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

by Jessica Bell

Ivy pays for her dress, gathers her bags, and makes her way out into the cold street. She looks up into the grey cloudy sky, and a couple of drops of rain land on her lips. She licks them. Orange. She shivers at the thought of digging up the rotten past.

  Kit

  “Kit?” Ailish calls from the verandah. “Could you please fetch a large spoon for the sour cream on your way out?” ABC News is blaring in the background: “The annual Melbournian heat wave plagues homes once again. The bureau of meteorology declares it is Australia’s hottest summer on record …”

  “And a ladle for the soup?”

  “Yeah!” Gazpacho is too bloody spicy. What’s the point in making a cold spicy soup? Kit leans against the kitchen sink, squinting at the sunlight creeping through the orange tree by the window. Overripe oranges are decaying on the concrete, and the acidic scent of trodden rind is wheedling its way through the cracks in the wooden frame. She thinks about her father rotting, staining with his bitter memory every footpath she is bound to tread, contaminating her mother’s tongue with his tart taste at the mere mention of his name. But Kit wants to taste the fruit—a need that has been stalking her ever since Ivy moved away. She wants to find the real “him.” She wants to know who he is below the rind.

  Kit pulls out the drawer below the sink and sifts through the unorganized mass of cutlery for a tablespoon and ladle. She shoves the drawer back in with a little too much force and almost jams her already injured thumb.

  On her way to the front door she grabs her olive-green sarong from the arm of the antique wood-framed sofa and secures it around the top of her breasts like one would a towel after a shower. It slips down after she takes a couple of steps forward. Why did Ivy have to get the big ones? Clasping the ends of the sarong together with one hand and holding the spoons in the other, she swings the fly-wire door open with her hip and walks out onto the verandah.

  “So, what’s next on the Kit front?” Ailish asks before shoving a proud forkful of homegrown rocket into her mouth. It’s too much to swallow. Ailish coughs and splutters, signals Kit to pass a napkin by erratically waving her left hand in the air while securing the pins at the base of her French twist with her right.

  “Whydya have to go and call me Kit? It sounds like kid but worse. Kid with a Nazi accent.” Kit passes Ailish a napkin and sits, scraping the cane chair against the decking as she pulls herself closer to the table. She wipes sweat upward from her brow and into her unbrushed auburn hair with both hands. Holding her hair away from her face, fingers woven into it like a comb, she blows upward to cool herself off.

  Ailish pats her mouth dry with a napkin and clears her throat. “I think it’s a very cute name.”

  “It’s old-fashioned. I should be on a farm milking cows in Woolloomooloo.”

  “I’ve always liked your sense of humour.” Ailish nods as if trying to nod the sarcasm into a truth. “Dry, witty. Sweetheart, I often think you take after Ivy’s mother more than me.” Ailish grasps the ladle in the oversized glass bowl and puts some gazpacho into Kit’s dish, ignoring her groan. She gestures toward the sour cream with her chin and raises her brow. Kit nods.

  “So?” Ailish wriggles in her seat as if Kit has the most exciting news to tell.

  Kit glares. “What?”

  Ailish narrows her eyes and picks between her front teeth while Kit tears off a chunk of bread from the unsliced loaf of homemade sourdough.

  Ailish looks at her plate and frowns. “There is a knife there for a reason, Kit.”

  Kit shrugs.

  “Never mind. So, are you going to tell me once and for all what you’ve decided to do?”

  “I dunno. Should I know?”

  “Well, yes, you’re sort of supposed to be familiar with what you aspire to do before you select a field of study, not after. Perhaps you should look for some voluntary field work to prepare yourself for your postgraduate studies next year?”

  “Who says I’m going to enroll? I never said I was going to enroll. Besides, I hate fieldwork.”

  “If you dislike fieldwork, what on earth made you opt to study archaeology?” Ailish’s voice rises in tone, hinting at frustration, yet maintaining her sarcastic spark.

  Kit ignores her pun. She knows her lack of acknowledgment will annoy her mother. “Ivy said I’d like it.”

  “If Ivy said you should jump off a bridge, would you?”

  “Mum, that’s a bit cliché, isn’t it?”

  “Well, sweetheart, like the talented Evelyn Waugh said, ‘to be oversensitive about clichés is—’”.

  “‘Like being oversensitive about table manners.’ I know, I know. Anyway, Ivy said it was interesting.” Kit rests her left elbow on the table and drops her head into her hand, letting it swing a little.

  “I thought you were really taking pleasure in your studies, Kit. And surely you have a mind of your own? I remember when you announced what you had decided to study. It appeared to me that you had some sort of revelation! Why did you need to follow in Ivy’s footsteps? Why ever did you not make a decision on your own?” Ailish flings her arms into the air as if conducting an orchestra. As her arms come down, she knocks her right hand on the edge of the table. And winces.

  “Mum!” Kit lifts her head and screws up her nose.

  “What? It’s a valid question,” Ailish mumbles, sucking on her knuckle.

  Kit sighs with a compassionate smile, hoping it might warrant a little compassion in return. “Can we talk about something else?” She’s tired of academic grandeur. She wants life, adventure.

  And a reason.

  “And what do you suggest we talk about, Kit? You don’t talk to me unless I ask you questions. Heaven forbid you bring up a topic of conversation on your own accord.” Ailish’s upper lip becomes stiff—the only part of her face that seems to reflect the tone of her voice—and lifts her spoon to her mouth, taking extra care not to slurp.

  Kit glares, with a hint of pity. “I hate getting my fingers dirty,” she says, stuffing her mouth full of sour-cream-covered crust.

  Ailish laughs. “Getting your fingers dirty?” She drops her spoon into her bowl. Pink flecks litter the pale wooden tabletop. Ailish doesn’t notice.

  “Mum. Stop it. I thought I’d like it, okay? I thought it would be fun. But now I don’t. Comprendo?”

  “No comprendo, sorry. You must have been vaguely interested in it to complete the degree. You never complained while you were studying or while you were out on practice digs, for that matter.”

  “I like the history stuff. I dig that.” Kit manages a smirk, hoping the joke might ease the tension, the constant expectation that she should be someone.

  Ailish smiles, tilting her head, and lets out a little scoff of apparent satisfaction.

  “There you are. Kit in all her glory. Where’ve you been hiding?” Ailish winks, then wipes sweat from her brow with her napkin.

  “In my air-conditioned room, away from the heat,” Kit says, fanning herself with her hand.

  “Can you please limit your use of the air conditioner? I despise paying through the nose for utilities when there are more natural methods of temperature control. Have a cold shower. Simple. Pleasurable. Cheap.” Ailish nods, giving the suggestion of a physical full stop.

  Kit, despite thinking she is too old to roll her eyes, rolls her eyes and tsks.

  “So, why didn’t you study history then?” Ailish asks after another spoonful of soup. She now notices the splashes and wipes them away with her bare hand. Her skin squeaks against the varnish.

  “’Cause I didn’t want to become a boring old professor who gets excited about reiterating historical facts to a bunch of lazy-arse students who are only studying history because they don’t know what else to do with their lazy-arse lives.” Kit smiles and shoves another piece of bread into her mouth, too large to chew, and spits half of it out into her soup bowl.

  Ailish focuses on Kit’s mouth movements. Her top lip twitches.

  “What, Mum?”

  “What do you mean �
�what’?”

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “What am I looking at you like?”

  “Like I’m the one with a lazy-arse life.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Mum! You’re a literature professor, for God’s sake. Quit the clichés already.”

  Ailish sips her herb water. “Anyway, what I’d actually intended that look to mean was that being a lecturer isn’t like that at all. I essentially find it quite rewarding.” Ailish blushes due to what Kit suspects to be a menopausal hot flush.

  “Yeah, but you’re different. You get to read new literature all the time and choose what to teach every year. You’ve also had your own stuff published. New stuff. Original stuff. As a history professor, what would you read? You can’t get new history, can you? Can’t go changing the past because you’re bored of reading the same old story over and over again. Right?”

  Ailish glares at Kit as if trying to find a way to debate the issue. But she clicks her tongue and says with a smirk, “I suppose that’s correct.”

  “And that’s why I chose to study archaeology. There’s always the opportunity to find some new, undiscovered history.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “You know, I was actually thinking of going overseas for a while, before I do any Postgradu—.”

  “Oh, speaking of overseas.” Ailish feels her chin for that forever returning wiry hair. “I spoke to Eleanor the other day. She says Ivy is doing great. Have you been in touch with her lately?”

  “Of course. I’m always in touch with her. You know that.” Kit frowns. “That’s where I was thinking of going, actually. Seattle—to stay with Ivy.”

  “Oh? When were you thinking? Have you spoken to her about it?”

  “Dunno. I haven’t asked her yet. But she should be cool with it.”

  “Well, please make sure she is cool with it before you make any imprudent decisions. I know what it’s like to be unpredictably surprised. It’s not very … nice.”

  Kit observes Ailish as she soaks up some soup with the inner crust of her bread and drops it into her mouth. It clicks on her teeth like wood against wood.

  “Speaking of not very nice, I’ve been thinking.” Kit puts down her spoon, leans back in her chair, and stretches her arms above her head before resting them in her lap.

  “Hmm?’ Ailish hums as she chews.

  “Been thinking about tracking down Roger. I’ve decided I’d like to meet him. Once and for all.” Kit feels her throat swell in anticipation.

  Ailish stops chewing. “Oh, him. That’s what’s been occupying your mind lately.” Ailish, despite losing a little colour in her face, shows no physical reaction. Kit wonders whether the bones in her face will one day turn brittle and break from lack of emotional expression.

  “I know I asked you a long time ago if you knew where he was. But I was just wondering if you’ve heard anything since then.”

  “Sorry, Kit, I haven’t.”

  Ailish continues to chew, then swallows and gulps down the remainder of her herbal water in one go. The sound of it gushing down her throat reminds Kit of the whitewater rafting documentary she recently watched. Ailish’s eyes begin to water. She wipes her mouth with the back of her pale sun-spotted hand and narrows her eyes at the weeds to her left, which are invading her precious flower bed.

  Kit anticipates a short outburst. Nothing loud or obnoxious, but one of angst riddled with years of practiced silence, molded into polite dissatisfaction. An outburst as unexpected and potent as a skunk’s defense system.

  “Goodness, how did they grow back so—.

  “Mum.”

  “What? Oh, um, no, sorry.” Ailish’s speech speeds up, as though speaking the words at a tolerable pace would mean she didn’t care. “I have no idea where he is. You could ask Eleanor though. Or Ivy, I suppose. I’m sure Ivy would be interested in meeting her father properly too, yes?” Ailish fidgets in her seat, pretending to shoo away a fly, it seems, in order to avoid looking Kit in the eye. “I suppose if Eleanor knew his whereabouts, though, she would have already told her own daughter, don’t you think? Hmm, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already asked Eleanor herself. But if that was the case, she would have probably said something to you already, yes?”

  Kit grits her teeth at Ailish’s phony charade of interest. “Could you ask Eleanor for me?”

  Doesn’t hurt to get two on the job, right?

  “Oh, no, no, no, no. No. Sorry, no can do.”

  Ailish fills her side plate with more salad, maintaining a downward gaze. Kit wants to growl, to let her mother know how much she despises her pretense designed merely to keep the peace. She knows if she speaks up, Ailish will just leave the table and lock herself in her room until Kit goes to bed. So she doesn’t growl. She gives her mother her wish: to have a lovely outdoor meal before the heat becomes unbearable.

  In silence, Kit and Ailish eat, occasionally looking up from their bowls to flash each other insignificant smiles—smiles that embody the untold. As Ailish scrapes the last thick smears of gazpacho from her bowl with some crust, she looks over at their neighbour—a solidly built Hispanic student of hers called Sein, who’s watering the garden. Ailish smiles as if composing herself for a lecture and clutches her empty water glass as if it were a hot mug of tea. Kit, however, would prefer not to make eye contact with the guy. Not now anyway.

  “Mum, are you finished? I’ll take your stuff inside.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Thanks, sweetheart.”

  Kit puts the dishes in the sink, grabs a light beer from the fridge, and goes upstairs to her bedroom.

  I’ve gotta move outta home. But what if Mum isn’t strong enough for me to do that yet?

  She turns on the stereo and sits on the edge of her bed. The corner of the cardboard box tickles her neck, and she elbows it out of the way.

  Kit grabs her handbag off the floor from beside her bed and pulls out the postgraduate application form. She unfolds it, skims over its contents, then tears it into eight pieces and throws it into the cardboard box with the rest of her “garbage.” She’d love to throw the box away, but she would never hear the end of it. What’s the freaking use of a collection of regurgitated information—regurgitated primarily to have a letter written on it with some useless connotation of intelligence? Nothing.

  She takes the photo from her bedside table and runs her finger around the edge of his legs. My father’s legs. Roger’s legs. Dad’s legs. She tastes the different textures of the three possible names she could call him, rolling them around her tongue to see which attaches itself to the wall of her mouth first, like a fertilized egg to a uterus.

  She folds the photo down the middle so that it creases Ivy’s smile, then puts it into her handbag—into the smallest side pocket, to keep him close and safe like a joey in a kangaroo’s pouch. This is to remind her, every time she opens her bag, that the time has come to find his face.

  It’s eleven a.m., and she’s lying naked on her bed. Staring at the half-sucked yellow Gummy Bears stuck to her ceiling, she realizes they’ve been there for years. Who knows how many. They look down on her like semi-lived mantras. Gotta find Roger. Gotta find out what I’m made of.

  Last night Kit dreamed about meeting him. He wore a navy-blue suit, with hair smothered in Brylcreem and a face full of acne scars. He spoke in a Russian accent and had a square-shaped face. He told her stories about all the assassinations he’d been assigned, and she listened attentively, holding on to every word. She asked him to teach her his craft.

  Ailish knocks on her bedroom door.

  “Sweetheart, I think it may be time for you to rise and shine, hmm?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Doing?”

  “Thinking.”

  “Kit, get up and eat some breakfast. I want to have a word before I leave for work.”

  Kit focuses on the sound of Ailish’s clunky cork platforms clop on the wooden stairs. She runs her tongue across her furry teeth,
gets up, and opens the blinds.

  Sein, from next door, is entering the front yard through the squeaky white picket gate. Crap. Kit throws on a loose off-white cheesecloth dress, the only dress left on a coat hanger. She peers into the mirror just long enough to remove the smudged mascara from under her eyes with a lick of spit on her forefingers, then flips her head upside down to loosen a few knots from her hair.

  She reaches the bottom of the stairs just in time to open the door for Sein. His hand is raised, about to knock.

  “Oh, hey,” he says, leaning heavily on one foot, a little too wide-eyed and gleeful for Kit’s liking.

  “Hey.” Kit remains straightfaced, puts a hand on her hip. Her long auburn hair, hooked behind one ear, is hanging to one side over her pincushion left breast. After a moment, Sein swallows. Kit tilts her head, with a slight questioning shake.

  “Hi. Is Ailish still here?”

  Of course she is. “Don’t think so. Why?”

  Sein picks at a loose wire near the hinge of the fly-screen door frame. “Oh. Well, we, um, just arranged, last night over the fence, for her to give me a lift into Uni today. If she’s already left, don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the bus.” Sein turns to leave, smiling and nodding politely, but Kit grabs him by the elbow.

  “Just teasing.” Kit flicks her head toward the lounge. “Come in.”

  Sein laughs like his voice broke. “Oh, thanks.”

  “Go in. She must be in there somewhere,” Kit says, waving her hand in the air, indicating Ailish’s uncertain whereabouts.

  Sein walks toward the open-plan kitchen-lounge area, and Kit notices his bag has “I ‘heart’ Leila” written on the pocket in green glitter pen. Bit old for that, isn’t he? The spine of a Mark Twain book is poking out of the half-closed zipper, but she can’t see exactly which one, only that it’s a Penguin Classic.

  Ailish is washing a few remaining dishes, and a bowl of fruit salad is on the kitchen counter ready for Kit to eat.

  Kit sits on a stool by the counter and spoons some pineapple into her mouth without looking into the bowl. “Thanks.” Her eyes are on Sein, who is rearranging the fridge magnets.