and instead of feeling the need to cure my pain, I’m mesmerized by the amount of blood that is gushing out like a squirt gun.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, frantically wiping away my tears.

  “Well, it distracted you, didn’t it?” Serena replies, opening a drawer and pulling out the first-aid kit.

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Yes. I am.” Serena smiles and nods. Simple as that. Mission accomplished. “I’ll help you through this,” she says, not at all phased by her injury. “I’m here for you as long and for as many days as you need.”

  Twenty-seven

  Day One:

  I get back from the hospital—sat with Tessa for eight hours—all I’ve eaten is a packet of dry water crackers. She still isn’t speaking or moving her legs. They keep saying to give her time. What time? Next thing I know, we’ll all be dead and it’ll all be pointless. Fuck walking. I’ll carry her. For the rest of my life, I’ll do whatever she needs. I don’t even care if I ever touch a guitar again. In fact, I don’t want to. Screw music. Music makes me feel, and I don’t want to feel. I want to be numb.

  I stand in the hall. Stare at the floor—imagine carpet fibers expanding like thick slugs—a devil’s accomplice—around my feet and legs like vines—they pull me into the ground where I belong. I need to piss.

  “I’m making you a sandwich with feta and tomato. Is that okay?” Serena calls out as I head toward the bathroom.

  “Fuck the feta and tomato,” I mumble as I pull my pants down and sit on the cold flimsy toilet seat that sounds like two plastic plates knocking against each other in a sand pit.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  I sit on the toilet, legs spread, surely exposing my naked unshaven crotch to Serena who is looking at me from the other end of the hall with impatience. Well, no, not impatience, I’ve never met a more patient person in my life, it’s more like patience with a stern attitude. I begin to piss and slam the bathroom door closed with my feet.

  I hang my head in my hands, elbows digging into my knees. My labia warms—burns slightly, as the last trickles of urine seep into my pubic hair.

  I turn to face the mirror without wiping myself, without getting up. My face is pale, eyes bloodshot and murky green, as if they have been marinated in sewage.

  I stare at myself. For too long.

  The muscles in my thighs twitch—naked legs goose pimply—hairs standing on end like antennae. My vagina stinks. It’s damp with discharge embedded into three-day old underwear. I need to wash.

  Serena knocks on the bathroom door.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been in there for almost an hour. Have you got diarrhea or something? I wouldn’t be surprised; you’ve hardly eaten anything substantial.”<
br />
  “Um. Yeah. Diarrhea.”

  “You need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m waiting on the balcony with your sandwich. I sautéed some mushrooms for you, too. And cut up some lettuce. It’s all you had. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

  I nod. Undress. Jump in the bath. I can hear Serena hovering by the door. I turn on the tap. Hot. Very hot. The bathroom steams up instantly.

  “Okay. Have a bath and then come and eat. You need to eat.”

  I nod again, digging my teeth into my knuckle so hard I make it bleed.

  Day Two:

  Pasta. Twist fork. Lift to mouth. Insert into mouth. Chew. Pause. Stare at Alex’s record collection. Tears. Breathe in heave. Breathe in pasta. Get’s sucked into wrong hole. Cough and splutter like child. Spit out pasta. Serena cleans it up.

  Day Three:

  Serena walks me to the couch and turns on MTV. They’re showing REM live in the centre square. I feel like I’m going to throw up. It’s Alex’s production. And it’s going ahead without him. I frantically search for the remote, hot tears stunting my breath. No, no, no, no!

  “Remote! Where’s the fucking remote?” I cry, banging my fists on the coffee table like a misbehaving child. She turns around to leave. Ignoring me. The remote is sticking out of her back pocket.

  “Give me the fucking remote!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

  Dad races in.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, sleepy, weary, red around his eyes—he’s been crying, alone, in Tessa’s bedroom all day. “Serena? What are you doing?”

  “She’s got to face the truth. No better way than to look it straight in the face.”

  “It’s too soon.” He shakes his head. “It’s too soon,” he says again and leaves the room.

  Serena glares at me with her arms crossed like a teacher disappointed in a student for not doing their homework.