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

by Jessica Bell

“Luv, ya stink like smoke,” the client croaks.

  “You stink like vodka,” Eydie replies, straight-faced, repulsed. Sad.

  “Where’s ya boss?”

  “Day off.”

  “I told ya I wanted ya boss to cut me hair, luv.”

  The client puts Elle on the empty seat beside her. She looks up at Eydie, who stands rock solid, hands on hips, staring at the floor.

  “Well, stiff shit,” Eydie replies. ‘You’re stuck with me. Here. Put this on.” You freakin’ reek!

  Eydie hands her a black smock. She doesn’t help her put it on and watches the client’s awkward attempt at tying a bow behind her neck. She stumbles getting into her seat.

  Eydie sprays conditioner mist and runs her fingers through the client’s course bleach-blonde curls. They make eye contact in the mirror.

  “Well, get on with it,” the client snaps. “I haven’t got all bleedin’ afternoon, luv.”

  “Can’t the bottle wait for half a freakin’ hour, Ma?”

  “Don’t use that fuckin’ tone with me, missy.”

  Eydie takes a deep breath and begins to snip off some split ends, but puts the scissors down again—far from reach. She walks over to the door and turns the sign around from “bring your bootie in” to “shake your bootie out.”

  “Ma?”

  “What the bleedin’ Joe is it, luv?”

  “We need to talk. Right now.”

  Ivy

  By the time she wakes, Gabriel has left. She’s lying on her stomach, cheek squashed against her cell phone from when she disabled the alarm in a sleepy daze. Over half an hour ago. Fuck. On the bedside table is a plate of blueberry pancakes, Gabriel’s specialty, and a little note that reads: “True blue, baby, I love you.”

  Ivy sits up and winces at the snow piled up outside her bedroom window. The house is still warm from last night, but she shivers at the thought of going outside.

  I never knew Dad was in the Army. Why didn’t Mum ever tell me? What if Kit’s right? What if he didn’t want to leave Mum and me? What if the Army was a disguise for something more serious? What if they threatened to do something to us if he didn’t obey? Maybe that’s why he left without saying goodbye. Maybe …

  Ivy shakes her head and whacks her forehead four times with her right palm. “IV. Stop. It.”

  She gets out of bed and her cell beeps. Bloody hell, Kit. What now? But it’s Brian.

  Can’t stop thinking about u. What time do u start work? Let’s meet earlier?

  Ivy looks at herself sideways in the mirror, pulling her stomach in and out. She pulls her hair into a ponytail, then lets it loose. Fuck it. Let the customers complain. She looks at her jeans, sports bra, and pastel pink mohair sweater hanging over the chair by the wall. She has worn those four days in a row. Yesterday Raquel looked her up and down and pretended she hadn’t noticed. She said, “Luurve that sweater. Have I seen that before?”

  Ivy glared. Raquel didn’t look her in the eye for the rest of the shift.

  Ivy grabs the jeans and sweater and puts them in the laundry basket. She pulls on a pair of black tights, picks up the sports bra, swings it around her torso, fastens one hook, then takes it off again and throws that in the basket too. She puts on a padded push-up bra instead, slips on a grey woolen knee-length dress, and some black baby-doll flats. She looks at herself in the mirror again. She stares for a few minutes, seeing through her reflection, then sits on the edge of her bed and hangs her head in her lap. I suppose I had better put some makeup on. Gabe, I’m trying. Can you at least give me credit for that?

  Ivy takes the plate of pancakes into the kitchen and contemplates throwing them in the trash, but covers the plate in plastic wrap and leaves it in the fridge instead. She thinks about the plastic wrap prank she played on Amir. She’d covered the toilet bowl with it one morning, and he got a nasty surprise during his morning pee. She laughs at the thought, but the back of her throat constricts trying to hold back tears. She picks up her cell and writes a message: Can’t come in early. Just got up & now late.

  Ailish

  It’s almost eleven at night before Ailish hears Kit shuffle out of her bedroom. From the couch in the lounge, she lifts an arm in the air, and claps her fingers in her palm to acknowledge Kit when she enters.

  “You want some OJ?” Kit calls from the kitchen. Ailish can hear a knife slicing through the oranges she just picked off the tree.

  “No thanks, sweetheart, I just brushed my teeth. Will you come and join me? There’s an amazing documentary on ABC about Gustave Flaubert.”

  “Yeah, okay . Coming.”

  Kit sits on the couch chewing a chocolate-coated teddy bear biscuit. She mumbles, “He’s the one who wrote Salammbô, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Yes, he is.” Ailish turns her whole body to look Kit in the eye. Her pose acquires finesse. An elitist air of power. Most of all, pride. “How are you familiar with Salammbô? I’ve only ever taught Madam Bovary in my course.”

  “At one of my lectures about nineteenth-century France.” Kit scrunches up her nose and bends her fingers into a quote. “‘It was criticized for its encrustations of archaeological detail,’” Kit says in a deep posh British accent.

  “Oh yes. They just mentioned that. Gee, you honestly surprise me sometimes, Kit. Where do you hide all of this knowledge?”

  Ailish stares at Kit for a few seconds, lips pursed, trying to differentiate between feelings of delight and frustration, as Kit shrugs and downs her juice. She wants to ask her about the tutor position, but is hesitant to break Kit’s apparent (and rare) tolerance of her in fear of ruining a perfectly pleasant midnight hour of quality time.

  Ailish sniffs and pulls pins from her hair. She holds her thighs together and rests the pins in her lap. As the pins come out, one by one, her long locks of grey-streaked chestnut hair fall over her false left breast. It’s been almost three years since she’d beaten breast cancer, but she still can’t get used to the lack of feeling there. She wonders whether this is why Kit has hung around so long. Is she afraid to leave me alone?

  “You should wear your hair out more often, Mum. It suits you.” Kit places her empty glass on the coffee table, beside the Indian art coaster.

  “Oh. Thank you. That was much unexpected.” And now a compliment. Should I be suspect? Ailish puts Kit’s glass on the coaster, trying not to make a deal of it.

  Kit smiles as if to say, “You’re welcome,” and gets comfortable in the corner of the couch with her legs stretched out.

  “Mum?”

  “Hmm?” Ailish hums, trying to decipher Kit’s expression and listen to the documentary at the same time.

  “I’ve been thinking ….

  “Hmm?” This time a little lower in tone. Yes. It looks like I should be suspect.

  “I guess I’ll take you up on your offer.”

  Or not. “Oh, that’s wonderful, sweetheart.”

  Ailish, confused by Kit’s sudden obedience, turns to look at the TV again, just while she ponders what the sugar is going on. She’s frightened of Kit seeing her face. Ailish knows that if one tiny ill expression escapes, the whole world will certainly discern what she is thinking and feeling. Well, that’s what Roger told her when she had to learn to mask her thoughts and feelings for fear of being caught in their act.

  “‘Oh, that’s wonderful?’” Kit laughs.

  “Well, what do you want me to do, Kit? Pat you on the back? You’re old enough to make your own decisions,” Ailish snaps, head turned, still staring at the screen, hoping to make it clear she is no longer obligated to live at home, without saying it outright.

  “No. I just thought—.

  “Thought what, darling?”

  “Ugh. Doesn’t matter.”

  “So you’re not going to go overseas then?” How did my daughter become so scatterbrained?

  “I guess not.”

  “You guess not, or you are not? The last thing I want is for you to establish yourself at Uni and then abruptly depart.” Ailish tr
ies to keep a straight face, but underneath her calm display she kicks herself for disturbing the peace with her transparent tone.

  “I won’t leave, Mum. Chill.”

  Chill. Chill? Why ever does she speak like that? Why is she constantly fighting against her educated nature?

  They sit in silence. Ailish pretends to watch the documentary, but all she can think about is Roger. Kit’s desire to look for him has dredged up those sickening feelings again—feelings of guilt for keeping her long-lasting relationship with him a secret, and that “event” she keeps trying to persuade herself never happened. She wonders if she should confess it to Kit, but she’s afraid she’ll ask Ivy about it, and Ivy will ask Eleanor, and then Eleanor’s trust—not to mention Kit’s and Ivy’s—will be destroyed. Despite wanting her daughter to be happy, she prays Kit won’t find any clues to Roger’s whereabouts. Because if Kit does find out where he is, she’ll sooner or later find out the other secret too. The secret she’s kept from everyone. The secret she’s afraid will banish her from Kit’s heart forever.

  Ailish runs her tongue over her front teeth and sighs. The sigh that involuntarily slips out when she wants Kit’s attention. She wonders if Kit has noticed this and just not mentioned it. She can feel Kit sneaking glances at her, like electrical currents.

  “What’s wrong?” Kit asks as she smells under her left arm.

  “Nothing. It’s good deodorant, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Will you make me some more?”

  That’s a first. “Sure.”

  “Cool.”

  “Well, I’m off to bed,” Ailish says, desperate to relax her face. “Don’t forget to turn off all the lights before you go to bed.”

  Kit nods, rolling her eyes and squeezing an infected mosquito bite on her inner thigh. Ailish wants to tell her to leave it alone, but she bites her tongue.

  Ailish gathers her hairpins and goes to her bedroom. She closes the door behind her and quietly turns the key. She doesn’t usually lock her door, for fear of a bush fire scare. But tonight she’s afraid Kit will walk in on her, despite not having done so since she turned thirteen.

  She grabs a footstool and places it in front of her closet so she can reach the highest cupboard. From the top shelf she pulls out an old 1970s’ Australian-made Ugg boot shoebox, filled with letters and loose photos, tinged orangey-brown over time.

  She steps down, with perfect balance, conscious of the strength in her thighs and proud of herself for being so fit in her late forties. She empties the box onto her bed and finds what she is looking for: a photo of her and Roger smiling happily for the camera. Roger’s sister, Constance, took the shot.

  Before Ailish got pregnant with Kit, she and Constance had been really close. Together they’d plotted how Roger would finally leave Eleanor. Constance never liked Eleanor. Thought she was cold and clinical. Eleanor didn’t like Constance either, and always found excuses to keep Ivy away from Roger’s family.

  Ailish kept in contact with Constance for a little while after Kit was born and Roger disappeared, but soon lost touch after developing a close bond with Eleanor and Ivy.

  When Kit was four, Ailish received a letter from Constance, saying that Roger had returned, remarried, and had another daughter, and to call if she wanted to introduce Kit to him and meet her baby sister. She regrets visiting Roger and Beth that day more than any other in her life. And from that day forward, never contacted any of them again.

  Ailish finds and opens the letter she received twenty-one years ago. She stares at the phone number scribbled at the bottom. She lifts the receiver of the phone by her bed and slowly dials the number, taking even breaths, in and out, to maintain her calm. She brings the phone to her ear. It only rings once before a young lady answers.

  “Yeah?”

  Ailish opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her ears grow hot and her mouth turns dry. She lifts her hand to her mouth as though she has just said something offensive and wishes to apologize.

  “Hello? Hello? Ma, if you’re drunk ’n’ been picked up by the coppers again, you can stay there the bloody night, I freakin’ mean it this time, orright? Hello?”

  Without a word, Ailish hangs up the phone, taking care not to make any noise.

  Ivy

  On her way to work, Ivy watches happy huddled-together couples stroll through the gently falling snow, arms linked, hands held, heads leaning on shoulders. Her sixth sense and cerebral cortex are negotiating the possibilities a relationship with Brian could bring. Perhaps they are meant for each other. Why else would they have met, and be constantly drawn together? But that’s how she’d felt about Amir too.

  Now there’s another factor to take into consideration. Roger. Memories of her father are activating her hate circuit, which in turn reminds her of Gabriel’s constant pressure to speak to a therapist.

  Paying ridiculous amounts of money to be told she needs to forgive her father in order to accept the men in her life is useless. She knows this. The thing is, though, she doesn’t want to forgive him. She doesn’t ever want to forgive him. Nor does she ever want to see him again. But deep down there is a little voice that keeps probing at Ivy’s soft spot—a spot she never had the nerve to ask Eleanor the medical term for. It nudges at her, mimicking her heartbeat.

  As she enters Ditsy Daisy’s, the first person she sees is Gabriel, sitting in his usual position in the far right corner by the window.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey, sweetcakes. Sit.” Gabriel gestures with an upturned hand for Ivy to take the seat opposite. “How much time do you have?”

  “Um, ’bout twenty minuten.”

  “Das ist gut,” Gabriel replies dragging out the last word and wobbling his head side to side.

  “Thanks for the pancakes.”

  “My pleasurooni.” Gabriel takes a sip of his cappuccino and swallows it with an expression of disgust.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s cold.”

  “Well, how long have you been sitting here letting it get cold?”

  Gabriel looks out the window with an expression of deep thought. “About half an hour.”

  Ivy laughs. “Why don’t you try drinking your coffee when it’s given to you, for a change?”

  “Because it’s usually too hot.”

  “Gabe.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a case.”

  “Looked in the mirror lately?”

  Ivy ignores him. Gabe looks out the window again and grins. “Lover boy’s here.” He winks.

  “What? Shit. I told him I was running late and couldn’t meet. Cover for me—I’m going out back.”

  Gabriel grabs Ivy’s elbow as she stands. “Too late. He’s spotted you.”

  Ivy mouths, “Fuck.”

  As Brian struts down the aisle, Gabriel whispers, “Say it was an emergency,” and assumes an expression of anxiety, hanging his head in his hands.

  Brian approaches with hesitant steps. “Ivy, I thought—.

  Ivy holds her finger to her lips and flicks her head in Gabriel’s direction. Brian looks at Gabriel and frowns. He mouths, “Is he okay?” Ivy shakes her head, gets out of her seat, and pulls Brian aside so that Gabriel can’t hear. Supposedly.

  “He’s having boyfriend troubles.”

  “Oh. But—.

  Ivy bites her thumbnail, head down, glancing upward.

  “—didn’t he stay at your place last night?”

  Ivy stiffens from the inside out. Shit, shit, shit. “Um, yeah, but, he, er … he went home this morning and”—Ivy raises the level of her voice a little—“and the bastard moved half his stuff out of their house.”

  “That’s terrible,” Brian whispers.

  “Yeah, I think I should stay with him before I start my shift. Sorry, for, um—.

  “Oh, no, no, I understand. Don’t worry. I’ll just be over there, okay?” Brian points to an empty table next to an elderly couple who are sitting arm in arm, reading from the same newspaper. Ivy be
comes momentarily entranced by their glowing content.

  “Sure. I’ll come over when I start my shift.”

  “Great.” Brian kisses Ivy on the cheek, as if a habitual act, and walks away too fast to notice Ivy blush. Ivy sits back down with Gabriel, and he lifts his head a little, making sure Brian can’t see him before opening his mouth.

  “Well, that was a memorable way to meet someone for the first time. Thanks a lot, Ive,” Gabriel hisses.

  “I’m sorry. But it was your idea, and you were brill.” Ivy touches Gabriel’s hand. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah. You owe me big-time, sweetcakes. Anyway, what’s your problem?”

  “I just couldn’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Have coffee with him this morning.”

  “Ivy!”

  “Shh, Gabe.”

  “Honey, if you ain’t gonna get yourself back on your feet, then I’m not gonna waste my time saving your sorry ass.” Gabriel shakes a finger at Ivy’s nose.

  Ivy clenches her teeth and pouts her lips. “I’d better go out back.”

  “Yeah. You do that. And while you’re at it, start to picture yourself, seventy years old, living in Eleanor’s hospital-white overly-disinfected house, alone and miserable, with an unwanted mental list of existing operating tools and medical jargon to show for your life.”

  Ivy screws up her nose and punches at the air in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel shrugs and begins to flick through a National Geographic.

  In the staff room, Ivy guzzles a 50 ml bottle of water without coming up for air before laying herself bare in the coffee jungle. Raquel has just signed in too and is already inundated with takeaway orders. Once again, the floor has been neglected due to Ivy’s delay in clocking in on time.

  “Wow. And here comes the queen,” Raquel says as she froths milk and avoids eye contact as usual.

  “Sorry. I’ll get straight onto the floor.”

  Raquel pauses, looks up, and smiles with shock. “Cool. Thanks.”

  Ivy realizes she’s been a little disrespectful of Raquel’s coffee-making skills. She wonders what it’s like to actually enjoy making coffee, to take pride in something so simple, like Raquel does. To not long for excellence, or the need to succeed in something unique. Ivy has tried to experience it here in Seattle, but it’s not working. She’s not living up to the notion that a simple life is a better life. She needs something bigger, despite not being entirely convinced she feels that way.